The Book of Spies

51

Somewhere around the Mediterranean
ABOVE THE turquoise sea stood a small stone villa about three quarters of the way up a long green valley. It was nearly four hundred years old. Four stone cottages flanked it, two on either side, built more than a century ago for a don's large extended family. Green ivy grew up the aged white walls of the buildings, and red geraniums bloomed from window boxes.
It was a beautiful afternoon, the air scented with the perfume of honeysuckle blossoms. Don Alessandro Firenze was sitting outdoors beneath his leafy grape arbor at the side of the villa. Here was the long wood table and upright wood chairs at which he and his compadres gathered to drink wine and tell stories of the old days. A man in his sixties, the don was in his usual chair at the head of the table, a straw hat on the back of his head. He was alone except for his book and 9-mm Walther, which lay on the table beside a tall glass of ice tea.
He lifted his head from Plato's Republic. One of the advantages of semiretirement was he could indulge himself. As a foolish youth, he had neglected his education. For the past dozen years he had spent much of his free time reading, the rest in tending his vegetable garden, grapevines, and honeybees. And of course there was the occasional outside job.
He gazed around, enjoying this piece of earthly heaven that meant so much to him. He noted the vibrant health of the bushes and flowering plants that grew around the grassy front yard. His large vegetable garden showed toward the rear, surrounded by a low white picket fence, and next to it was an enormous satellite dish and a generator in bomb- and fire-proof housing. Much farther away was a honeybee colony in white boxes. The hillsides beneath the compound were lined with well-tended grapevines and dotted by gnarled olive trees. The property covered five square miles, so no neighbors disturbed him.
Through the window of one of the cottages he could see Elaine Russell in her kitchen. Her husband, George, had gone into the village for supplies. Next to their cottage was another, where Randi and Doug Kennedy napped outside in hammocks. On the other side of the villa, Jack O'Keefe--once known as Red Jack O'Keefe--was working at his computer, visible through his living room window. The other cottage was home to more of his compadres, two brothers. Intelligence work was as integral to all of their systems as veins and tendons, so they were merely semiretired, too. They reveled in his jobs, acting as a moral compass whenever he needed debate.
Just as he was about to return to his book, Jack came at a half-run from his door. The don watched the easy gait, remembering when the older man could run the half mile faster than most people on the planet. About five foot ten inches tall, Jack still had catlike grace. But he looked worried, his corrugated face tense.
The don said nothing.
"Dammit, we've got a problem." Jack dropped onto the chair beside him. "Someone's been trying to trace back the e-mails between Martin Chapman and me. The bastard didn't succeed, but he got damn close. I scrambled the two Internet service providers I created out of Somalia and the Antilles and shut them down. There's no way they'll find us now."
The don felt hot fury explode in his skull. He said nothing, waiting for the storm to subside. His bad temper had caused enough grief for himself and those he loved.
"You told Chapman the rules," the don said. "I told him. He agreed. Now he's broken them twice."
"I did some research on him and Douglas Preston. Preston's ex-CIA, the bastard. You'd think he'd have a better way to earn a living now. Anyway, according to Chapman's equity firm, Chapman is in Athens now. My deduction is Preston is with him, looking for Eva Blake and Judd Ryder. You told me this was about the Library of Gold, so I sent out word to our contacts and got some interesting results."
When searching for the rich and powerful, most people never thought to investigate the less obvious sources--protection services, independent bodyguards, private mercenaries, party planners, chefs, maid and nanny businesses, boat crews, pilots, anyone who served the affluent.
"You have a lead?" the don asked.
"You bet I do. Wasn't going to talk to you until I did. The problem is, it's risky."
As Jack explained the possibilities, the don took off his hat and rubbed his forearm across his gray crew cut. His fingerprints had been burned off years ago, his face altered many times by plastic surgery. He had the body of a man in his forties, although his skin had aged--a regime of hormones, vitamins, and exercise could accomplish only so much. He nodded as he listened. Yes, that would do.
"It won't be easy," Jack warned again.
"I've just been reading Plato." The Carnivore closed the book and set it beside his Walther. He gazed across his tranquil estate, wishing his daughter were here. But she did not approve of him. "It's an insightful book. I don't agree with everything. Still, one thing he wrote seems to apply: 'Only the dead have seen the end of war.' " He stood up. "Summon the compadres. We'll go into the villa and make preparations."