The Book of Spies (53 page)

Judd opened the massive carved door a crack, realizing instantly its core was solid steel, the hinges hidden, the movement pneumatic. It was a vault door. No way anyone could shoot through with an M4, and there was no lock to pick.

They slid inside, low, weapons leveled. As Tucker slammed the bolts behind them, sealing out the guards, Judd stared at eight pistols aimed at them by men standing around a large dining table. He quickly took in the room.

To the right was a shocked sommelier cringing in front of a wine bureau, his hand inside his tuxedo jacket, clasping his heart. Farther along the same wall Yitzhak crouched, sweat greasing his bald head. Eva was sprawled on the floor near him. Oddly, both were dressed in tuxedos. Preston lifted his pistol from Eva to train it on Judd and Tucker. Wearing jeans and a black leather jacket as he had the last time Judd had seen him, he let two towels fall from his hand.

"Judd, what a pleasant surprise," Martin Chapman was saying. "I thought I wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing you again." Tall and genteel, he stood before the banquet table, his thick white hair flowing, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement, his pistol calmly pointed.

Judd stared at his father's old friend. "You're the one who had Dad killed? You son of a bitch." As a wave of fury rolled through him, he felt Tucker's restraining hand on his arm.

"Actually," Chapman said, "Jonathan did it to himself. I tried to talk him out of it, but you know what a hothead he could be. He was completely unreasonable. I'm sorry we lost him. All of us liked him a great deal."

He gestured with his free hand at the other men around the table. They came out and stood in a line on either side of him, their weapons never wavering as they aimed at Tucker and Judd.

Judd studied the men in their expensive evening clothes. Each was at least six feet tall and ranged in age from early forties to late sixties. Perfectly groomed and with strong athletic bodies, they had an unmistakable air of pride and confidence. Their uniformity was chilling.

"Yitzhak." Roberto ran around the outside of the room, passing the sommelier.

The sommelier watched, his eyes enormous. A man in his sixties, he had deep wrinkles and a bulbous red nose, a man who enjoyed wine far too much.

"Shh," Yitzhak warned.

Roberto dropped to the floor beside the professor. As Preston glanced in their direction, Eva lashed out a foot at his leg.

Preston stepped back and pointed his pistol down at her. "Get up!"

Judd realized several of the tuxedoed men were weaving. Those close to the table steadied themselves on it.

Chapman noticed, too. Puzzled, he looked left and right along the line.

The knees of two buckled, and they fell.

"What in hell--" The oldest grabbed his forehead and keeled over.

"Goddammit." Another stared at his gun hand. It was shaking uncontrollably.

Two more struggled to stay upright, and then all three collapsed.

"The brandy--it must've been poisoned," the youngest said to Chapman.

He and Chapman were the last standing. They swung their pistols toward the sommelier.

With the hand that had been gripping his heart, the sommelier whipped out a 9-mm Walther. In one smooth motion, he fired twice. One bullet struck the younger man in the head, and the other shattered Chapman's gun hand.

Reeling, Chapman grabbed up the M4 with the other hand.

At the same time, Preston shoved Eva aside and was running along the wall of books, aiming at the sommelier. Before the sommelier could swing around to fire, Preston squeezed off a shot that sliced across the top of the sommelier's shoulder. From across the room Judd released three explosive bursts into Preston's chest.

Preston froze. Fury crossed his aristocratic features as he looked down at the blood spreading across his heart. He took two more steps. "You don't know what you're doing. The books must be protected--" He pitched over onto his face, arms limp at his sides. His fingers unfurled, and his gun fell with a metallic
clunk
onto the marble floor.

Ignoring Chapman, the sommelier ran to Preston and grabbed the pistol. "Nice shot, Judd. Thanks." As blood dripped down his jacket, he felt for Preston's carotid artery.

"Damn you all to hell!" Martin Chapman trained the M4 on Judd, his finger white on the trigger.

