The Book of Spies (3 page)

After college, both had joined the CIA, in operations, but Jonathan had left after three years to earn an MBA at Wharton. With an undergraduate degree in chemistry, he had worked for a series of pharmaceutical companies, then gone on to found his own. Today he was president and board chair of Bucknell Technologies. Monied and powerful, he was a regular on Washington's social circuit and at the president's yearly Prayer Breakfast.

"Glad I did the good deed," Tucker said. "Look where you ended up--a baron of Big Pharma, while I'm still tilling the mean streets and urine-scented dark alleys."

Jonathan nodded. "To each his own. Still, if you'd wanted it, you could've headed Langley. Your problem is you make a lousy bureaucrat. Have you heard of the video game called Bureaucracy? If you move, you lose."

Tucker chuckled. "Okay, old friend. Time to tell me what this is all about."

Jonathan looked at his coffee, then set it on the seat beside him. "A situation's come up. It scares the hell out of me. It's more your bailiwick than mine."

"You've got a lot contacts. Why me?" Tucker drank.

"Because this has to be handled carefully. You're a master at that. Because we're friends, and I'm going to go down. I don't want to die in the process." He stared at Tucker, then looked away. "I've stumbled onto something . . . an account for about twenty million dollars in an international bank. I'm not sure exactly what it's all about, but I'm damn sure it has to do with Islamic terrorism." Jonathan fell silent.

"Go on," Tucker snapped. "Which bank? Why do you think the twenty million is connected to jihadism?"

"It's complicated." He craned around, checking the park.

Tucker looked, too. The wide expanse remained empty.

"You've come this far." Tucker controlled an urge to shake the information out of him. "You know you want to tell me."

"I didn't have anything to do with it. I'm not exactly an angel myself. . . . But I don't understand how anyone could--" Jonathan shuddered. "What do you know about the Library of Gold?"

"Never heard of it."

"It's key. I've been there. It's where I found out about this--"

Tucker watched Jonathan intently as he spoke. He was leaning forward slightly, gazing off into the middle distance.

There was no sound. No warning. A red dot suddenly appeared on Jonathan's forehead and the back of his head exploded with a loud crack. Blood and tissue and bone blasted into the air.

Tucker's training kicked in immediately. Before Jonathan's lifeless body had time to keel over, Tucker hit the sidewalk and rolled under the bench. Two more sniper shots dug into the concrete, spitting shards. His heart pounded. His friend's blood dripped next to him. Tucker swallowed and swore. He had come unarmed.

Using his mobile, he dialed 911 and reported the wet job. Then he peeled off his blazer, rolled it thick, and lifted it to attract attention. It was a light tan color, a contrast against the shadows. When no more rounds were fired, he snaked out from under the bench. Hurrying off through the park, he headed toward Massachusetts Avenue, where he thought the bullets had originated. As he moved he considered what Jonathan had said: Islamic terrorism . . . $20 million in an international bank . . . the Library of Gold. . . . What in hell was the Library of Gold?

As he crossed the street, Tucker scanned the area. A young couple was drinking from Starbucks coffee cups, the man carrying a briefcase. Another man was pushing a grocery cart. A middle-aged woman in a running
suit and wearing a small backpack jogged past and circled back. Any of them could be the shooter, the rifle quickly broken down and concealed in the briefcase, the shopping cart, the backpack. Or the shooter could be someone else, still tracking him.

When he reached Sixth Street, Tucker ran into the swiftly moving traffic. Over the noise of honking horns, he heard the distinctive sound of a bullet whistling overhead. Crouching between the lanes of rushing cars, he spun around and stared back. A man was standing on the sidewalk at the corner, holding a pistol in both hands.

As the man fired again, Tucker put on a burst of speed, running with the cars. More horns honked. Curses filled the air. A taxi was entering traffic after dropping off its fare. Tucker pounded the fender to slow it, yanked open the back door, and fell inside.

The driver's head whipped around. "What in hell?"

"Drive."

As the taxi took off, Tucker peered out the rear window. Behind him, the killer ran into the congestion, looking everywhere, his gun still searching for its target. A van entered traffic, and Tucker lost sight of him. When the van turned the corner, opening up the view again, he spotted the man three blocks back. A car slewed around him, horn blaring. Another car skidded. The man pivoted, and a racing sedan slammed into him. He vanished under the wheels of the car.

"Let me off here," Tucker ordered. He shoved money at the driver and jumped out.

Running back, he studied the stream of cars. They should have stopped. At least they should be swerving around the downed shooter.

As two police cars arrived at the park, sirens screaming, Tucker walked up and down the tree-lined block. Both sides. Traffic roared past. There was no sign of a body.

THE FUNERAL
for Jonathan Ryder was held in the Chevy Chase Presbyterian Church in northwest Washington. A somber crowd packed the sanctuary--businesspeople, lawyers, investors, philanthropists, and politicians. Jonathan's widow, Jeannine; his son, Judd; and assorted relatives sat in the front row, while Tucker Andersen found a spot in back where he could watch and listen.

After Jonathan was killed, the police had searched the buildings around Stanton Park and questioned all potential witnesses. They interviewed the widow, son, neighbors, and business associates, who were mystified why anyone would want to murder a good man like Jonathan. The police investigation was continuing.

Checking into Jonathan's last words, Tucker had found only one mention of the Library of Gold in Langley's database. Then he researched the library online and talked with historians at local universities. He also queried the targeting analysts in the counterterrorism unit. Thus far he had found nothing helpful.

