Library of Gold (25 page)

Magus hit the brakes and reached inside his jacket for his gun. In a flurry of motion, Robin slammed her foot down on the accelerator and bit his ear. The truck shot ahead. As his gun appeared in his hand, she slashed her fingernails down his face and eyes, ripping skin.

He yelled and lashed the gun toward her. But he was off-balance now, and the truck was lurching forward, alternating between braking and accelerating. His gun was aimed at her.

In a fury, she smashed the backpack into his face again and rotated her hips toward him. Bracing one hand on the back of her seat and gripping the handhold on the dashboard with the other, she rammed her boots into his hip, inching him across the vinyl seat.

His gun went off, the shot deafening as the bullet exploded through the cab’s roof. Blood dripped into his eyes as he tried to see. He shot wildly again, and she shoved him out the door and floored the gas feed. The truck hurtled forward.

Her heart pounded like a kettledrum as she slid behind the wheel and began to steer. More bullets sliced through the cab, barely missing
The Book of Spies
on the seat beside her. Driving, she crouched low, eyes just above the dash, thankful for the vast open space of the tarmac. A shot flew over her head, a lethal whisper. And then there was no more gunfire.

She rose up and peered into the rearview mirror. Magus was running after her, more and more distant, a hand angrily wiping his face of blood. Behind him lay a trail of capsized wood crates and Charles’s corpse. For a long moment she was furious with Charles, furious he had put her in this position, and then the emotion vanished. She was on her own now, as she had been in years past.
You know how to do this,
she told herself.

Determined, she spun the steering wheel, heading toward a chain-link fence. At last she saw a gate beside a dark airport outbuilding. It was quite a bit away, which was good. More distance between her and Magus. The night air cooled her face as she kept the gas feed pressed to the floor.

At the wire gate, she screeched the truck to a stop and jumped out. Putting on the backpack, she looked back. Magus was very far away and had slowed to a jog. His hand was at his ear, no doubt calling for help. But as long as she had
The Book of Spies,
she had a bargaining chip. Martin Chapman would stop at nothing to get her back, hunt her to the far reaches of the planet if he had to, but with the illuminated manuscript she could perhaps negotiate permanent freedom.

She wrestled her roll-aboard out of the truck’s bed. It had been crammed against the cab and had missed the fate of the rest of the luggage. Pulling it, she hurried through the gate and into a big parking lot.

She moved quickly among the cars, vans, and SUVs, peering inside. At last she found an old Peugeot, battered and rusted, with a key in the ignition. Scanning around, she took her purse from the roll-aboard. She still had pounds from England; she would exchange them for euros. Last, she found the straw hat she had bought in London. She slammed it down on her bald head and tied the ribbon under her chin.

She loaded the roll-aboard and the backpack into the car. Fighting fear, she drove off through the moonlight toward the exit, her gaze constantly going to her rearview mirror.

36

The Sultanate of Oman

Muscat International Airport lay on flat sands above the Gulf of Oman. In the distance, clusters of oil rigs stood glittering with lights, their toothpick legs sunk deep into the gulf’s black waters. The night smelled of the desert as Martin Chapman descended from his Learjet. He was breathing hard with anger: Robin Miller had stolen
The Book of Spies
and escaped. Magus and a team were searching for her in Athens, but it was one more problem, and right now he did not need it.

The danger that worried him most was Judd Ryder, who was CIA, and in that one word lay all the worry in the world: Langley had the resources, the knowledge, the expertise, the guts, to accomplish far more than the public would ever know. One did not cross the Agency lightly, but once done, one had no choice but to end it quickly, which was why Chapman was in Oman now.

The Oman Air section of the ultramodern passenger terminal was quietly busy. He passed tiles, potted palms, and Old Arabia wall decorations without a glance. Turning down a wide arrival and departure corridor, he followed memorized instructions toward a duty-free shop. Near the bathroom door an airport employee in a desert-tan janitorial uniform and a checkered Bedouin headdress was bent over, swabbing the floor.

As Chapman passed, he heard a voice float up toward him: “There’s a supply room four doors to your left. Wait inside. Don’t turn on the light.”

