The Assassins Part 21

"Liar."

"You know I'm telling the truth. There's more...." He leaned down, talking in a hushed, almost mesmerizing tone: "Grigori and Seymour dropped out of sight in 2003." He took her hand and pulled her to a stop, facing him. He pressed her hands between his. "I know Grigori was in touch with you. He said so. He loved your mother, and he loves you. There's no way he'd cut you off. Where is he, Katia? Where is Grigori? I really need to know. I'm sure he can tell me how to find Seymour."

She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. "First you pretend we've never met. Then you tell me you're retired. You saw my loneliness and used it to get close to me. You were so nice, so handsome, so compa.s.sionate. But all of it was for one reason ... because I'm Grigori's daughter-not because I'm Roza's daughter. Because you wanted to find Seymour-not because you loved me. Now I know why you're called Mole. You're underhanded, a master manipulator. No one ever sees your true motive-until it's too late." She yanked her hands from between his. "But it's not too late for me." She stepped back.

"Oh, G.o.d, Katia. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry."

There was so much despair in his face she almost flinched.

He gestured at the exhibit beside them. On display were magnificent necklaces, bracelets, and rings. "You sparkle more than any jewelry, Katia. Whoever would've thought I'd find someone as wonderful as you to love. You're right that I came here because I hoped to convince you to help me. But once I met you, everything changed for me. You're beautiful and sweet and we fit together. I really was retired until this mess about the tablet came up. Can you ever forgive me for asking you to help me find your father?"

She gave her head an angry shake. "Let's go."

Silently, they walked through two more rooms and out the museum's front door. Night had arrived, glistening black punctuated by vehicle lights, streetlights, and the occasional flash of a cigarette lighter.

Pyotr surveyed the traffic and clumps of tourists and locals.

He stiffened. "Did you see a black Mercedes? It slowed as it pa.s.sed."

Her throat tightened. "The car that was following our taxi?"

He grabbed her arm. "Yes, run!"

They tore down the sidewalk, weaving around pedestrians, jumping out of the way of a bicyclist. He craned, watching the cars rushing in both directions. Abruptly he pulled her behind a fruit cart. The donkey looked back and brayed. They crouched and watched the street. Then it appeared, the black Mercedes E350 with license plates from Algeria, driving toward them, illuminated by streetlamps. It was almost on them.

"I can't see the driver's face," she said worriedly.

The brim of the driver's cap was pulled so low, just his mouth and chin showed. He kept glancing across at the sidewalk. Pyotr said nothing, focused on the luxury car. Again the vehicle slowed, then it glided past.

As soon as it was out of sight, they ran again. Hugging buildings, they ducked under awnings, and, when the Mercedes appeared a third time, they dashed into a recessed doorway. The car vanished. He grabbed her hand. They ran another thirty feet into a store selling French goods and out a rear door into a dirt alley. It was like a tunnel, lined with buildings and overhung with balconies. Slowing, they checked around.

Katia was shaken. She had never had to run for her life. She hugged her purse close. She found herself admitting, "I'm afraid for you. Will the Carnivore stop if he can't find you tonight?"

"Probably not, but I'll be fine. I've been at this a long time, remember."

She nodded, but she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

At the alley's opening, they moved into a dark shadow against the wall where they could watch for the Mercedes. He wrapped his arms around her, and for a moment she resisted. She felt the beat of his heart, solid, rea.s.suring.

"We can't stay here forever, and we can't go back to our hotel because the Carnivore knows about it." He took out his iPhone. "I know a place that'll be safe for us." He tapped in a phone number and spoke to someone named Liza, asking for a room. "Yes, we're registered at Hotel Fashion." After a pause, he gave Katia a nod, indicating they were all set. When he said good-bye, he dialed again, this time alerting the hotel to be prepared for Liza's man to pick up their luggage.

Leaving the alley, they walked at a fast clip around the block. With every car that approached, Katia had a few seconds of fear that it was the Mercedes. Staying on back streets, she was soon lost. Her anxiety grew as Pyotr hurried her along a stretch of old buildings with deeply cut windows.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"The back of the souk."

"I've always entered from the marketplace."

He was looking around alertly. "This part is older, more residential, if you can call it that. You won't find an array of goods for sale, or the friendly smiles. We'll be at Liza's place soon."

52.

They were a nice-looking couple in their thirties, approachable. Mr. and Mrs. Roman. She was a pretty redhead, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail; he had light brown hair and a weathered face. They smiled at each other when they talked. Looking around the lobby of the Hotel Fashion, she commented on the intricate tile work, and he was impressed by the comfortable furniture. They left the registration desk and sat on a sofa near the hotel's gla.s.s entry doors to wait for their friend-Pyotr Azarov.

