The Book of Spies

4

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.
"This is amazing," Tucker said.
"He was a collector. But see how worn his chair is? He didn't just collect; he read a lot, too."
Tucker gazed at the red leather armchair, worn and softened. Returning to the task at hand, he led Judd back to the office. They began inspecting Jonathan's cherrywood desk, matching file cabinets, and the cardboard banker's boxes of his personal belongings sent over from his office at Bucknell headquarters.
"The Department of State is a good cover," Judd said noncommitally. "Who do you really work for, Tucker? CIA . . . Homeland Security . . . National Intelligence?"
Tucker let out a loud laugh. "Sorry to let you down, son. I really do work for State. And no, not State intelligence. I'm just a paper pusher, helping the diplomats wade through the various policy changes that have to do with the Middle East. A paper pusher like me is perfect to go through Jonathan's papers." In truth, Tucker was a covert officer, which meant his fellow spies, operations, assets, agents, and the people who had worked knowingly or unknowingly with him could be endangered if his real position were made public.
"Right," Judd said, letting the matter drop.
When Tucker asked, Judd described the conditions he had seen in Iraq and Pakistan without ever telling him anything substantive about his own work.
"I'll bet you're being recruited by every agency in the IC," Tucker said. The IC was the intelligence community.
"I haven't been home long enough."
"They'll be after you. Are you tempted?"
Judd had taken off his suit jacket and was crouched in his white cuffed shirt and dark suit pants over a banker's box, reading file names. "Dad asked me the same question. When I said no, he tried to convince me to join him at Bucknell. But I've saved my money and have a lease on a row house on the Hill. I figured to do nothing until I couldn't stand it anymore. By then I should know what's next for me."
Tucker had been going through Jonathan's desk. The last drawer contained files. He read the tags. The end file was unnamed. He pulled it out. In it were a half-dozen clippings from newspapers and magazines from the past week--and each article was about jihadism in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He peered up. Judd's back was to him. He folded the clippings and stuffed them inside his jacket and returned the empty file to the drawer.
He activated Jonathan's computer. "Do you know your dad's password?"
Judd looked over his shoulder. "Try 'Jeannine.' "
When that did not work, Judd made more suggestions. Finally the date of his birth did the trick. As soon as Judd returned to the banker's boxes, Tucker activated a global search for "Library of Gold"--but uncovered nothing. Then he inspected Jonathan's financial records on Quicken. There were no red flags.
"Dinner," Jeannine announced from the open door. "You need a break."
They joined her for a simple meal at the maple table in the kitchen.
"Your place is beautiful," Tucker commented. "Jonathan came a far way from the South Side of Chicago."
"All of this was important to him." Jeannine made a gesture encompassing the house and their privileged world. "You know how ambitious he was. He loved the business, and he loved that he could make a lot of money at it. But strangely I don't think he could ever have made enough to make him really happy. Still, we had many good times." She stopped, her eyes tearing.
"We've got a lot of great memories, don't we, Mom?" Judd said.
She nodded and resumed eating.
"Jonathan traveled a lot, I imagine," Tucker said.
"All the time," she said. "But he was always glad to come home."
After coffee, Tucker and Judd returned to the office. By ten o'clock, they had finished their search, and Tucker was weary of the tedious work.
"Sure I can't convince you to have a brandy?" Judd asked as he walked him to the front door. "Mom will join us."
"Wish I could, but I need to get home. Karen is going to think I've gotten myself lost."
Judd gave an understanding nod, and they shook hands.
Tucker went out to his old Oldsmobile. He liked the car. It had a powerful eight-cylinder engine and ran like a well-oiled top. He climbed inside and drove the rest of the way around the circular drive and out past the electronic gates and onto the street, heading to his far more modest home in Virginia. Since he was working, he had not brought Karen to the funeral. But she would be waiting for him, a fire burning in the fireplace. He needed to see her, to remember the good times, and to forget for a short while the fear in Jonathan's voice for some impending disaster he had not had time to name.
Earlier, when he followed Jeannine and Judd's limo to their place, he had thought a black Chevy Malibu was dogging him most of the way. He had slowed the Olds as he drove in through the Ryders' gate, watching in his rearview mirror. But the car had rolled past without a glance from the driver, his profile hard to see beneath a golf cap pulled low over his forehead.
Now as he drove, Tucker went into second-stage alert, studying pedestrians and other cars. After ten blocks he made a sharp turn onto a quiet street. There was a car again, maybe the car, behind him. A dark color. A motorcycle turned, too, trailing the car.
