Library of Gold (29 page)

His eyes narrowed.
“Absque argento omnia vana.”
Then he gave what he seemed to think was a winning smile.

“What does he want?” Judd asked.

“It’s a Latin phrase: ‘Without money all efforts are useless.’ He expects to be paid.” She yanked away the
scytale
from Yakimovich.

His gaze followed it hungrily.

“Do you want it back?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes. Please.”

“Give us Charles’s message, and you can keep the
scytale
.”

Yakimovich’s eyes adjusted. For the first time he seemed really to see Judd and her. His body shuddered with a sigh. “All right. It is in my office.”

41

Andrew Yakimovich dropped a white cotton shirt over his head and led them out through the side door and into a meandering stone passageway. The air smelled of dust, and the walls were rough. Naked lightbulbs flickered overhead. Positioning his fez carefully onto his gray hair, he walked slowly, a wounded lion, aged but proud.

“The foundation is Byzantine, the floor plan Ottoman,” he told them. “This is one of the hidden worlds of the Grand Bazaar. Along here are rooms that have been workshops for centuries.”

As Eva watched, he gestured at doors. Few displayed signs. Most were open, showing antiques being repaired, stones being set in silver and gold, and tourist T-shirts being sewn. The mother with three children whom Eva had spotted earlier stood inside one room with a half dozen other people. She pulled billfolds from her purse and handed them over to a man sitting behind a desk.

“How far does this go on?” Judd wanted to know.

Yakimovich waved a hand. “It winds. A quarter mile perhaps.”

He took out a large old key and stopped. Unlocking a door, he stepped inside and rotated a switch. Electrical conduit ran up the wall and across the ceiling. Low-wattage light-bulbs beamed into life.

Eva and Judd followed him inside. Once a prominent antiquities dealer, Yakimovich seemed to have packed his entire life into this cavernous room. Crates rose to the ceiling, most unlabeled, fading into the dark recesses. Pieces of beautiful but dusty old furniture were stacked in a corner. Tall rolls of handmade carpets leaned against walls.

With a proprietary glance around, he moved to a marble-topped table and sat. “The
scytale
, if you please.” His tone was businesslike.

Eva laid it on the table, which was empty. There were no record books, no accounts, no letters from buyers eager to purchase one of Yakimovich’s treasures. No chairs in which customers could sit.

She tried to figure out how to phrase the question without insulting him: “You’ve retired, Andy?”

He let out a loud hoot, his face animated in the way she remembered. “You are too kind. I have no illusions about what I have become.” He peered at her, his gaze sharp for a moment. “Once I was great, like Charles. He could be a bastard, but I understood that. We have our own code, we bastards. Especially when we share a passion.”

He opened a small drawer and took out a long strip of tan leather on which letters in black ink were visible on one side. Eva inhaled, excitement coursing through her. At long last perhaps they would learn where the library was. As he started to lay down the strip, Eva snatched it up. The leather was stiff but pliable. She grabbed the
scytale
.

“Wrap from the large end first,” Yakimovich advised.

She did as he said, working slowly. It was an awkward process, the leather’s stiffness making it even more difficult. She could feel Judd’s intensity beside her. Finished, she gripped the
scytale
by both ends, holding the strip in place with her thumbs, then turned the cylinder horizontal to read the words.

Disappointment filled her. “All I see is gibberish.”

“I will do it,” Yakimovich said. “One must help the letters to grow into words.”

With a flourish, the antiquities dealer pulled the dry leather slightly and used a thumb to press it flat against the
scytale
as he rotated it and rewrapped the strip. It was slow work. Finished at last, he gave a nod of satisfaction. Holding the baton at the ends as Eva had so the strip would not slip, he turned the
scytale
and studied the script.

“It is Latin, and it is from Charles, but perhaps that is to be expected, since he is the one who left it here with me.” For a moment he continued to read silently to himself. Then his head jerked up, and his eyes flashed with excitement. “My God, Charles did it. He
did
it! He tracked the
library
! Listen to this: ‘You can find the location of the Library of Gold hidden inside
The Book of Spies
.’ ”

The calligraphy shop was silent. The customers had been banished, and the door locked. A large bruise was appearing on the shopkeeper’s cheek where Preston had hit him with his fist. He cringed as Preston grabbed his arm roughly.

