Chapman heard the annoyance in Preston ’s voice. The failure to liquidate Andersen was difficult to swallow for a man who detested loose ends.
Still, all was not lost. “Good work.” Chapman paused, noted the flash of gratitude in Preston ’s eyes. “What about the District police?”
For the first time, Preston smiled. “They’re still not asking any questions about the library, and they would be by now if they knew about it. It’s beginning to look as if Mr. Ryder either didn’t or wasn’t able to tell Andersen anything important.” Chief of security for the Library of Gold for more than ten years, Preston was a man passionate about books and completely loyal, traits not only prized but required of library employees.
“That’d be a good result.” Chapman moved on to his next concern: “What about the library dinner?”
Preston drank deeply, relaxing. “Everything’s on track. The food, the chefs, the transportation.”
Book club members had been flying into the library throughout the past month, working with the translators to find and research questions in preparation for the annual banquet’s tournament. It was during Jonathan’s visit to the library just days before that he had learned about Chapman’s new business deal and become alarmed.
“Where are you with the Khost project?” Khost was a province in eastern Afghanistan, on the border with Pakistan. It was there Chapman planned to make back his huge losses from the global economic crash, and more.
“On schedule. The uniforms and equipment have been picked up. They’ll be shipped out in the morning. I’ve got it well in hand.”
“See that it stays that way. Nothing must interfere with it. Nothing. And keep your eye on the situation with Tucker Andersen. We don’t want it to explode in our faces.”
7
Chowchilla , California
Two weeks later
AT 1:32 P.M. Tucker Andersen finished briefing the warden of the Central California Women’s Facility. She was a stout woman with graying brown hair and a habit of folding her hands in front of her. She escorted him out of her private office.
“Tell me about Eva Blake,” Tucker said.
“She doesn’t complain, and she hasn’t gotten any 115 write-ups,” the warden said. “She started on the main yard, tidying up and emptying trash cans. Ten months ago we rewarded her with an assembly-line job in our electronics factory. In her free time she listens to the radio, keeps up with her karate, and volunteers-she teaches literacy classes and reads to inmates in the hospital ward. A couple of months ago she sent out a raft of résumés, but none of the other convicts knows it. There’s an unwritten law here-you don’t ask an inmate sister what she’s done or what she’s doing. Blake has been smart and kept her mouth shut about herself.”
“Who are her visitors?” Tucker asked as they passed the guard desk.
“Family occasionally, from out of state. A friend used to drive up every few months from L.A. -Peggy Doty, a former colleague. Ms. Doty hasn’t been to see her in a while. I believe she’s working at the British Library in London now. This is Blake’s housing unit.”
They stepped into a world of long expanses of linoleum flooring, closed doors, harsh fluorescent lighting, and an ear-bleed volume of noise-intercoms crackling, television programs blaring from the dayrooms, and loud shouts and curses.
The warden glanced at him. “They yell as much to give them something to do as to express themselves. We’re at double capacity here, so the noise is twice as loud as it should be. Blake is in the unit’s yard. She gets three hours every day if she wants it. She always does.”
The warden nodded at the guard standing at the door. He opened it, and the raw odor of farmland fertilizer swept toward them. They stepped outside, where the Central Valley sun pounded down onto an open space of grass, concrete, and dirt. Women sat, napped, and moved aimlessly. Beyond them rose high brick walls topped with electrified razor wire.
Tucker scanned the prisoners, looking for Eva Blake. He had studied photos as well as a video of the court appearance in which she had pleaded guilty to vehicular manslaughter in the death of her husband. He looked for her red hair, pretty face, lanky frame.
“You don’t recognize her, do you?” the warden asked. “She’s that one.”
He followed her nod to a woman in a baggy prison shirt and trousers, walking around the perimeter of the yard. Her hair was completely hidden, tucked up into a baseball cap. Her expression was blank, her posture nonthreatening. She looked little like the very alive woman in the photos and video.
“She goes around the yard hour after hour, loop after loop. She’s alone because she wants it that way. As I said, she’s smart-she’s learned to make herself invisible, uninteresting. Anyone who’s interesting around here can attract violence.”
Impressive both in her attitude and her ability to be inconspicuous, Tucker thought.
The warden clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m going to give you some advice. In prison, male cons either obey orders or defy them. Female cons ask why. Don’t lie to her. But if you have to, make damn sure she doesn’t catch you at it, at least not while you’re trying to convince her to do whatever it is you want her to do. You really aren’t going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”
“It’s national security.”
She gave a curt nod, and Tucker walked across the grass toward Eva Blake, catcalls and whistles trailing him. He wondered how long it would take her to realize she was his goal. A good hundred yards away, her strides grew nervy, and her chin lifted. She stopped and, in a slow, deliberate pivot, turned to face him. Her arms were apparently restful at her sides, but her stance was wide and balanced, a karate stance. Her reaction time was excellent, and from the way she moved, she was still in good physical condition.
He walked up to her. “Doctor Blake, my name is Tucker Andersen. I’d like to talk to you. The warden’s given us an interview room.”
“Why?” Her face was a mask.
“I may have a proposition for you. If so, I suspect you’ll like it.”
She peered around him, and he glanced back.
The warden was still standing in the doorway. Looking severe, she nodded at Blake. That made it an order.
“Whatever you say,” Blake said, relaxing her posture slightly.
As she started to move around him, she stumbled and twisted her ankle, bumping into him. He grabbed her shoulders, helping her. Regaining her equilibrium, she excused herself, moved away, and walked steadily back toward the prison.
THE INTERVIEW room had pastel walls, a single metal table with four metal chairs, and cameras poking out high from two corners.
Tucker sat at the widest part of the table and gestured at the other chairs. “Choose your poison.”
Not a smile. Eva Blake sat at the end. “You say your name is Tucker Andersen. Where are you from?”
“ McLean, Virginia. Why?”
She pulled his wallet from beneath her shirt, opened it, and read the driver’s license, checking on him. She spread out the credit cards, all in the same name. She nodded to herself, put the billfold back together, and handed it to him. “First time I’ve ever seen a ‘visitor’ in the yard on a non-visitor day.”
He had not felt her pick his pocket, but her bumping into him had been a clue. As he followed her into the prison, he had patted his jacket and found the wallet missing.