Chapman almost broke his stride. Quickly he regrouped and went to the supply room door. Inside, he flicked on the light. The little room was lined with shelves of cleaning products, paper towels, and toilet paper. He turned off the light and stood in the dark against the rear, a small penlight in one hand, the other hand inside his jacket on the hilt of his pistol.

The door opened and closed like a whisper.

“Jack said you needed help.” The voice was low. The man seemed to be standing just inside the door. “I’m expensive, and I have rules. You know about both. Jack says you’ve agreed to my terms. Before we go further, I need to hear that from you.”

“You’re Alex Bosa?” Chapman assumed it was a pseudonym.

“Some call me that.”

“The Carnivore.”

No expression in the voice. “I’m known by that, too.”

Chapman inhaled. He was in the presence of a legendary independent assassin, a man who had worked for all sides during the cold war. Now he worked only occasionally, but always at astronomical prices. There were no photos of him; no one knew where he lived, what his real name was, or even in which country he was born. He also never failed, and no one ever uncovered who hired him.

The assassin’s voice was calm. “Do you agree to my terms?”

Chapman felt his hackles rise. He was the boss, not this shadowy man who had to live hidden behind pseudonyms. “I have a cashier’s check with me.” There were to be two payments—half now, half on completion, for a total of $2 million. Ridding himself of the CIA problem was worth every cent. “Do you want the job or not?”

Silence. Then: “I work alone when it’s time to do the hit. That means your people must be gone. You must never reveal our association. You must never try to find out what I look like or who I am. If you make any attempts, I will come after you. I’ll do you the favor of making it a clean kill, out of respect for our business relationship and the money you will have paid me. After tonight, you will not try to meet me again. When the job is finished, I’ll be in touch to let you know how I want to receive the last payment. If you don’t pay me, I will come after you for that, too. I do wet work only on people who shouldn’t be breathing anyway. I’m the one who makes that decision—not you. I’ll give you a new phone number through which you can reach me when you have the additional information about the targets’ whereabouts. Do you agree?”

The menacing power in the quiet voice was breathtaking. Chapman found himself nodding even though there was no way the man could see him in the dark.

He spoke up, “I agree.” The Carnivore specialized in making hits look like accidents, which was the point—Chapman wanted Langley to have nothing to trace back to him or the Library of Gold.

“Tell me why Judd Ryder and Eva Blake need to be terminated,” the Carnivore demanded.

When Chapman had decided to bring in outside talent, he had gone to a source outside the book club, a middleman named only Jack. Through encrypted e-mails, he and Jack had arranged the deal. Now he repeated the story for the Carnivore: “Ryder is former military intelligence and highly skilled. Blake is a criminal—she killed her husband when she was driving drunk. I’m sure you’ve checked both facts. They’ve learned about a new secret business transaction I’m working on, and they want it for themselves. I tried to reason with them, but I got nowhere. If they steal this, it’ll cost me billions. More important, now they’re trying to kill me. They’re on their way to Istanbul. I should have information soon about exactly where.”

“I understand. I’ll leave now. Put the envelope on the shelf next to you. Open the door and go immediately back to your jet.” He gave Chapman his new cell number.

There was a movement of air, the door opened and closed quickly, and darkness surrounded Chapman again. He realized he was sweating. He put the envelope with the cashier’s check for $1 million on the shelf next to him and left.

As he walked down the corridor, he looked everywhere for the cleaning man in the brown uniform and Bedouin headdress. He had vanished.

37

Istanbul, Turkey

Judd stared down from his window on the jet at the twinkling lights of fabled Instanbul. He drank in the sight of what had once been mighty Constantinople, the crown of the Byzantine Empire—and the birthplace of the Library of Gold.

Eva awoke. “What time is it?” She looked nervous.

“Midnight.”

As the jet touched down and taxied toward the terminal of Ataturk International Airport, he checked his mobile.

“Anything from Tucker about where Yakimovich is?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No e-mail. No phone message.”

“If Tucker can’t find him, it could take us days.”

