did not tell Preston, she would.
“We’ve got a problem.” Charles steeled himself as Preston focused on him.
“There’s no reason for the director to know about it, Preston,” Robin urged. “You can handle it.”
Preston did not look at her. “What’s happened, Charles?”
He sighed heavily. “It started in the museum. I’d just finished photographing The Book of Spies and was walking away when I noticed Eva. My wife. God knows how she got out of prison, but she was there, and she recognized me.” He rushed on, describing the chase through the museum and her arrest. “I rented a car. When the police released her, I followed and found a quiet street. Then I was almost able to run her down. But she got away. I drove everywhere, looking for her again.”
“Does she know about the Library of Gold?” Preston asked instantly.
“Of course not. I never talked with her.”
“What else?”
“She recorded me on her cell phone,” he admitted. “I don’t know whether it was photos or a video.”
“Please don’t tell the director, Preston,” Robin pleaded.
Preston was silent. Tension filled the room.
Charles rubbed his eyes and sank back in his chair. When he looked again, Preston had not moved, his gaze unreadable.
“Where would she stay in London?” Preston demanded.
“There were two hotels we preferred—the Connaught and the Mayflower. When she came alone, she stayed with a friend, Peggy Doty. At the museum I overheard a conversation that Peggy had moved back to London. I don’t have her address, but my guess is Eva’s with Peggy. They were close.”
Preston tapped a number into his cell. “Eva Blake may be staying at one of these hotels.” He related the information. “I’ll e-mail you her photograph. Terminate her. She has a cell phone. It’s imperative you get it.” He ended the connection, then told Charles, “I’ll handle Peggy Doty myself.”
As Preston walked toward the door, Charles rose to his feet. He was sweating. “Are you going to tell the director?”
Preston said nothing. The door closed.
14
As he drove toward Peggy Doty’s apartment, Preston reveled in having pulled off the complex mission of recovering The Book of Spies . It had been like the old days when he was a CIA officer working undercover in hot spots across Europe and the old Soviet Union. But when the cold war had ended, Langley had lost the support of Congress, the White House, and the American people to properly monitor the world. Disgusted and heartbroken, he had resigned. By the time of the 9/11 attacks, when everyone realized intelligence was critical to U.S. security, he had committed himself to something larger, something more enduring. Something far more relevant, almost eternal—the Library of Gold.
Fury washed through him. Charles was self-important, and self-importance was always a liability. He had put the library in danger.
Preston speed-dialed the director.
“Did you get The Book of Spies ?” Martin Chapman’s voice was forceful, his focus instant, although it was past four A.M. in Dubai. The tirelessness of the response was typical, just one of the reasons Preston admired him.
“The book is safe. On the jet soon. And Charles has verified it’s genuine.”
As Preston had hoped, there was delight in the director’s voice: “Congratulations. Fine work. I knew I could count on you. As Seneca wrote, ‘It matters not how many books one has, but how good they are.’ I’m eager to see it again. Everything went smoothly?”
“One small problem, but it’s handleable. Charles’s wife is out of prison and was at the museum opening. She recognized him, made a scene, and got herself arrested. Charles tried to run her down. Of course he failed. I’m driving to the apartment where he thinks she’s staying. I just found out about all of this.”
“The bastard should’ve reported it immediately. Robin was aware?”
“Yes.” The library’s rules were inviolate. Everyone knew
“We’ve got a problem.” Charles steeled himself as Preston focused on him.
“There’s no reason for the director to know about it, Preston,” Robin urged. “You can handle it.”
Preston did not look at her. “What’s happened, Charles?”
He sighed heavily. “It started in the museum. I’d just finished photographing The Book of Spies and was walking away when I noticed Eva. My wife. God knows how she got out of prison, but she was there, and she recognized me.” He rushed on, describing the chase through the museum and her arrest. “I rented a car. When the police released her, I followed and found a quiet street. Then I was almost able to run her down. But she got away. I drove everywhere, looking for her again.”
“Does she know about the Library of Gold?” Preston asked instantly.
“Of course not. I never talked with her.”
“What else?”
“She recorded me on her cell phone,” he admitted. “I don’t know whether it was photos or a video.”
“Please don’t tell the director, Preston,” Robin pleaded.
Preston was silent. Tension filled the room.
Charles rubbed his eyes and sank back in his chair. When he looked again, Preston had not moved, his gaze unreadable.
“Where would she stay in London?” Preston demanded.
“There were two hotels we preferred—the Connaught and the Mayflower. When she came alone, she stayed with a friend, Peggy Doty. At the museum I overheard a conversation that Peggy had moved back to London. I don’t have her address, but my guess is Eva’s with Peggy. They were close.”
Preston tapped a number into his cell. “Eva Blake may be staying at one of these hotels.” He related the information. “I’ll e-mail you her photograph. Terminate her. She has a cell phone. It’s imperative you get it.” He ended the connection, then told Charles, “I’ll handle Peggy Doty myself.”
As Preston walked toward the door, Charles rose to his feet. He was sweating. “Are you going to tell the director?”
Preston said nothing. The door closed.
14
As he drove toward Peggy Doty’s apartment, Preston reveled in having pulled off the complex mission of recovering The Book of Spies . It had been like the old days when he was a CIA officer working undercover in hot spots across Europe and the old Soviet Union. But when the cold war had ended, Langley had lost the support of Congress, the White House, and the American people to properly monitor the world. Disgusted and heartbroken, he had resigned. By the time of the 9/11 attacks, when everyone realized intelligence was critical to U.S. security, he had committed himself to something larger, something more enduring. Something far more relevant, almost eternal—the Library of Gold.
Fury washed through him. Charles was self-important, and self-importance was always a liability. He had put the library in danger.
Preston speed-dialed the director.
“Did you get The Book of Spies ?” Martin Chapman’s voice was forceful, his focus instant, although it was past four A.M. in Dubai. The tirelessness of the response was typical, just one of the reasons Preston admired him.
“The book is safe. On the jet soon. And Charles has verified it’s genuine.”
As Preston had hoped, there was delight in the director’s voice: “Congratulations. Fine work. I knew I could count on you. As Seneca wrote, ‘It matters not how many books one has, but how good they are.’ I’m eager to see it again. Everything went smoothly?”
“One small problem, but it’s handleable. Charles’s wife is out of prison and was at the museum opening. She recognized him, made a scene, and got herself arrested. Charles tried to run her down. Of course he failed. I’m driving to the apartment where he thinks she’s staying. I just found out about all of this.”
“The bastard should’ve reported it immediately. Robin was aware?”
“Yes.” The library’s rules were inviolate. Everyone knew
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