The Book of Spies

31

Dubai, United Arab Emirates
THE SWANK cocktail party was on the thirtieth floor of the stunning Burj al-Arab--the Tower of the Arabs, the world's tallest and arguably grandest hotel. The suite soared two full stories, boasting a spiral marble staircase, miles of twenty-four-carat gold detailing, and expansive windows showcasing panoramic views of the oil-rich Persian Gulf. Two Saudi princes in flowing white kanduras had just arrived via the twenty-eighth-floor helipad below, flying in from St. Tropez with full entourages.
Martin Chapman, the director of the Library of Gold, turned his attention from the flurry around them to watch a Russian exporter and his mistress take calls on ten-thousand-dollar cell phones encrusted with diamonds. Chapman smiled, amused. Still, he would never allow such gaudy affectation in his employees.
Dressed conservatively in a three-piece, side-vented suit, Chapman excused himself from a group of international bankers and walked off. He wore his vast personal fortune with the natural ease of Old Money, although he damn well had earned every penny himself.
Winding through the partygoers, he savored the undercurrent of excitement and raw avarice. But then, this was Dubai, epicenter of a storm of commerce, with free-trade zones, speed-dial corporate licensing, no taxes, no elections, and almost no crime. It was said the city's bird was the building crane--skyscrapers seemed to sprout from the desert sands overnight, most apartments and offices presold. Eager and filthy rich, Dubai was perfect for Chapman, who was here to raise money.
"Appetizer, sir?" Dressed in a money-green tuxedo, the server kept his gaze lowered.
Chapman chose Beluga caviar piled on a triangle of toast and continued on. From religion to crime and terrorism, everything in Dubai took a backseat to profit, and the profit was enormous. Even before Haliburton decided to move its world headquarters from Houston to Dubai, Chapman knew it was time to pay attention. So he had added to his string of homes, buying a villa in exclusive Palm Jumeirah--and had begun making friends.
It was time to go to work. He headed for Sheik Ahmad bin Rashid al-Shariff.
The sheik's black mustache curved upward as he dismissed a bevy of bronzed blond celebutantes and smiled at Chapman. He lifted his bourbon glass in greeting. "Assalaam alaykom." Peace be upon you.
"Alaykom assalaam." And peace upon you. Chapman did not speak Arabic, but long ago he had memorized the correct response. "I'm enjoying your party."
Sheik Ahmad was a dark wisp of a man in his mid forties, elegant in a gray pinstriped suit. A cousin of the emirate's ruler, he had been partially educated in the United States, with an MBA from Stanford. Earlier that day he had personally taken the wheel of a white Cadillac limousine to escort Chapman around several of his building sites. But then Chapman was no ordinary visitor. He headed Chapman & Associates, once the richest private equity firm in the United States. It had dropped from some $98 billion in assets under management to a mere $35 billion in the economic crash, but all U.S. equity funds had been eviscerated, although his perhaps more than others. Chapman was counting on his Khost project to put him back at number one, where he belonged. Even more important, it would please his wife.
"Yes, the usual financiers and industrialists," the sheik said. "A sprinkling of the idle rich. They're like saffron--zesty and attractive, entertaining for working stiffs like you and me. There are several of you private-equity people here, too."
Private equity was the sanitized term for leveraged-buyout firms. In the first four months of the year, Chapman & Associates had spent and borrowed far fewer billions of dollars than in its heyday, as he had searched out underperforming or undervalued companies to buy. With every deal, a new war chest had to be raised, so he was constantly on the money circuit, charming, cajoling, rattling off figures as he seduced those he targeted with his strong handshake and visions of a glorious future. Since he retained a larger interest in the company than anyone, he took a hefty percentage from every new transaction.
He ate his caviar, dusted his fingers on the cocktail napkin, and dropped it onto the tray of a passing waiter. "I was speaking with some of them earlier. They're eager to go on personal tours of Dubai with you, too."
The sheik laughed. "That's what I like about you, Martin. You're happy to give away my wealth, even to your competitors. As usual, they'll be too small for me, as you already know. By the way, I've made my decision about your proposition."
He paused to increase the drama and hint his answer might not be what Chapman wanted.
Without hesitation, Chapman gave an understanding nod and countered, "Yes, I've been thinking about the buy-in, too. Perhaps it's not right for you. I think I should withdraw the invitation and save us both embarrassment."
Sheik Ahmad blinked slowly, his hooded eyelids closing and opening like those of a hawk perched in a banyan tree, awaiting prey. But his prey was Martin Chapman.
