The Assassins Part 19

She made herself breathe. She liked the way he looked at her, his gaze steady but concerned. His nose was a little crooked, and she liked that, too. Odd that he had not had it straightened. She admired that about him-he seemed not to mind imperfection, even in himself.

He took her hand and covered it with his own. "Let me fall in love with you, Katia."

Shivers of pleasure spread up her arm and down into her belly.

He pulled her to him. Her head fell back, and she sank into his muscles and heat. She lifted her mouth hungrily, and he kissed her long until she felt weak and had to pull away.

He walked her back into her room, kissing her ears, her throat. She ran her fingers down his cheek, over his beard stubble, and down his throat. Somehow the door closed behind them, and the little bed light came on. Fumbling, she unb.u.t.toned his shirt. His mouth went to her shoulder, wet and probing. She arched back, and he slid off the straps of her sundress and pulled it down over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

She could feel her nipples harden. Fingers trembling, she unzipped his pants, and then he was against her, hard, pushing her into the wall. She shook with need. He flipped up her skirt and slid his hand between her legs.

She moaned, eager to greet the inevitable.

47.

At three A.M. Pyotr untangled himself from the hotel bed sheets. The only illumination in Katia's room was moonlight slanting in from where the drapes did not quite touch the wall. Listening to her regular breathing, Pyotr slid out of bed and padded across the carpet, picking up his clothes. He had a short errand.

Dressing quickly, he left, running along the hall to the staircase then down to the second floor. He was inside his room in seconds, changing into a black zippered jacket, black pants, and black athletic shoes. He slid his PB "silent pistol" into his shoulder holster. Based on the famous Soviet Markov gun, it had been his favorite small arm since his days in the KGB.

He peered out the door and sprinted to the stairwell again, traveling down another flight, to the first floor. Through the closed door to the lobby he could hear the television broadcasting what sounded like an old French movie.

He opened the door, padded along another corridor, and pressed his ear against the kitchen door. Silence. Opening it, he stepped into darkness tinged with the aroma of cinnamon and cloves. He had scouted the kitchen earlier. With the aid of moonlight from a high window, he headed straight to the rear door. As expected, it was bolted from the inside. It was a solid bolt, but he was not trying to break in. Sliding it open, he was soon outdoors and hurrying along the brick alley.

Her name was Doktor Hanke Brger, or Sarah Rosenblatt, or Seora Agrifina Cortez. Or tomorrow, just plain Jane Smith. She was in a very good mood, because the Carnivore was regularly wiring $5,000 payments into her Liechtenstein account for her reports on the tall man with the black hair staying at the Hotel Fashion under the name Pyotr Azarov. She had no idea whether Azarov was his real name, and she did not care. Her a.s.signment was simply to follow him and report in detail whom he saw, where he went, what he did, and whatever conversations she could listen in on.

Standing in a dark doorway across the street from his hotel, she finished her thermos of hot green tea and honey and smiled at the tally on her Droid. So far she had earned $20,000 for this one a.s.signment, a lucrative gig.

She yawned and checked her watch. Surely by now Azarov and his girlfriend were inside for the night. She was so tired she ached. Surveying the sidewalks and street, she left the doorway and headed toward her riad, the little hotel where she was staying. The nighttime traffic was intermittent.

As she pa.s.sed a gra.s.sy area between two buildings, she had a sense of being followed. It was not so much that she heard footsteps, it was almost a change in energy. She glanced in a store window, hoping to see whether she was right. The only reflection was her own, her narrow face, her dark hair pulled loosely back in a ponytail.

"What did you do with her?" The voice came from behind. A man's voice. She recognized it-Pyotr Azarov.

Glancing over her shoulder, she pulled out a small Luger and sprinted. All she could see were palm trees, buildings, and parked cars. She could no longer hear him, and she did not sense him behind her either. Not slowing, she angled into an alley, dodging cans and crates, then through a side gate she had discovered three days earlier, in case something like this happened.