"In Jesus Christ, death has been conquered and the promise of eternal life affirmed." The pastor's voice resonated against the high walls as he conducted the Service of Witness to the Resurrection. "This is a time to celebrate the wonderful gifts we received from God in our relationships with Jonathan Ryder. . . ."

Tucker felt a wave of grief. Finally the celebration of Jonathan's life ended, and the strains of "The Old Rugged Cross" filled the sanctuary. The family left first, Judd Ryder supporting his mother, her head bowed.

As soon as it was decent, Tucker followed.

THE RECEPTION WAS
in the church, in Chadsey Hall. Tucker chatted with people, introducing himself as an old college friend of Jonathan's. It lasted an hour. When Jeannine and Judd Ryder were walking alone out the door, Tucker intercepted them.

"Tucker, how nice to see you." Jeannine smiled. "You've shaved your beard." A petite brunette, she was dressed in a black sheath dress with a string of pearls tight against her throat. She had changed a lot, no longer the lively wife he remembered. She was his age, but there was a sense about her of having settled, as if there were no longer any questions to be asked.

"Karen was in a state of shock," Tucker admitted with a smile. He'd had a beard off and on for years. "It's been a while since she's seen my whole face."

He shook hands with Jonathan's son, Judd. "The last time we met, you were at Georgetown." He remembered when Judd was born, Jonathan's pride. His full name was Judson Clayborn Ryder.

"A long time ago," Judd agreed genially. "Are you still with State?" Six feet one inch tall, he was thirty-two years old, wide-shouldered, with an easy stance. Fine lines covered his face, swarthy from too many hours in the sun. His hair was wavy and chestnut brown, while his brown eyes had faded to a dark, contemplative gray. His gaze was rock steady, but a sense of disillusionment and a hint of cynicism showed. Retired military intelligence, Tucker remembered.

The State Department was Tucker's longtime cover. "They'll have to pry my fingers off my desk to get rid of me."

"The police said you were with Dad when he was shot." Judd spoke with light curiosity, but Tucker sensed greater depths.

"Yes. Let's go outdoors and chat."

They walked out to the grassy lawn. Only a few people remained, climbing into cars and limousines at the curb.

Tucker guided the pair to a spot in the shadow of the stone church. "Have either of you heard of the Library of Gold?"

"It was one of the bedtime stories Dad used to tell me, like
Lorna Doone
and
The Scarlet Pimpernel,
" Judd said. "What about you, Mom?"

Jeannine frowned. "I vaguely recall it. I'm sorry, but I don't remember much. It was something Jonathan and Judd shared."

"Did the Library of Gold play a role in Dad's murder?" Judd asked.

Tucker gave a casual shrug. "The police think a copycat of the Beltway Snipers might've shot him." The Beltway Snipers had been responsible for a series of random killings a few years before.

Jeannine pressed her hand against her throat. "How horrible."

Judd put his arm around her shoulders.

"Jonathan said he wanted my help with something related to the library," Tucker continued. "But he died before he could tell me exactly what it was. What did your father tell you about the library, Judd?"

Judd settled his feet. "I'll run through the basics. It all began with the Byzantine Empire. For a thousand years while the emperors were conquering the world, they were collecting and making illuminated manuscripts. But then the empire fell to the Ottoman Turks in 1453. That could've been the end of the court library, but a niece of the last ruler escaped with the best books. They were covered in gold and jewels. When she married Ivan the Great, eight hundred of the books went to Moscow with her." He paused. "The legend was born with their grandson, Ivan the Terrible. After he inherited the library he added more illuminated manuscripts and started letting important Europeans see the collection. They were so impressed they went home and talked about it. Word spread across the continent that only when you stood among Ivan's golden books could you really understand 'wisdom, art, wealth, and eternal power.' That's how the collection got its name--the Library of Gold. It was a good adventure tale with a happy ending that turned into a mystery. Ivan died in 1584, maybe from mercury poisoning. At about the same time several of his spies and assassins got sick and died or were executed--and the library vanished."

Tucker had found himself leaning forward as he listened. He stepped back and peered at Jeannine. "Is that what you remember?"

"That's much more than I ever heard."

"I checked into the library and came up with pretty much the same information," Tucker admitted. "The Byzantine court library existed, but many historians believe none of the books landed in Moscow. Some think a few ended up in Rome, and the Ottoman Turks burned a lot, kept some, and sold the rest."

"I like Jonathan's story more," Jeannine decided.

"Did you ask your father how he heard the story, Judd?"

"Never saw any reason to."

"Where did Jonathan say the library was now?"

Judd gave him a hard look. "The way I ended the story for you was the way Dad ended it for me--with Ivan the Terrible's death and the library's disappearance."

"Would you mind if I looked through Jonathan's papers?" Tucker asked Jeannine.

"Please do, if you think you might find something," she said.

"I'll help," Judd told him.

"It's not necessary--" Tucker tried.

"I insist."

THE RYDERS
lived on the prestigious Maryland State side of Chevy Chase. The house was a baronial white mansion in the Greek Revival style, with six towering columns crowned by an intricately carved portico. Jonathan's office was filled with books. But that was nothing compared to the real library. Tucker stared. From the parquet floor to the second-floor ceiling, thousands of books beckoned, many in hand-tooled leather bindings.