The Book of Spies

9

THE POLICE interview room was a cramped space on a lower floor of the thirteen-story Holborn Police Station, just seven blocks from the British Museum.
"Well, there, Dr. Blake, it seems you weren't being truthful with me." Metropolitan Police inspector Kent Collins nodded at the police guard standing in the corner, who nodded back. The inspector closed the door behind him, sealing out the world. "You told me your husband was dead. You didn't tell me you were convicted of killing him."
He was a bristly man with a large nose and, despite the late hour, smoothly shaved cheeks. Tough, impeccable, and definitely in charge, he was carrying a crisp new manila file folder under his arm.
Eva's hands were in her lap, rotating the gold wedding band on her finger. She had not been able to phone Tucker Andersen because she had not been alone since the police arrested her. His warning to tell no one about her assignment was loud in her mind. But how was she going to get out of this? Could she, even?
"I said Charles was supposed to be dead," she told the inspector. "If I'd filled you in on the rest, you might not have heard me out. The man I saw was Charles Sherback. My husband. Alive." Then she reminded him, "I'm not the one who lied to the museum guards. He did. He told them I had a knife. They searched me. There was no knife."
Inspector Collins slapped down his file folder and dropped into a plastic chair at the end of the table next to her so they would be sitting close but at a ninety-degree angle. She recognized the technique: If you want someone to resonate with you, sit shoulder to shoulder. But if you need to challenge them, face them. The ninety-degree angle gave him flexibility.
He turned, facing her. "We're a little on the busy side to be searching among the living for a man who's dead and buried."
"Charles not only lied about the knife, he ran because he recognized me."
"Or he ran because he was some innocent bloke you were harassing."
"But then he would've complained to the guards about me."
The inspector lost his patience. "Bollocks. You--not him--assaulted the two sentries at the museum's entrance."
"I didn't have time to stop to prove I didn't have a knife and explain why I needed to catch Charles. And another thing--I have a black belt in karate. I could've hurt the guards badly. Instead I hit them just hard enough to make them step back and take deep breaths. Did either file a personal complaint?" She suspected not, since there had been no mention of it.
"As a matter of fact, no."
She nodded. "This is a lot bigger than just me. Charles is alive, and someone else must be buried in his grave. Will you please look for him?"
Inspector Collins's expression said it all--he thought she was mad. "How do you expect us to find him? You don't have an address. Nothing concrete at all."
She picked up her cell phone, touching buttons as she talked. "I shot a video of him at the museum."
Positioning the tiny screen so both could see, she started the clip. And there was a miniature Charles, standing tall in his black trench coat against the churning background of museumgoers. He was gazing straight at her, above the angle of the cell phone, and scowling.
"You can't see his gait yet," she told him. "The way he walks is important. He's an athlete, and he moves like one, with a little bit of a slouch and a roll to his steps. His shoulders twitch periodically, too. It's really distinctive. He's also the right age and right height. The right eye color and voice, too."
In the video, Charles looked down.
"This is where he spotted my cell phone," she explained.
Charles lifted his hand to his ear, turned abruptly, and was swallowed by the crowd. Inwardly she swore. He had moved so swiftly she had no record of his walk. The video ended.
"That's it?" The inspector's focus felt like an assault. "That's all you have?"
"It's something. A beginning."
"You said other people were there whom you and your husband knew for years. If that were your husband--a dead man--they would've said something. In fact, I imagine they would've made quite a fuss." Shaking his head, the inspector opened his file, pulled out a sheet of paper, and slid it across the table. "The Los Angeles police e-mailed me this. Tell me who it is."
It was a portrait of Charles, shot for brochures for the Elaine Moreau Library. His refined features and glowing black eyes stared out at her.
"It's Charles, of course." Her voice was quiet. "After he disappeared he must've dyed his hair and had work done on his face."
The inspector jabbed a thumb at it. "This photo looks nothing like the man in your video." He gazed at her, challenging her. "I spoke to the prison. Is this the first time you thought you saw him since he died?"
She hesitated, then rallied. "Obviously you know it's not."
