The Assassins Part 10

She dialed Peebles Air and Land Transportation. "I need to rent a car," she told the man who answered.

"You like a lot of horsepower?" he asked, then began to describe a Ford V-8 Mustang he had on the lot.

"Here's my credit card number," she interrupted. "E-mail me the paperwork."

"I get it. Sure." In a small airport that served those who for a variety of reasons wanted to avoid the big airports around Was.h.i.+ngton, he probably had heard stranger requests.

Giving him her information, she put on her coat. As she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder, the doc.u.ments arrived on her cell phone. She signed and sent them back.

Then she phoned him again. "Leave the car by the gate with the motor running. I'll be able to see it from here. I'm on my way." With one hand she rotated the wheel on the cabin door.

"Hey, no can do. Can't leave the car running. I'll wait there with the key." He hung up before she could argue.

She shoved the door's lever and stepped out into the frosty night. Pulling her coat tightly around her, she hurried down the staircase.

"Eva!" The voice was a bellow behind her.

She looked back.

Jack, the pilot, was sprinting toward her. "Dammit, Eva, you don't know what you're getting into! Come back!"

She ran toward the waiting Mustang. A young man stood next to the driver's door, holding up keys in his gloved hand and smiling.

Before he could say anything, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the keys. "Thanks!" She swung open the door, jumped inside, and ignited the engine. Throwing the car into gear, she pressed the gas feed and took off, tires spitting snow.

Checking her rearview mirror, she saw the kid standing confused, alternately watching her and Jack. Jack was gripping the fence with a gloved hand, his face red, breathing great white clouds. He was talking urgently into his cell phone. No doubt reporting her to the Farm. To h.e.l.l with him. She was going to find Tucker.

Eva sped the powerful Mustang across Montgomery County's frozen countryside. She was tense, wondering what she was going to find at Martin Chapman's place. Traffic was light. The moon shone brightly, turning the rural highway bone gray in the night. Listening to her GPS's instructions, she watched the road.

When her cell phone rang, she picked it up and saw the caller ID was useless-"Private Number."

She considered then finally answered. "Yes?"

The voice on the other end of the line announced in warm tones: "Eva, this is Jack, your friendly pilot. Don't hang up."

She stiffened. "I'm not going back to the plane." She jammed the cell's red OFF b.u.t.ton.

She drove past stands of snowy woods interspersed with houses, lights on, people gathered around dinner tables, sitting in front of televisions. "Private Number" called again. She did not answer. As she pressed the sports car onward, time seemed to stretch into eternity. When the GPS finally announced she had reached her destination, she slowed. The sign over the entrance confirmed it was Chapman's place. The drive was wide, rising to a towering manse fronted by Greek-style columns.

As she continued past she glimpsed a closed-circuit camera in a tree on the far side of a high security wall, then another camera. They were aimed at the wall but could also show the road. She made no more changes in her speed-she wanted to do nothing to attract attention. As she watched for sentries, she drove around the corner. She had to decide what to do. She shot a sharp glance at her cell phone. Then she snapped it up and dialed her voice mail.

There was a message from the pilot, Jack. "Dammit, Eva, call me!" He left his number.

She punched it into her phone's keypad.

Jack answered instantly. "Come to your senses, Eva. Get your b.u.t.t back here."

Glaring at the two-lane road ahead, she announced, "This isn't a movie, is it, Jack. It's a real d.a.m.n operation. Why have I been cut out of it?"

There was a surprised moment. Then: "You're not equipped. A lot's riding on it. It's as simple as that."

"Bulls.h.i.+t." She waited silently for him to say more.

Finally she heard him sigh. "G.o.ddammit, Eva, where in h.e.l.l are you?"

"I'm driving along the west side of Chapman's place. I see a service entrance ahead."

"Okay. So now you have a choice. Turn back, or if you insist on continuing, you've got to promise to do exactly what you're told. Follow orders."

"I'm not turning back."

"Say it."

Gritting her teeth, she echoed, "I'll do exactly what Frank or Tucker tells me."