He smiled. "Martin, you are too much. Playing my game, are you? I'll come to the point. I want in. It's five hundred million dollars, yes?"
"Three hundred and twenty million. No more. Still, that will give you twenty percent."
Chapman's rule was always to leave investors hungering for more, and if the deal went sour, which he knew it would not, the sheik would have fewer reasons to lash back. Chapman was confident the $16 billion leveraged buyout of a mass-market retail company would return profits of at least 60 percent. Management had been unable to keep up with the changing times, but the structure was sound for a turnaround, financed by selling off ancillary holdings and taking loans. Only five thousand employees would have to be fired.
"Then it will be three hundred and twenty million," Sheik Ahmad agreed good-naturedly. "I like investments where I don't have to lift a finger. Do you have anything else I can give you money for?"
"Soon. The deal isn't ready yet--but soon."
"What is it? A retail chain, a distribution company, steel, timber, utilities?"
Chapman said nothing and smiled, thinking about his highly secret Khost project.
The sheik nodded. "Ah, I see. I'll wait until you're ready to reveal all. Your glass is empty. You must have another drink so we can celebrate." He raised a hand and signaled. Within seconds, a waiter stood before them.
It would be impolite to refuse, so Chapman accepted another bourbon and talked longer, resisting the urge to check his watch. Finally the sheik invited him to attend a majlis, his royal council, which was convening upstairs, and Chapman was able to exit gracefully.
On the sweeping steps of the palatial hotel, Chapman dialed his wife as he luxuriated in the outdoor air-conditioning. He looked out over the gulf to the collection of man-made islands called the World, one of Dubai, Inc.'s recent Las Vegas-style fantasies come to life. He had heard Rod Stewart had bought "Britain" for PS19 million. Perhaps the next time he came, after the Khost project was certain, he would see about buying a continent, too.
When there was no answer, he left a message on the machine. "I'm flying out, darling. I just wanted to let you know I love you." She was still in San Moritz but was scheduled to leave for Athens soon.
As he watched the blazing red sun sink toward the gulf's purple waters, his limo pulled up. The chauffeur opened the door, and Chapmen climbed into the rear, where his briefcase was waiting. Soon they were on the Sheikh Zayed Road, cruising east beneath the city's Manhattan-style skyline while the darkening desert and gulf spread flat and austere on either side.
He called his assistant at the Library of Gold. The Khost project was so secret that Chapman was running the operation from there.
"Where are we?" he demanded.
"The army uniforms and equipment have arrived in Karachi." The port on the Arabian sea was notorious for being porous. "Preston has handled everything impeccably. Your meeting with the warlord is scheduled for tomorrow in Peshawar."
"And security?"
"I'm working with Preston. It will be complete."
After he hung up, Chapman made several more phone calls, bringing himself up-to-date on other pieces of business and of course issuing orders. No matter how high the quality of the people one employed, they still needed guidance.
When the limo reached the private section of Dubai International Airport, the chauffeur drove out to the Learjet. Its engines were humming. He stopped the limo and ran around to open the rear door.
Chapman climbed out, carrying his briefcase. Handing over his passport to the waiting customs agent, he expected no trouble and got none--the agent simply stamped it. As the chauffeur unloaded his suitcase, Chapman marched toward the aircraft.
Two more men were waiting at the foot of the stairs. One was the pilot; the other was the armed man Preston had arranged. He was carrying a small bag.
"Good to see you, sir." The pilot touched the brim of his cap.
"Any problems?"
"No. We've followed your instructions and haven't spoken to her."
Chapman nodded and climbed into the opulent aircraft. It had wide leather seats, custom colors, and high-tech accessories. Sitting in the last row was Robin Miller, the only passenger.
"Hello, Mr. Chapman." She stared at him down the length of the aisle, her green eyes red-rimmed, her face flushed from weeping. She was a mess. Her long blond hair was disheveled, her bangs pushed to the sides, her white sweater rumpled over her chest.
He ignored her and gazed at the black backpack strapped into the seat across the aisle from her. Pleasure coursed through him. Then he remembered the CIA was intent on finding the Library of Gold. With a brusque gesture, he told the armed guard to sit in the bulkhead.
As the pilot closed and locked the door, Chapman marched down the aisle and rotated the seat in front of Robin to face her. He locked the seat into place, sat, and snapped on his safety belt. Still saying nothing, he folded his hands into his lap. Now he needed to find out how deeply she was involved in Charles Sherback's deceptions.
