“Nice dipping,” he said mildly, “but then you’re experienced, aren’t you.”
Her eyes widened a fraction.
Good, he had surprised her. “Your juvenile record is sealed. You should’ve had it expunged.”
“You were able to get into my juvenile record?” she asked.
“I can, and I did. Tell me what happened.”
She said nothing.
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” he said. “When you were fourteen, you were what is commonly called wild. You sneaked beers. Smoked some grass. Some of your friends shoplifted. You tried it, too. Then a man who looked like plainclothes security spotted you in Macy’s. Instead of reporting you, he complimented you and asked whether you had the guts to go for the big time. It turned out he didn’t work for the store-he was a master dipper running a half-dozen teams. He taught you the trade. You hustled airports, ball games, train stations, that sort of thing. Because you’re beautiful, you usually played the distraction, prepping and positioning vics. But then when you were sixteen, a pickpocket on your team was escaping with the catch when some cops spotted him. He ran into traffic to get away-”
She lowered her head.
“He was hit by a semi and killed,” Tucker continued. “Everyone beat feet getting out of there. You were gone, too. But for some reason you changed your mind and went back and talked to the police. They arrested you, of course. Then they asked you to help them bust the gang, which you did. Why?”
“We were all so young… it just seemed right to try to stop it while maybe we had time to grow up into better people.”
“And later you used the skill to work your way through UCLA.”
“But legally. At a security company. Who are you?”
He ignored the question. “You’re probably going to be released on probation next year, so you’ve been sending out résumés. Any nibbles?”
She looked away. “No museum or library wants to hire a curator or conservator who’s a felon, at least not me. Too much baggage because of… my husband’s death. Because he was so well-known and respected in the field.” She fingered a gold chain around her neck. Whatever was hanging from it was hidden beneath her shirt. He noted she was still wearing her wedding band, a simple gold ring.
“I see,” he said neutrally.
She lifted her chin. “I’ll find something. Some other kind of work.”
He knew she was out of money. Because she had been convicted of her husband’s manslaughter, she could not collect his life insurance. She’d had to sell her house to pay her legal bills. He felt a moment of pity, then banished it.
He observed, “You’ve become very good at masking your emotions.”
“It’s just what you have to do to make it in here.”
“Tell me about the Library of Gold.”
That seemed to take her aback. “Why?”
“Indulge me.”
“You said you had a proposition for me. One I’d like.”
“I said I might have a proposition for you. Let’s see how much you remember.”
“I remember a lot, but Charles, my husband-Dr. Charles Sherback-was a real authority. He’d spent his life researching the library and knew every available detail.” Her voice was proud.
“Start at the beginning.”
She recounted the story from the library’s growth in the days of the Byzantine Empire to its disappearance at Ivan the Terrible’s death.
He listened patiently. Then: “What happened to it?”
“No one knows for sure. After Peter the Great died, a note was found in his papers that said Ivan had hidden the books under the Kremlin. Napoléon, Stalin, Putin, and ordinary people have hunted for centuries, but there are at least twelve levels of tunnels down there, and the vast majority are unmapped. Its location is one of the world’s great mysteries.”
“Do you know what’s in the library?”
“It’s supposed to contain poetry and novels. Books about science, alchemy, religion, war, politics, even sex manuals. It dates all the way back to the ancient Greeks and Romans, so there are probably works by Aristophanes, Virgil, Pindar, Cicero, and Sun Tzu. There are Bibles and Torahs and Korans, too. All sorts of languages-Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, Greek.”
Tucker was quiet a moment, considering. After a rocky start as a teenager, she had righted herself to go on to a high-level career, which showed talent, brains, and responsibility. She had muted herself to fit into prison, and that indicated adaptability. Pickpocketing him because he was an aberration told him she still had nerve. He was operating in a vacuum with this mission. None of the targeting analysts had found anything useful, and the collection of Jonathan Ryder’s clippings had turned out to be little help.
He studied the face beneath the prison cap, the sculpted lines, the expression that had settled back into chilly neutrality. “What would you say if I told you I have evidence the Library of Gold is very much in existence?”
“I’d say tell me more.”
“The Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection has loaned some of its illuminated manuscripts to the British Museum for a special show. The highlight is The Book of Spies. Do you know the work?”
“Never heard of it.”
“The book arrived at the reference door to the Library of Congress wrapped in foam inside a cardboard box. There was an unsigned note saying it had been in the Library of Gold and was a donation to the Rosenwald Special Collection. They tested the paper and ink and so forth. The book’s authentic. No one’s been able to trace the donor or donors.”
“That’s all the evidence you have it’s from the Library of Gold?”
He nodded. “For now it’s enough.”
“Does this mean you want to find the library?” When he nodded, she said, “What can I do to help?”
“Opening night of the British Museum exhibit is next week. Your job would be to do what you used to do when you traveled with your husband. Talk to the librarians, historians, and afficionados who’ve been trying to find the library for years. Eavesdrop on conversations among them and others. We hope if The Book of Spies really did come from the collection it’ll attract someone who knows the library’s location.”
She had been leaning forward. She sat back. Emotions played across her face. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you do a good job, you’ll return to prison of course. But then in just four months, you’ll be released on parole-assuming you continue your good record. That’s eight months early.”
“What’s the downside?”
“No downside except you’ll have to wear a GPS ankle bracelet. It’s tamper-resistant and has a built-in GSM/GPRS transmitter that’ll automatically report your location. You can remove it at night, to make sleeping more comfortable, if you wish. I’ll give you a cell phone, too. You’ll report to me, and you must tell no one, not even the warden, what you’ll be doing or what you learn.”
She was silent. “You opened my juvenile record. You can get me out of prison. And you can reduce my sentence. Before I agree, I want to know who you really are.”
He started to shake his head.
She warned, “The first price of my help is the truth.”
He remembered what the warden had said about not lying to the inmates. “I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“That’s not in your billfold.”
He reached down and un-Velcroed a pocket inside his calf-high sock. He handed her the ID. “You must tell no one. Agreed?”
She studied the laminated official identification. “Agreed. If anyone there knows where the library is, I’ll find out. But when I’m finished, I don’t want to come back to prison.”
Inwardly he smiled, pleased by her toughness. “Done.”
Years seem to fall from her. “When do I leave?”
8
London , England