"And don't forget it. Drive a mile past Chapman's service entrance then return and park the Mustang across from it. I'll tell Frank to watch for your car, but I haven't heard from him in a while, so I don't know whether he's even alive. I've given you your orders. Don't screw up and get someone killed." He ended the call.

Driving with one hand, she gripped her cell in the other until it hurt. Was she really that bull-headed? She peered out at a great sea of moon-glistening white-the snowy plain across from Chapman's property. It made her think of cross-country skiing and snowmen, of childhood. But her childhood had been shaped by a drunken father and a distraught mother. She had been the one who had held all of them together. She had learned a lot of lessons then.

Shaking her head, she checked her odometer then did a U-turn. Cruising back, she parked across from Chapman's service entrance. As she killed the car's engine, she studied the imposing gate. Was there movement on the other side? She waited another minute. Then she saw a side gate next to the kiosk had at some point been opened. It was ajar.

She slung on her shoulder bag, put her cell on MUTE, and opened the car door. The only sound was the hum of cars on the distant road. Heart pounding, she jogged across the street and slid through the gate's narrow opening. And hesitated. Scanning, she noted the driveway up to the compound, the spruce trees on the left that spread high into the horizon, the buildings on the crest.

She glanced back at the open gate, decided not to close it, and walked tentatively forward.

And froze. Dressed in a white jumpsuit padded against the cold, a white ski mask covering his face, a man suddenly appeared from around the kiosk. He was armed with an M4, and from the expert way in which he held it, he knew exactly what to do with it.

27.

Montgomery County, Maryland Sprawled on the front seat of his pickup truck, the doors locked, the heater warming him, Judd Ryder had been sleeping when the unmistakable chop of helicopter blades awoke him. Sitting up, he yawned and shook his head. He had no idea whether he had succ.u.mbed to jet lag or just general exhaustion, but whichever it was, he was weary. What a day. He had been on the run since at least eight o'clock this morning.

Forearms on thighs, he watched through the winds.h.i.+eld as the helicopter landed a hundred feet in front of him on the road. Once a runway, the road and tarmac around it were maintained by the state for parking large machinery like dump trucks. Tucker jumped out, ducked, and hustled through the cold, his long overcoat flapping and big feet slapping the asphalt. The spymaster was a welcome sight.

Tucker climbed into the pa.s.senger seat and slammed the door. "Good to see you, Judd."

"Any news about Eva?" Ryder did a one-eighty with the pickup and headed off.

"I got a call from the Farm. They're convinced it was Eva who phoned in, and maybe they're right. They checked with Eva's parents and found out there wasn't any family emergency. They called her brother and sister, too. Ditto. As you know, there are serious rules about recruits lying and leaving training without permission. The murder board voted."

"She's out?"

"Yes, and we still don't know where she is."

Ryder grimaced. "d.a.m.n!"

"I know. I feel the same way. At least I can tell you the tag number for the van Eichel was driving belongs to a Toyota SUV."

"So Eichel swiped a Toyota's plates and put them on his van."

"Appears so. I've asked the Maryland State Police to watch for it." Tucker eyed him. "Where are the limestone pieces?"

Ryder paused the pickup at the intersection with the county highway. "There's a gallon of water in the bed of the pickup, Tucker. Get it, will you?" When Tucker did not budge, Ryder insisted: "It's important. Please get the G.o.dd.a.m.n jug."

"It'll be ice, not water." With a sigh, Tucker jumped out and returned in a cloud of arctic air. Slamming the door behind him, he dropped hard onto the seat, one gloved hand grasping the neck of the plastic jug. "It's frozen solid."

"You asked where the limestone pieces were."

Tucker grinned. "You clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d." He held the translucent bottle up to the street light. "Can't see anything inside."

"Good. I pulled off the highway a couple of times to rotate the bottle to make sure the rocks ended up in the middle." Ryder pressed the accelerator, and they entered traffic. "Five more miles and we'll be at Chapman's place."

