“It was painted by an Italian who was working in Ivan’s court,” Charles explained.
“I remember the book well,” Preston said. “The stories about spies are inspiring. Those who find the secrets and take them to their graves are the real heroes. That’s what we signed on for when we went to work for the Library of Gold. Complete loyalty.”
As Preston talked, Robin stared at Charles. Her eyebrows knitted together with determination, and her lips thinned. The message was clear: If he did not tell Preston, she would.
“We’ve got a problem.” Charles steeled himself as Preston focused on him.
“There’s no reason for the director to know about it, Preston,” Robin urged. “You can handle it.”
Preston did not look at her. “What’s happened, Charles?”
He sighed heavily. “It started in the museum. I’d just finished photographing The Book of Spies and was walking away when I noticed Eva. My wife. God knows how she got out of prison, but she was there, and she recognized me.” He rushed on, describing the chase through the museum and her arrest. “I rented a car. When the police released her, I followed and found a quiet street. Then I was almost able to run her down. But she got away. I drove everywhere, looking for her again.”
“Does she know about the Library of Gold?” Preston asked instantly.
“Of course not. I never talked with her.”
“What else?”
“She recorded me on her cell phone,” he admitted. “I don’t know whether it was photos or a video.”
“Please don’t tell the director, Preston,” Robin pleaded.
Preston was silent. Tension filled the room.
Charles rubbed his eyes and sank back in his chair. When he looked again, Preston had not moved, his gaze unreadable.
“Where would she stay in London?” Preston demanded.
“There were two hotels we preferred-the Connaught and the Mayflower. When she came alone, she stayed with a friend, Peggy Doty. At the museum I overheard a conversation that Peggy had moved back to London. I don’t have her address, but my guess is Eva’s with Peggy. They were close.”
Preston tapped a number into his cell. “Eva Blake may be staying at one of these hotels.” He related the information. “I’ll e-mail you her photograph. Terminate her. She has a cell phone. It’s imperative you get it.” He ended the connection, then told Charles, “I’ll handle Peggy Doty myself.”
As Preston walked toward the door, Charles rose to his feet. He was sweating. “Are you going to tell the director?”
Preston said nothing. The door closed.
14
AS HE drove toward Peggy Doty’s apartment, Preston reveled in having pulled off the complex mission of recovering The Book of Spies. It had been like the old days when he was a CIA officer working undercover in hot spots across Europe and the old Soviet Union. But when the cold war had ended, Langley had lost the support of Congress, the White House, and the American people to properly monitor the world. Disgusted and heartbroken, he had resigned. By the time of the 9/11 attacks, when everyone realized intelligence was critical to U.S. security, he had committed himself to something larger, something more enduring. Something far more relevant, almost eternal-the Library of Gold.
Fury washed through him. Charles was self-important, and self-importance was always a liability. He had put the library in danger.
Preston speed-dialed the director.
“Did you get The Book of Spies?” Martin Chapman’s voice was forceful, his focus instant, although it was past four A.M. in Dubai. The tirelessness of the response was typical, just one of the reasons Preston admired him.
“The book is safe. On the jet soon. And Charles has verified it’s genuine.”
As Preston had hoped, there was delight in the director’s voice: “Congratulations. Fine work. I knew I could count on you. As Seneca wrote, ‘It matters not how many books one has, but how good they are.’ I’m eager to see it again. Everything went smoothly?”
“One small problem, but it’s handleable. Charles’s wife is out of prison and was at the museum opening. She recognized him, made a scene, and got herself arrested. Charles tried to run her down. Of course he failed. I’m driving to the apartment where he thinks she’s staying. I just found out about all of this.”
“The bastard should’ve reported it immediately. Robin was aware?”
“Yes.” The library’s rules were inviolate. Everyone knew that. It was one of the prime reasons the library had remained invincible-and invisible-over the centuries.
The director’s tone was cold, unforgiving: “Kill Eva Blake. I’ll decide later what to do about Charles and Robin.”
PRESTON PARKED near St John Street in the hip Clerkenwell neighborhood, around the block from Peggy Doty’s apartment building. As he got out of the Renault, he pulled the brim of his Manchester United football cap low. The rich scent of Vietnamese coffee drifted from a lighted café, infusing the night. The historic area was full of a young, smart crowd involved in themselves and the evening’s entertainment.
Satisfied he was clean, Preston walked quickly back to Peggy Doty’s apartment building and tried the street door. It was locked. Finally a woman emerged. Catching the door before it could close, he slipped inside and climbed the stairs.
Peggy Doty answered his knock instantly, and it was clear why-she was ready to leave. She wore a long wool overcoat, and a suitcase stood on the floor beside her. Her apartment was dark and silent, indicating no one else was there.
He had to decide what to do. When he was much younger, he would have threatened her to find out where Blake was. But there was an intelligent, steely look about her that warned him she might lie, and if he killed her too soon, it would be too late to go back to her for the truth.
He put a warm smile on his face. “You must be Peggy Doty. I’m a friend of Eva’s. My name’s Gary Frank. I’m glad I’m here in time. Eva thought you might like a ride.”
Peggy frowned. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Frank, but I’ve already called a cab.” She was a small woman, with short brown hair and eyeglasses sliding down her nose. Her face was open, the face of someone people automatically liked.
“Please call me Gary.” Since she had not asked how Blake knew she was leaving, it was evident they were in touch. “You live in a great neighborhood. Didn’t Peter Ackroyd and Charles Dickens use Clerkenwell for settings in their novels?” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I’m a used-book dealer.”
Her face brightened. “Yes, they did. Maybe you’re thinking about Ackroyd’s The Clerkenwell Tales. That’s a terrific piece of fiction about fourteenth-century London. The clerk at Tellson’s bank in A Tale of Two Cities lived here, too. His name was Jarvis Lorry. And Fagin’s lair was also in the Clerkenwell area.”
“Oliver Twist is a favorite of mine. Eva says you work at the British Library. I’d like to hear what you do. Please let me drive you.”
She hesitated.
He stepped into the silence. “Did you tell Eva you were calling a cab?”
She sighed. “Nope, I didn’t. All right. This is really great of you.”
He picked up her suitcase, and they left.
WITH PEGGY Doty at his side, Preston drove south, heading for the hotel in Chelsea where she would meet Blake. Blake might already be there, and he wanted this small brunette with him to ensure he got access to the room without drawing attention to himself.
“So Eva sounded upset to you, too?” he prodded.
Her hands were folded in her lap, pale against her midnight blue coat. “She says her dead husband’s alive. That she actually saw him. Can you believe it? I’m hoping she’ll have recovered her brain by the time we get there.”