Library of Gold (28 page)

Ullah nodded. “It is good you arrived on schedule. We will be able to truck the crates into Khost by tomorrow.”

“And then?” Chapman prompted.

“The next night two hundred fifty of my men will put on your uniforms and use your weapons to take out about a hundred villagers. A lot of gunfire and dead bodies. Much blood. I will have a Pakistani reporter and cameraman there. They will make many videos. It will be a splendid show that all the world will see of ‘American’ soldiers slaughtering innocent civilians.” He laughed loudly, his solid white teeth gleaming.

Because of the changed—and charged—political atmosphere in Afghanistan, the Kabul national government insisted its complicity in the U.S. forward base be kept secret. But with the harsh light of international outrage shining on the massacre, Kabul would have no choice but to close the base. Of course before then Ullah would have made all of the American uniforms and equipment vanish, and those who knew what actually had happened would be bound to silence by the Pashtunwali code. The result would be the warlord would at last be able to sell the land to Chapman.

As the rain drummed down, Ullah boasted of his past successes in battle, hair-singeing tales to remind Chapman of his power. But Chapman had something Ullah did not—the knowledge of what lay in the land, and the technical expertise to exploit it. Afghanistan had many natural riches, but the war-torn country was unstable, illiterate, untrained, and in no position to make use of them and would not be for decades to come.

As soon as they finished their tea, the warlord announced, “We will inspect the crates now.”

“Go ahead. I need to make a phone call. I’ll join you when I finish.”

As Ullah left for the back room, Chapman walked to the front of the shop and stood alone at the window. The thunderstorm had stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the sky was clearing. With that good omen, he dialed his wife’s iPhone. It had been days since they last talked, a month since he last saw her. He longed to hear her voice.

But it was her assistant, Mahaira. “She is showering. I am so sorry.”

He kept his voice calm. “Where are you?”

“In Athens, as you requested.”

He sighed with relief. He would see his wife in just a few hours. “How was the party in San Moritz?” It was supposed to have been a gala affair—jet-set society in all its ravenous glory.

“She wore the diamond necklace, earrings, and tiara to the ball,” Mahaira said proudly. “She looked gorgeous. Glowing, like a star.”

The necklace and earrings had been her mother’s and grandmother’s. He had bought them two decades before, when her family had lost its money. The tiara was new—purchased just last year. He remembered the excitement in her eyes, how she had clapped her hands and danced around the room wearing it, naked, beautiful.

“Does she miss me?”

Mahaira answered too quickly. “Of course. Terribly.”

When he hung up, he took out the photo from his wallet and stared at it, reliving the past, the happiness, the hopes and dreams of youth. It was a copy of the picture that always stood on his desk at his Arabian horse spread in Maryland, his home base. There she was—a glorious young Gemma in her tight long formal gown, the family diamonds sparkling at her ears and around her throat—and he in his rented tuxedo. A long time ago now, when they were in their early twenties and deeply in love.

His cell phone rang. Putting the photo away, he answered.

It was Preston, sounding jubilant. “Catherine Doyle is dead, and I have the information about where Ryder and Blake are going in Istanbul.”

“Give me the details.”

“The contact is Okan Biçer, a calligraphy seller in the Grand Bazaar. I’ve hired local men, and I’m on my way.”

“Good. Let me know.”

As soon as he hung up, Chapman phoned the Carnivore and repeated the information. There could be no loose ends to interfere with the warlord’s attack in Khost, especially no further CIA interest.

“Preston will merely set up the hit, as we agreed,” he finished.

The Carnivore’s voice was neutral. “That is acceptable. I’m in Istanbul. Your two targets are as good as scrubbed.”

40

Istanbul, Turkey

A world atlas of languages filled the air as crowds poured in to the Grand Bazaar through the Light of the Ottomans Gate. Eva peered around as she and Judd moved with the throngs. While many women wore shoulder-baring sundresses ending above the knee, others concealed their hair beneath traditional
khimar
scarves and their bodies under long coats. Some men sported fezzes and large mustaches, and some were clean-shaven and dressed in business suits or skin-exposing tank tops and walking shorts.

They had been watching for Preston or a sign they were being followed. To lessen the chances of discovery they had changed their appearances in the hotel before checking out. Now her hair was black, pulled severely back into a bun at the nape of her neck, while Judd’s chestnut brown hair was bleached blond and cut very short. He wore glasses with plain lenses and looked very much like a tanned Viking tourist.

She’d had a restless night, wondering how she could have so badly misjudged Charles and whether Judd was somehow also going to betray her. Truthfully, she did not hold him responsible for his father’s actions. But still, there was something about it all that made her uneasy. She hoped she could continue to trust him.

Inside, the marketplace was teeming. Completely roofed and domed, with thick exterior walls, gates, and doors, it boasted some four thousand shops, miles and miles of avenues and lanes, and hidden nooks known only to locals.

Judd was giving her a tour. “It’s the largest covered mall in the world and the most famous souk. This street is Kalpakçilarba
i Caddesi, the main one. Look at all the gold stores. That’s what it’s known for.”

Kalpakçilarba
i was a tunnel of light, with a tall arched ceiling, high windows, and pale walls adorned with exquisite blue tiles. Seeming to extend endlessly, it emanated taste and wealth, with gold jewelry, gold plates, and decorative gold items shining from the glass display windows.

