The Assassins (43 page)

They relished their privacy, the long mornings over coffee, the dinners in front of their fireplace with glasses of wine. Their leisurely days and wonderfully sexy nights were a tonic. It had not been like this the first month after their return. They had been called in to give closed-door testimony to the Joint Intelligence Committee about the Iraq political situation and the events leading up to the shelling of the U.S. Embassy. Frequently they were also asked to brief government officials and contractors about Iraq, the Gulf, the Middle East, and Islam. They refused no one and did their best to be helpful. In return, Langley had been able to keep their involvement secret in the events and follow-up; it had helped that they had been in Iraq under their cover identities of Greg and Courtney Roman.

After Judd had left Hilu at the museum party in Baghdad, Hilu had announced through the loudspeakers that Tariq Tabrizi was a fraud, that he was really Toma Asker, the financial wizard who had hidden Saddam’s missing fortune. The next day, the police arrived to take Tabrizi into custody for questioning. But Tabrizi was already gone.

It was said Tabrizi had had another identity prepared for just such an emergency. It was also said that during the night the prime minister had sent the secret police, and he was being held covertly in Abu Ghraib prison. The final rumor was that Saddam’s family had snatched him. They believed the money was theirs, and they wanted all of it. Judd figured that if Seymour could not convince the financier to reveal where the billions were, no one else had much of a chance.

In all the drama of the shelling of the embassy and the revelations at the museum gala, the murder of Siraj al-Sabah had barely made the news. After all, in Baghdad, what was one more dead body?

“He’s here!” Eva ran through the living room, her hair flying, a big smile on her face. Barefoot, her toenails painted shiny red, she was dressed comfortably in sweatpants and a tank top.

“I’m coming.” He closed the novel he’d been enjoying—
Reel Stuff
by Don Bruns—and joined her at the front door.

Tucker Andersen was rolling his walker toward the house. Tucker was thinner than before he was shot, and his coordination was not great, but he had a glint in his eyes that told the world he was far from done. His wife, Karen, was at his side. She was a few years younger and a half head taller, athletic, with the loose sexy walk of a race horse. She was carrying Tucker’s beat-up old brown cowhide briefcase.

Judd ran down the steps. “Good to see you both. Karen must have talked you into getting your hair cut, Tucker.”

The gray fringe that usually brushed Tucker’s collar was barely visible, just a few feathery strands showing beneath his Red Sox cap.

Tucker shot him a pained look. “Is that the way you greet a returning warrior?”

“Returning from where, the coffee shop?”

“What, you want a bagel? No, returning from Langley. I’ve brought loot—photos and news.”

Karen interrupted: “Hello, Judd. Nice to see you.”

He hugged her. Then to Tucker: “I’ll help you up the steps.”

Surprisingly, Tucker did not argue. He was in rehab but able to live at home. The prognosis was good that he would regain most of his abilities, but it would take time.

The four of them sat in the dining room around the table, drinking coffee and tea. Being with Tucker and Karen was warm and comfortable, Judd thought, the way a home was supposed to feel.

“Matt Kelley sends his regards,” Tucker was saying. “He’s impressed by what you both did, and he says I can hire you, Judd.”

“I can see myself working for Scott Bridgeman,” Judd said. “Yeah, a honeymoon for both of us.”

“You’re safe—Scott has quit,” Tucker announced. “He’s gone to work for his father-in-law in some kind of home furnishings business.”

“Home furnishings?” Eva repeated.

“People need home furnishings,” Tucker said, straight-faced. “He’s a vice president.”

“Oh, Lord.” Karen laughed.

“You’ve got to give up the idea you can stay out of the game, Judd,” Tucker said. “It’s dangerous to ignore your innate nature.”

Judd just stared at him. His insides were in turmoil. Tucker was right, it was his innate nature.

“Who’s the head of Catapult now?” Eva asked.

“I am.” Tucker sighed. “I can’t exactly do fieldwork the way I am. The docs say another couple of months, and I should be able to sit behind a desk. It’s better than looking for some pasture to die in.”

Eva reached across the table and put her hand over his. “Good decision. I’m happy for you, Tucker. And for Catapult, too. What about me? Did Matt say you could hire me?”

Tucker nodded. “As a matter of fact, he did. But of course, it’s back to the Farm for you, and expect some hazing. I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

“Right. Hazing. Can’t wait.” Still, Eva grinned. But then she checked with Judd.

He kept his expression blank.

“I’ll talk to Judd and get back to you,” she said.

Judd took a deep breath. For an uncomfortable moment, he wondered how brave he was. He had just had an experience with the Carnivore in which he had remembered how good it was to be able to do what needed to be done without the restraining hand of a boss or even the law. What did that make him? He did not want to be part of the bureaucracy of the intelligence community, and he did not want to go around murdering people for money … and yet he was tempted by the Carnivore’s offer.

Tucker was talking to him. “If you change your mind, Judd, we’d like to have you on board. I have other news for you, too. A package was left on Catapult’s doorstep last month, wrapped in plain brown paper, no return address. After the bomb squad discovered it wasn’t ticking, we opened it and found all of the pieces of the cuneiform tablet.”

