The Book of Spies

49

THE AFTERNOON was bright, sunlight bouncing off the windshields of cars as Martin Chapman's plush limousine rolled up to the Hotel Grande Bretagne on Constitution Square. One of the globe's top establishments, the hotel looked like a palace and had a long history as a seat of power, which Chapman appreciated: The Nazis had made it their headquarters when they occupied Greece during World War II, and later the British Expeditionary Force took it over. Wars had been planned here, and treaties signed. From kings to corporate heads, jet-setters to diplomats, it was the place to stay, the only hotel Chapman ever used when in Athens.
The chauffeur rushed around the limo to open the door. Chapman got out, his mane of wavy white hair gleaming, blue eyes twinkling, tan face composed, carriage erect. Valets scurried. The hotel's massive doors opened, and he marched inside.
The manager waited beside a tall Ionic column in the lobby, perfectly positioned for effect, surrounded by the hotel's nineteenth-century art and antiques. He bowed and, after appropriate welcoming remarks, led Chapman across the mosaic marble floor to the private elevator, bypassing the registration desk.
They rose silently to the fifth-floor Royal Suite. Opening the door, the manager bowed again, and Chapman strode into a rich world of damasks and silks and antique furnishings from Sotheby's, eager to see his wife. But there was no sign of her. Instead, standing in the middle of the grand triple living room was Doug Preston, holding a wood box. He inclined his head slightly, indicating the box contained what Chapman wanted. Dressed in a three-piece suit tailored to show no sign of his holstered pistol, the security chief's expression was serious.
Chapman's luggage was wheeled in, and the manager bowed himself out the door.
"Where's my wife?" Chapman asked.
"Shopping, sir. Mahaira is with her."
Chapman nodded and gestured. They went into the private formal dining room with its elegant table, set for a business meeting of only eight, since Jonathan Ryder and Angelo Charbonier were dead. Over the next year the book club would decide on their replacements. The centerpiece was a lavish display of orchids. Pads of paper and pricey Mont Blanc fountain pens with the hotel's logo waited at each place.
Preston closed the door. "The butler will serve drinks. Is there anything else I can order for you?"
Chapman chose a Partagas cigar from the burled-wood humidor. He rolled it between his fingers next to his ear, hearing the muffled sound of fine tobacco. He clipped off the end and sniffed. Satisfactory. Lighting it with the hotel's gold lighter, he went to stand by one of the tall windows overlooking the city's landmarks.
"How close are you to finding the Carnivore?" Chapman smoked, controlling his fury.
When after four hours the Carnivore had not given Chapman confirmation of the kill, he had phoned the number the Carnivore had given him. It was disconnected. Then he had sent an e-mail to the contact man, Jack. It had bounced back.
Preston joined Chapman at the window and said, "It's a problem. As you said, the Carnivore's security is very tight. The e-mail address was routed through several countries. So far Jan's had no luck tracing it back to its origin, but she's still working on it." Jan Mardis was Carl Lindstrom's chief of computer security. "As for the disconnected number, there's nothing we can do about it. I checked in with the man who recommended the Carnivore to you, but he claims he has no other way to reach him and you'll never find him now. He doesn't understand what happened, but whatever it was, he figures he's burned, too. When the Carnivore takes a client's money, it's a trust to him. He always delivers. And he never forgets."
Chapman felt a chill, remembering the cold litany of the Carnivore's rules. Then he brushed it off. The bastard owed him the $1 million advance.
"Find him. I want my money, and then I want him terminated."
Preston inclined his head. "Yes, sir. As soon as Jan has anything, it'll be a pleasure to take him out."
"What about Judd Ryder and Eva Blake? According to our Washington asset, they were heading for Thessalonika and had hooked up with Robin Miller."
"It has to be Athens. They took a note I'd written to myself, and the Carnivore knew it was legitimate. I've posted men at the airport, train stations, and docks to look for them. I don't see how they could've reached Robin, but maybe they have. That could work in our favor." He paused. "I know how to find her."
Chapman stopped, his cigar suspended on its way to his mouth. He studied Preston, who stood calmly beside him, the box still in both hands. He was not rattled, not apologetic. In fact, there was a deadly calm about him. His blue eyes looked like chipped ice. He had been humiliated, and he wanted revenge. Good.
"Tell me."
"I had the pilot check the Learjet," Preston said. "Robin didn't leave her cell behind. If she were planning to escape, she'd take it with her because it was the only one she had. She doesn't know she can be tracked through the cell. My NSA contact is waiting for her to activate it, and as soon as she does, we'll have her. But there's another problem: Tucker Andersen got away, and the man I hired in Washington to scrub him has vanished. So has Andersen. I have people looking for both."
Chapman swore loudly. "Anything else?"
"My men in Rome captured Yitzhak Law and Roberto Cavaletti."
"They're dead?" he asked instantly, pleased.
Preston shook his head. "Not yet. Ryder and Blake have turned out to be far more trouble than any of us envisioned. With Law and Cavaletti, we have something to hold over them if we need it."
Chapman thought about it. "Agreed. We can wipe them whenever we wish."
"There's one more thing. I talked to Yakimovich after I got free in the Grand Bazaar. He said Charles left behind a strip of leather with a message--the location of the Library of Gold is hidden in The Book of Spies."
"Jesus. The old librarian smuggled out that book. He knew the location was in it?"
"He's the one who put it there. Charles must have found some message he left. In any case, it's not a problem. We'll retrieve the book. Ryder and Blake will never get close."
Chapman dropped his cigar into an ashtray and rubbed his hands. "Give me the box."
But as Preston handed it to him, there was a tap on the door. With a nod from Chapman, Preston opened it.
Mahaira stood there in a beige linen suit, her graying hair perfectly coiffed in a frame around her soft face. "Madame asked me to tell you she is delayed, sir. Friends found her and insisted she have tea with them. She is most regretful."
Stung by the news, Chapman turned his back on her. As he listened to her pad away, his gaze fell on the box. Quickly he opened it. Sighing with pleasure, he plucked from its velvet lining an illuminated manuscript spectacular not only for its physical beauty but also for what it would mean to his wife and the great new fortune he would have.