Although there seemed to be no way they could have been followed, they had stopped in Rome on their way to the airport not only to buy supplies but also to disguise themselves. Now as they deplaned, Judd helped Eva into a wheelchair. She curled up low, her head hanging forward as if asleep. A blanket covered her body, and a scarf hid her hair. He put her shoulder satchel and a large new duffel bag containing other purchases on her lap. He was dressed like a private nurse, in white slacks, a white blast jacket, and a white cap. Tucked inside his lower lip was a tight roll of cotton, making the lip protrude and his jaw look smaller.

Keeping his cheeks soft and his gaze lazy, he adjusted his internal monitor until he was comfortably projecting a not-too-bright attendant to the nice lady in the wheelchair. Watching surreptitiously around, he pushed her into the international terminal and showed his fake passport and her real one at the visa window. They acquired visa stamps and passed through customs. Although the terminal was less congested than at high-traffic hours, there were still plenty of people. Beyond the security kiosk waited even more, many holding up signs with passengers’ names.

Rolling the wheelchair down the long corridor toward the exit doors, Judd stayed on high alert. Which was when he spotted the one person he did not want to see—Preston. How in hell had he known to come to Istanbul? His chest tight, Judd studied him from the corners of his eyes. Tall and square-shouldered, the killer was leaning against the exterior wall of a news store, apparently reading the
International Herald Tribune
. He was dressed as he had been in London, in jeans, a black leather jacket, and probably a pistol.

Because he did not have ID to carry a weapon onto a commercial flight, Judd had left his Beretta in Rome. He considered. It seemed unlikely Preston had been able to see his face in London from the floor of the alley. On the other hand, it was possible the killer had somehow figured out who he was and had acquired a photo.

“Preston.” The worried whisper floated up from Eva.

“I see him,” Judd said quietly. “You’re asleep, remember?”

She returned to silence as he continued to push the wheelchair at a sedate pace.

Above the newspaper, Preston was studying the throngs. His eyes moved while his body gave the appearance of disinterested relaxation. He paused at the faces of not only women but men the right age, the right hair color, the right height—which told Judd that Preston had somehow learned what he looked like. Watching couples and singles, Preston missed no one, took no one for granted. He pulled a radio from his belt, listening and speaking into it. That meant he had a least one janitor nearby.

As Preston hooked the radio back on to his belt, he noticed Judd and Eva. And focused.

His gaze felt like a burning poker. Judd did not look at him, and he did not speed the wheelchair. Either action would make Preston even more curious. Then he saw a tall woman sweeping along, pulling a small suitcase. Despite the late hour, she wore large diva sunglasses—and her hair was long and red, like Eva’s.

Seeing an opportunity, Judd moved the wheelchair alongside her and slumped his shoulders to make himself appear even more boring in his attendant’s uniform. Preston’s eyes moved, attracted to the woman. He stepped away from the news store, following as the woman hurried in front of Judd and Eva to a car rental stand.

Judd exhaled. He pushed Eva out the glass doors and to the line of waiting taxis.

As soon as the yellow cab left the terminal, Judd closed the privacy window between the front and rear seats. It was an old vehicle, the upholstery threadbare, but the glass was thick, and the driver would not be able to hear their conversation.

“How could Preston have found us?” Eva asked again. “The Charboniers knew about Yakimovich and Istanbul, but they died before they could tell anyone.”

“It’s hard to believe Tucker has another leak. IT will be covering headquarters like a mushroom cloud. Maybe it’s us. Could Charles have planted a bug on you in London?” As they talked, he watched the rear for any sign of Preston.

“If he did, those clothes are gone. But why would he bother? He thought he had me. Did you see anyone following us at any time?”

He shook his head. They were silent.

“Okay, let’s take it from the top,” he finally said. “It’s not a bug, and it’s not a cyberbreach at Catapult.”

“If Charles were alive,” she decided, “he would know we’d be heading to Andy Yakimovich.”

“Peggy Doty’s the only loose end I can think of. But she didn’t know about Yakimovich or Istanbul, so there’s no way Preston could’ve gotten the information from her.”