Azarov was waiting on the other side. His feet were planted solidly, and his PB pistol with sound suppressor was pointed at her. She stopped quickly, hunched over, her body still in running position. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She started to raise the Luger, but as if from nowhere his forearm slashed it from her hand.

Keeping his gaze on her, he scooped it up. "What did you do with the old woman who was fronting for you? The one who was taking photos to distract me from noticing you?"

Thinking quickly, she reached for her pocket. "Are you going to rob me? I'll give you my billfold. There are a lot of dirhams and euros in it-"

"Christ, woman, don't be stupid." Azarov was tall and muscular. There was a darkness in his eyes she did not like. "What the h.e.l.l did you do with your gray-haired employee?"

She drew herself up. "Vivienne flew back to Paris tonight. Her vacation's over, and she has to report to work tomorrow."

"You killed her," he decided. "Did you leave her body where the authorities would find it quickly?"

"I didn't-"

He swore loudly. "d.a.m.nation, you've really f.u.c.ked things up. I'm going to have to figure out how to convince Katia I didn't do it. Who do you work for-the Carnivore or Eli Eichel?"

"The Carnivore, not that it matters. I wasn't able to find out anything about you," she lied. "He fired me tonight. How did you make me?"

"Honey, if you have to ask, you're in the wrong business."

Her lips peeled back. "I'm sorry I ruined your little plans..."

She did not hear the single gunshot, but the impact of the bullet was like a sledgehammer to her forehead. She felt herself stagger back. Then blackness shrouded her.

48.

Aloft, over the North Atlantic Ocean Alex Bosa walked down the trijet's aisle, carrying a tray with six sandwiches on three china plates. "I'll finish debriefing you as we eat," he announced.

"How long until we reach Marrakech?" Eva asked as she chose the plate with turkey sandwiches. She had not realized she was hungry. She ate eagerly.

"It's an eight-hour flight. We arrive in the afternoon."

"Talk fast. We need to get some sleep." Judd grabbed rare roast beef sandwiches and chewed.

Sitting in his usual seat across the aisle, Bosa put the last plate on his lap, also roast beef. He took a large bite. "I'll start with Burleigh Morgan. A bomb exploded under his sports car a few days ago in Paris. He was the central figure in this situation. He was a Brit, and in the sixties, the Brits had plenty of oil interests in Iraq, so when the Baath party took over the country and needed someone to partner with Saddam for some hits on British oilmen and officials, they hired Morgan. Flash forward forty years, and Saddam needs an outsider to honcho the wet jobs on his financiers-"

"He went to Morgan," Eva said.

The a.s.sa.s.sin nodded. "And Morgan came to us. All things considered, the money was so good it was hard to refuse-four million dollars a corpse. The problem was, afterward Saddam wouldn't pay the second half of what he owed us. Naturally, we decided to scrub him. But Saddam varied his routine and used body doubles, sometimes five at a time. They were so good, when one brushed his teeth supposedly Saddam was the one who went to bed." He paused, his voice tight with anger. "All we could do was wait for an opening. We finally got it in 2003, when it was clear the United States and friends would invade Iraq. Saddam was going down."

The trijet bounced and swayed. Bosa looked out his window, his brow furrowing as if considering how to stop the forces of nature. "Morgan found out about a valuable cuneiform tablet Saddam had stashed in the Iraq National Museum. The tablet was supposed to be worth at least twelve million dollars as an antiquity. So we broke in and confiscated it. The problems began when the Republican Guards shot up Morgan so bad he dropped it, and it smashed into bits. All of us took pieces. Since we believed its value was as an artifact, we never got around to agreeing about the details of having it a.s.sembled."

"It's been a dozen years since then," Judd pointed out. "What's changed?" Finishing one sandwich, he picked up the other and ate.

"We received anonymous, untraceable e-mails that described one high-profile wet job by each of us," Bosa told them. "The information was accurate and included contact information for both employers and targets as well as details of the hits themselves. Several jobs, including mine, are still believed to be accidents. None of us wants that e-mail read by anyone else. It could destroy the lives of our employers, and it could lead to our arrests. In any case, it'd make it d.a.m.n hard for us since we guarantee our employers secrecy."

