The Assassins (4 page)

“Yes, and it’s too bad. I had serious questions for him. What about his call to you?”

“Hold on.” She read him digits. “Is that his number?” When he said it was, she continued, “According to my phone, he called at four-twelve. But I wasn’t home, and he didn’t leave a message. Maybe he called to enhance his credibility. You know, trying to get in touch with me would help to make him look real. If I’d actually answered, he could’ve said he dialed the wrong number.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.” But then he warned: “Maybe not only my double knows about you, his killer might, too. I don’t know why the double—or I—got targeted, but his phoning you makes me think you could also be in danger.”

“I’ll be careful. Drive over here. We can work on this together.”

He agreed. As he said good-bye, he remembered Tucker Andersen had called and left a message on his answering machine. It was because of Tucker that he had met Eva. It had all begun six months ago, when Ryder’s father was shot and killed. To find his father’s killer, he had accepted contract work with Tucker, who had been tracking terrorist financing based on a tip the old man had given him just before he was killed.

He dialed the CIA man.

As soon as he heard Ryder’s voice, Tucker demanded, “What took you so long to get back to me?”

He found himself smiling at Tucker’s cantankerousness. “I don’t work for you anymore, remember?”

“We both know you should. Are you home now?”

“I am. You haven’t been up to your old tricks, have you, Tucker?”

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve been doubled,” Ryder told him. “It’s a professional job. Did you order it?”

“If I were going to double you”—Tucker’s voice had an edge—“I would’ve told you.”

Ryder nodded to himself. Then he again related the story of the imposter and the snowmobiler. “The double was wearing clothes I’d expected to pick up at my dry cleaner today, and he was carrying duplicates of my ID. He was killed at the time I would’ve ordinarily walked to the grocery store. He was following my routine.”

“Who wants you dead?”

“Let me count the ways.” He sighed. “I searched my row house but couldn’t find anything about who the double was or why I got chosen. He was carrying a cell. It’s disposable, but he called Eva—”

“You’ve warned her?” Tucker interrupted.

“Sure. He phoned her land line but didn’t leave a message. I need a favor. First, there were three other numbers on the cell. Would you get them checked?”

Tucker agreed, and Ryder related the numbers.

“Second,” Ryder continued, “I’m hoping the police and medical examiner don’t realize the dead guy is my double, at least not right away. I’d like at least a week to stay under the radar while I try to figure out whose cross-hairs I’ve landed in.”

Once the news was released, the media would home in like heat-seeking missiles. The District medical examiner had in his icebox a cadaver that not only carried the ID of a former member of U.S. Army intelligence, but also had been made to look like him right down to the color of his eyelashes. Photos of Ryder would be plastered on TV and Internet screens around the globe.

“I understand,” Tucker told him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. Your turn. Why did you want to talk to me?”

“Your trip to Iraq. The situation there is deteriorating again. We’re worried something new is in the wind, some big operation, maybe devastating to us and the region. I’d like to know what you saw and heard. Whom you met—and trust.”

“Sure, but let’s have that conversation later. I’m on my way to Eva’s place.”

“Right.” The line went dead.

8

His heavy wool overcoat buttoned up to his chin, Tucker Andersen wove among the pedestrians in Chinatown. It was lunchtime, and the sidewalks teemed with office workers. Tucker sniffed, smelling Mexican, Greek, and Italian food. Like much of life, Chinatown was not what it used to be. A lifelong jogger, he walked lightly. He was five feet ten inches tall, fifty-three years old, and slender. All that was left of his once thick hair was a gray fringe touching the back of his collar, so to ward off the cold, he wore a burgundy beret. Tortoiseshell-rimmed eyeglasses accented his face, a Grand Canyon of lines. His mustache was brown and his beard gray, short, and, as usual, in need of a trim. He looked ordinary and blended easily, and to him that was what “style” was all about.

As he put away his secure handheld, he wondered why Judd Ryder had been doubled. He had plans for Judd, and they did not include early death. Besides, Tucker liked him, and he did not like many people. He had just made a couple of calls on his behalf. Now it was time to refocus on the covert business at hand.

