The Assassins (13 page)

Her eyes snapped open as she remembered the whispered rumors that there would be two particularly difficult exercises at the Farm. In one, the trainees were “captured” and thrown into a sham POW camp as terrorists. They underwent hours of interrogation, sleep deprivation, and isolation, first to coerce, and if that did not work, to force them to give up the name of one of the other terrorists—one of their fellow students—because it was vital the students learn the limits of their endurance. In the second exercise, the Farm ran a surprise operation on each trainee: Staff and sometimes retired or active officers created a situation that looked real from every aspect. It would be so well executed any normal person would believe it. In spookspeak, the operation was called a movie. The trainee’s job was to detect and give evidence of the truth.

If it was illogical for Tucker to sideline her, then this whole situation could be a movie. Her frustration about not being able to make Chapman accountable was well known, and Langley had an entire department dedicated to creating identities—“Frank Smith” could easily be an alias.

Eva drummed her fingers on her armrest. Langley demanded its spies follow orders, but it also prized entrepreneurship. The line between the two was hair-thin, and what was left unsaid was that undercover officers were expected to know when to break the rules. If this really were a training exercise, she needed to reveal it.

She heard the cockpit door open.

It was the pilot—Jack—buttoning his black pilot’s jacket. “I’m going out.” He reached into the forward closet and grabbed a down jacket.

“Where are you headed?” she asked.

“Next door. The owner’s an old friend.”

She nodded. “I think the intent of Tucker’s orders was for me to stay here at the airport within hailing distance, don’t you?” Without waiting for him to respond, she went on, “I’m starving. I saw a pizza sign next to the Peebles building. How about I get us some?”

“Sorry, Ms. Blake, but you’ve got to stay here. You don’t want to get kicked out of the Farm for disobeying orders.” Jack added kindly, “I’ll swing past for pizza. What can I bring for you?”

She made up an answer then watched as he turned the wheel on the door, lifted a lever, and pushed outside. Cold air gusted in, and the door shut.

Standing up, she paced the aisle and mulled the problem. The thing was she had heard nothing directly from Tucker himself—just from some woman named Jane Squires who claimed to work for him. Since Tucker had brought her all the way out here to the middle of nowhere, the least he could do was tell her what the mission was about. On the other hand, if this were a movie, he might know nothing about it—and she would be able to unmask it as a training exercise.

Hurrying back to her seat, she dug her Farm-issued cell from her shoulder bag and dialed Tucker’s new number, the one Frank had given her. Soon the recording of Tucker’s voice sounded in her ear. Disappointed, she ended the connection without leaving a message.

She considered a moment then tapped onto the keypad Tucker’s old number, the one he had given her months ago. The phone rang three times. Eagerly she listened to the connection being made, but then to another recording of Tucker’s voice. Jabbing the
OFF
button, she stared at the cell. The messages were identical. Quickly she again dialed one number then the other. Recordings answered both times. She listened carefully. Not only were the words the same, so were the inflections, the emphases, the rhythms.

Pacing the aisle, she hugged herself. It was possible Tucker had made a tape of his message and used it for the new number. But it was equally possible the Farm had made a copy of Tucker’s recording and put it on Tucker’s supposedly new phone number for Frank Smith to give to her—and she was in the middle of a movie.

She stooped to peer out the window. The door to the trijet was open, and Jack was stepping inside. As Eva watched the door close, she decided she would rather go down for being enterprising than for being an idiot.

She dialed Peebles Air and Land Transportation. “I need to rent a car,” she told the man who answered.

“You like a lot of horsepower?” he asked, then began to describe a Ford V-8 Mustang he had on the lot.

“Here’s my credit card number,” she interrupted. “E-mail me the paperwork.”

“I get it. Sure.” In a small airport that served those who for a variety of reasons wanted to avoid the big airports around Washington, he probably had heard stranger requests.

Giving him her information, she put on her coat. As she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder, the documents arrived on her cell phone. She signed and sent them back.

Then she phoned him again. “Leave the car by the gate with the motor running. I’ll be able to see it from here. I’m on my way.” With one hand she rotated the wheel on the cabin door.

“Hey, no can do. Can’t leave the car running. I’ll wait there with the key.” He hung up before she could argue.

She shoved the door’s lever and stepped out into the frosty night. Pulling her coat tightly around her, she hurried down the staircase.

