The Assassins Part 20

"You know this is exceedingly bad, don't you, Gloria?" Bridgeman said.

She looked down at the toes of her black pumps. "Yes, sir."

"Have the Maryland authorities figured out Catapult's involved?"

She shook her head. "I've been keeping tabs. At the moment, they have several theories. One is Chapman's guards stopped a robbery, and the robbers ran before the authorities could get there. There are a lot of valuable things in his place. They're hoping Chapman's attorney has an inventory and can tell them what, if anything, is missing. Another top theory is that it was a revenge killing for one of Chapman's equity deals. He wasn't exactly an angel to the people whose companies he bought or to the banks when one of his big house-of-cards deals crashed, especially since he somehow always made a profit."

Bridgeman heaved a sigh. "Langley knows?"

"Of course not. That's your decision."

"Where are they?"

"Judd and Eva? I don't know."

He stared at her.

She moved uneasily in her chair. "Honestly, I really don't know."

He nodded. "If they call, tell me instantly. Now it's time for damage control. It's unlikely they're staying in the United States. Makes them too vulnerable. Notify Interpol. Tell them we want Judd Ryder and Eva Blake for possible involvement in a multiple homicide that includes two international a.s.sa.s.sins, and that a third a.s.sa.s.sin is likely roaming around somewhere with Ryder and Blake. All are armed and dangerous-the usual warnings. Send photos, bios, everything you have. We want them shut down as quickly as possible. That's it. Get to work."

Gloria did not move. "Tucker was right-international a.s.sa.s.sins were operating inside the country. He could be right, too, that it's just the beginning of something very bad. Shouldn't we find out what they were up to?"

"Tucker lied so much I doubt he knew when he was telling the truth. But there isn't a hint they were doing anything illegal except killing each other off. And in some quarters, fewer a.s.sa.s.sins is a good thing."

"And Martin Chapman's death?"

Bridgeman shrugged. "Chapman was shot and killed. It could've been Tucker's bullet."

"If it was Tucker's bullet, then it was self-defense. The whole thing in the library could've been an attack on Tucker, Judd, and Eva."

"Or the reverse. It could've been them going after Chapman. Unfortunately, Chapman's not alive to tell us, and it's hard to believe anything Tucker, Ryder, Blake, or the Carnivore claims."

Her eyebrows rose. She changed the subject. "Would you like me to gather the staff in the lunchroom so you can tell them about Tucker's head injury? If you'd rather not, I'll talk to them. They're going to be upset."

He frowned. "Of course I'll do it," he said firmly. "It's my job. Let me know when everyone's there." He would praise the legend of Tucker, not mention the sh.e.l.l of an intelligence officer the old man had become.

Gloria nodded and opened the door.

Bridgeman spoke again: "You'll notice I didn't ask you why you didn't call me as soon as you got off the phone with Ryder. That's a dereliction of your duty. I'll let it go this time, but don't ever give me reason not to trust you again."

50.

Marrakech, Morocco Katia felt like a cat, purring and stretching in bed. She sighed contentedly. They had slept long. It was nearly noon.

"h.e.l.lo, darling. You're awake?" Pyotr was coming out of the bathroom stark naked, toweling his hair dry.

"Yes." She snuggled back down, peeking over the covers and staring at his long lines, the spray of black hair on his chest, his curly pubic hair black, too, and his c.o.c.k at half mast. "More?" she asked.

He had been walking to the window to check the day. Abruptly he turned. Wadding the towel, he stalked toward her, head lowered, grinning widely. He hurled the towel at her. "You're going to wear me out."

She rose up and caught the towel. "I don't think so."

Pyotr left to go to his room to put on fresh clothes while she showered. By the time he returned, dressed in a pressed white shirt and bone-colored linen slacks, she was out of the bathroom and wearing her favorite blue sundress.

"You're beautiful." He handed her a pink rose. "I stole it from a vase in the hallway, but as long as it remains in the hotel, it's not stealing, right?"

"Don't expect me to absolve you of your petty sins." She grinned. "Thank you anyway-I love it."

Not only Pyotr had arrived, so had breakfast. Well, brunch, Katia thought. They'd had a long night of off-and-on lovemaking and sleeping. Sitting across from each other at the little table by the window, they drank their lattes and devoured their croissants.

"I'm going to get fat if I keep eating croissants," she warned.

"Not likely. But if you do, there will just be more of you to love." He smiled.

"Were you always so handsome?"