"Gee whiz, too bad," Eva said. "Your employers hired you to commit murder!"

Bosa peered at her gravely. "One of them was the U.S. government."

She sighed. "Of course."

"What's worse, the sender claims to have detailed fifty jobs each of us did-that's three hundred a.s.sa.s.sinations-in something he calls The a.s.sa.s.sins' Catalog. The good thing is, he'll trade it for the tablet pieces. He says the tablet is a map to some ancient Mesopotamian treasure, and he wants it. He gave us five rules. First, if any of us drops out, he'll e-mail the Catalog to online blogs, TV networks, and international newspapers like The New York Times and The Times of London. So he's d.a.m.n well blackmailing us. The second rule is one of us-but only one of us-can win the Catalog. Third, we have to kill each other off." Flushing with anger, Bosa jumped up and stalked down the aisle. "Fourth, each of us has to keep our tablet pieces with us so they'll efficiently make their way to the winner. And fifth, we have to check in every twelve hours to the blackmailer's anonymous e-mail address. It's a means for him to keep tabs on who's alive, and it gives the winner a way to set up a meet to exchange the tablet pieces for the Catalog."

"So the last man standing wins," Eva said. "He's set up a contest to find out which of you is best."

Bosa dropped back into his seat. "Over the years there's been speculation about that, but it's an impossible question to answer. All of us have strengths, and merely living as long as we have says we're d.a.m.n good."

"You don't know who sent the e-mail?" Judd asked.

"When I say 'untraceable,' I mean it. I have a stable of black hatters that would make Russia drool. They couldn't find the source. I was in touch with Krot, and his people couldn't find it either. I have to a.s.sume the Padre and Eli Eichel were unsuccessful as well."

"You said the e-mail went to all six of you," Judd said. "That should've at least given you a way to contact each other."

Bosa shook his head. "The sender addressed the e-mail to us, but he sent it out individually. The first time I knew there was something to it was when Krot confirmed receiving it, too. He was in touch with Eli Eichel, and Eichel confirmed it to Krot. We already had certain loose alliances. For instance, I was working with Krot, while he was working with Eli Eichel. Because of Eli, Krot learned the Padre had doubled you, and he told me. Anyone who got in the way was going to get scrubbed, and that included both of you."

"So Morgan died when his car was bombed in Paris," Judd ruminated. "The Padre died at his hunt club in Maryland. You killed Eli Eichel and his brother in Martin Chapman's library. That leaves Krot, Seymour, and you. How good is Krot?"

"The best. I hired a surveillance expert to follow him. According to her, he's been playing tourist with a schoolteacher staying at the same hotel. There's no sign he's been searching for Seymour, even though his latest e-mail to me claims he's 'close' to finding him."

"Why Marrakech?" Eva wondered.

Bosa shrugged. "Don't have a clue. What's concerning me is I just got an e-mail from my surveillance woman reporting Krot was continuing his daily routine, but her e-mail arrived much later than usual. And even stranger, she didn't ask to be paid for her report. I have to a.s.sume her abnormal behavior and Krot's unexplained choice of Marrakech could indicate problems for me."

"Have you told Krot that the Padre and the Eichel brothers are dead?" Judd asked.

"Only that the Padre is, and I said I had the Padre's limestone pieces. If he thinks I've stopped looking for Eichel, he might suspect I'm planning to pay him a surprise visit. I'm not fond of walking into a propeller blade, and that's what Marrakech feels like. I could go in disguise-that's effective 99.9 percent of the time. But it's d.a.m.n hard to fool colleagues. You saw how quickly Eli Eichel recognized me even though I was wearing Chapman's snow gear and my face and hair were different. We're vulnerable that way."

"So your second idea is us," Judd said. "You need us to help you."

"If you're as good as I think, Judd, you should be able to get close and scope out the situation," Bosa said. "I want two things. First, the location of Seymour, and second, a safe, controlled environment where Krot and I can meet." He gazed steadily at Judd, ignoring Eva.