Judd aimed.

"No!" the sommelier shouted from where he crouched. "We need Chapman alive!"

No one moved. Chapman scowled, his weapon pointed at Judd, Judd's pointed at him. The room seemed to reverberate with tension.

Then Chapman's face smoothed. A twinkle appeared in his eyes, and warmth infused his voice. "You should know, Judd, that your father had always hoped you'd join our book club." With his bloody free hand he gestured grandly at the towering expanse of jeweled books. "These can be yours, too. Think of the history, of the trust your father and I inherited. It's sacred. With Brian dead, we're shy three members now. Join us. It would've pleased Jonathan a great deal."

Behind Chapman, Eva had been watching. Judd kept his eyes apparently locked on Chapman, while noting she was taking off her shoes.

"Sacred?" he retorted. "What you have here isn't a trust. It's god-awful selfishness."

Eva sprinted in stocking feet across the marble floor, her black hair flying, her eyes narrowed. She threw herself forward onto her belly and slid silently under the banquet table.

Chapman gave Judd a wry smile, "As John Dryden said, 'Secrets are edged tools and must be kept from children and fools.' You were raised to appreciate the priceless value of this remarkable library. No one can take care of it--cherish it--better than we can. You have a responsibility to help us--"

Hunching up, Eva threw her shoulders into the backs of his knees. He reeled, then crashed forward with a grunt, landing hard. His M4 spun away. He swore loudly and scrambled toward it.

But Eva scooped it up and rolled, and Judd, Tucker, and the sommelier converged. The four stood over Chapman, pointing their weapons.

Face flushed, he clasped his good hand over his bloody hand against his ruffled white shirt and peered around at his downed companions then back over his shoulder at the dead Preston. Finally he glared up, deep fury and a strange hurt in his eyes.

"Who are you?" he demanded from the sommelier.

"Call me Domino," the sommelier said in a husky voice. He had a wide face and a stocky figure. "The Carnivore sends his regards. My orders are to remind you that you were warned about his rules. Then I'm supposed to scrub you."

"I'm not dead yet, you asshole. What did you do to them?"

"Gamma hydroxy butyrate, GHB. Tasteless, odorless, and colorless. A date-rape drug. In the brandy, of course, poured from the 'new' bottle. They'll wake up in a few hours with very bad headaches. I heard you talking. Tell us what's going to happen in Khost, Afghanistan."

"Why would I do that?"

Judd had no idea what Domino meant, but he came from the Carnivore, and that was enough reason for him. All four weapons moved slightly, training on Chapman's head.

"Tell us!" Judd said.

Chapman stared around at the guns. "And if I do?"

"Maybe you get to live, you lucky SOB," Judd said. "But if we have to kill you now, that's all right, too. Your friends will wake up, and one of them will talk."

Chapman blinked slowly. Then he sat up and told a tale of a forgotten diamond mine in Afghanistan and the warlord who was going to eliminate Taliban fighters so the army base would be closed and Chapman could buy the land.

"It's too late to do anything about it," Chapman finished. "The action is going on right now. Besides, it ultimately benefits all of us. Actually, the world. You don't want to stop it."

"You goddamned fool!" Tucker exploded. "You think you can trust a warlord to do anything he promises? He's going to do only what he thinks is in his best interest. There could be a dozen different scenarios, and none of them we'd like. Worse than that, the United States maintains those secret bases because Kabul needs us to. This could bring down the
government and start another bloody war." He looked around the room. "Where's a satellite phone?"

As Domino handed one to him, the door thudded. All looked at the only entrance to the library. The guards must have finally broken through to the anteroom and were preparing to blast their way into the library. New worry filled the room.

"They may have something with more kick than M4s," Judd said, listening.

Tucker nodded and punched numbers on the phone's keypad, while they stood silently, trapped.