“Eva!” The voice was a bellow behind her.

She looked back.

Jack, the pilot, was sprinting toward her. “Dammit, Eva, you don’t know what you’re getting into! Come back!”

She ran toward the waiting Mustang. A young man stood next to the driver’s door, holding up keys in his gloved hand and smiling.

Before he could say anything, she snatched the keys. “Thanks!” She swung open the door, jumped inside, and ignited the engine. Throwing the car into gear, she pressed the gas feed and took off, tires spitting snow.

Checking her rearview mirror, she saw the kid standing confused, alternately watching her and Jack. Jack was gripping the fence with a gloved hand, his face red, breathing great white clouds. He was talking urgently into his cell phone. No doubt reporting her to the Farm. To hell with him. She was going to find Tucker.

Eva sped the powerful Mustang across Montgomery County’s frozen countryside. She was tense, wondering what she was going to find at Martin Chapman’s place. Traffic was light. The moon shone brightly, turning the rural highway bone gray in the night. Listening to her GPS’s instructions, she watched the road.

When her cell phone rang, she picked it up and saw the caller ID was useless—“Private Number.”

She considered then finally answered. “Yes?”

The voice on the other end of the line announced in warm tones: “Eva, this is Jack, your friendly pilot. Don’t hang up.”

She stiffened. “I’m not going back to the plane.” She jammed the cell’s red
OFF
button.

She drove past stands of snowy woods interspersed with houses, lights on, people gathered around dinner tables, sitting in front of televisions. “Private Number” called again. She did not answer. As she pressed the sports car onward, time seemed to stretch into eternity. When the GPS finally announced she had reached her destination, she slowed. The sign over the entrance confirmed it was Chapman’s place. The drive was wide, rising to a towering manse fronted by Greek-style columns.

As she continued past she glimpsed a closed-circuit camera in a tree on the far side of a high security wall, then another camera. They were aimed at the wall but could also show the road. She made no more changes in her speed—she wanted to do nothing to attract attention. As she watched for sentries, she drove around the corner. She had to decide what to do. She shot a sharp glance at her cell phone. Then she snapped it up and dialed her voice mail.

There was a message from the pilot, Jack. “Dammit, Eva, call me!” He left his number.

She punched it into her phone’s keypad.

Jack answered instantly. “Come to your senses, Eva. Get your butt back here.”

Glaring at the two-lane road ahead, she announced, “This isn’t a movie, is it, Jack. It’s a real damn operation. Why have I been cut out of it?”

There was a surprised moment. Then: “You’re not equipped. A lot’s riding on it. It’s as simple as that.”

“Bullshit.” She waited silently for him to say more.

Finally she heard him sigh. “Goddammit, Eva, where in hell are you?”

“I’m driving along the west side of Chapman’s place. I see a service entrance ahead.”

“Okay. So now you have a choice. Turn back, or if you insist on continuing, you’ve got to promise to do exactly what you’re told. Follow orders.”

“I’m not turning back.”

“Say it.”

Gritting her teeth, she echoed, “I’ll do exactly what Frank or Tucker tells me.”

“And don’t forget it. Drive a mile past Chapman’s service entrance then return and park the Mustang across from it. I’ll tell Frank to watch for your car, but I haven’t heard from him in a while, so I don’t know whether he’s even alive. I’ve given you your orders. Don’t screw up and get someone killed.” He ended the call.

Driving with one hand, she gripped her cell in the other until it hurt. Was she really that bull-headed? She peered out at a great sea of moon-glistening white—the snowy plain across from Chapman’s property. It made her think of cross-country skiing and snowmen, of childhood. But her childhood had been shaped by a drunken father and a distraught mother. She had been the one who had held all of them together. She had learned a lot of lessons then.

Shaking her head, she checked her odometer then did a
U
-turn. Cruising back, she parked across from Chapman’s service entrance. As she killed the car’s engine, she studied the imposing gate. Was there movement on the other side? She waited another minute. Then she saw a side gate next to the kiosk had at some point been opened. It was ajar.

She slung on her shoulder bag, put her cell on
MUTE
, and opened the car door. The only sound was the hum of cars on the distant road. Heart pounding, she jogged across the street and slid through the gate’s narrow opening. And hesitated. Scanning, she noted the driveway up to the compound, the spruce trees on the left that spread high into the horizon, the buildings on the crest.