He laughed. "No. The cosmetic surgeries helped. Why?"

"I would've thought anyone who wanted to go unnoticed would've had surgery to make them look as plain as possible."

"Under ordinary circ.u.mstances you'd be right. My last surgery was just after I retired, and being somewhat attractive made me seem less likely to have been in my profession."

"Are you growing a beard?" She reached across the table and stroked his holiday stubble. The hair was longer now, springy and soft.

"I'll wait until winter to cultivate a beard. I hope you'll like it."

She had a catch in her throat. Was he saying- "You look stunned." He was grinning again. "What did you think? Of course we'll still be together this winter, and next winter, and next." He frowned. "Unless of course you don't want to."

She tested her emotions. There was no way she had enough sense right now to test her brain. "I'd like that. One day at a time, okay?"

He sat back, his latte cup in one hand. "I need to talk with you about something that happened last night. I didn't want to scare you, but I was worried about the woman who was taking pictures of you. I figured if she were really following you, I might be able to spot her outside the hotel. So I got up around three o'clock and went out. I didn't find her, but I did find her employer, the person who was the real surveillor. She was operating under the name Laura Billingsley. She'd hired the older woman to take photos as a distraction, because it was me she was following, not you. Billingsley ended up killing her, probably because she was the only witness to what Billingsley was doing."

Katia covered her mouth with her hand. She was speechless, horrified.

Pyotr inhaled. "Billingsley had done a good job on me-she knew who I was, and she'd overheard enough of our conversation to know we speak Russian and you have two names. She pulled a Luger on me. I had to shoot her. She's dead."

Katia gasped.

"My past haunts me," he said quietly. "I try over and over to leave it behind, and then something like this happens."

She was silent.

"Katia? Darling?"

She stood shakily. "Give me a moment."

Her legs were weak. She walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and leaned back against it. She took several deep breaths then went to the sink and ran cold water. Leaning over the basin, she splashed her face until it numbed. She grabbed a towel and held it to her skin. It smelled of Pyotr. She m.u.f.fled a sob.

Staring into the mirror, she wondered how her mother had handled learning about her husband's clean-up work for the KGB. Had she felt as if she had just received a gut punch? Or had she accepted it as filling an honorable need for the country. But Pyotr no longer had the excuse of patriotic duty.

She stared longer, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to remember what else Pyotr had said. Her memory seemed to have stopped once he told her he had shot the woman. That was when it came to her-the woman was dangerous. She had been armed. Pyotr had simply done what he needed to save not only him but her.

As if it had been a sudden summer thunderstorm, the horror pa.s.sed. She was surprised at how calm she felt. She could handle this.

Opening the door, she saw Pyotr pacing across the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned, questions in his eyes.

"Thank you for telling me, Pyotr," she said. "Is there any way you'll be connected to Billingsley's death?"

"I don't think so. I left her body in the souk. The police have few friends there." Gazing worriedly at her, he walked to her, his hands helpless at his sides. "You're all right with me then? You forgive me?"

"Of course, darling. It's good you knew what you were doing. You survived, and you cleaned up the mess. Now we can get on with our lives."

"Not quite yet." He took a small backpack from the bottom drawer of the bureau. "This was Billingsley's. Want to help me go through it?"

"Of course."

He unloaded it on the table where they'd had breakfast. They sat together.

First was a Luger. "This was what Billingsley pulled on me." He inspected the weapon. "There's a round in the chamber. She was prepared." He picked up a tube of lip gloss, opened it, and pressed all of the gloss out onto a napkin. "Nothing hidden inside." He handed her the map of Marrakech. "See if she wrote anything on it, will you? Notes, a highlighted route, anything."

As he opened the wallet, she spread out the map. She studied the street grid then the list of street names. "No handwriting or marks of any kind," she announced.

The wallet was black microfiber and appeared to be brand-new. He counted the cash. "She was carrying six hundred euros and five hundred dirhams plus a credit card and driver's license in the name Laura Billingsley." He looked at his watch and grimaced. "It's two o'clock. Time for the news."

He turned on the TV and rotated it so they could watch from the table. National news was beginning, discussing politics and crime from Tangier to Casablanca and Tarfaya. The report was in Arabic mixed with French and occasionally English. Pyotr translated some of it for her. Finally a local newsreader appeared. The first item was a fatal skiing accident in the mountains.

When a colored drawing of a young European woman with a narrow face and long brown hair appeared on the screen, Pyotr said, "That's her. The police think she died in a robbery."