Khost Province, Afghanistan

THE COLD
chill of the Khost night was getting to Sam Daradar as he stood at the open window of the guard tower with privates Abe Meyer and Diego Castillo. He inspected the headlights of the Humvees approaching, one behind the other, in the far distance. They looked alone and exposed out there in the black night.

"Any sign of trouble?" Sam asked.

"No, sir," Meyer said. "Quiet as usual."

"Get them on the horn."

Meyer flicked on his radio. "Lieutenant, the captain wants to talk to you."

Sam Daradar punched the button on his radio. "Why are you late?"

There was the sound of coughing from the Humvee. "Sorry, sir. I think I'm getting a cold. We did an extra recon around Smugglers' Point. I had a hunch, so wanted to check it out, but there wasn't anyone there or in the valley." His voice was so thick it was almost unrecognizable.

Silently Sam swore. The last thing he needed was illness sweeping through the base. "See anything anywhere else?"

"No, sir. Quiet as a grave." The man cleared his throat.

"I want a full report when you get in." Sam ended the connection. "I'm going out."

Climbing down from the tower, he passed sandbags piled against the wall. Nearby were the Sea Huts that housed the mess and the Tactical Operations Center, and farther were the Butler Huts where his soldiers bunked. The gate unlocked and opened enough for him to slide through.

Hurrying through the light, he reached the darkness and slowed. Letting his eyes adjust, he stared around at the flatlands that rose into hills
and then at the high-peaked mountains. To his left was the town. He could barely make out the rough outlines of it. There were a few lights. Nothing unusual. Moonlight shimmered down on the shrubs and clumps of trees around the base. A wind had risen, sighing. He looked for movement, listened for sound, sniffed for odors. He was getting to be as much sixteenth century as the other inhabitants around here.

Turning on his heel, he hurried back inside and up into the guard tower. As he took up his post at the window again, he noticed movement coming from the direction of town. It was a vehicle of some kind, the moonlight illuminating a silvery surface. Strange that the headlamps were not alight.

He put infrared binoculars to his eyes and stared. Dammit, it was Syed Ullah's Toyota Land Cruiser. As he watched, it stopped, and three people climbed out--one was Ullah. They peered at the base and talked. Then one lifted something to his shoulder, aiming it. Sam stared hard. It looked like a movie camera. What in hell was going on?

When the Humvees were about fifty yards from the base, he ordered the gates opened.

The radio sounded. He picked it up, expecting the caller to be the lieutenant reporting he had sighted Ullah, too.

Instead a stranger said, "Captain Daradar, I'm patching you in to Tucker Andersen, CIA. He has important information for you."

Instantly a strong voice announced, "This is Andersen. I've got a story to tell you. I'll make it quick."

Sam listened with growing concern.

When Andersen finished, Sam said, "There've been no attacks in town or at any of the huts in sight of here. I've got a patrol coming in now. I spoke to the lieutenant a while ago, and he said it was quiet in the boonies, too. But Ullah is in the dust bowl near here with two other people, and it looks as if they filmed the base. Maybe they're the Pakistani news crew your informant told you about."

"You know Syed Ullah personally?"

"As well as any outsider can."

"What's he capable of?"

There was no hesitation. "Anything." Sam signed off and snapped to Private Meyer, "Sound the alarm. I want all troops at their stations, and the rest here. Close the gates as soon as the Humvees get inside."

As the alarm blared and orders were relayed over loudspeakers, Sam grabbed his assault rifle and ran down from the guard tower. He waited well behind it, out of view of the gate. The Humvees would stop on the hard-packed dirt in a well-lit area in front of him. Within seconds a lieutenant and a corporal were beside him.

"What's going on, sir?" the lieutenant asked.

"Don't know yet." Sam had a feeling he had the answer, but he did not like it. "Any of the men got viruses or colds?"

The lieutenant and corporal shook their heads.

"Yeah, I didn't think so. I could be wrong about this, but we can't take any chances. I think Ullah's men may be in those Humvees." He told the lieutenant what he wanted him to do.