The Book of Spies

64

The Isle of Pericles
AT FOUR o'clock in the afternoon the eight members of the book club flew toward the Isle of Pericles in a comfortable Bell helicopter. Although the rotors chopped noisily, and the craft vibrated, Martin Chapman was enjoying himself. He had spoken with Syed Ullah before taking off and had received a good report. The news of the warlord's success in Khost should reach him during the banquet.
As the helicopter circled, Chapman stared down at the lush thyme-covered hills, the stately olive and palm trees, the wild native herbs. Acres of blooming citrus groves swept over the hills. Glistening waterfalls spilled at the ends of ravines. Smiling to himself, he took in the white pebbled beaches, the deserted coves, and the dramatic seaside cliffs, savoring the fact this secret Shangri-la had belonged only to him and few others.
The craft swept low over the south beach, passing the wharf where the cargo ship was being packed, and then up the valley toward the mesa, lower than surrounding hills. On it stood the Library of Gold compound, built a half century ago. Just beneath were four long stories of darkened glass, set into the steep slope and largely invisible from above and difficult to spot from the beach. Most of what went on at the compound was beneath the surface.
The craft landed on the helipad, and Chapman climbed out, the other book club members following. Their heads and shoulders low to avoid the whirling blades, they hurried off. At the same time, Preston gave a signal, and an equal number of bodyguards rushed toward it. Each grabbed one member's bag and briefcase.
A sense of anticipation was in the salty sea air as the eight walked toward the buildings, Preston and the guards following.
"Damn disappointing we won't have a librarian tonight," Brian Collum said as he adjusted his sunglasses.
"It is most unfortunate we will not have a tournament," Petr Klok agreed. "I will miss that a great deal. I spent two days preparing with the translators."
"Think of something, Marty," ordered Maurice Dresser, the eldest member. The bossy Canadian oil man strode out ahead, the hot sun turning the skin on his skull pink beneath his thin white hair. "That's an assignment."
The others glanced at Martin Chapman good-naturedly. But with Charles Sherback and Robin Miller eliminated--their only librarians--there was no way the tournament could go on.
"Yes, Marty. It's your problem." Reinhardt Gruen deadpanned.
"Absolutely," Martin Chapman said, continuing the conviviality. Then he had an idea. "The impossible is nothing to me. That's why you voted me director."
"I need a drink--and I want to see the menu so I can start salivating," Dresser said over his shoulder. "Then who wants a round of tennis?"
They entered the grassy compound with its rows of roses. Glazed in sunlight, the three simple white buildings with their Doric columns stood like Grecian tributes to the past. The Olympic-size swimming pool shimmered. The tennis court was empty, but obviously not for long. Behind the complex rose a huge satellite dish, the island's link to the outside world. Once a village had covered the mesa and surrounding hills, its main source of income high-quality salt mines. But the mines had worn out, and now the island's only inhabitants besides the regular staff were rodents, seagulls, flamingos, and other birds.
"Damn, I'm going to miss this place," Collum said.
"Won't we all," Grandon Holmes agreed. "Pity to have to move the library. Still, I've always liked the Alps."
"We knew this day would come," Chapman reminded them.
Silently they passed two cottages. Charles Sherback had lived in one; the other was Preston's. They entered the big main house, which encircled a palm-shaded reflecting pool. Chapman paused to enjoy the view one last time. All was as it had been on his last visit. Decorated with Greek furniture, the walls full of museum-quality paintings from across Europe. Chandeliers of Venetian glass glittered, hanging on wrought-iron chains from the high ceiling. Ancient Greek statues and vases stood here and there on the glowing white marble floor, quarried on Mount Penteli, near Athens. A walk-in fireplace of the same marble stretched across the end of the long room. The air was cool, thanks to the giant temperature-control system buried belowground. Men were moving furniture from other rooms toward the elevator and down to where it would be loaded onto trucks to be taken to the cargo ship.
The guest rooms were on this floor, in three of the arms around the reflecting pool. The book club split into two groups, each heading into a different wing to go to their usual rooms.
Chapman entered his suite, his bodyguard a respectful six feet behind. "You're new." He turned to study the man, who had a tanned face. It was one Chapman did not recognize.
"Yes, sir. You're Martin Chapman. I read about you in an article in Vanity Fair, the one about your big equity deal to buy Sheffield-Riggs. The financing was a thing of beauty. My name is Harold Kardasian. Preston brought me in this morning from Majorca with two others."
Majorca was known as a home for wealthy independent mercenaries. The guard was sturdy, obviously athletic from the way he moved, with thick brown hair that had streaks of gray at the temples. A pistol was on his hip. He was in his early fifties, Chapman judged, and had a touch of class--refined features, erect posture, deferential without being obsequious. Chapman liked that.
"You're a short-timer?" he asked.
"Just here for the two days you'll be here. I'd heard about Preston for years, so of course I signed up so I could work with him. Didn't know I'd have the privilege of working for you, too, Mr. Chapman."
Preston appeared in the doorway. "I'll take those." As Kardasian left, he laid the suitcase on the butler's stand and the briefcase on the desk.
Chapman went to the window. He looked out, drinking in the panorama of the sky, the wind-carved island, and the impossibly blue sea. When Preston handed him the menu, he ran his gaze down the seven-course feast.
"Excellent," he said. "You've made arrangements to blow up the buildings as soon as we've moved out?"
"Yes. I estimate tomorrow afternoon. By the time we're finished, all evidence the library or we were ever here will be scrubbed."
Chapman nodded. "Any problems on the island?"
"None. The chefs and food are here. They've been in the kitchen all day. A few loud arguments but no serious fights so far--maybe I'll get off easy this year. The silver is polished. The crystal is shined. The wine is standing up. The library never looked better. I've ordered more than the usual extra security men. A total of fifty in all. Everyone's oriented and knows their assignments."
"Good. Send the translators to my office and tell them to wait. I need to talk with them after I finish some phone calls." He turned to study Preston, noticing a faint red streak down his cheek. "Any news about Judd Ryder and Eva Blake?"
"I almost caught them in Athens again. A very close call."
Chapman gestured. "Is that what happened to your face?"
Preston's hand went to his cheek, and he grimaced. "As I said, it was close. Now I know why we couldn't find Tucker Andersen--he's with them. Hudson Cannon learned they've been searching for the island, using our coordinates."
"Christ! Then we have to count on them coming here." Chapman thought a moment. "On the other hand, one's a rank amateur, and another is past his prime. You have fifty highly trained men on security. In the end, taking care of them on the island may be our best solution. They'll simply disappear, and Langley will never know what happened to them, or where."