Judd directed them into a giant labyrinth of tiny streets and alleyways, all swarming with shoppers. The view changed time and again. They passed mosques, banks, coffee shops, and restaurants. From the doors of
hans
—stores—merchants called out their wares in a variety of languages—the strongest Turkish Viagra, the best pottery, the finest watches, the most lovely antiques, the most religious icons.

Suddenly there was a scream. A woman turned, her hands gripping her face in distress. “My purse! He stole my purse!” she yelled in German.

A bag-slasher raced off, his long hair flying as he rounded a corner and vanished. It had happened so quickly no one had time to react. As someone gave the woman directions to a police station, Eva and Judd went onto another street, finally reaching their destination.

A picturesque relic of Old Istanbul, it was a small, deadend shopping area surrounding a tiled patio. Photos of whirling dervishes in their ecstatic dances decorated walls. Goods spilled from
hans
. Games of backgammon were in progress at wood tables in the patio, where the players drank from tulip-shaped tea glasses. Eva spotted a cabal of pickpockets, a mother with three children, but no actual dipping.

“I see the shop,” she told Judd.

The windows of the
han
showcased aged pages of calligraphy. As they walked inside, a sturdy middle-aged man in an embroidered caftan grinned at them.

“Merhaba.”
Welcome. He quickly took in their appearances and switched to English. “British and Swedish, yes? You are obviously interested in our gorgeous old script. You must take home many pages. Hang them on your walls. Impress all your family.”

Eva remembered the photo of Okan Biçer that Tucker had e-mailed. This merchant was not he.

“We’re looking for Mr. Biçer, Okan Biçer,” she said. “A friend told us about him.”

“Ah, you have mutual friends. No doubt he sent you to buy calligraphy. We have the best in Istanbul. In all Europe and Asia.”

“My name is Eva Blake,” she tried again. “Andrew Yakimovich is a personal friend. We were told Mr. Biçer would know where Andy is.”

His small black eyes examined her shrewdly, then Judd. “No calligraphy? How sad. You will leave your phone number and address, and I will see.”

The beaded curtain separating the store from the back rustled, as if someone had been starting to come through and then changed his mind—or had been listening. When the shopkeeper glanced back nervously, Judd strode past him.

He hurried after Judd.
“Hayir, hayir.”
No, no. “Okan is not here. He is not here.”

Checking the other shoppers who were watching curiously, Eva followed as Judd pushed the merchant aside, brushed through the curtain, and opened a wood door. A sweet, cloying odor filled the narrow hall.

They strode down it, the shopkeeper on their heels, wringing his hands and lamenting. When they finally passed through an arched stone opening, Eva and Judd stopped and stared.

“I’ll be damned,” she said.

Their shirts off, men lay on faded lounges against stone walls, eyes half closed, fezzes crowning their heads at drunken angles. Some propped themselves up on elbows, holding long pipes, the bowls heating over oil lamps. In the bowls were waxy brown “pills”—opium. It was an old-fashioned opium den. In the light of the small lamps, the men turned toward their visitors, their gazes dreamy, their cheeks puffing as they continued to inhale the intoxicating vapors.

Okan Biçer was standing in the middle of them, rubbing his elbows, distraught. His long thin face was sweaty, and his eyes darted nervously around. He gave a quick nod to the shopkeeper, who shrugged and marched back toward the store.

Collecting himself, Biçer walked forward and bowed. “This is no place for you. We must leave. You can tell me everything I can do for you then. That way.” He gestured toward the shopkeeper’s retreating figure.

But Eva was already moving toward a man asleep on his side on a lounge. His large fez lay over his ear, and one chubby hand dangled to the floor. Fifty-plus years old, he had a large head, thick gray hair, heavy round cheeks, and oddly sensitive lips. The bags under his eyes were huge and dark, almost bruised—but that was opium for you. Dressed only in loose trousers and tennis shoes without laces, he was snoring lightly.

She shook his shoulder. “Andy, wake up. Andy Yakimovich. Wake up.”

Yakimovich, the antiquities dealer, rolled over onto his back, his large white belly spreading. He snored louder.

Judd grabbed Yakimovich and propped him up against the stone wall. “Wake up, Yakimovich.
Polis
.” Police.

His eyes snapped open, and the room emptied—Biçer raced away through a different door, off to the side, and the other men staggered to their feet and stumbled after him. Opium poppies were one of Turkey’s largest crops, and through international agreement, the United States annually bought a large percentage of their legal opium. But just as it was in the United States, the narcotic was illegal for self-entertainment in Turkey.

“Polis?”
Yakimovich muttered worriedly. He looked at Judd. “You are police? You do not look like police. What kind of police are you?”

Eva tapped Judd’s arm, and he moved aside. “Hello, Andy. I’m Eva Blake, Charles Sherback’s widow. I believe Charles left something with you for me.”

His eyes wandered. “You are not police. Go away.”

She grabbed his stubbled chin. “Look at me, Andy.” When he focused, she repeated, “My name is Eva Blake. I’m Charles Sherback’s widow. I want what he left for me. Judd, get out the
scytale
.”

Judd took the tapered gold cylinder from the duffel bag and handed it to her. Even in the dim light it glowed, engraved and beautiful. She held it up for Yakimovich to see.

A tender look entered his eyes. He snatched the baton from her. Holding it in both hands, he pressed it against his heart. “I have missed you,” he murmured.

“I believe Charles left a message for me that fits around the
scytale
. I need it—now.”