He pulled out another paper and read aloud: " 'In the first three weeks after Dr. Sherback died, Dr. Blake said she thought she had seen him twice. According to her account, she approached the men, who were friendly. But when she explained why she wanted to talk, they backed away.' "
The oxygen seemed to leave her lungs. "They looked similar to Charles." How could she get out of here so she could find him? She thought quickly. Then: "My husband and I were librarians and curators of ancient and medieval manuscripts. We used to fly around the world to attend openings like tonight's. Being back in that atmosphere again . . . perhaps you're right that I've made a huge mistake." She lowered her voice. "I miss him a great deal. I hope you can understand."
A flicker of compassion touched the inspector's bristly features. He peered at her, seeming to contemplate what to do.
Her entire body felt tight. She turned so her shoulder brushed his. "I'm really sorry to have caused so much trouble."
"Maybe you want him to be alive so you don't have to carry the guilt for what you've done," he said.
She gave him the answer he wanted to hear. "Yes."
There was pity in his tired eyes. Shrugging, he got to his feet. He pulled her passport from inside his sports coat and handed it to her. "Get on a plane tomorrow and go home. Make an appointment to see a therapist."
Eva gathered her things and followed Inspector Collins down the hall of the police station. As she listened to the breathy ventilation system, her mind kept returning to the man in the museum, the man she was certain was Charles, despite what she had told the inspector.
With each step, she reconstructed his profile, his height and age, the shocked recognition in his eyes. As they rode the elevator down, in her mind she replayed his words to the museum guards, hearing the familiar intonation of his voice.
The inspector left her, and she continued outdoors and stopped. As she stood in the shelter of the station house's doorway, she had a vision of Charles racing away through the stormy night. She could see his arms swinging at his sides. There was something about that. Something about his hands.
That was when she remembered. She took out her cell phone. She restarted the short video, staring hard. Freezing it, she pumped up the size of the image. Charles's left hand had been sliced badly in an accident at a dig in Turkey. If this man was Charles, there should be a long scar on his hand.
She half-expected to see smooth skin. Instead, her breath caught in her throat as she spotted it--a scar snaking blue-white across the top of his thumb and hand and then disappearing up under the cuff of his trench coat. Charles.
She jumped up and turned to go back into the station . . . and stopped herself. There was no way the police would help her. She considered Tucker Andersen. But he probably knew about the previous times she hoped she had seen Charles. He would not believe her, either.
But she needed to report in. She dialed his number.
There was no preamble. "What did you learn?" he asked instantly.
"I couldn't find anyone who knew anything new about the Library of Gold," she told him truthfully. "All of them have the usual theories."
"Pity. Go back to the museum tomorrow. Spend the day."
"Of course." She had bought herself some time.
Opening her umbrella, she walked through the sidewalk's lamplight, trying to gather her thoughts. Her marriage to Charles had not been perfect, but whose relationship ever was? With his death, the problems had vanished from her mind. She had loved him dearly, and she had thought he loved her. Fourteen years older, he was already celebrated in his career when they met. She remembered his walking into the classroom that first time; the long, confident strides. The handsome face that radiated intelligence and curiosity. He was the guest lecturer for an upper-division course where she was the assistant while working on her Ph.D. Quoting from Homer and Plato, he had charmed and impressed everyone.
"Gratias tibi ago, Dr. Sherback. Benigne ades," she had told him. Thank you. It was generous of you to come.
The crowd of admirers had dwindled away to just him and her.
He had peered down at her, taking her in. Then he spoke in Latin, too. "You remind me of Diana, goddess of the hunt, the moon, and protectress of dewy youth. Tell me, do you have an oak grove and a deer nearby?"
She laughed. "And my bow and arrow."
"Ah, yes, but then you're not only a huntress but an emblem of chastity. No wonder you need your weapons. I hope you won't turn me into a stag as you did Acteon." The goddess had transformed Acteon when he saw her bathing naked in a stream, then set her hunting dogs on him.
"You are completely safe," she assured him. "I have no dogs, not even a teacup poodle."
He laughed, his eyes crinkling with good humor. "I like a woman who can speak Latin and who knows the ancient gods and goddesses. Will you join me for a cup of coffee?"
