Library of Gold (16 page)

“Yes. I don’t want a duel with the CIA, but at the same time I’ve got to protect myself and my people,” Steve said. “I want you to sign the order, Brian. I’ll drive over there now. That way we can start digging at daylight, and I can get the CIA off my back with some answers.”

Brian thought quickly. “Here’s another idea. I’ve got a key to Eva’s storage locker. I’m sure she must still have some of Charles’s things. I’ll swing by there early in the morning and see what I can find to give you a head start on the DNA. Then I’ll drive to your office and sign the order.”

Steve sounded relieved. “That’s not perfect, but you’re right. A DNA sample will speed the process. Be here by eight
A.M.
And thanks.”

They hung up, but Brian stayed in his chair, staring at the shadows in his office. The room was full of books, the titles unseeable in the darkness. Still, he was comforted by them and their enduring counsel, handed down through the ages. Smiling wryly to himself, he remembered some earthy advice from Trajan, Rome’s long-ago warrior emperor: “Never stand between a dog and where he’s pissing.”

Fortunately, he did not have to risk interfering with Steve’s investigation. The man who was buried in Charles’s grave was a salesman from South Dakota, a loner whom Preston had chosen in an L.A. bar and eliminated later with a snap of the neck, which was consistent with an injury received in a car wreck. Then Preston had arranged a late-night break-in at the office of Charles Sherback’s dentist, so records of the dead man’s teeth could be substituted for Charles’s. Brian had kept the dead man’s gloves and a few other things locked away in his office safe.

Although the DNA match from inside the gloves and the clean autopsy would make the CIA’s curiosity evaporate, Brian was left with a much larger and potentially more dangerous question: Who or what had provoked the intelligence agency’s interest?

He picked up the phone and dialed the Library of Gold’s director. “Marty, this is Brian Collum. We’ve got a situation.” He described the coroner’s call. “The CIA order for exhumation came from someone named Gloria Feit in the Clandestine Service.”

Martin Chapman exploded a stream of oaths. “How did you leave it with the coroner?”

“I’m going to provide him with the corpse’s gloves for a DNA match. That should resolve things. Can you think of a reason they’d want the identity rechecked?”

“No reason, except now Charles Sherback really is dead.”

Brian felt a moment of shock. “That’s a blow to the library. He was damn good at the job. What happened?”

Brian had begun cultivating Charles a dozen years ago, admiring his knowledge about the Library of Gold and appreciating his obsession to find it. When they had needed a new chief librarian, he had recommended Charles, and the book club had authorized him to secretly offer him the position. Now the club would have to find a replacement.

“He died in London,” the director said. “Shot to death.”

“Did Preston retrieve
The Book of Spies
successfully?”

“Yes. It’s on its way home.”

“That’s a relief.” He remembered what Steve had said. “The coroner told me Eva’s out of prison. Does she have anything to do with this?”

“She’s just the beginning of the problem.”

Astonished, then increasingly concerned, Brian listened as Martin Chapman described Eva’s spotting Charles in the museum, his attempt to kill her, the bug on
The Book of Spies,
and Preston’s search for Eva, ending with the discovery of Charles’s corpse.

“Preston thinks a trained man is helping Eva,” the director said. “Obviously someone was intent on trying to track
The Book of Spies
—maybe back to the library. I’m concerned about who had the ability to plant the bug. Now that the CIA is involved, I’m wondering whether it’s them.”

“Shit.”

“Besides that, Charles had a tattoo on his head—LAW 031308. Does it mean anything to you?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“It could be a message,” the director said. “But to whom? And why?”

“Think about Charles’s predecessor. None of us ever guessed he had the balls not only to want to leave, but also to smuggle out
The Book of Spies
. One of the reasons we chose Charles was because the library was the most important thing in his life. But the downside was his ambition and arrogance. God knows what the message means. Whatever it is, it could be dangerous to us.”

“If Eva saw the tattoo—and we have no reason to think she didn’t—she may be able to understand it.”

“You’re right.”

