Library of Gold (37 page)

“We can get lost in the crowd here,” she explained.

She was right. Plaka swarmed with tourists and locals, cars banned from most of the streets. They walked through winding avenues and passageways crammed with small stores selling trinkets, souvenirs, religious icons, and Greek fast food. He smelled hot shish kebabs and then the cool scent of fresh flowers. Many of the streets were so narrow, sunlight fought for a place to shine through.

“You should be aware of a couple of things before you try to do any business in Athens,” she told him. “Never raise your hand, palm up and out, when you greet someone. It’s a hostile gesture here. Instead, just shake hands. And when a Greek nods up and down—especially if there’s a click of the tongue and what looks like a smile—it’s an expression of displeasure. In other words,
no
.”

“Good to know. Thanks.”

He bought her a disposable cell without incident, and they stopped at an open-air café to go back to work. So far he had seen no sign of a tail.

When the waitress came, he started to order Greek coffee, but Eva said, “Two Nescafé frappes,
parakaló
.” The waitress gave a knowing smile and went inside.

“Instant coffee?” he asked, worried.

“What. You’re a coffee snob?”

“I spent too many years inhaling desert sand not to appreciate a fine cup.”

“Sympathies. But you really have to have it at least once. It’s a local favorite, and it goes with the climate and the outdoor lifestyle. Besides, it’s expensive, which means we can sit here for a couple of hours without ordering anything else.”

He was doubtful but said nothing more. As he wrote a list of hotel phone numbers for her, two glasses of water and two tall glasses of a dark-colored beverage topped with foam arrived with drinking straws.

He glanced at the water and stared at the frappes.

She grinned. “I’m beginning to worry you don’t have a sense of adventure.”

He sighed. “What’s in it?”

“Two cubes of ice, two heaping teaspoons of Nescafé powder, sugar, milk, and cold water. I know it sounds dreadful, but it’s actually heavenly on a warm afternoon like this. You’re supposed to drink the water first, to cleanse your palate.”

“I’ve got to clean my palate? You must be kidding.” But he drank the water.

She was sipping her frappe through her straw and laughing at him.

He tried it. It was almost chocolate, the coffee flavor strangely rich and soothing. “You’re right. It’s good. But next I want real Greek coffee. I like to chew as I drink.”

“You have my permission.” She glanced around. “I’ve been thinking about your dad’s news clippings. I know you told me the analysts didn’t see anything revealing, but I’d like to hear again what was in them.”

“International banks were mentioned, and our targeting analysts have been closely monitoring their transactions. Nothing about the Library of Gold. There was a lot about affiliate jihadist groups in Pakistan and Afghanistan and the dangers they pose, but our people are already watching them so closely every one has a skin rash.”

“Remember,” she said, “I’ve been off the reservation—in prison a couple of years. Is al-Qaeda as dangerous as it was? Aren’t we safer now?”

“Yes and no. It’ll help if you understand al-Qaeda’s structure. Years ago Osama bin Laden and his people saw what happened to Palestinian jihad groups that let new members join their leadership—intelligence agencies were able to infiltrate, map, and hurt them badly. That made al-Qaeda’s leaders reluctant to expand, and after 9/11 they slammed the door entirely, which meant they couldn’t even replace losses. They’ve had a lot—we’ve captured or killed most of their top planners and expediters. So now they can’t compete on the physical battlefield anymore, but they don’t need to. Their strength—and an enormous threat to us—is the al-Qaeda movement. It spread like wildfire during Iraq. The new jihadists revere al-Qaeda central and go to them for advice and blessings for operations, because they believe the leaders’ bloody theology. It’s proved to be an effective recruiting tool and keeps bin Laden and his cronies relevant—and powerful.”

As the waitress passed, he ordered real coffee. “What’s worrying us about Dad’s clippings is the focus on Pakistan and Afghanistan, where the Taliban is strong. The two countries share a border through the mountains, but it’s an artificial one the Brits created in the nineteenth century. The people on both sides—mostly Pashtuns—have never accepted it. For them the entire region has always been theirs. As for Pakistan, it’s in crisis and has pulled its troops from the North-West Frontier Province. If the province falls to the jihadists, the whole country could crash. At the same time, Afghanistan has taken on its own defenses, so the U.S. and NATO have only a limited presence. Warlords rule the borderlands, and there’s concern whether they have the country’s best interests at heart, since many have jihadist connections.”