Colleagues, critics, and art lovers had admired him, and women had thrown themselves at him. But she was the one who had caught him. She had never suspected she was marrying a man who could pretend to be dead and send her to prison. But then, she like many others had been dazzled by him, by their lifestyle, and by her own dreams and ambitions.
As she moved along the street, the rain was a constant tattoo on her umbrella. She must find Charles. All she had was the short video. The inspector was right. It was not going to be enough. She took out her cell phone again and dialed Peggy Doty. Peggy had gotten back her old job at the British Library so she could be close to her boyfriend, Zack Turner, and Eva was staying with her while in London.
When Peggy's sleepy voice answered, Eva apologized, then said, "Remember the time I covered for you at the Getty when you took off for Paris to meet Zack for a few days? And the time I showed you the secret glue that's invisible and never fails? And then there was the time I blocked the sex-fiend tourist who was putting the moves on you."
There was a chuckle. "You must be desperate. What do you want?"
"It's a big favor, and I wouldn't ask if it weren't vital. I need a copy of the security videos for the museum's opening tonight. Particularly those that include the people around The Book of Spies."
"What?"
"And I need them now. Right away. I'm walking toward the museum. I wouldn't ask unless I really did need them." With luck, they would show Charles chatting with someone she knew. Maybe he or she would have learned something useful.
There was a long silence. Finally Peggy said, "You want me to ask Zack." He was the head of security at the museum.
"He'll do anything for you. Please phone him."
On the other end of the line, a sigh sounded loudly. "I'll call you back."
Eva thanked her, following Theobalds Road, clasping her shoulder satchel to her side. But as she walked, she had a strange feeling. She peered back. A man in a blue peacoat was striding along about thirty feet behind. His face was in shadows. The man who had saved the museum guard from toppling over the staircase had also worn a blue peacoat. She looked again, but he was gone.
She headed north onto Southampton Row, then west onto Great Russell Street, where she found herself glancing at the cars speeding past. For a few heartbeats a bronze-colored Citroen slowed and paced her; then it rushed off. Uneasily she realized she had noticed it earlier. There was no one in the passenger seat, and she had been unable to see the driver.
At last the museum was in sight. She turned onto Montague Street, which ran along the massive building's east side and connected with Montague Place. The street was just a block long, one of the narrow lanes winding through Bloomsbury. There was no traffic, although parked cars lined the sidewalk. She peered back and thought she saw movement beneath the darkness of a tall tree.
Her cell rang. It was Peggy. Swiftly she asked, "Do you have good news?"
"Honey, Zack says he can't have copies made for you. It's against the rules. I'm so sorry. Come home. It's real late."
Eva closed her eyes, disappointed. "Thanks for trying. I'm sorry I disturbed you. I hope you can get back to sleep quickly." She touched the Off button.
Trying to decide what to do next, she was heading across the street when she heard the noise of a car's engine and felt the pavement vibrate beneath her feet. She peered left. The vehicle was rushing toward her, headlights off. Terror shot through her. She accelerated, but the car angled, keeping her targeted.
Ahead was the towering iron fence that surrounded the museum. Dropping her umbrella, she slapped the strap of her satchel across her chest and sprinted. With a silent prayer, she leaped high in a tobi-geri jump. Her hands closed around two wet rails, and her feet found two more for a precarious foothold.
Then she looked again. The car was a bronze-colored Citroen like the one that had paced her on Great Russell Street. But who--? She stared into the windshield. Charles? Oh dear God, it was Charles. His thick features looked frozen, his gaze vacant, but emotion showed in his hands. They were knotted around the steering wheel as if it were a noose.
With an abrupt movement, the Citroen jumped the curb and slammed along the fence. Sparks flew. The noise of the hurtling car, of metal screeching against metal, seemed to explode inside her head. She scrambled higher. The rough iron rails shook in her hands. As she fought to hold on, the Citroen blasted past beneath, enveloping her in a stench of exhaust.
As it careened off on the rain-slicked street, she released her hold on the fence and dropped to the ground, trying to absorb the fact that Charles had just tried to kill her. Filled with horror, she sprinted, her muscles pulsing as she pumped harder and harder, Charles's cold face burned into her mind.