“I’m sure she will,” he said, and they drove on in silence.
At last he parked, tugged the brim of his cap low over his eyes, and walked with her into the hotel, carrying her suitcase. As she registered, he noted she was right-handed.
“Has Ms. Blake checked in?” she asked.
“Not yet, miss.”
Her face crumpled. They took the elevator up to her room. It was full of fussy chintz and the hideous line drawings of horses standing around on hills one saw in tourist hotels in London.
She peered at the emptiness. “She should’ve been here by now, Gary.”
He laid her suitcase on the valet stand. “Would she have stopped someplace first?”
“I’ll call her.” She tapped a number into her cell and listened, her expression growing grim. Finally she said, “Eva, this is Peggy. Where are you? Phone as soon as you get my message.” She hung up.
“Was she with anyone when you talked before? They might’ve gone someplace together.”
“All I heard was a noisy background.” She sighed heavily. “I hope she’s okay.”
The time had come. Fortunately because of what he had learned from her, he now had a way to liquidate Eva Blake.
“Peggy, I just want you to know you’re a nice woman.”
She looked at him, a surprised expression on her face. “Thanks.”
“And this is just what I do.” Swiftly he leaned down and removed the untraceable two-shot pistol from his ankle holster.
Staring at the gun, she took a step back. “What are you-?”
He advanced and grabbed her shoulders. She was light. “I’ll make it fast.”
“No!” She struggled, her fists pounding his coat.
He pressed the gun up under her chin and fired. Skull and brain matter exploded. He held her a moment, then let her fall to the floor, limp in her big coat.
Pulling on latex gloves, he cleaned his black jacket with the special tissues he always carried. As he wiped the gun, he listened at the door. There was no sound in the corridor. He ran back to her, pressed both her hands around the gun’s grip and muzzle, and then put the grip into her right hand and squeezed her fingers around it.
Snatching up her cell phone, he debated with himself, then finally decided the police investigators would be suspicious if the phone were missing. He memorized Blake’s cell phone number, turned off Peggy’s cell, and left it in her coat pocket. Then he wiped off the handle of her suitcase, used the wipes to take the suitcase to her, pressed one hand and then the other around the handle, and laid the suitcase back on the valet stand.
Outdoors, the night seemed warm and inviting. Striding down the busy street, Preston dialed out on his cell to his men in London. “Eva Blake is due to arrive shortly at this address.” He relayed the hotel’s information and room number. “Terminate her.”
THE TEMPERATURE in the room at the Méridien hotel seemed to have dropped ten degrees. As soon as Preston left, Charles had taken out his Glock and laid it on the coffee table next to The Book of Spies. He watched as Robin methodically packed their things. He was chilled, and his hands ached from knotting them. It seemed as if the world were shattering around him.
“You’re not angry with me, are you, Charles?” she asked finally.
“Of course not. You were right-Preston will find Eva and take care of the problem. You’ve forgotten to scan the manuscript.”
“I guess I’m a bit rattled.”
She unzipped the suitcase and found the key-chain-size detector. It had a telescopic antenna that sniffed out hidden wireless cameras, audio devices, and tracking bugs. As soon as she turned it on, a red light flashed in warning.
Charles swore and sat up.
Brows knitting, she moved across the room, looking for the origin. As she approached The Book of Spies, the light flashed faster.
“Oh, no.” Robin’s face was tense.
She moved the detector over the cover of the illuminated manuscript until the light held steady. It pointed to one of the emeralds rimming the book’s gold binding.
She read the digital screen. “It says there’s a tracking bug in this emerald.” Stricken, she peered at Charles.
“Maybe the museum or the Rosenwald Collection planted it as a security measure,” he said. “No, that’s insane. They’d never violate something as precious as The Book of Spies. It had to be someone else-but why?”
“What do we do? How can we tear off one of the jewels? We’ll destroy the integrity of the book. It’s a sacrilege.”
They stared down at the manuscript.
At last Charles decided, “The integrity has already been destroyed because that ‘emerald’ can’t be real.” He took out his pocketknife and pried off the fake jewel, leaving a gaping hole in the perfect frame of green gems.
She groaned. “It looks awful.”
Sickened, he nodded, then jumped up and ran into the bathroom. He flushed the bug down the toilet.
15
JUDD RYDER was puzzled. He walked west down the wide boulevard in front of the Méridien hotel and crossed Piccadilly Place, then Swallow Street, studying traffic. According to his electronic reader, The Book of Spies was in the middle of the boulevard, still moving, but more quickly than the vehicles. How could that be? He checked the altitude-and swore.
The bug was belowground. Sewer lines ran beneath the boulevard. Whoever had The Book of Spies had flushed the bug Tucker had planted on it.
He turned on his heel. It was possible the book was still in the hotel. As he hurried back, he took out his Secure Mobile Environment Portable Electronic Device-an SME-PED handheld computer. With it he could send classified e-mail, access classified networks, and make top-secret phone calls. Created under guidelines from the National Security Agency, it appeared ordinary, like a BlackBerry; and while either on or off secure mode, could be operated like any smart phone with Internet access.
Keeping it in secure mode, he speed-dialed Tucker Andersen’s direct line at Catapult headquarters.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you, Judd,” Tucker said. “What have you learned?”
He crossed Piccadilly Street to where he could watch the hotel’s entrance. He settled back into the shadows. “I’ve got a shocker for you. Charles Sherback didn’t die in that car crash. He’s still very much alive.” He described what had happened in the museum, following Eva Blake from the police station, and witnessing Sherback’s attempt to run her down. “The bottom line is planting The Book of Spies worked-we got a bite. But what it means that Sherback is alive I sure as hell don’t know yet. There’s another big wrinkle-The Book of Spies has been stolen, and the thieves dumped the bug.”
Tucker’s voice rose. “You don’t know where the book is?”
“It may be in the Méridien hotel. The bug was there until a few minutes ago. Sherback was taking photos or making a video of the book in the museum, and the way things are going, it seems likely to me he and the book are together or he knows where it is. According to Blake, he’s had cosmetic surgery. As soon as I hang up, I’ll e-mail you the video I made at the Rosenwald show. I’ve keyed it on him. See if his new face is in any of our data banks. And find out who’s buried in his grave in L.A. That could lead us to whoever helped him disappear.”
“I’ll make both priorities.”
“You also need to know I had to tell Blake I’m working for you and the connection to Dad and the Library of Gold.”
There was a pause. “I understand. What do you think of her?”
“She seems as functional as you or me. She’s smart and tough.”
“She’s also beautiful and athletic. And vulnerable. Just your type. Don’t like her too much, Judd.”
Ryder said nothing. Tucker had researched him more than he realized.