The Book of Spies (10 page)

"I'm Judd Ryder. I just called you--"

"Let go of me." She yanked so hard he almost lost his grip.

Her hair was rain-soaked, plastered against her skull, and her mascara had run, settling in dirty half moons under her eyes and gray dribbles down her cheeks. But it was her cobalt blue eyes that held him. They radiated fear--and defiance.

"I've got to get you out of here," he ordered.

She abruptly leaned away and slammed out a foot in an expert
yokokeage
side snap kick. He stepped back swiftly, and the brunt of her blow hit only the loose front of his peacoat. Surprised to lose impact, she teetered and banged into his chest. Her hands pressed against him.

He jerked her upright and shoved his wool cap at her. "Put this on. Stick your hair up inside it. We've got to change your appearance--unless you'd rather risk your husband finding you again. Take off your trench coat. If you do exactly what I tell you, I may be able to get you out of here."

As commuters moved around them, she remained motionless. "Are you really working with Tucker?" she demanded.

"
For
him. Just like you are. That's why I have your cell phone number."

"That means nothing. Why didn't he tell me about you?"

"I'll explain later." He grabbed the watch cap and jammed it down onto her head and began to unbutton her trench coat.

"I'll take it off myself, dammit." She slipped off the strap of her satchel and shrugged out of the coat.

Catching both before they hit the ground, he rolled the coat into a ball so only the olive-green lining showed. She was wearing a black tailored
jacket, a black turtleneck sweater, and tight low-slung jeans tucked into high black boots. Her dark clothing would help her to blend with the night.

"Push your hair up under the cap." As she did, he returned her satchel. "Take my arm as if you liked me."

Warily she slid her arm inside his. As they walked, he patted her hand. It was ice-cold and tense. He dropped her trench coat into a trash receptacle.

She started to turn.

"Don't look back," he warned. "Let's keep the opportunities for your husband to see your face at a minimum."

As they continued on, the number of pedestrians lessened, which was both good and bad. Good because they could make quicker progress. Bad because she was easier to spot. He produced a palm-size mirror, cupped it in his hand, and examined the cars approaching from behind.

"I don't see the Citroen," he reported. "You're shivering. Button your jacket. We'll find someplace warm to talk."

"What did you say your name was?" She buttoned her jacket up to her throat.

There was no trust in her voice, but all he needed was her cooperation. "Judd Ryder." He reached inside his open peacoat for his billfold. His hand came out empty. Instantly he remembered her side snap kick and that she had bumped into him, her hands on his chest. Tucker had been right--she was a damn good pickpocket.

She pulled the wallet from her satchel, looked inside, and checked his Maryland driver's license, credit cards, and membership cards.

"Nothing says CIA." She returned the billfold.

"I'm covert."

"Then your name might not really be Judson Clayborn Ryder."

"It is. Son of Jonathan and Jeannine Ryder. Cousin to many."

"Credentials can be forged."

"Mine aren't. Here's an interesting idea--try being grateful. I'm the one helping you get away from your husband."

"If you really wanted to help me, why didn't you do something to stop Charles when he tried to run me down? You could've at least used your gun to shoot out his tires."

So she had found his Beretta. "It's a myth shooting rounds into tires makes them explode."

"Do you think Charles will try to kill me again?"

"Considering he was circling the park, I'd say he appears enthused about the idea."

Her expression froze, and she looked away.

As they turned onto Guilford Street, she asked, "Are you the one who saved the museum guard who almost fell over the stair rail?"

"He needed some help. I was lucky to be close."

She took a deep breath. "I'm glad you did."

They passed a row of businesses, all closed. Sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of one was a homeless man, a dingy beach umbrella sheltering him and, in front of him, a hand-lettered sign:

MY DOG AND I ARE HUNGRY. PLEASE HELP.

Suddenly he felt her go rigid beside him.

"Charles!" she whispered.

With his peripheral vision, he caught sight of the Citroen approaching from behind.

"There's no time to run," he told her quietly. "Look at me and smile. Look at me! We're just an ordinary couple out for a stroll." He put his arm around her shoulders, took her over to the beggar, and dropped a two-pound coin into the man's hand. "Where's your dog?" he asked, playing for time as the car approached.

"I have a dog?" The man's words were slurred. He stank of cheap wine.

"Says so on the sign." He saw that the Citroen was nearly beside them.

"Bollocks. I left the bloody dog at home. Must be losin' my friggin' mind." The two-pound coin vanished into the man's pocket, and he stared blankly ahead as the Citroen rolled safely past.

Ryder peered down at Blake. "Our guests will be arriving soon, dear. We'd better head home."

She gave a curt nod, and they hurried on.

THE LAMB
public house at 94 Lamb's Conduit Street was a classic old-school pub with dark woods, smoke-brown walls, and an ornate U-shaped bar topped with rare snob screens that pivoted to provide a customer with a modicum of privacy. The dusky air was pungent with the rich aromas of fine ales and lagers.

Relieved to be safely off the street, Eva cleaned her face in the bathroom and settled into a banquette at the back. She watched Judd Ryder at the bar, his long frame leaning into it as he waited for their orders and surveyed the room. The clientele crowded around the bar, shoes propped up on the foot rail. Ryder and she had attracted only a moment's notice, and now no one was looking at her, including Ryder.

If she had learned one lesson in prison, it was survival required suspicion. He had thrown his peacoat onto the leather seat. She searched the inner pockets. There were a couple of felt-tipped pens, his small mirror, a granola bar, a fat roll of cash, and a London tube schedule. She returned everything but the schedule and was just about to check whether he had made any notes on it when he picked up her tea tray from the bar. Instantly she shoved the schedule back inside his coat.