"We've got a stop to make first. The satellite photos showed his spread was a fortress, but we think we've found a way to get in. I'll explain when we get there."

"Okay." As they pa.s.sed farmhouses and corrals, he felt Tucker a.s.sessing him. He glanced over, saw the intensity of his gaze. "What?"

"You didn't ask what kind of security Chapman has," Tucker said. "The details."

"I figured you'd fill me in if it was important."

"Not good enough, Judd. It's the sort of question you always ask, because the information is critical. You know already. At some point you must've studied his protection." He did not pause for Ryder to deny it. "The only reason you'd do that is because you were intending to liquidate him. But Chapman's still breathing. What happened?" His brown eyes peered somberly through his tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses at Ryder.

Suddenly the hot air blasting into the pickup was stifling. Ryder turned it down. "I surveilled Chapman for weeks, but he had a security detail that stuck to him like epoxy. Finally one night he went to a s.e.x club, and he was in there so long I could see his guards were losing their edge. Finally at three A.M. he came out, and for a few seconds I had a clear shot." But just then, in his mind, he had seen his mother crying. At first he had thought it was because she missed his father, and then he had realized she was crying for him, for the killer he had become. "I tried my d.a.m.nedest to pull the trigger." He shook his head. "I couldn't make myself do it. So here I am, caught up in something I never expected or wanted, and Martin Chapman is probably deep into it, too." Focusing on the traffic, Ryder changed the subject. "Why are you here? I expected you to send someone lower down the food chain to help me."

"The first reason is Bridgeman. If he can get me fired, every day will be Christmas for him. But he'll have to find some other way to do it when you and I uncover what in h.e.l.l is really going on with these d.a.m.n a.s.sa.s.sins." He took out his handheld. "I brought their dossiers, or at least as much as Gloria could collect in the time I gave her. I've already told you some of the background on the Padre and the Eichel brothers, so let's talk about the Carnivore."

"When Eva and I were with him in Turkey, he told us he still took jobs but only occasionally. He sounded semiretired."

"Yeah, that's my take, too. But maybe he's tired of it all."

"He didn't act tired when we were working together." Ryder remembered how the a.s.sa.s.sin had almost killed him and Eva.

Tucker changed the subject. "Langley must've had extensive records about him at some point, because Gloria found references to them. She tried to track them down but ran out of time. I never had any personal contact with him in the old Cold War days, but I remember hearing he was useful on occasion. Translated, that means we hired him for jobs we couldn't or wouldn't touch. By the nineties I wasn't hearing his name much." He peered at the handheld's screen. "This is from his dossier....

"'He may have at least one U.S. parent, since reports from informants indicate he has an American accent when speaking English. He also is fluent in at least four other languages, most with no accent-German, French, Italian, and Spanish.'"

"He speaks Arabic, too," Ryder said.

"Makes sense. I think he was involved in some jihadist face-offs in the eighties, so he'd know Arabic if for no other reason than to protect himself." Tucker continued reading: "'His real name is allegedly Alex Bosa. Bosa could be Hungarian, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, or from any Central or South American nation, such as Cuba. It is believed, however, to be Italian.'"

"Bosa was one of the names he was using back when he was with Eva and me," Ryder recalled. "Do you have photos of him?"

Despite their past contact with the Carnivore, none of them had seen the a.s.sa.s.sin's real face because of his disguises.

"Not a single photo," Tucker said. "He's been called the a.s.sa.s.sin Without a Face because there aren't any visuals of him. It's a h.e.l.l of a handicap to anyone who wants to find him."

"What about his targets?"

Tucker scrolled through the doc.u.ment on his handheld. "Here's one.

"'In 1981, Minister of Finance Jacques-Claude Metarsque died when he drove his car off a cliff in Normandy. His blood alcohol level was so high that the coroner ascribed the event to an alcoholic blackout. However, our Belgium a.s.set "Salsa" reports it was an a.s.sa.s.sination.