"b.l.o.o.d.y inconsiderate of Pyotr," the husband, Greg, grumbled loudly. His English accent was thick. "Leaving us high and dry as a martini without a clue when he'll be back, the w.a.n.ker. I need a martini."

"Now, now, dear." The wife, Courtney, patted his arm. She was obviously American. "He's just out having a good time. What are vacations for, if not to have a wonderful time?"

They sat down on the sofa, and she put her large straw shoulder bag on her lap. It was heavy-inside was her Glock. She was wearing a dark blue blouse in some sort of light summery fabric tucked into matching trousers. With the sleeves of a yellow sweater tied around her neck, she looked sporty. He wore an eye-bruising Hawaiian shirt decorated with huge green palm fronds and orange hibiscus flowers. His jeans looked designer, but it was hard to tell-the Hawaiian shirt fell sloppily over them, concealing the 9-mm Beretta holstered at the small of his back.

As would be expected, the comings and goings and registrations of more guests soon attracted attention, and Judd and Eva-"Mr. and Mrs. Roman"-became part of the background.

From the sofa, they watched the lobby doors. Eva's chest was tight. Every time the doors opened, she grew more tense.

After two hours, she was ready to jump out of her skin.

Judd had been glancing at her. "Waiting is always the worst. Let's find out how Tucker is. I'll call."

"Yes." They had phoned twice and heard he needed surgery.

"h.e.l.lo, Gloria," Judd said into his burner cell. "No, don't worry. I'm not going to tell you where we are. Hold on. I'm putting you on speakerphone so Eva can hear. How's Tucker?"

Judd and Eva hunched over the phone, their heads bent, their shoulders touching. As they watched hotel guests come and go, they listened to Gloria's low voice: "He hemorrhaged, so the doctors operated to reduce the pressure on his brain. They removed part of his skull. It's apparently standard procedure when the brain swells a lot. They froze the piece of skull and hope to put it back in his head once he's better."

Eva took a deep breath. "That sounds ominous."

"He came through the operation fine, and they're watching him closely," Gloria said noncommittally. "I know you want to keep in touch to find out how he is, but Bridgeman has declared war. He ordered me to notify Interpol to look for you. I haven't done it yet, but I'll have to pretty soon. He didn't think to ask whether I'd heard from you, but it's only a matter of time."

"What will you say?" Judd asked. Will you lie for us?

"I don't know. I've got to go. Stay safe." And the line went dead.

Someone new had arrived at the registration desk. A short man with skin the color of dry mud, he wore a black baseball cap and a long white linen djellaba embroidered with black thread. He was speaking Arabic with the clerk. Judd was fluent, and Eva had been studying it. She heard the names Pyotr Azarov and Francesca Fabiano and something about suitcases. The desk clerk made a call. The man in the baseball cap turned to survey the room.

Judd stood up and reached his hand back to her. "Let's go outside, honey, and get some fresh air. My a.r.s.e is going b.l.o.o.d.y numb from waiting."

"Hasn't affected its fine shape, though," she said brightly. Standing, she slid the straps of her straw bag up onto her left shoulder so her gun hand would be free.

They pushed through the doors into the cool air of evening. Taxis and pickups cruised past. They walked to the curb.

"What were they saying?" Eva whispered.

"His name is Hata, and he's here to pick up Krot's and his girlfriend's luggage. They're staying somewhere in the souk tonight."

"Let's bug his car so we can follow the luggage." She dipped into her straw bag, took out a small case, and popped it open. She offered him the microtransmitter that lay inside.

He waved it away. "It's better if you do it. I'll set you up."

The gla.s.s door swung open, and Hata backed out, pulling a bra.s.s cart loaded with two roll-aboard suitcases, a valise, and a shopping bag. In three quick steps, Judd reached the door and held it open for him.

Eva heard him ask the man a question in Arabic-something about help you.

But Hata shook his head. "Mish be eed." His car was not far away.

As Hata pushed the baggage cart off down the sidewalk, Judd ambled alongside. Hata barely reached Judd's shoulder, but the short man's stride was long, aggressive.

Eva followed. She heard Judd say "vacation" and "tourist." He was asking which sights to see. Hata answered with few words, while Judd played the chatty Brit, gesturing and holding forth. Hata turned the cart toward a black Citron parked with two tires up on the sidewalk.

Eva closed in, but there was still no way she could plant the bug without Hata's seeing her.

Hata took out a key chain, touched a b.u.t.ton with his thumb, and the door to the Citron's trunk lifted. He turned back to his cart just as Judd grabbed the shopping bag and one of the suitcases.

With breathtaking speed, Hata pulled a stiletto from inside his djellaba and aimed it at Judd's heart. The needlelike point caught the lamplight and flashed.

