“Charles is the head of the Library of Gold,” she tried. “From what he told me, it’s been in private hands and secret since near the end of Ivan the Terrible’s life.”
“But where is it? Who controls it?”
“He wouldn’t say. The police will question him. That’s their job. Then we can turn over all the information to Tucker.”
Ryder gave a firm shake of his head. “This is CIA business.”
“I’m going to call the bobbies.” She leaned around Ryder. “I want my cell phone, Charles.”
Charles gave a strange smile and slid a hand toward the pocket where he had put it.
“Stop,” Ryder ordered.
“Better the police than you.” Charles said, but his words and gesture were a feint. Abruptly his weight shifted, and with lightning speed he threw himself at Ryder, reaching to get back his gun.
Ryder slammed a fist into Charles’s midsection just as Charles’s hand closed on the muzzle of the weapon. As he yanked the gun, Charles’s momentum carried the pair backward. Elbows shot out from their sides, and their torsos twisted. Before Eva could move, there was a loud explosion, and the stench of cordite ballooned into the alley’s dark air.
Charles dropped to his knees.
“Oh, my God.” Eva covered her mouth with her hands. Bile rushed up her throat.
Blood bubbled on Charles’s lips as he knelt motionless on the alley floor. A pool of blood on his black trench coat turned the fabric glossy.
Charles raised his gaze to look at her. “Herodotus and Aristagoras,” he said. Then he pitched forward, landing hard, his arms straight along his sides, his cheek pressed into the pavement.
19
RYDER DROPPED to his heels beside the downed man and felt the carotid artery. No pulse. He swore. He had just lost his best chance of finding the library and answers to who was behind his father’s death.
“I’m sorry, Ryder,” Eva said. “Is he dead?”
He nodded. Getting to his feet, he peered at the doors lining the narrow alleyway and then down the length to where it opened onto the street. There was no sign the gunshots had attracted attention. He seized Sherback’s armpits and dragged him behind a row of trash bins, where they would be out of sight and the dim light was adequate for what he needed to do.
Crouching beside the slack body, he rifled through the trench coat pockets.
Eva joined him, sitting on her heels. “What are you doing?”
“Interrogating him.” He took Sherback’s phone. “It’s a disposable cell.” Then he found her cell phone.
She grabbed it.
He stared at her. “Go ahead and call the cops-if you want to end up arrested as an accessory to your husband’s murder.”
She stiffened. Her shoulders slumped. She turned off the cell and pocketed it.
Ryder checked Sherback’s jacket, discovering a billfold and a small leather-bound notebook. He continued to search.
Eva opened the billfold and stood up to get better light. “He’s got a Brit driver’s license with his picture on it. The name says Christopher Heath, but that shouldn’t matter. His body can still be identified by his DNA.”
“Maybe not right away, not if the DNA of the man who was in the car crash was identified against what was supposed to be your husband’s DNA. That’ll take the cops a long time to sort out-if they even bother to check into such a long shot. Is there anything else in there? Notes to himself?”
She crouched again. “Nothing. No credit cards or anything. Just cash.”
The last item Ryder found was in Sherback’s pants pocket-a Swiss Army Champion Plus pocketknife, loaded with miniature tools. He stood up, took off the old gray trench coat he was wearing, and put it in a trash bin. Then he shoved everything, including Sherback’s Glock, into his peacoat pockets. He would go through Sherback’s notebook when he had time.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said to Eva. “You coming?” He watched emotions play across her face. The skin was tight, and the eyes bruised. God help him, working with an amateur was tough, but he needed her. She was his last living link to Sherback and the library.
“Yes.”
As they hurried down the alley, he told her, “The Book of Spies was stolen tonight from the British Museum. My guess is your husband was in London as part of the operation. His people must’ve left a duplicate book in the museum. A duplicate would explain why he was photographing the original, and it’d buy them time. The real one was in the Méridien hotel at some point.”
“Someone named Preston must be part of it. He was supposed to pick up Charles and me and then kill me.”
“Swell. Anyone else you can think of who wants to get rid of you?”
“My popularity ends there.”
As they hurried on, the sound of their footsteps seemed to echo in the alley.
“What did Charles mean by ‘Herodotus and Aristagoras’?” he asked.
“He told me there was a chance someone could figure out where the library was. Thinking about it, my guess is he left a clue or clues to its whereabouts. So Herodotus and Aristagoras might be it. But I don’t recall anything about them together.”
He felt a thread of excitement. “Let’s look at what it might mean from another angle. Who were Herodotus and Aristagoras individually?”
“Herodotus was a Greek-a researcher and storyteller in the fifth century B.C. He’s considered the world’s first historian.”
“So he could’ve written about Aristagoras.”
She paused. “You’re right. He did. The story happened twenty-five hundred years ago, when Darius the Great was conquering most of the ancient world. When he captured a major Ionian city called Miletus, Darius gave it to a Greek named Histiaeus to rule. But as time passed, he got nervous, because Histiaeus was growing too powerful. So he ‘invited’ Histiaeus to live with him in Persia, and he gave Miletus away again-this time to Histiaeus’s son-in-law Aristagoras. Histiaeus was furious. He wanted his city back and decided to start a war in hopes Darius would crush it and reinstate him. He shaved the head of his most faithful slave and tattooed a secret message on the man’s skin. As soon as the hair grew back, he sent the slave off to Aristagoras, who had the hair shaved and read the command to revolt. The result was the Ionian War, and Herodotus wrote about it at length.”
“You said Charles used to have light brown hair. That he’d dyed it black.”
She stared at him.
They turned on their heels and raced back along the alley. They crouched beside the corpse.
He handed her his small flashlight. “Point it at his head.” She did, and he pulled out Charles’s pocketknife, opened a long blade, grabbed hair, and started sawing.
Almost immediately a police siren sang out in the distance.
“I think they’re coming this way.”
He nodded. “Someone probably reported the gunshot.” There was a mound of black hair on the oily concrete beside him. He slid small scissors out from the Swiss Army knife and quickly clipped close to Charles’s scalp.
She leaned close. “I see something.”
Letters showed in the flashlight’s stark illumination, indigo blue against pasty white skin.
“LAW,” she read. “All capital letters. There are numbers, too.”
He clipped faster.
“031308,” she said.
“What does LAW 031308 mean?” he asked.
“ ‘LAW’ indicates it could be a code for a law library. Some codes are universal, others not. I don’t recognize this one. It could be special to a particular library-like the Library of Gold. But I don’t see how it’d lead us there.”
The siren screamed from the street, approaching the alley.
He jumped up. “Try the doors on this side. I’ll take the other side.”
They ran, grabbing doorknobs. All were locked. They were trapped in a dead-end alley with a corpse. If they ran out to the street, the police would see them. Rotating red slashes of light appeared at the alley’s mouth, flicking into the darkness, bouncing off the walls.