Spoken of in hushed tones by those who know the story, the Library of Gold is a legendary collection of rare, priceless books from ages past. Lost to the world for centuries, its existence has come to be regarded as myth. But the Library of Gold is real, and secretly controlled by a mysterious cabal of the world's richest, most powerful men, who will stop at nothing to protect their interests.
Eva Blake, a rare-book expert and conservator, is in prison for a drunk-driving accident that she doesn’t remember—one that resulted in the death of her husband, an even more famous rare-book expert. When an undercover CIA agent named Tucker Andersen offers to get her released in exchange for her help and expertise on the Library of Gold, she is eager to oblige. A book said to be from the Library of Gold has recently surfaced, delivered anonymously to the CIA, and it is now on exhibit at the British Museum as bait to draw out those with knowledge of the library. Eva is sent to investigate the scene, and while there, she sees the one person she never expected to see again: her dead husband, Charles.
After Charles first flees, then tries to kill her, Eva finds herself in the midst of several powerful, secret forces who either want her dead or want to use her to find the Library of Gold. The only person unequivocally on her side is Judd Ryder, the son of an undercover CIA agent who was killed after he discovered a mysterious bank account tied to Islamic terrorists. Judd believes the bank account is somehow connected to the library, and he is determined to find those responsible for his father's death. Alone against the world, Eva and Judd must fight a wide net of ruthless enemies as they race to unravel the clues to the library's whereabouts before it vanishes once again into the sands of time.
Release date:
March 30, 2010
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
400
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1
A library could be a dangerous place. The librarian scanned the ten men in tailored tuxedos who lounged around the long oval table in the center of the room. Encircling them were magnificent illuminated manuscripts, more than a thousand of them, blanketing the walls from fl oor to ceiling. Their spectacular gold-covered bindings faced out to showcase the fortune in gems decorating them.
The men were members of the book club that owned and operated the secret Library of Gold where the annual dinner was always held. The fi nale was the tournament, in which each member tested the librarian with a research question. As the books towered around them and the air vibrated with golden light, the men sipped their cognac. Their eyes watched the librarian.
"Trajan," challenged the international lawyer from Los Angeles. "a.d. 53 to a.d. 117. Trajan was one of the most ambitious warrior-emperors of old Rome, but few people realize he also revered books. His supreme monument to his successes at war is called Trajan's Column. He ordered it erected in the court between two galleries of Rome's library—which he also built."
The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting. The librarian's fi ngers plucked at his tuxedo jacket. Nearly seventy years old, he was a tidy man with wrinkled features. His hair was thin, his glasses large, and his mouth set in a perpetual small smile.
The tension heightened as he mulled. "Of course," he said at last. "Cassius Dio Cocceianus wrote about it." He went to the shelves containing the eighty volumes of Cassius Dio's history, Romaika, compiled in the second and third centuries and transcribed by a Byzantine calligrapher in the sixth century. "The story is here, in volume seventy-seven. Most of Cassius Dio's work has been lost. Our library has the only complete set."
As pleased laughter swept the exclusive group, the librarian laid the large volume into the arms of the challenger, who stroked the embedded opals and sapphires on its cover. Gazing appreciatively at the golden book, he stood it up beside his brandy glass. Eight other illuminated manuscripts stood beside eight other brandy glasses. Each was a testament to the librarian's intimate knowledge of ancient and medieval literature and the priceless value of the library itself.
Now only the tenth member—the director himself—remained. He would pose the final question in the tournament.
The men helped themselves to more cognac. By design their yearly dinner was dazzling theater. Hours before the first martini was poured, ten wild ducks, freshly shot, had arrived by private jet from Johannesburg. The chefs were flown in from Paris, blindfolded of course. The seven-course meal was exquisite, including truffl ed sweetbreads with chestnuts. The alcohol was the best—tonight's cognac was a Louis XIII de Rémy Martin, worth more than a thousand dollars a bottle in today's market. All of the book club's liquors had been laid down by those who had gone before, creating a cellar of indisputable quality.
The director cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look at him. He was American and had flown in from Paris earlier in the day. The room's tenor changed, becoming somehow menacing.
The librarian pulled himself up, vigilant.
The director peered at him. "Salah al-Din, also known as Saladin.
a.d. 1137 or 1138 to a.d. 1193. General Saladin, a Kurdish Muslim, was famous for his espionage network. One night his enemy Richard the Lionheart went to sleep in his tent in Assyria, guarded on all sides by his En glish knights. They poured a track of white ash around the tent so wide, no one could cross it undetected. But when Richard awoke, a melon with a dagger buried deep inside had appeared beside his bed. The blade could just as easily have been stabbed into Richard's heart. It was Saladin's warning, left by one of his spies. The spy escaped without leaving a clue and was never caught."
Again the eyes watched the librarian. With every word, he had tensed. The door behind him opened quietly. He glanced over his shoulder as Douglas Preston stepped into the room. Preston was head of library security, a tall, muscular man who was an expert in weapons and took his work seriously. He was not wearing a tuxedo, instead had on his usual black leather jacket and jeans. Strangely, he carried a bath towel.
With effort, the librarian kept his voice steady as he headed across the room to another bookshelf. "The story can be found in Baha al-Din's Sirat Salah al- Din: The Life of Saladin—"
"Of course, you're correct," the director interrupted. "But I want another manuscript. Bring me The Book of Spies."
The librarian stopped, his hands reaching for the volume. He turned. The men's faces were outraged, unforgiving.
"How did you find out?" he whispered.
No one answered. The room was so silent he could hear the tread of crepe-soled shoes. Before he could turn again, Preston's beach towel slapped around his skull, covering his eyes and mouth. There was a huge explosion of gunfire, and pain erupted in his head. As he fell, he realized the security chief had given him fair warning by using a technique of the later Assassins—the towel was to cover the entrance and exit wounds to control spraying blood and bone. The book club knew that.
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