Tucker was tailing the Padre, a bulky man who was decked out in his signature disguise—black brimmed hat set square on his head, long black cashmere overcoat, black wool suit, and white collar. With his benign smile, it was unlikely the uninformed would know that the man who seemed to be a kindly Roman Catholic priest was in fact an infamous international assassin. A half hour earlier, Tucker had been eating lunch at Teaism Caf
é
when the Padre had appeared, laid what looked to be a business card on the table, and walked away. It invited Tucker to follow for a meet. No details, just that it would be worth his while.

About twenty feet behind, Tucker trailed the Padre into a wide paseo and then through glass doors into Gallery Place, an indoor shopping complex of several stories. The contract killer stopped at the Regal Cinemas box office, where he bought a matinee ticket for the new George Clooney movie.

As the Padre stepped onto the up escalator, Tucker bought a ticket and followed. Soon he spotted the three-man surveillance team he had summoned from Catapult. One was at the complex’s main entry. The second was near the ice cream parlor. And the third was riding the escalator behind Tucker.

Satisfied no one else was surveilling them, Tucker stepped off the escalator. The scent of hot buttered popcorn infused the air, and the Padre was leaving the concession stand with a large bag of it. Unbuttoning his overcoat, Tucker followed him into the theater, where he had taken the aisle seat in the top row. He was already eating popcorn, his black overcoat folded on his lap. No one was within listening distance.

Tucker made an impatient gesture, and the assassin moved his legs. Tucker slid in and sat next to him.

“I like George Clooney.” The Padre’s voice was a gravelly whisper. “He owned a potbellied pig named Max. The pig weighed three hundred pounds, but he did not eat the pig. Consider that. They lived together in Hollywood for eighteen years.” He nodded at the screen, where Clooney was jumping off a building. “I see all of George Clooney’s movies. I never miss one.” He ate a handful of popcorn. “Still, I do not understand why people live with animals.”

On the screen, Clooney was making a getaway in a speeding Jaguar. Lucky Clooney, Tucker thought.

Tucker kept his whisper neutral. “You wanted to talk. I’m here. Talk.”

For more than four decades no one was certain whether the Padre was Spanish or Portuguese. Little was certain about him except he was exceptionally talented with knives. Then two years ago, a Spanish mole in ETA, the Basque terrorist group, reported that the Padre’s real name was Sabino Zaragosa and he had come up through ETA. No one was sure why he had resigned years ago and gone independent.

“I would like a favor.” Watching the movie, the assassin barely moved his lips. “It is not a large favor, and of course I will give something even more valuable in return.”

This is my day to be asked for favors, Tucker thought. “What are you offering?”

“You are perhaps aware of the barrel of weapons schoolchildren stumbled upon last week on a Gaza beach?”

“Of course.” Palestinian youngsters had been playing on the seashore when they found an oil barrel—sealed, waterproofed, and painted black—sitting alone on the sand. Inside were grenades, automatic rifles, and mortar shells.

“I think you might very much like to know how those big bad armaments came to land in the heart of Hamas territory.”

Not only did Tucker want to know, Mossad would, too. “What will it cost me?”

The Padre smiled, his teeth white and large in the flickering darkness. Then his expression turned grim. “Tell me where I can find the Carnivore.”

Tucker’s eyebrows rose. Interesting. The Carnivore was also an independent assassin. He was known for making wet work look like accidents, suicides, or natural deaths.

“Why do you want him?” Tucker asked.

“It is a matter of competition. We are competitors—and he has lived a long time. It is personal. Nothing to do with anyone or anything else.” The Padre thrust a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Why come to me?”

“His last job was with you. Do not look so surprised. Messy operations leak like bad surgery. Naturally, since you and he worked on it together, there is a supposition that if you do not know exactly where he is you certainly know how to reach him. Anyone who has dug deeply enough to discover your connection will also think of your two colleagues on the operation. I will say their names so you know how much I have discovered—Judd Ryder and Eva Blake.”

Tucker suppressed a grimace. “I have no idea where he is,” he said honestly.

“The Carnivore’s need to remain hidden is a threat to you, your friends, and your oh-so-secret CIA unit. To protect his security, it is just a matter of time until he scrubs those of you who know.”