“Show me exactly where they went,” Preston ordered and shoved him through the beaded curtain into the back.

The man ran down the dim hall toward an arched opening. Following, Preston took out his S&W pistol and screwed on the sound suppressor. Behind him were his two men, weapons in hand. A third man soon joined them.

Judd leaned forward. “Keep reading, Andy,” he ordered.

“Hurry!” Eva said, thrilled.

“It says here Charles’s predecessor wrote it inside the book, then smuggled the book out of the library—” Yakimovich stopped, the
scytale
frozen in midair.

Pounding feet in the corridor echoed loudly against the stone walls. The feet were coming toward them.

Judd pulled out his Beretta and ran toward the door, the only door to the storeroom.

Eva snatched the
scytale
from Yakimovich’s hands.

“No!” he yelled, reaching for it.

“I’ll send it back to you.” Eva sprinted.

Judd had flattened himself behind the open door. He motioned Eva to stand back beside him.

At his desk, the antiquities dealer seemed unable to move.

“Hide!” Judd commanded.

Yakimovich’s face blanched. He scuttled back among the crates and disappeared.

Suddenly the shopkeeper from the calligraphy store burst through the door as if he had been thrown. His eyes were wild, and sweat poured down his bruised face.

“Help me! Help me!” He ran in among the old furniture.

Light noises of a struggle reverberated from the stone corridor. Feet scuffed and snapped against the floor. There was a loud grunt, then another. The dull sound of something hitting flesh. A swift
crack
, then another. From the floor?

It was if they were listening to a radio, with the only clue being that some kind of fight was going on. Eva peered at Judd, who had a distant, cold look that sent chills over her skin. Finally there was a horrible quiet.

Judd raised a hand, silently telling her to wait as he stepped to the edge of the doorway. Pistol up, he peered out cautiously. Then he vanished into the hall.

Ignoring his order, Eva followed.

Four men were down. Two were about twenty feet away, bloody exit wounds showing on their foreheads. The other two—Preston and another man—lay close together near Yakimovich’s door. There were no obvious wounds on either.

Instantly Judd kicked Preston’s pistol from his limp hand, then swept it up.

“Dammit, Preston found us again,” she whispered.

He nodded. “We’ll talk about it later.” Looking up and down the winding hallway, he crouched beside the killer. “Check the other guy’s pockets, Eva. Do it fast. We can’t stay here long.”

She knelt. The man had gray hair and a long gray mustache. His face was the color of a roasted almond, the lines deep, the nose prominent. His fez lay upside down beside him. She rustled through the caftan and found only a wallet. Inside was an Istanbul driver’s license for Salih Serin, a credit card in the same name, and a few Turkish lira. The photo on the driver’s license matched the face of the man lying beside her.

“No weapon,” she said. “His name is Salih Serin. He lives in Istanbul.”

“Preston has a pistol and cash, no ID, and a small notebook. He’s pulled out most of the pages, but there’s one left. He wrote, ‘Robin Miller.
Book of Spies.
All we know is Athens—so far.’ ”

Eva felt a surge of excitement. “Then we have to go to Athens.”

“Yes.” He gave her Preston’s weapon. “If he so much as moves, shoot him. We don’t know about Serin yet, so be careful of him, too.” He tucked the note and money inside his jacket and hurried back into Yakimovich’s room.

Serin moaned and murmured something in Turkish. Opening his eyes, he jerked his head from side to side, panicking, until he saw Preston was lying unconscious.

He looked up at her and smiled. “You are pretty.”

Judd returned, carrying rope and their duffel bag. “The shopkeeper was no help. He’s blithering, scared to death.” As he tied Preston’s hands tightly behind him, he peered across at Serin. “What happened?”

The Turk sat up. “I know those two.” He pointed a thumb down the hall at the prone men. “They are evil. I was back there in a workroom, visiting a friend, and I saw them run past. A long time ago I was with MIT.” He gazed at them and explained. “Our Milli Istihbarat Teskilati, the National Intelligence Organization. So I thought I would see what badness they were planning. By the time I got here, both of them were on the floor with gunshot wounds, and that one”—he gestured at Preston—“had just hurled Mustafa through the door. He and I had a large battle.” He gave a conspiratorial grin. “But I am an old street fighter, and he thought he could take me. Still the weasel managed to whack me a good one just before I got him, and I fell and cracked my head.” He rubbed the back of his skull. “In the old days . . . ah, in the old days I would’ve eaten his gizzard.” He sighed tiredly.