“Preston has a way to track her through her cell phone. You take care of the coroner.” There was a thoughtful pause. When the director spoke again, his voice had its usual brisk, businesslike tone: “I have a way to handle the CIA.”

23

Washington, D.C.

The man parked his car on a dark residential street in the gently rolling hills north of downtown Washington. In the distance, the tall dome of the Capitol shone like ivory. He opened the car door, and Frodo, his little terrier, leaped out, wagging his tail.

With the terrier leading, they walked down the sidewalk, all part of the man’s cover, and turned onto Ed Casey’s block. The man noted another early dog stroller heading toward him through the still shadows. As he always did, he assumed an indulgent dog-owner’s smile and nodded in greeting. Then he pulled Frodo off the curb to give the pair a wide berth.

As soon as the other walker was out of sight, the man stopped beside a Eugenia bush whose low branches brushed the ground. He slid Frodo’s leash underneath, and Frodo followed, crawling in and circling around. His little black eyes peered out.

“Stay.” He gave the hand command.

Frodo immediately settled back into the foliage, invisible to anyone who passed. They had done this many times. Frodo would not move nor make a sound.

After a careful look around, the man sprinted across the lawn to Ed Casey’s clapboard house and examined the doors and windows on the first floor. All were locked, including French doors overlooking a goldfish pond in the rear yard. He returned to the French doors. No dead bolt. Slide locks had been installed, but no one had bothered to engage them. He loved the way people were lulled into complacency by the passage of uneventful time. His profession depended on it.

With a small tool, he popped open the French doors and stepped into a shadowy family room. He liked to have house plans, but there had been no time to get them. When he hired him for the job, Doug Preston had been able to pass on only Ed Casey’s address.

Cautiously he padded across thick carpet into a central hall. A grandfather clock ticked rhythmically. There was no other noise. He listened at the foot of the stairs, then ducked his head into open doorways—a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen. All deserted. He opened the only closed door. Bingo—an office.

Keeping his ears tuned for movement upstairs, he headed straight to the desk, where a computer sat. He went to work, installing tiny wireless transmitting devices inside the hard drive and keyboard.

Finished, he listened to the house again. Silence. He slipped out of the office and let himself out the French doors. The early-morning sky was still black. Tomorrow night he would return and remove the bugs, lessening the chance anyone would ever know his business tonight.

Pausing near the street, he surveyed the area. At last he strolled to the Eugenia bush and gestured. Frodo scooted out, and the man gave him a dog biscuit. Whistling to himself, he walked his pet back to the car.

Johannesburg, South Africa

It was half past noon in Johannesburg when Thomas Randklev received a call from the Library of Gold director. As soon as he hung up, Randklev phoned Donna Leggate, the junior U.S. senator from Colorado. It was only 5:30
A.M.
in Washington, and it was quickly apparent she had been asleep.

As soon as he said his name, the tone of her voice modulated from gruff to welcoming. “This is an odd time to be calling, Thom, but it’s always good to hear from you.”

He knew it was a lie. “I appreciate that. I’d like a bit of information. Nothing unseemly, of course.”

“What can I help you with?”

“This is about a woman named Gloria Feit, who’s with your Clandestine Service. We’d like to know for whom she works and what she does.”

“Why are you interested?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, except it involves someone special like you, someone we like to give good service to—one of our investors. Certainly nothing about your national security. It’s just business.”

She hesitated. “I’d rather not—”

He interrupted. “I hope your shares in the Parsifal Group are making you smile.”

A widow, Leggate had been appointed to the Senate to succeed her husband when he died four years earlier. Her husband’s debts had left her in a precarious financial position, but because of Parsifal, she was earning far more than her husband had. She was also far more ambitious, but in Washington ambition unsupported by money was just another social affectation.

Her tone was guarded. “Yes, very much so.”

“And of course there are the dividends,” he reminded her.

“Even better,” she admitted. “But still . . .”

Although unsurprising, her reluctance was annoying. They needed her to move on this, and fast—but he was not ready to tell her that yet.