Eva sighed worriedly. “And somewhere in there may be where your father thought something awful was being planned.”

They worked two more hours without finding Robin Miller. Eva had another frappe, and he ordered another traditional Greek coffee. The sun was below the horizon, sending a violet cloak across the street’s paving stones.

“It’s discouraging.” She put down her cell, leaned back in her chair, and stretched. “Where is that woman?”

“God knows.” He leaned back, too. Just when he picked up his mobile again to phone another hotel, it rang. Quickly he touched the On button.

It was the NSA tracker. “One of the disposable cells was turned on briefly. But it’s off now. I’ll let you know if it’s activated again.” He relayed an address. Judd jotted it down and turned the paper so Eva could see it.

“It’s near,” she said excitedly. “South of us but still in Plaka.”

53

When the book club meeting concluded, Chapman opened the door. Mahaira was sitting in the foyer, hands folded neatly in her lap. As the members of the club trooped past to prepare for an evening on the town, she rose, smiling.

“She’s taking a bath,” she whispered.

Eagerly he headed across the carpet, removing the long-ago photo of beautiful blond Gemma from his pocket, burning her image into his mind.

Flushed with excitement, he hid it again and opened the bathroom door onto the opulent sanctuary of the bath, with its spacious glass shower, ornate full-length mirror, and marble-clad floor, walls, and ceiling. The air was infused with the fragrance of camellia-scented bath oil. Beneath the softly glowing crystal chandelier was the massive soaking tub set on a pedestal in the center of the enormous room. Bubbles rose above it, and above them was his gorgeous wife.

Her hair was piled on her head, a mass of golden curls, her smooth shoulders fragile and sweet. She turned to look at him, the vibrancy of youth in her violet-colored eyes, aquiline nose, and good chin.

“You’re here at last, Martin. How wonderful to see you.” Her voice was musical. “Bring me a towel, will you?”

“Later.” Stripping off his clothes, he stalked toward her.

Her laughter sang. She balled up a washcloth and threw it, sopping, at him.

He sidestepped and climbed the pedestal naked. He slid into the tub’s warm water.

She glided through the water toward him, bubbles cascading away. “I’ve missed you. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” He pulled her to him, running his hands hungrily over her breasts, her thighs.

“Umm,” she purred. “Umm, umm.”

He arched her backward and nipped her shoulders. Kissed the hollow of her throat. She laughed happily, the vibrations sending shudders through him. He felt her hands on his cock, stroking, twisting, pulling.

Fever inflaming his brain, he slid his hands under her bottom and lifted, his fingers digging into muscle. She licked his ears, the tip of his nose, and locked onto his mouth. The taste of her sent a titanic wave through him. Her legs straddling him, he lowered her slowly, then, in a heated rush, pulled her down and made love to her. To Gemma.

They dressed in the master suite, Beethoven playing from the tall armoire. The long rays of the setting sun spread across the carpet and touched their naked feet.

Wearing a long white skirt with a tight waist and a red silk strapless top, she sat on a brocaded chair, slipped on high heels studded with diamonds, and buckled the tiny straps around her slim ankles.

“Well, that was a waste.” Chuckling, she sat up and gestured at the smoothly made bed. “I’d planned to be lying here undressed for you.”

“How’s Gemma?” he asked casually as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. He watched her reflection in it. She had put on her makeup, and her lips were like rubies. She looked and sounded so much like Gemma his heart ached.

“Mother’s fine. She’s in Monte Carlo with her new boyfriend. I do wish she’d settle down. She’s costing you a fortune.”

Gemma had been married five times, but never to him. The summer they graduated from college, her family had given her a choice—either end the relationship or be disinherited. To spare her the pain of choosing, he left California and hitchhiked across the country to New York City, where he dove into the pirana-infested sea of finance, determined to earn the wealth that would make him acceptable. By the time he had, she had married her second husband, who drank, gambled, and went through all her money. That husband was Shelly’s father.