"'An insurance executive wanted to stop Metarsque's insurance reform, which was expected to cost the executive's company close to 100 million francs. Metarsque wouldn't drop the proposal. So the executive took matters into his own hands and secretly hired the Carnivore.'"

Tucker looked up. "As you can see, an 'accident,' thanks to the Carnivore. And it was effective for the employer-the insurance reform died, and no one has been able to resurrect it."

Ryder nodded. "Did I ever give you his rules?"

"What do you mean, 'rules'?"

"He told Eva and me the reason he'd survived so long while most of his colleagues had been killed off was self-discipline. He had terms, and every prospective employer had to agree to them or he wouldn't take the job no matter how much money they threw at him."

"You know the rules?"

"Yes, he gave them to us, but of course it had to be his way. He talked to us as if we were trying to hire him: 'When it's time to make the hit, I work alone. That means you must be gone, and your people must be gone. You must never reveal our a.s.sociation. You must never try to find out what I look like or who I am. If you make any attempts, I will come after you. I'll do you the favor of making it a clean kill out of respect for our business relations.h.i.+p and the money you will have paid me. After this, you will never try to meet me again. When the job is finished, I'll be in touch to let you know how I want to receive the last payment. If you don't pay me, I will come after you for that, too. I do wet work only on people who shouldn't be breathing anyway. I'm the one who makes that decision-not you. Do you agree?'" Ryder gave a cold laugh and shook his head, remembering.

"Imagine some car executive or socialite or politician listening to that," Tucker said. "They'd be sitting in a pool of their own sweat by the time he finished. The rest of the a.s.sa.s.sins are survivors, too, which tells you they're just as tough. And hardened. Okay, let's move on." He scrolled down the screen of his handheld. "Here's one about Eli Eichel.

"'In 1987, British citizen Madonna Millman was killed by a sniper shot between her eyes as she walked down a Mayfair street. She had been a witness against a Yamaguchi-gumi crime boss in Kobe, j.a.pan, and managed to escape to London after testifying.

"'According to an impeccable source, the gang tracked her to London but wanted to lessen the chance any of the Yakuza family would be charged with her murder. They also wanted to send a warning to anyone considering breaking their code of silence.

"'They hired Eli Eichel to do the wet work....'"

Ryder let out a long stream of air. The Yamaguchi-gumi family was one of the largest crime organizations in the world, operating not only in j.a.pan but across Asia and into the United States.

"Her murder was all over the newspapers," he recalled. "She was pregnant. The baby didn't survive."

"And no one was ever arrested." Tucker set his handheld on his knee and peered grimly out at the night. "There were more a.s.sa.s.sinations and terrorist acts in the 1980s than at any other time in history when there wasn't a major hot war. Everyone was targeted-children and grandmothers, pa.s.sengers on airliners and cruise s.h.i.+ps. And this was done by political, religious, and independent terrorists and a.s.sa.s.sins of all kinds. They were erasing the line between guilt and innocence and destroying ethical and moral norms. Does that sound like what we have today? Of course it does. There aren't any more boundaries. Anyone and everyone is vulnerable."

They were silent.

Judd finally asked, "Did you find any clue in your research about what connects the a.s.sa.s.sins with the cuneiform pieces?"

"I wish. I studied the dossiers. I checked for mutual jobs, for being employed by the same person if not simultaneously then at different times, for being in the same place at the same time, for shared suppliers, shared interests, shared politics, shared girlfriends, anything. One of our problems is that independent a.s.sa.s.sins are particularly covert. With no large organization to protect them, they have to be particularly secretive. Their employers demand anonymity. So the answer is no, I couldn't find anything that linked them. And I also couldn't find any links to limestone pieces, cuneiform writing, or ancient tablets."

Disappointed, Ryder said, "Have you come to any conclusions?"

"Yes. There are too many top a.s.sa.s.sins involved for this to be just about pieces of a cuneiform tablet. Something big is going on. I can feel it, smell it."

"Agreed. But what in h.e.l.l is it?"

Tucker nodded. "Exactly."