“You’re on the Senate Intelligence Committee,” he pointed out. “ You’ve brought a CIA employee, Ed Casey, into Parsifal. Tell him to e-mail someone at Langley for the information. If you feel you can’t, you’ll have to drop out of our special club for investors, and I’ll transfer your shares to another of our groups. You can count on the returns being decent—but they won’t support you in your old age.” He let that sink in. “On the other hand, if you can do us this favor, you can stay in the club, continue to recruit selected others, and receive a sizeable contribution to your reelection campaign.”

“How sizeable?” she asked instantly.

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

“Five hundred thousand would make the sun shine a lot brighter.”

“That’s a great deal of money, Donna.”

“You’re asking a huge favor.”

He was silent. Then: “Oh, hell. All right, I agree—but only if you call Ed Casey immediately.”

“If I’m awake, he can damn well get his butt out of bed, too.”

“You always could charm me, Donna.” He smiled to himself. She had quit negotiating too soon. He had the director’s approval to go to $800,000.

“And you’re a delightful rogue, Thom,” she said. “Love that about you. Tell me, will you be needing any other favors?”

“Perhaps. And remember, you can ask occasionally, too. If it’s in my power, I’ll be delighted to help. After all, we’re friends. All part of the same club.”

24

Washington, D.C.

Senator Leggate put on her bathrobe, lit a cigarette, and waved smoke from her eyes. Washington was a town where favors were exchanged like poker chips. To survive, one learned to be helpful while being careful with whom one played. If you wanted to be a serious contender in the nation’s fast, treacherous political waters, you had to be an Olympian at the game.

While she had a sense of ominousness about Thom Randklev’s naked laying out of her options if she refused to help, she also felt a sense of exhilaration. He had agreed to her high number easily. That told her he had access to even more cash. What frightened her was whether she could handle him—or herself—if she ever had to refuse.

But that was the future. Maybe years from now. With luck, never. She marched into her office, turned on her desk lamp, spun open her Rolodex, and dialed.

“A good early morning to you, Ed. This is Donna Leggate.”

“Good Lord, Donna, do you know what time it is?” Ed Casey was a top gun in Langley’s Support to Mission team, which built and operated CIA facilities, created and maintained secure communications, managed the CIA phone company, and hired, trained, and assigned officers to every directorate. His department also handled payroll, which meant he had access to the records of everyone the CIA employed—as long as they were on the books.

“I’ve been up for hours reading classified reports,” she told him, fabricating a lie he would believe. “Sorry to bother you, but I’d like your help with something before I go into the office. One of the reports mentions an officer named Gloria Feit, in the Clandestine Service, but there’s nothing about to whom she reports. I’d like to know that as well as what she and her boss do.”

“You’ll need to go through the D/CIA’s office.”

“If I’m asking questions about this, others on the committee will be, too. Going through the D/CIA opens up the possibility of a leak, and then the press dogs will drool for everything they can claw up. The reason I’m calling is because I know you and I are on the same page about protecting Langley whenever possible.”

“There’s a chain of command. I don’t buck it.”

“As I was dialing,” she continued thoughtfully, “I was remembering when you told me you needed a college nest egg for your kids. How old are they now?”

There was a change in Ed’s voice. Perhaps a hint of guilt. “I appreciate your paving the way so I could buy shares in the Parsifal Group.”

She rammed the point home: “Has it been a good investment for them?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“I’m delighted. I think all of us like to help each other whenever we can. What I’m asking I can get anyway. The only difference is I want it now, while it’s fresh in my mind.”

“What’s the report about?”

“It’s M-classified. Sorry.” “M” indicated an extraordinarily sensitive covert operation. Among the highest the United States bestowed, single-letter security clearances meant the information was so secret it could be referred to only by initials, and there was no way Ed would be privy to it. “You can e-mail your office for the information about Gloria Feit.”

“Hold on,” he grumbled.

Senator Leggate smiled to herself. She had watched her husband cajole and threaten to get what he wanted, and now she was the one in the power seat.