"Why was she following you?"

"She was hired by a former colleague of mine who operates under a variety of aliases. Generally he's called the Carnivore. He's an independent a.s.sa.s.sin. I think he's planning to neutralize me."

She gasped.

He held up the Droid from Billingsley's backpack. "I read through the e-mail reports she made to him. I didn't want him to know she was dead, so I reported in as if I were her. I've stayed in touch with him as myself, too. If Billingsley were reporting to the Carnivore about me, then she must've told him about you, too. He might come looking for you to find out where I am."

She frowned worriedly. "What are he and you involved in?"

He jumped to his feet and paced, for the moment anxious and out of place, a Cossack without a horse. He turned. "Let's get out of the hotel. The walls are closing in. Then we'll talk."

They gathered their things. He slid his pistol into a shoulder holster and put on a jacket. She stared at the gun then at him, at his almost nonchalant expression. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled uncomfortably. They rode the elevator down to the lobby and were soon out in the shadows of late afternoon.

He hailed a taxi. "We've got some time, so let's be sightseers again. It's fun with you." As they climbed inside, he told the driver, "Maison Tiskiwin."

He seemed to know just what to do, what to say. She had needed to get out of the hotel, too. The traffic was thick and noisy, as boisterous as Marrakech itself.

"Tell me what's going on." She studied Pyotr's dusky face.

He nodded. "A few years ago six of us partic.i.p.ated in a series of hits for Saddam Hussein." He described Saddam's billion-dollar horde and the financiers who had hidden it for him. "The man Saddam brought in to manage the wet jobs was Burleigh Morgan. His target was a Swiss financier. Mine was an investment banker from Moscow. Eli Eichel had a Saudi. The Carnivore did a banker from Liechtenstein. The Padre wiped a financier from Rome. And Seymour got the financial mastermind himself-Rostam Rahim. I'm going into all of this detail so you'll know I'm not holding back anything." He reached inside his jacket, removed an aluminum box, and put it into her hand. "Tell me what you think this is."

She unhooked the latch and opened it. Inside were four padded mounds. She peeled back the Velcro enclosing each. Puzzled, she said, "They look like chunks of limestone with some kind of funny carving on them."

"Yes, they're pieces of an ancient cuneiform tablet, a very valuable one." He had been glancing out the rear window. Now he stared.

She peered back, too. Twilight was spreading across the city, purple in the waning light.

"Did you see that black Mercedes?" His voice was tight. "It was an E350 with Algerian plates." When she shook her head, he continued: "I thought it was following us, but it turned the corner."

Now she understood: "The real reason you wanted to leave the hotel was to find out whether we were still being followed."

"I'm sorry, darling. I didn't do you any favor by falling in love with you."

51.

Maison Tiskiwin was a large Moroccan house of graceful arches and old tiles, stuffed with art and artifacts ill.u.s.trating the legendary Gold Road, the caravan route from the Atlas Mountains to Timbuktu. Pretending to study the exhibits, Katia found herself nervously watching the guards and other visitors. Pyotr was covertly scanning, too.

"Besides avoiding the Carnivore, what are you trying to accomplish?" she whispered.

"I've got to find Seymour," Pyotr told her quietly. "During the Cold War, he was Islamic Jihad. Your father, Grigori, met him in Athens when they cooperated on a job. It turned out to be the beginning of a relationship good for both organizations and eventually a friendship between the two men. Then when your father went independent, Seymour did, too...."

She did not hear what he said next. She struggled to find an explanation for why he had just told her about a close relationship between her father and Seymour.

He peered down at her, questions in his eyes. "I need your help, Katia."

Fury exploded through her. "Bulls.h.i.t." With effort, she kept her voice low. "You son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. The only reason you came to Marrakech was because you thought you could use me to find my father, and then you could use him to get to Seymour."

"That's partly true. But what I told you earlier is true, too-I wanted to reconnect with Roza's daughter." His expression was somber. "I wanted to meet you. We share a history few others know even exists. What I didn't count on was falling in love with you."

She looked around. Two couples were gazing at displays of belts and scarves, but they were also shooting glances that told her they knew there was a problem. Her voice rose: "You brought me here so I wouldn't make a scene." She spun on her heel and marched back toward the museum's entrance. How could she have been so stupid. So naive.

Pyotr was at her side, a shadow she did not want.

"Please believe me, Katia," he whispered. "I love you. I really love you. I want to marry you."