"Thief, thief!" he bellowed in Arabic.

Judd backed up, talking quickly, still holding the suitcase and shopping bag as he led Hata away from the car.

Eva stepped off the curb and ran. Vehicles rushed past, spinning up dust.

Furious, Hata was dragging the cart after him, leaning forward, stiletto in hand, determined to strike. Judd kept dancing backward, balancing the suitcase and shopping bag, and spitting words out like a nail gun. From what she could understand, Judd was trying to convince Hata he should accept Judd's help.

Brushing past the car's rear fender, Eva pressed the bug low against the rear pa.s.senger window. As it slid down into the door frame and out of sight, she sprinted away. Hata's and Judd's dangerous dance had not slowed. She raised her chin, caught Judd's eye, and nodded.

Judd hurled the suitcase and shopping bag at Hata.

Screaming obscenities, the little man leaped out of the way while tissue paper and silky slips, bras, and panties exploded from the bag. Cursing a string of oaths, he dropped to his knees to gather up the garments.

Eva saw Judd dash off. As she raced around the block toward their rental car, she smiled to herself. Now they would find Krot.

53.

In the medieval souk, smoke from charcoal braziers drifted past shuttered windows, the odor oily. Streets twisted in a snakelike maze. Katia looked around with relief-the pa.s.sageway was too narrow for the Mercedes to follow. Perhaps they were safe at last.

"Who exactly is the person you phoned-Liza Somebody?" Katia asked.

"Her name is Liza Kosciuch," Pyotr told her. "She grew up in Warsaw and Leningrad. We've known each other since the old days. Her inn is private, the sort of place the police ignore and others fear. No one talks about it. No one can find it even if they've heard rumors of its existence." He gestured. "This is it."

They stopped at a three-story building, where a small round window near the top of a short door was covered by an ornate iron grille that appeared strong enough to bar a prison cell.

Pyotr knocked, and soon the window opened. Behind the grille appeared the face of a middle-aged woman. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight, and her chin square. Deep lines cross-hatched her cheeks. She must have been a great beauty in her day.

"Ah, is you, Pyotr." She had a heavy Russian accent.

"h.e.l.lo, Liza," he said. "Glad you can take us in."

"Naturally."

The face retreated, and the window closed. As Pyotr found his wallet and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, the door opened.

Liza beckoned. "Come."

Bending over to pa.s.s through the doorway, they left the drabness of the souk for a bright foyer with a high ceiling, sunny yellow walls, and a tile floor that was a mosaic of blue and green. Katia looked eagerly around. An antique silver samovar shone atop a mahogany table. But the centerpiece was Liza herself. Her luxuriant silver-gray hair was pulled back in sterling clips, and she was dressed in a baby-blue Donna Karan jogging suit.

"I appreciate your help." Pyotr tried to hand the greenbacks to Liza.

She waved him off. "Is always pleasure to see you, Pyotr. And who is this beautiful woman?"

"Katia Levinchev," Pyotr told her. "Katia, meet a Cold War heroine."

Liza laughed and waved a dismissive hand. "Welcome to safety."

As Pyotr returned the money to his pocket, Katia studied the foyer. Perhaps eight feet wide, it extended twelve feet to a generous arch through which a corridor showed. Inside the arch stood a silent, heavyset man with shoulders like boxcars. He carried some kind of rifle. His eyelids blinked slowly as he watched them.

"Spartak, you remember Pyotr," Liza told him. "This is his lady friend. First lady friend he ever show me."

Spartak nodded. "Da." There was a straight-back wood chair behind him. Sitting down, he laid the rifle across his lap, one hand firmly on the grip.

"So, Pyotr, you look good," Liza said. "Any more big changes since Switzerland?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." He took Katia's hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. "I want to marry Katia."

"Oh? You are crazy new man. What next-babies?" She laughed. "But what about you?" She turned to Katia. "Will you marry this broken-down old a.s.sa.s.sin?"

"I'm thinking about it." The truth was, despite everything, she did want to marry him.

"I hear hesitation," Liza decided.

Katia shrugged. "We still have things to talk about."

Liza's eyes narrowed, and she studied them. "Is wacky world we live in. Cold War made sense. Grab happiness while you can." She turned to Pyotr: "Your room is ready. Your luggage is here soon. I will call when Hata is close." She handed him an electronic key. "Enjoy." Opening a door next to the samovar, she disappeared.

His gaze bored, Spartak said nothing as they pa.s.sed him.

More tiles paved the hall. To the left, the top half of a Dutch door was open, showing a spotless kitchen. At last Pyotr stopped at a simple wood door, no peephole. "This is ours." Using Liza's electronic key, they entered to the romantic music of Sergei Rachmaninoff. It filled the room.