“Are you all right, Mr. Serin?” Eva took his arm as he struggled to his feet.

Judd was suspicious. “There wasn’t any bump on Preston’s head. How’d you knock him out?” He finished binding Preston’s feet together.

“Pressure.” Serin grabbed his own throat, his thumbs pushed deep, then quickly released them. “We learn useful things in the secret service.”

Judd nodded. “Thanks for your help. You aren’t armed, so who shot the other men?”

“Maybe that one.” He gestured at Preston. “I saw no one else. I know those guys. They could have waited until he had no choice and demanded more money—or something else he could not or would not provide.” He shrugged, then scrutinized them. “You are in trouble, yes? I think they were planning to kill you. But you look like such nice tourists.”

Judd only glanced at him. “Come on, Eva.”

“I believe I heard someone mention Athens,” Serin continued. “You wish to go? I know a boat rental place where few questions are asked. I can take you in the boat to a small airport south of here where the owner and I are friendly. Perhaps it would be good for you to slip out of Istanbul before this one”—he pointed at Preston lying hogtied on the stone floor—“gets free, or someone else is sent to take his place. I am a poor man now. You could pay me well. Perhaps you are glad for the assistance of someone who knows the terrain.”

Worrying how Preston had found them again, Eva looked at Judd. Her inclination was to accept the offer.

Judd made a decision. “You won’t mind if I check you for weapons.”

Serin threw up his arms, the sleeves of his caftan billowing down past his elbows. “I insist.”

Judd patted him from his neck to the soles of his feet, paying particular attention to his armpits, lower back, thighs, calves, and ankles.

Finally Judd said, “All right. Let’s go.”

Serin rushed ahead, trying doorknobs until he located a closet. Judd found rags inside. Stuffing one into Preston’s mouth and tying another around it, he left the unconscious man bound tightly in his ropes.

“You didn’t kill Preston,” Eva whispered as they hurried after Serin.

“I thought about it. But he’s unarmed, apparently doesn’t know where
The Book of Spies
is in Athens, and anyway, he’s out of commission long enough for us to get away.” He hesitated, then admitted,“ And I have enough blood on my hands.”

42

The April daylight was fading, the lavender colors of sunset spreading softly across the indigo-blue Sea of Marmara. In the vast Istanbul marina where Salih Serin had taken Judd and Eva, waves lapped boat hulls and ropes rattled against masts.

Judd took up a position fifty feet away from Eva and Serin, observing as Serin negotiated in Turkish with a stooped youth for the boat they had selected—a sleek Chris-Craft yacht powerful enough to make the journey easily and outrun other small vessels.

Judd was on his mobile with Tucker. It was about eleven
A.M.
in Washington, six
P.M.
in Istanbul. He described the events in the Grand Bazaar. “Preston found us again.”

“Dammit. What in hell is going on? There’s no way anyone could’ve gotten the intel on my end . . .” There was a pause. Tucker sounded worried as he continued, “I’ll think about it. Go on. What else did you learn?”

Judd repeated the information in Preston’s notebook. “See if you can track down who Robin Miller is. I’m wondering whether she might be the blond woman Eva saw with Sherback in London. Remember,
The Book of Spies
might’ve been in the backpack he left with her.”

“NSA is monitoring the two numbers you got off Sherback’s phone. I’ll let you know instantly if we get a hit.”

“Good. Eva’s going to translate the rest of the message on the leather strip as soon as we’re alone. Supposedly it says exactly where the library’s location is hidden inside
The
Book of Spies
.”

“Langley had that book in storage three years.” Tucker sighed with frustration. “I take it you’re leaving for Athens?”

“Immediately. I’m not going to tell you exactly how we’re planning to get there.”

He watched as Serin jabbed a thumb toward the yacht, the darkening sky, and the boat merchant, at last extending both palms up in a gesture of attempting to be reasonable. Serin had told the boat merchant he was going to insist they receive a large discount, since so few people wanted to rent at night. His animated face showed deep enjoyment in the haggling.