“There’s a ladder,” he told her, nodding.
They sprinted. The beacons had illuminated a fire escape ladder down the side of a building, almost unnoticeable because its black iron blended into the black granite of the wall. It was a good ten feet above them. He leaped. Wrapping both hands around the bottom rung, he hauled himself up and did a quick inspection. There was no way to lower the ladder.
Grasping the side rail, he leaned down and extended his hand. “Jump.”
As the grille of the police car came into view, Eva ran ten feet back and then dashed toward him, propelling herself high. He grabbed her hand. Straining, he held tight to the railing and pulled. Sweat beaded his forehead as he dragged her up to the first rung.
They climbed quickly. By the time the police car rolled into the alley, they were far above, with Ryder leading the way. At the top, he crawled over a low wall. The gigantic London Eye was a silver wheel of light on the horizon. Quickly he surveyed the flat roof-utility boxes, vent hoods, and a small shed that should contain a stairwell down into the building.
Eva’s face emerged above the rooftop’s rim, looking grim. She clambered over, turned, dropped to her knees, and leaned forward, staring down. He joined her. The police car had stopped about forty feet inside the alley, almost beneath them. Flashlights in hands, two bobbies were patrolling, kicking cardboard boxes, examining trash cans.
“They’ll find Charles,” she said in a low voice. “What will they do when they see what’s written on his head?”
“God knows. But he’s got no identification, so they’re going to have a nifty time trying to figure it out.” He paused. “I have a proposition. It’s likely The Book of Spies is headed back to the Library of Gold. You know a hell of a lot more about the library and Charles, the head librarian, than we do. I’d like to stash you someplace safe in London, and then I’ll phone or e-mail when I need to consult.”
There was a steely expression on her face. “I’m not the kind of woman who gets stashed someplace. I’m going with you.”
“No way. It’s too dangerous.”
Just then there was a shout below.
They peered over the side of the building and to their right. One of the bobbies was staring down behind the garbage bins where they had left Charles’s body. His flashlight moved slowly, indicating he was taking in the full length of the corpse. The second policeman rushed to join him, his free hand pressed against the gear dangling from his belt to keep it from flopping.
As the bobbies crouched, Ryder nodded at the alley’s mouth. “We have another visitor.”
A car had stopped on the street, blocking the alley. It was a Renault. The driver got out. Dressed in jeans and an open black leather jacket, he was tall and moved gracefully as he walked toward the police.
Ryder studied him, noting the loose joints, the open hands that appeared relaxed but were far from it, the head that moved fractionally from side to side, showing he was doing a far more thorough scan of the area than most people would realize. Everything about him announced a well-trained professional in tradecraft.
Eva looked at Ryder. “Preston?”
He kept his focus on the stranger, memorizing his features. “Yeah, I think so.”
20
THE TWO bobbies turned and closed ranks, blocking the garbage bins as Preston approached. Preston said something to them, but his words were lost over the distance. After listening, the policemen relaxed a bit. One nodded and gestured.
Preston walked over and leaned low to peer at Charles Sherback’s corpse. Ryder noted a slight tensing in his shoulders.
And then it happened. In concise, swift movements, he was suddenly upright, a sound-suppressed pistol in his hand as he turned back toward the bobbies. His face showed no emotion.
Ryder yanked out his gun. Too late. Preston fired under his arm point-blank into the heart of the nearest bobby, then immediately into the heart of the second. He had shot them without completely facing them, so certain was he of their positions and his ability to kill.
Eva stiffened. Ryder put a hand on her arm.
The two policemen stood motionless, stunned into bleeding statues. When they went down, one sat cross-legged, and the other knelt on one knee. Then they toppled, the first landing on his belly, the second on his side. As blood oozed out, their limbs made jerky movements.
Preston holstered his weapon and dragged Charles’s body out from behind the bins. The scuffing noise of Charles’s heels on the pavement drifted upward. Preston hefted the body over his shoulder and loped off. Ryder noted he still showed no emotion.
“He doesn’t want anyone to see the tattoo,” Eva decided.
Ryder studied the moving killer. Charles’s body was draped over one side. Part of Preston’s torso was covered by it, but Preston’s head and legs were even more chancy targets at this distance. Soon he would pass beneath them, heading out toward the Renault. Ryder had to act quickly. The torso was his best target.
“Call 999 and describe where the alley is,” he told her. “Go over to the shed to do it. Your voice shouldn’t reach the alley from there. Don’t tell them about us.”
Without a word she grabbed Charles’s cell and ran.
Balancing himself, he aimed carefully, inhaled, exhaled, and fired twice in quick succession, targeting Preston’s right side to avoid his heart. The explosions were loud. Preston suddenly staggered.
But as Charles’s body fell to the alley floor, Preston recovered, dropped beside it, and rolled. His weapon appeared in both hands, pointing upward, looking for the shooter. The man was damn good.
Ryder aimed and fired twice again.
Preston jerked back, and then Ryder got lucky-Preston’s head thudded against the pavement. The additional blow did it. Preston froze a moment. His eyes closed. One hand released his pistol, and the other flopped to the ground.
Smiling grimly to himself, Ryder hurried to the stairwell shed.
Eva was standing near the door. “I called them. Two dead bobbies got their attention. They’re on their way. Did you kill Preston?”
“I hope not. I want him to face some intense questioning. Move away from the door.”
It was padlocked. Using the handle of his Beretta, he broke the lock and swung open the door. A dank odor blew out. Lit only by thin starlight, concrete steps descended into a black abyss. He turned on his miniature flashlight, and they walked down quickly side by side.
He kept his voice even. “Are you up to talking about Charles’s tattoo?” Although she seemed to be coping well, he had no idea how much of what had happened had affected her.
“Are you kidding? You bet I am.”
“It seems to me since Charles wanted the library to be found, he intended the tattoo to be decipherable. My guess is he told us about Aristagoras and Herodotus because he thought you’d not only figure out he’d left a tattoo but you’d understand the message. So let’s go back to the beginning. What does LAW 031308 mean?”
She said nothing. They descended two more flights. The doors were numbered, indicating they had reached the sixth floor.
Finally she decided, “I suppose LAW might have nothing to do with the law or something legal. Or the letters could be initials, an acronym. But it’s not an acronym I recognize. ‘Loyal Association of the West.’ ‘Legislative Agency for War,’ ” she free-associated. “None of that makes a darn bit of sense. The number’s too short to be a telephone number. It might not be just a string of individual numbers either, but a whole number-if one skips the zero, then it’s 31,308. Or it could have a decimal. But where does the decimal point go?”
“Okay, let’s think in terms of codes. Bar codes. Postal codes. Some kind of shipping code.”