“From the Carnivore,” Eva said.

Tucker nodded. “We think so. Anonymous, mysterious, faintly sinister. Yes, I’d say it was from him, especially since he’s the only one who had all of the pieces. There was an unsigned note, too, asking that the tablet be assembled, translated, and given to the Iraq National Museum.”

“My God, the Carnivore is a philanthropist now,” Eva said. “No wonder the donation is anonymous.”

“What’s in it for him?” Judd wondered.

“Same question I’ve been asking myself,” Tucker agreed. “So far, I don’t have an answer, but I do have a translation. And it’s led to a treasure. But, as it turns out, it’s a contemporary one. Saddam hired someone to make the tablet, and whoever it was was so good he or she fooled all of us into thinking it was thousands of years old. Here’s the result.”

Karen handed him his briefcase, and from it he took a half dozen eight-by-ten color photos and spread them on the table. They showed different angles of a model of what looked like an ancient city built of shimmering gold.

Eva inhaled. “Stunning.”

“In 1982, Saddam decided he was going to re-create the ancient city of Babylon as it was in its heyday, some twenty-five hundred years ago.” Tucker pointed to various pictures as he talked about two great palaces, broad boulevards, markets, homes, courtyards, government buildings, law courts, and the legendary Hanging Gardens.

“The Hanging Gardens was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world,” Karen reminded them. “And Babylon was the capital of the Mesopotamian dynasties.”

“The model shows the city Saddam was planning,” Tucker explained. “For some reason, he’d decided he was heir to Nebuchadnezzar the Second, probably the greatest Babylonian king. He started his rebuilding program with the king’s six-hundred-room palace, which he decided to put on top of archaeologically sensitive land that hadn’t been excavated yet. To make matters worse, instead of faithfully reproducing the palace, he got entrepreneurial. The original bricks were inscribed with praises for Nebuchadnezzar, but Saddam ordered his workers to make new bricks inscribed with the words, ‘In the era of Saddam Hussein, protector of Iraq, who rebuilt civilization and rebuilt Babylon.’ In just a decade, the new bricks began to crack.”

Eva shook her head. “Symbolic of Saddam himself. So the cuneiform tablet led to this model. Incredible.”

“Between the gold, the artistry, and the craftsmanship—and of course the fact that the model is supposedly a historical re-creation—it’s easily worth the twelve million dollars the assassins were told,” Tucker said. “Saddam ordered the gold model buried in the desert near Babylon while he held on to the tablet until Babylon was rebuilt. Then he was going to use the tablet as a publicity stunt to bring in the tourists.”

Eva sat back. “What’s going to happen to the model now?”

Karen gathered up the photos. “It’ll be displayed in the Iraq National Museum. They’re delighted to have it. Just as Saddam planned—it’ll be a huge draw.”

They drank second cups of coffee and tea, and Eva served chocolate chip cookies she had baked that morning. Another hour passed in easy conversation. Then Tucker grew quiet, and it became obvious he was tiring. His face was drawn and his hands trembled.

“Time to go home,” Karen announced.

Judd and Eva stood on their front porch and waved good-bye. Judd put his arms around her and they returned inside.

“I’m glad Tucker is staying in the business,” Eva told him. “I think it’d kill him if he couldn’t.”

“And what will you do?”

“I’d like to go back to the Farm and finish my training. But we’re a real couple now, and it’s a big decision. We should make the big decisions together, don’t you think?”

Uneasiness swept through him. It was one of the problems with Eva—she was less selfish than he was. “I think you should do it,” he said firmly. “It’ll make you happy.”

“Being with you makes me happiest of all.” She stepped back, assessing him. “What’s going on inside that brain of yours, Judd? You look sad.”

He grabbed her and pulled her close. He breathed into her hair, smelling how clean it was. If he decided to work with the Carnivore, everything would change for them. “Sometimes thinking is a bad idea,” he decided. “Let’s just enjoy our lives. You’ve made one big decision, but I don’t have to make any yet. Maybe never.”

*   *   *

A dusty Ford van was parked at the curb across the street and a half block back. It was an older model, indistinguishable from thousands of others in the metropolis. The lone occupant sat in the rear at a darkened window, aiming a directional mike and demodulator at the big picture window of the residence where Judd Ryder and Eva Blake lived.

Picking up his smartphone, he called his longtime boss, Alex Bosa. “She’s going back to the CIA.”

“What about Judd?”

“He seems to be staying out of the game.”

“So far. He’ll change his mind.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

GAYLE LYNDS
is the bestselling, award-winning author of ten international espionage novels, including
The Book of Spies
and
The Last Spymaster. Library Journal
calls her “the reigning queen of espionage fiction.” A member of the Association for Former Intelligence Officers, she is cofounder (with David Morrell) of International Thriller Writers. Visit her at
www.GayleLynds.com
, or sign up for email updates
here
.