Tucker wondered whether the Carnivore had been the person behind doubling Judd.

“Is this sudden interest of yours related to Burleigh Morgan’s liquidation?” Tucker asked.

Morgan had been in the assassination business longer than either the Padre or the Carnivore. A Brit from the old East End, he was as tough as a two-dollar steak, at least according to Tucker’s French sources. Two days before, Morgan had left his girlfriend’s apartment in Paris and climbed into his sports car. As he turned on the engine, the seat exploded under him. Body parts landed a block away.

The Padre adjusted his bulk. “Morgan’s death was unfortunate. He had been kind enough to give me the information about the barrel on the Gaza beach.” He studied Tucker. “You are certain you do not know where the Carnivore lives? Where he is at this very moment? I would truly like the information as we sit here. On the other hand, perhaps you may not care to know more about the barrel of armaments.”

Ignoring the implied threat, Tucker decided he owed the Carnivore nothing on the scale of what Mossad would owe him for information about the barrel. “I want your intel about the weapons barrel now,” he ordered. “Don’t shake your head at me. If what you say checks out, I’ll locate the Carnivore for you.”

The Padre’s eyelids lowered and rose as he considered the offer. “Very well.” He described an arms smugglers’ haven on Italy’s coast where shipments were packed in waterproof barrels, then the shipping route the barrels took across the Mediterranean Sea, and finally the longitude and latitude of a natural convergence of currents where the barrels were off-loaded. The convergence was known as al-Baraha—the Blessed One.

“From this pool of waters the barrels float in to shore,” the Padre went on. “If all is timed correctly, they arrive in the bleakest hours of morning on the same beach. You must admit my information is excellent, certainly worth the life of one old assassin like the Carnivore. You agree?”

“If the intel checks out, we have a deal.”

“How will I be in touch?” the Padre asked.

“You won’t. I’ll call you. Give me your cell number.”

Grumbling under his breath, the Padre produced an iPhone, checked it, and relayed the number.

“Wait five minutes, then you can leave,” Tucker instructed.

The Padre shook his head. “No, I will stay until the end of the movie. I must watch George Clooney kill the bad guys. It is very satisfying.”

Tucker padded down the stadium stairs. As soon as he entered the corridor, he saw his team leader was drinking from a water fountain. The officer looked up and nodded. The signal told Tucker his spies were in place to follow the Padre no matter which exit he chose.

Tucker sauntered past her. “He’s in the top row. On the aisle.”

At the end of the hallway, the spymaster glanced back over his shoulder. His team leader was no longer in sight, and the cinema door was closing quietly.

9

Passing the theater’s concession stand, Tucker saw one of the elevators was empty. He hurried and stepped inside. As the door closed, he took out his secure handheld. With it he sent classified e-mail and text messages, accessed classified networks, and made top-secret phone calls. Appearing ordinary, it could be operated like any smartphone with Internet access while either off or in secure mode.

As he rode the elevator down, Tucker put the handheld into secure mode and called Gloria Feit at Catapult. Once a full-time field officer herself, Gloria was now the black unit’s office manager and general factotum and occasional covert operative.

“I thought you’d be here an hour ago,” she said. “Bridgeman’s been asking for you. You’ve got to come back right away.”

Scott Bridgeman was the brand-new chief of Catapult, a by-the-book manager. Or, as Tucker thought of him, uptight as a knitting needle.

He sighed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Meanwhile, reactivate the search for the Carnivore. We need to find him, and we need to find him quick.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

He ended the connection, and the elevator door opened onto the ground floor. Striding past the greenery, he checked his messages. The first was from Catapult’s communications center with an answer for Judd—the three unknown numbers on the double’s phone were to disposable cells, untraceable. Figures, Tucker thought. One more sign the people behind Judd’s impersonation were pros.

Then Tucker listened to his second message.

“This is Annie. What in hell have you gotten yourself into, Tucker? Call me.”

“Annie” was Annie Chernow, a captain in the metropolitan police force. She had been one of his prot
é
g
é
es in the clandestine service, until she gave birth to twin sons and decided work close to home was her career path.