The Book of Spies

67

THE BOOK club was about to start the third course. In their tailored tuxedos, with pistols holstered underneath, the men lounged around the great oval table in the spacious Library of Gold, firm in their knowledge the intruders would be killed if not by the guards, then certainly by them.
As they talked, their gazes kept returning to the magnificent illuminated manuscripts that blanketed the walls from marble floor to cove ceiling. Row after row of gold covers faced out, their hand-hammered faces reverberating with light that echoed from wall to wall and across the table like visual music. From dark, rich colors to soft pastels, the jewels and gems glittered and beckoned. The entire room seemed cast in a magical glow. Being here was always a visceral experience, and Martin Chapman sighed with contentment.
"Gentlemen, you have before you two exquisite Montrachet dry white wines," the sommelier explained in a thick French accent. "One is Domaine Leflaive, and the other Domaine de la Romanee-Conti. You will be possessed by their thrill factor--the hallmark of splendor in wine." A muscular man with the usual snooty expression of a top wine steward, he disappeared back against the books near the door, where his bureau of wine bottles stood.
Chapman was enjoying himself, absorbing the library's intoxicating blend of physicality, knowledge, history, and privilege. As the tall candles flickered, he cut into his Maine lobster with grilled portobello mushrooms and fig sauce and chewed slowly, savoring the ambrosial flavors. Taking a mouthful of one of the whites, he held it against his palate. With a rush of pleasure, he swallowed.
"I disagree," Thomas Randklev was saying. "Take Freud--he told his doctor collecting old objects, including books, was for him an addiction second in intensity only to nicotine."
"There's another side to it," Brian Collum said. "We're the only species capable of contemplating our own deaths, so of course we need something larger than ourselves to make the knowledge tolerable. As Freud would say, it's the price for our highly developed frontal lobes--and the glue that holds us together."
"I'm glad it's not just about money." Petr Klok grinned.
Laughter echoed from around the table.
The truth was, Chapman thought to himself, all of them had started as great readers, and if life had been otherwise, each would perhaps have taken a different path. For himself, he had accomplished far more than he had ever dreamed as a boy.
"I have one for you," Carl Lindstrom challenged. " 'When you give someone a book, you don't give him just paper, ink, and glue, you give him the possibility of a whole new life.' Who wrote that?"
"Christopher Morley," Maurice Dresser said instantly. "And John Hill Burton argued that a great library couldn't be constructed; it was the growth of ages. As the Library of Gold is"--the seventy-five-year-old pointed at himself--"and I am."
The group chuckled, and Chapman felt his pager vibrate against his chest. He checked--Preston. Annoyed, he excused himself as the conversation moved on to assessing the two ethereal white burgundies. As he left, the sommelier was called over to join the debate.
Chapman entered the first of the two elevators. It rose silently, a solid capsule, but then, all of the underground stories were atomic bomb-hardened bunkers. On the highest belowground floor, he stepped out into the porcelain, steel, and granite of the kitchen. A hallway extended beyond it, where doors opened onto offices and storage. Farther was the enormous garage.
Gazing around, he inhaled the mouthwatering aromas of searing medallions of springbok, gazelle from South Africa. The chefs de cuisine, in their tall white hats, were barking orders in French as they prepared the course. The sous-chefs, chefs de partie, and waiters chosen from the library staff scurried.
Preston had a harried expression as he turned from the kitchen and met Chapman at the elevator.
"You need to talk to them, sir," Preston said.
"Are they still in my office?"
"Yes. Three men are watching them."
As they rode the elevator down to the third level, he asked, "What's the latest with Ryder and Andersen?" Chapman knew they had killed two of the guards and badly injured four. Preston had sent out additional men on foot to find them.
"I've increased the security around the compound. Everyone's on high alert."
"They'd damn well better be."
The elevator door opened, and they walked out into the sitting area where the staff gathered for informal meetings. As expected it was deserted, since everyone was working. The doors along the hall were for offices, while the last one enclosed a gym with the latest cardio and Pilates equipment.
Preston pushed open the door to Chapman's office and stepped back.
Chapman marched past toward a frozen tableau of defiance. Motionless and angry, Eva Blake and Yitzhak Law were roped to chairs, their hands tied behind them. Blake was still in her skydiving jumpsuit, her face blackened. Neither seemed to recognize him, but then, it was doubtful they would know his world.
He ignored the guards and pulled up a chair in front of Blake and Law. "I'll make this easy. I've had the translators draw up a list of potential sources for the questions the book club will be asking during our tournament tonight. Since we have texts in the library that have been lost for centuries, there's no way you'd know their contents. Others you'll know already of course. Your job is to try to figure out the correct book for each question. You'll be given a chart showing where all of the illuminated manuscripts are shelved, and a few descriptive sentences about each. If you get all of the book club's questions correct, I'll let you live. That's called incentive."
They glanced at each other, then returned stony gazes to him.
Chapman looked back at Preston. "Bring in Cavaletti." He sank back in his chair, furious about the dinner he was missing.
In seconds Roberto Cavaletti was shoved into the room. "Yitzhak, Eva," he said. The small man was disheveled, his bearded face drawn.
Before anyone could say more, Chapman ordered, "Hit him, Preston."
As Law and Blake shouted and pulled against their ropes, Cavaletti cringed, and Preston rabbit-punched his cheek, connecting with a solid thump.
Cavaletti grabbed his face with a trembling hand, staggered, and fell to his knees.
"You bastard!" Blake yelled.
The professor's face paled. "You're monsters."
"Rethink this," Chapman snapped. "There are two of you. Together you have a much better chance of winning tonight than one of you would alone. If you won't do it for yourselves, do it for your friend Roberto here."
A large welt was rising on Cavaletti's left cheek.
Yitzhak Law stared. "All right, but only on condition you leave Roberto alone. No more injuries."
"No, Yitzhak," Roberto said. "No, no. Whatever they want, you will not stop the inevitable."
Blake glared at Chapman. "Very well. I agree, too. Do we have your guarantee you'll let all of us go if we win?"
"Of course," Chapman said easily. "Kardasian, see both are cleaned up and presentable." He stood and walked out.
Preston caught up with him in the sitting room. "I'll keep you apprised of the situation with Ryder and Andersen."
Chapman nodded, his mind already back at the dinner. Just then they heard one of the elevator doors close. They hurried and saw it had stopped at the lowest level, number four--the Library of Gold. Immediately they stepped into the other elevator, and Preston punched the button.
"Who in hell could it be?" Preston's expression was grim.
The elevator door opened onto an elegant anteroom. Straight ahead was an arched portal that led to offices along the windowed exterior corridor. Instead they sprinted left, and Preston opened a carved wood door onto the library and tonight's banquet.
The sommelier was walking toward his bureau, his broad tuxedoed back to them. At the sound of the door, he turned. They saw he was carrying two bottles of red wine--unopened.
Preston made a curt gesture, and the sommelier approached. Although as arrogant appearing as before, the man's eyes hinted at guilt. He held up the bottles as if they were a shield.
"What were you doing on the third floor?" Preston demanded.
"I am very sorry, sir. I found I must go to the kitchen for more wine. You gentlemen are more appreciative than I had expected. I was rushing to return and touched the wrong button in the elevator. Of course, I did not leave the elevator until here."
Chapman felt Preston relax.
"Resume your duties," Chapman said.
The sommelier bowed low and left. Chapman hurried to his dinner.