She glanced back at the open gate, decided not to close it, and walked tentatively forward.

And froze. Dressed in a white jumpsuit padded against the cold, a white ski mask covering his face, a man suddenly appeared from around the kiosk. He was armed with an M4, and from the expert way in which he held it, he knew exactly what to do with it.

27

Montgomery County, Maryland

Sprawled on the front seat of his pickup truck, the doors locked, the heater warming him, Judd Ryder had been sleeping when the unmistakable chop of helicopter blades awoke him. Sitting up, he yawned and shook his head. He had no idea whether he had succumbed to jet lag or just general exhaustion, but whichever it was, he was weary. What a day. He had been on the run since at least eight o’clock this morning.

Forearms on thighs, he watched through the windshield as the helicopter landed a hundred feet in front of him on the road. Once a runway, the road and tarmac around it were maintained by the state for parking large machinery like dump trucks. Tucker jumped out, ducked, and hustled through the cold, his long overcoat flapping and big feet slapping the asphalt. The spymaster was a welcome sight.

Tucker climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “Good to see you, Judd.”

“Any news about Eva?” Ryder did a one-eighty with the pickup and headed off.

“I got a call from the Farm. They’re convinced it was Eva who phoned in, and maybe they’re right. They checked with Eva’s parents and found out there wasn’t any family emergency. They called her brother and sister, too. Ditto. As you know, there are serious rules about recruits lying and leaving training without permission. The murder board voted.”

“She’s out?”

“Yes, and we still don’t know where she is.”

Ryder grimaced. “Damn!”

“I know. I feel the same way. At least I can tell you the tag number for the van Eichel was driving belongs to a Toyota SUV.”

“So Eichel swiped a Toyota’s plates and put them on his van.”

“Appears so. I’ve asked the Maryland State Police to watch for it.” Tucker eyed him. “Where are the limestone pieces?”

Ryder paused the pickup at the intersection with the county highway. “There’s a gallon of water in the bed of the pickup, Tucker. Get it, will you?” When Tucker did not budge, Ryder insisted: “It’s important. Please get the goddamn jug.”

“It’ll be ice, not water.” With a sigh, Tucker jumped out and returned in a cloud of arctic air. Slamming the door behind him, he dropped hard onto the seat, one gloved hand grasping the neck of the plastic jug. “It’s frozen solid.”

“You asked where the limestone pieces were.”

Tucker grinned. “You clever bastard.” He held the translucent bottle up to the street light. “Can’t see anything inside.”

“Good. I pulled off the highway a couple of times to rotate the bottle to make sure the rocks ended up in the middle.” Ryder pressed the accelerator, and they entered traffic. “Five more miles and we’ll be at Chapman’s place.”

“We’ve got a stop to make first. The satellite photos showed his spread was a fortress, but we think we’ve found a way to get in. I’ll explain when we get there.”

“Okay.” As they passed farmhouses and corrals, he felt Tucker assessing him. He glanced over, saw the intensity of his gaze. “What?”

“You didn’t ask what kind of security Chapman has,” Tucker said. “The details.”

“I figured you’d fill me in if it was important.”

“Not good enough, Judd. It’s the sort of question you always ask, because the information is critical. You know already. At some point you must’ve studied his protection.” He did not pause for Ryder to deny it. “The only reason you’d do that is because you were intending to liquidate him. But Chapman’s still breathing. What happened?” His brown eyes peered somberly through his tortoiseshell glasses at Ryder.

Suddenly the hot air blasting into the pickup was stifling. Ryder turned it down. “I surveilled Chapman for weeks, but he had a security detail that stuck to him like epoxy. Finally one night he went to a sex club, and he was in there so long I could see his guards were losing their edge. Finally at three
A.M.
he came out, and for a few seconds I had a clear shot.” But just then, in his mind, he had seen his mother crying. At first he had thought it was because she missed his father, and then he had realized she was crying for him, for the killer he had become. “I tried my damnedest to pull the trigger.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t make myself do it. So here I am, caught up in something I never expected or wanted, and Martin Chapman is probably deep into it, too.” Focusing on the traffic, Ryder changed the subject. “Why are you here? I expected you to send someone lower down the food chain to help me.”