Before Judd could say anything, Eva turned to him. He could feel waves of outrage sizzle from her.

"Judd, I need to know more about the mission, don't you?" Her tone was so naive she was almost batting her eyes.

Bosa interrupted sharply. "You're too inexperienced for this, young lady. I can't have any more f.u.c.kups. You're staying on the plane."

"Well," she drawled, "I'm not sure how anyone could f.u.c.k up more than you have, Alex. First, you can't collect money that's owed you. Don't you have a rule about wiping anyone who stiffs you? You do, and you couldn't pull that off either. Then you let Morgan drop the tablet and break it. Hmm. And finally, when you realized one of your 'colleagues' was coming after Judd and me, you had to hustle your a.r.s.e to 'save' us, which you couldn't really do without G.o.dd.a.m.n kidnapping me and ending my career."

Bosa glowered at her.

Judd interrupted. "She's got a point. She's a beginner, but she's a good one."

Bosa raised his eyebrows, considering her.

She glared at him. Her blue eyes were silvery with outrage.

Bosa pursed his lips, looking irritated. Then he made a noise in his throat that sounded to Judd like the beginning of a chuckle. "All right, Eva's in," he decided. "Now, about Krot ... here are photos my surveillance woman took of him and the girlfriend." He pa.s.sed copies to them.

Leaning together, Eva and Judd studied the small blond woman and the tall, black-haired man. There were individual shots and one of them together.

"Nothing here to show how deadly he supposedly is," Judd said.

"Right," Bosa agreed. "He's registered in the hotel under the name Pyotr Azarov. She's Francesca Fabiano, but after a while he started calling her Katia. They both speak Russian. He seems to be genuinely fond of her, but you can't trust it. His specialty is unusual-he has an uncanny ability to meet other people's emotional needs. He's manipulative in the extreme. It's a talent he's used time and again to position his victims so he can easily terminate them."

49.

Washington, D.C.

At precisely 7:55 A.M., Scott Bridgeman parked his car and marched into Catapult headquarters. Gloria was sitting at her desk, sifting through color-coded files and making neat stacks. At the same time, she kept glancing up, watching him walk down the hall toward her.

"Morning, boss," she said.

"Morning, Gloria." It paid to be nice to Gloria. She knew more than anyone what was going on in the building and often inside Langley itself. "Send Tucker to my office." He headed past her, toward his door.

"Can't do that, boss. Sorry."

He stopped. She was usually cheerful, but not this morning. He studied her unsmiling face. Her reluctance was palpable.

"Why not?" he said.

She stood, straightened her tartan skirt, adjusted her red pullover sweater, and walked to his office door. Opening it, she said, "We'd better talk privately."

He had a moment of nervousness. Her skin looked almost gray. He headed past her. "Are you scared, or did someone die?" It was a joke. Probably some nasty memo had come over from the seventh floor. Gloria could take things personally.

As he stood behind his desk, she closed the door and turned.

She clasped her hands in front of her. "Tucker Andersen has been shot in the head. He's in the trauma center at Merrittville Hospital up in Maryland. His wife, Karen, is there. I sent a two-man Catapult team to bird dog Tucker. The hospital's done an MRI. Other tests, too. The last time I talked to Karen, the doctors were performing emergency surgery on him. He'd begun to hemorrhage inside his skull, so they needed to reduce the pressure on his brain. I'm hoping for a call soon about how the operation went. I haven't told anyone here yet."

"Jesus." He sat in his executive chair. "Christ."

"We don't know whether he'll survive. They're hoping for the best."

His voice hardened. "The last I heard, Tucker and Judd Ryder were on their way to Martin Chapman's place."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You knew about that?"

He ignored the question. "Is that where he was shot? I want all the details. Everything."

She sat, folded her hands in her lap, and related the story.

He listened with growing outrage. Among the dead were Martin Chapman and the Eichel brothers. Eva Blake was involved, as was the Carnivore. Blake, Ryder, and the Carnivore had flown off somewhere, leaving a mess of dead bodies.