AS THE jet's engines revved up, Robin glanced nervously at the director. His unlined face was stern, his thin lips set in a straight line, and his long fingers entwined over his suit coat as if in his hands he controlled the universe. And he did control her universe--the Library of Gold.
The silence was frightening. She had seen the director do this before--saying nothing--which encouraged the other person to blurt into the vacuum, often with revelations that were later regretted. She forced herself to wait.
The jet took off, rising smoothly into Dubai's starry night. She looked out her window. Below them the city's lights extended along the coastline in sparkling colors.
Then she heard her voice filling the unbearable silence: "Are we still going to Athens?" That seemed neutral enough. The plan had been that from there they would helicopter The Book of Spies home to the library.
"Of course. Why didn't you phone to tell me immediately Eva Blake recognized Charles at the British Museum?" The question was posed curiously, an uncle interested in a favored niece's reply.
"Preston was going to take care of her." She thought about Charles's poor dead body, wrapped in canvas and hefted into the jet's baggage compartment like someone's castoff belongings.
The director gave a slight frown. It came and went quickly, but she knew her answer was wrong. Preston must have told him Charles and she had kept the information from him.
"What's important is we got The Book of Spies." She nodded at the backpack across the aisle. "It's fabulous, more even than our records show. Wouldn't you like to see it?" Once he cradled the illuminated manuscript, he might forget she had not reported Charles immediately.
"Later. Tell me what happened."
Girding herself, she described everything in London carefully, making certain she was accurate. She had a sense he was comparing every word to what Preston had said.
When she finished, he asked, "You saw the tattoo on Charles's head?"
"Yes."
"What does it mean?"
"I don't know. I didn't even know he had it."
He nodded. "Why do you think he wanted a secret tattoo?"
"I don't know."
"If your head were shaved, would I find one there, too?"
She felt a shiver of fear. "Absolutely not."
"Then you don't mind if I check."
"You can't mean you want me to cut off my hair?"
"No, Magus will do it." The director called over his shoulder to the front of the jet, "I'm ready for you."
The guard picked up his small bag and walked down the aisle.
She peered up at him helplessly.
Magus took shears from his bag, grabbed hair, and cut. Long blond curls floated to the floor. He grabbed more hair and cut. And more and more. The hair fell around her. Robin felt tears heat her eyes. Furious with herself, she blinked them away.
The only sound in the jet was of the clipping scissors and the distant thrum of the engines. As she used shaky fingers to wipe hair from her face, Magus put away the shears and took out a battery-powered electric razor. The steel was cold as it ran over her scalp. Her skin vibrated and itched. Little hairs flew. Her head was too light. She felt naked, ashamed.
"Do you see anything, Magus?" the director asked. "Any words, numbers, or symbols?"
"No, sir." He turned off the razor and dropped it into his bag. "Go back to your seat." The director fixed his gaze on her. "Did Charles ever talk to you about where the library's located?" His eyes were blue frost.
Looking into them, she suddenly saw her father's eyes, black but just as icy. She remembered the moment she knew she must leave and never return to Scotland. She had walked away from everything, got rid of her accent, and put herself through the Sorbonne, then Cambridge, studying classical art and library science. She had made a life of her own, first working in rare books and manuscripts at the Houghton Library in Boston then at the Bibliotheque Nationale de France in Paris, where she had heard about the Library of Gold and steeped herself in its mythic history. The more she learned, the more she had hungered to know, until the exhilarating moment Angelo Charbonier had recruited her to join the elite staff, where she had met Charles and thought finally, after a decade of wandering, she had found a home.
"Charles never mentioned the library's location," she told him coolly.
"Does Charles's tattoo reveal it?" the director asked.
"I already told you I don't know what the tattoo means."
"Do you know where the Library of Gold is?"
"No. I never asked Charles, but I don't think he knew anyway. I never tried to find out from anyone. It's against the rules."
He nodded again, seeming to like that answer. "Remember the old Latin proverb 'What was sour to endure is sweet to recall.' You've proved your point, and your hair will grow back. Now I have business to conduct. Go to the front of the plane and sit near Magus."
Despite his words, dread filled her. She had a sense she was doomed, and doomed ironically by Charles's tattoo. If the director had been unable to trust Charles, who had seemed to love the library more than life itself, how could he ever really trust her when she so obviously had been in love with Charles?
She had made a huge error--not loving Charles, but associating with the library at all. Her mouth went dry as she realized what she had to do. She must walk away again, just as she had from her father. When the Learjet landed in Athens, she must find a way to escape.