Aristophanes, Virgil, Pindar, Cicero, and Sun Tzu. There are Bibles and Torahs and Korans, too. All sorts of languages—Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, Greek.”
Tucker was quiet a moment, considering. After a rocky start as a teenager, she had righted herself to go on to a high-level career, which showed talent, brains, and responsibility. She had muted herself to fit into prison, and that indicated adaptability. Pickpocketing him because he was an aberration told him she still had nerve. He was operating in a vacuum with this mission. None of the targeting analysts had found anything useful, and the collection of Jonathan Ryder’s clippings had turned out to be little help.
He studied the face beneath the prison cap, the sculpted lines, the expression that had settled back into chilly neutrality. “What would you say if I told you I have evidence the Library of Gold is very much in existence?”
“I’d say tell me more.”
“The Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection has loaned some of its illuminated manuscripts to the British Museum for a special show. The highlight is The Book of Spies . Do you know the work?”
“Never heard of it.”
“The book arrived at the reference door to the Library of Congress wrapped in foam inside a cardboard box. There was an unsigned note saying it had been in the Library of Gold and was a donation to the Rosenwald Special Collection. They tested the paper and ink and so forth. The book’s authentic. No one’s been able to trace the donor or donors.”
“That’s all the evidence you have it’s from the Library of Gold?”
He nodded. “For now it’s enough.”
“Does this mean you want to find the library?” When he nodded, she said, “What can I do to help?”
“Opening night of the British Museum exhibit is next week. Your job would be to do what you used to do when you traveled with your husband. Talk to the librarians, historians, and afficionados who’ve been trying to find the library for years. Eavesdrop on conversations among them and others. We hope if The Book of Spies really did come from the collection it’ll attract someone who knows the library’s location.”
She had been leaning forward. She sat back. Emotions played across her face. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you do a good job, you’ll return to prison of course. But then in just four months, you’ll be released on parole—assuming you continue your good record. That’s eight months early.”
“What’s the downside?”
“No downside except you’ll have to wear a GPS ankle bracelet. It’s tamper-resistant and has a built-in GSM/GPRS transmitter that’ll automatically report your location. You can remove it at night, to make sleeping more comfortable, if you wish. I’ll give you a cell phone, too. You’ll report to me, and you must tell no one, not even the warden, what you’ll be doing or what you learn.”
She was silent. “You opened my juvenile record. You can get me out of prison. And you can reduce my sentence. Before I agree, I want to know who you really are.”
He started to shake his head.
She warned, “The first price of my help is the truth.”
He remembered what the warden had said about not lying to the inmates. “I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“That’s not in your billfold.”
He reached down and un-Velcroed a pocket inside his calf-high sock. He handed her the ID. “You must tell no one.
Agreed?”
She studied the laminated official identification. “Agreed. If anyone there knows where the library is, I’ll find out. But when I’m finished, I don’t want to come back to prison.”
Inwardly he smiled, pleased by her toughness. “Done.”
Years seem to fall from her. “When do I leave?”
8
London, England
The world seemed excitingly new to Eva—no handcuffs, no prison guards, no eyes watching her around the clock. It was 8:30 P.M. and raining heavily as she hurried across the forecourt toward the British Museum. She hardly felt the
Tucker was quiet a moment, considering. After a rocky start as a teenager, she had righted herself to go on to a high-level career, which showed talent, brains, and responsibility. She had muted herself to fit into prison, and that indicated adaptability. Pickpocketing him because he was an aberration told him she still had nerve. He was operating in a vacuum with this mission. None of the targeting analysts had found anything useful, and the collection of Jonathan Ryder’s clippings had turned out to be little help.
He studied the face beneath the prison cap, the sculpted lines, the expression that had settled back into chilly neutrality. “What would you say if I told you I have evidence the Library of Gold is very much in existence?”
“I’d say tell me more.”
“The Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection has loaned some of its illuminated manuscripts to the British Museum for a special show. The highlight is The Book of Spies . Do you know the work?”
“Never heard of it.”
“The book arrived at the reference door to the Library of Congress wrapped in foam inside a cardboard box. There was an unsigned note saying it had been in the Library of Gold and was a donation to the Rosenwald Special Collection. They tested the paper and ink and so forth. The book’s authentic. No one’s been able to trace the donor or donors.”
“That’s all the evidence you have it’s from the Library of Gold?”
He nodded. “For now it’s enough.”
“Does this mean you want to find the library?” When he nodded, she said, “What can I do to help?”
“Opening night of the British Museum exhibit is next week. Your job would be to do what you used to do when you traveled with your husband. Talk to the librarians, historians, and afficionados who’ve been trying to find the library for years. Eavesdrop on conversations among them and others. We hope if The Book of Spies really did come from the collection it’ll attract someone who knows the library’s location.”
She had been leaning forward. She sat back. Emotions played across her face. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you do a good job, you’ll return to prison of course. But then in just four months, you’ll be released on parole—assuming you continue your good record. That’s eight months early.”
“What’s the downside?”
“No downside except you’ll have to wear a GPS ankle bracelet. It’s tamper-resistant and has a built-in GSM/GPRS transmitter that’ll automatically report your location. You can remove it at night, to make sleeping more comfortable, if you wish. I’ll give you a cell phone, too. You’ll report to me, and you must tell no one, not even the warden, what you’ll be doing or what you learn.”
She was silent. “You opened my juvenile record. You can get me out of prison. And you can reduce my sentence. Before I agree, I want to know who you really are.”
He started to shake his head.
She warned, “The first price of my help is the truth.”
He remembered what the warden had said about not lying to the inmates. “I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“That’s not in your billfold.”
He reached down and un-Velcroed a pocket inside his calf-high sock. He handed her the ID. “You must tell no one.
Agreed?”
She studied the laminated official identification. “Agreed. If anyone there knows where the library is, I’ll find out. But when I’m finished, I don’t want to come back to prison.”
Inwardly he smiled, pleased by her toughness. “Done.”
Years seem to fall from her. “When do I leave?”
8
London, England
The world seemed excitingly new to Eva—no handcuffs, no prison guards, no eyes watching her around the clock. It was 8:30 P.M. and raining heavily as she hurried across the forecourt toward the British Museum. She hardly felt the
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