Tucker made another sharp right, then turned left onto a silent residential avenue. The tailing car stayed with him, and so did the motorcycle. He hit the accelerator. Shots sounded, smashing in through the rear window. Glass pebbles sprayed, showering him. He crouched low and pulled out his 9-mm Browning, laying it on the seat beside him. Since Jonathan's death, he carried it all the time.
Flooring the accelerator, he felt the big eight take hold, and the car hurtled forward into the night. Houses passed in a blur. No more bullets, but his tail was still with him, although falling behind. Silently he thanked the Olds's powerful motor. Ahead was a hill. He blasted up it, the front wheels lifting at the crest, and over. The front crashed down, and he raced onward, turning onto one street and then the next.
He looked around, hoping . . . there was an open garage, and the attached house showed no interior lights. He checked his rearview mirror. No sign of his tail--yet.
He slammed the brakes and shot the car into the garage, jumped out, and yanked hard on the door's rope. The door banged down.
Standing at the garage's side window, gun in hand, he watched his pursuer rush past. It was the black Chevy Malibu, but he saw only the right side of the car, not the driver's side, and could not quite make out the license plate number. He still had no idea who was behind the wheel. Immediately following, the motorcycle whipped past, its rider's face hidden by a black helmet.
Tucker remained at the window, watching. A half hour later, he slid his Browning back into its holster and went to the center of the big garage door. With a grunt, he heaved the door up--and froze, staring into the mouth of a subcompact semiautomatic Beretta pistol.
"Don't reach for it." Judd Ryder's face was grim. He had changed out of his funeral clothes and was wearing jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket.
Tucker let the hand that had been going for his weapon drift down to his side. "What in hell do you think you're doing, Judd? How did you find me?"
Ryder gave a crooked smile. "You learn a few things in military intelligence."
"You put a bug on my car?"
"You bet I did. Why didn't the sniper in Stanton Park kill you, too?"
"I got lucky. I dove under the bench."
"Bullshit. You claim to be a paper pusher, but paper pushers freeze. They wet their pants. They die. Why did you set up Dad?"
Tucker was silent. Finally he admitted, "You're right--I'm CIA. Your father came to me for help, just as I said. After I got away, the sniper tried to shoot me, too. He was run down in traffic while chasing me. But when I went back, the body had disappeared. Either he survived and got out on his own, or someone picked him up. He'd seen me, which is why I shaved my beard--to make myself more difficult to identify. Someone just tried to kill me again, maybe the same a*shole."
"What exactly did Dad say?"
"That he was very worried. He told me, 'I stumbled onto something . . . an account for about twenty million dollars in an international bank. I'm not sure exactly what it means, but I think it has to do somehow with Islamic terrorism.' "
Judd inhaled sharply.
Tucker nodded. "He was shot before he could say anything more than he'd found the information in the Library of Gold."
Judd's eyebrows rose. "He told the story about the library to me as if it were fiction. You're certain he said he found out in the library?"
"He said the library was key. That he'd been there." He saw a flicker of hurt in Judd's eyes. "Everyone has secrets. Your father was no exception."
"And this one killed him. Maybe."
"Maybe." An idea occurred to him. "Were you on the motorcycle behind me?"
"It's parked up the block. I got the license tag of the Chevy that was chasing you. I can't have it traced--you can. He lost me in Silver Spring, dammit." He slid his gun inside his jacket. "Sorry, Tucker. I had to be sure about you."
Tucker realized sweat had beaded up on his forehead. "What's the plate number?"
Judd gave it to him. Tucker walked back through the garage to the driver's side door of his car.
Judd followed. "Let's work on this together."
"Not on your life, Judson. You're out of the game, remember? You've got a row house on the Hill, and you're taking some time off."
"That was before some goddamn sniper killed Dad. I'll find his killer on my own if I have to."
Tucker turned and glared. "You're impetuous, and you're too close to this. He was your father, for God's sake. I can't have anyone working with me I can't trust."
"Would you really have handled it any differently?" Before Tucker could answer, Judd continued. "It's only logical I'd be suspicious. Maybe you were responsible for Dad's death. You could've tried to liquidate me, too. Look at it another way: You don't want to be tripping over me. I sure as hell don't want you in my way, either."
Tucker opened the car door and sighed. "All right. I'll think about it. But if I agree, you take orders from me. Me, get it? No more grandstanding. Now rip that bug off my car."
"Sure--if you drive me to my bike."
"Jesus Christ. Get in."