He walked toward her, his stride long. He was dressed in jeans, a dark blue polo shirt, and a loose corduroy jacket. She could not quite make out the shoulder holster that held his gun. His square face was weathered and had a rugged outdoor quality, as if it had been formed more by life than biology. His hands were large and competent, but his dark gray eyes were unreadable. He was athletic and obviously familiar with karate, otherwise he would not have been able to dodge her blow. He could easily be telling her the truth--or not.

She hid her tension and smiled. "Thanks. It smells delicious."

"Lapsang souchong tea, as requested. Heated milk and a warm cup, too." He put the tray down. "Drink. You're shivering."

As he headed back to the bar to fetch his stout, she grabbed the tube schedule and inspected it. There were no marks or notes. Next she examined the peacoat's outside pockets. Frowning, she discovered an electronic reader for some kind of tracking device. A small handheld computer with GPS capabilities, it was similar to those she had assembled in the prison's electronics factory. Tracking devices could be used to keep tabs on anything, while readers like this displayed an array of information sent from the bug.

She looked up. The bartender was setting a full pint glass in front of Ryder, and he was paying the bill. She had little time. Her fingers flew as she touched buttons, and the handheld's screen came to colorful life. She saw he was tracking two bugs. She keyed onto the first. Schematics flashed and coalesced into a map of London, showing a location: Le Meridien Hotel in the West End. She was not familiar with the hotel, and she did not have time to check the other bug. She slid the handheld back into his peacoat.

He was heading toward her, pint in hand, staring. As he stopped at the table, she saw his face had done a strange shift, revealing something hard and a little frightening.

She patted then smoothed his peacoat. "Forgive me. My nose is starting to run. I was just going to look for a tissue." The condition of her nose was true.

Without comment he took a handkerchief from his pocket, handed it to her, and sat with his pint of oatmeal stout.

"Thanks." She blew her nose, then wrapped her hands around her hot cup of tea. "When Charles and I visited London, we sometimes came here. In case you don't know, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, and the Bloomsbury Group were regulars. Editors and writers still show up. The pub seemed to us the epitome of old Bloomsbury, the beating heart of London's literary world."

"You're feeling better," he decided.

She nodded. "Why didn't Tucker tell me about you?"

"You're not trained, and we wanted you to act normally. Some people can't handle being watched over. You wouldn't have known how you'd react, and we wouldn't have known either, until you were actually in the museum. There was only one opening night, and we were doing everything we could to maximize your chances of success."

"Is your name really Judd Ryder?"

"Yes. I'm a CIA contract employee. Tucker brought me in for the job."

"Then you're working for Catapult." Tucker had told her about his unit, which did counteroperations. "Why you?"

Ryder gazed down into his glass then looked up, his expression somber. "My father and Tucker were friends in college. They joined the CIA at the same time, then Dad left to go into business. A couple of weeks ago he asked Tucker to meet him in a park on Capitol Hill. Just the two of them. It was late at night. . . . A sniper killed Dad."

Seeing the pain in his eyes, she sank back. "That's terrible. I'm so sorry. It must've been awful for you."

"It was."

She thought a moment. "But murder is a job for the police."

"Dad was trying to warn Tucker about something that had to do with a multimillion-dollar account in an unnamed international bank--and Islamic terrorism."

"Terrorism?" Her brows rose with alarm. "What kind of terrorism? Al-Qaeda? One of their off shoots? A new group?"

"We don't know yet, but he appeared worried some disaster was about to happen. Dad had collected news clippings about jihadism in Pakistan and Afghanistan, but so far they don't make a lot of sense. Of course Catapult is staying on top of international bank activity. The only real detail is where you come in--Dad said he'd discovered the information in the Library of Gold."

"
In
the library? Then the library really does exist."

"Yes. Dad also told Tucker some kind of book club owns it."

"Was your father in the book club?"

He shrugged uneasily. "I don't know yet."

"If your father was a member of the book club, it sounds to me as if he had a secret life."

He nodded grimly. "Just like your husband's."

She leaned forward. "You want to find out what your father was doing and who's behind his death."

"Damn right I do." Anger flashed across his face.

"Why didn't Tucker tell me any of this?"

"You didn't have need-to-know, and we thought your assignment would be simple."

"Both of us have personal reasons to find the library, but this is on a whole different level. So much bigger."

"It
is
personal for both of us." He set down his glass, put his hand into his jacket pocket, and slid her gold wedding band and necklace across the table. "I thought you might want these back."

Staring at them, she moved her hands away from her cup and dropped them into her lap. "I don't need them anymore. That was another life. Another person."

He studied her. Then he scooped up the jewelry and returned it to his pocket. "Tell me about Charles and the car crash."

"He was driving us home on Mulholland after a dinner party, and--" She stopped. In her mind she went back over the trip--Charles's carefree laughter, his playful weaving of the car back and forth across the deserted road. . . . She told Ryder about it. Then: "A car shot out from a driveway ahead, and Charles slammed on the brakes. Our car careened. I was nauseated and dizzy. And I lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I woke up on a gurney." She hesitated. "Charles must've given me some kind of drug. Later the coroner found his wedding ring on the corpse, and the corpse's teeth matched Charles's dental records."

"That shows a lot of planning, money, and dirty resources. Could Charles have pulled it off alone?"

"No way. He was an academic. Someone had to have helped him."

"Who?"