“She looked beautiful at the San Moritz party,” Shelly said. “But she never mentioned the family necklace and earrings. Or the new tiara you bought me. I wore all of them, you know.”

“Mahaira told me. I’m glad you enjoy them so much.”

“Mother loves diamonds, too. She must miss having them a lot. I offered to give the necklace and earrings back to her, but she wouldn’t take them. As long as I can remember, I think she’s hated you. Why is that? She won’t tell me.”

“I suspect that’s more her parents’ attitude than her own.” It was what he always said, because he had never understood why Gemma had been so furious at him for leaving California. It was some foolishness about insisting she had a right to be part of such an important decision. Now he breezed past his wife’s questions by focusing on what she could understand: “I doubt she’s ever really hated me, but now I agree she’s quite unhappy about the difference in age between you and me.” And, he hoped, jealous.

Shelly shook her head, her golden hair floating across her bare shoulders, and studied her four-carat diamond engagement ring and the diamond-encrusted wedding band. “I thought when you bought the family jewels to help her, she’d get over it.”

He said nothing. His tie satisfactory, he turned.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” she asked eagerly.

“I have business,” he said kindly.

A cold look crossed her face. “Okay. I’ll fly to Cabo, then. Friends invited me.”

“Where’s your wrap, darling? We’ll be late for cocktails.” While they were separated, he yearned for her. But when they were together . . . In the end, she was not Gemma.

As they crossed the living room, his cell phone vibrated against his chest.

Looking at her, he took it out. “Sorry, darling.”

She nodded, her face frozen. Alabaster.

He went into the dining room and closed the door.

It was Preston, and he sounded jubilant. “I just got a call from my NSA contact. Robin Miller turned on her cell phone, then turned it off. I’ve flown in men from the library for backup and to bring supplies, and we’re in Plaka—that’s where she was. We’ll find her and
The Book of Spies
very soon now.”

54

Robin Miller had had a busy two days in Athens, and at last she was beginning to feel prepared as she walked through the twilight and deeper into Plaka. Besides oversize sunglasses, she wore a wig—a simple brown hairdo ending just below her ears. Long bangs brushed her dyed black eyebrows. Brown contact lenses colored her blue eyes, and she wore no eyeliner or mascara, no lipstick.

Her clothes were two sizes too large—baggy cotton pants and a loose button-down cotton shirt. Only her battered tennis shoes fit—bought at the Monastiraki Flea Market. She carried a shopping bag she had found on top of a trash can. It was stuffed with crumpled newspapers, while her billfold and other items were in her pockets. The first time she caught a reflection of herself in a shop window, she had not recognized the dowdy, overweight woman. She had smiled, pleased.

Now she needed money. As usual, Plaka marketplace was bustling. Vendors called from the doors of small shops, promoting their wares. A herd of black-robed Orthodox monks passed, holding black cell phones to their ears. She entered the little bank she had chosen and went up to a teller. Before disappearing to join the Library of Gold, she had put her life savings into a numbered Swiss account. Just a half hour ago, she had called the phone number she memorized long ago, releasing the funds to this bank.

The teller led her to a desk, where a bank officer had forms waiting. She filled in the account number and other required information and orally gave him her password.

“How do you wish the funds?” he asked.

“Four thousand in euros. A cashier’s check for two thousand more. The rest in a second cashier’s check. Leave the line to whom the checks are to be made out blank.”

“So much money. Would you not like to open an account? It will be safe here.”

“Thank you, no.”

He nodded and left. Turning in her chair, she watched the people coming and going.

When he returned, he ceremoniously handed her a fat white envelope. “If there is anything more I can do to help with your financial matters, madame, please tell me.”

She thanked him again and left. In total, she had about $40,000. It was not enough to ensure her safety from the book club for long. Still, at least she would have immediate cash.

The sun had set, and the shadows were deep across Plaka’s crowded streets. She liked the drama of the approaching night, and it would help to hide her. She slid the envelope inside the waistband of her pants. Her feet felt light, and her heart was hopeful as she wound south through the marketplace. She wanted to be as close as possible to where she had left her rolling suitcase and
The
Book of Spies
.