by Gayle Lynds
“I’m not crippled, you greedy bastard.” Morgan glared at him. “Let’s go.”
With the building as a shield, the assassins hurried past palm trees. The Israeli gripped his shoulder. The Russian held his side. The Basque limped badly. The air erupted with the piercing noise of another fusillade—the Guards had rounded the building and were pursuing.
The jihadist grunted and staggered. Blood appeared on his hip.
The ex-Mafia killer was out front. He shot open the museum gate, and the others rushed for it. That was when Morgan felt pain explode in his back. He had been shot, but it felt as if a bloody lorry had rammed him. The cuneiform tablet slipped from beneath his arm, and he heard it crash onto the paving stones. His legs would not move. He could not feel his hands. He fell hard.
Vaguely he realized his team was down beside him, picking up the pieces. He could hear someone talking to him, swearing at him, saying his name. Were they going to take him or dump him? An assassin could never be too careful with his friends.
4
From Beirut to Paris
Rescued by two of his fellow assassins, Burleigh Morgan was laid up for a month under an assumed name in a private suite at the Clemenceau Hospital in Beirut. He had multiple wounds to his skull, right arm, scapula, lungs, and ribs. As he drifted in and out of pain, his thoughts kept returning to the castle he wanted in Yorkshire. He could see it clearly in his mind, standing on a green hill, its turrets tall and walls formidable. He had planned to use his share of the proceeds from selling the cuneiform tablet to buy it.
When his headaches stopped, Morgan flew to Cairo, to a secret pied-à-terre on an island in the middle of the Nile River. His flat was on the twentieth floor. In the bedroom, he unpacked. Then he went out to the balcony to enjoy the view.
He did not understand loneliness, could not abide complaining, and deep in his scarred soul knew a professional assassin had no business with “beliefs.” An assassin needed to be sharp, plan for every detail, and crave the work. African wild dogs were not the largest predators on the savannah, but they were far more successful killers than most.
So when Morgan looked down from his balcony at the teeming streets and sidewalks with people scrambling and sweating, he smiled to himself. He was a wild dog. They were not.
That night he e-mailed the five other assassins:
The Baghdad item could still be valuable. I have two pieces. Send me yours. I’ll get them reassembled and appraised.
Morgan’s tradecraft was impeccable. His various e-mail addresses ran through private servers from Kuala Lumpur to Mexico City, from the Ural Mountains to Pakistan. Tracing him was as impossible as a top Chinese black hatter could make it.
The next day, he heard from three of the assassins:
3:22 A.M.: You’re nuts. The general said it was worth millions because it was an ancient artifact. Now it’s just a pile of rocks.
8:03 A.M.: I’ll give you my pieces if you wire me $250,000 holding money.
12:10 P.M.: How do I know if I send you mine, you won’t cut me out of my full share?
Controlling his temper, Morgan responded that they bloody well knew he could be trusted to give all of them their fair shares. Besides, money was money, and it was worth a shot to see whether they could make a few million quid off what they had.
The next morning, he received two more e-mails:
8:43 A.M.: I’ve got four pieces. I assume I’m going to get twice as much for mine as anyone with two pieces.
9:12 A.M.: I want my own appraiser.
The bickering continued until Morgan could not take dealing with the arseholes any longer. Besides, what one of them had written was true—the tablet in pieces could be worthless.
From Cairo he flew to Majorca, where he continued to recuperate, and then on to London to an East End safe house. Finally, he resumed wet work.
Years passed. He spent more and more time in Paris. He bought himself a brand-new, sapphire-blue Cobra MkVI gull-wing sports car and hooked up with a lively blonde who lived on the rue des Fossés Saint Bernard. Her name was Beatrice. She was in her fifties, and she was hot. They were an odd-looking couple—he was in his mid-seventies, skinny, and as wrinkled as a gorilla. He was also strangely happy.
In January, Beatrice and he were sitting together in front of her fireplace, enjoying the warm flames and listening to blues music, when he checked his e-mail. One had just arrived from an anonymous sender, addressed to six assassins. As he read the names, a chill crawled up his spine—it was the six of them who had heisted the ancient tablet. The sender knew far too much about them, including past employers. The information was incendiary.
Beatrice was staring at him. “Some bad e-mail has upset you, cheri?” She stroked his silver ponytail.
Closing the laptop, he lied: “No, nothing bad at all. I’m tired, old girl. I’ll go back to my place and catch up on my sleep. You and I have too much fun, you know.” He forced a smile. In truth, he needed to make phone calls. He slid the laptop into his satchel and stood.
Her worried eyes assessed him. “Very well. I understand.”
He took her hand and kissed it.
She watched him put on his coat and leave. She had been a famous dancer in Pigalle and missed the excitement of those days, and Morgan was an exciting man. She hurried to the window, where she saw his grand Cobra waiting near the end of the block. Good—he would not have far to walk. His complexion had been gray.
She turned back into her sitting room. It was time for a café serré. Opening the door, she started toward her kitchen. But before she had gone six steps, there was a huge roar. Her apartment shook. As the chandelier swung, she ran to the hallway window. Flames licked up through a brown cloud over the spot where the Cobra had been parked. Her throat tightened. She forgot her coat and ran down four flights and out to the curb, where the concierge and neighbors and shopkeepers were gathering in the afternoon cold, staring at the end of the block.
“Sainte merde,” someone murmured in shock.
A woman nodded. “Une bombe énorme!”
Sirens wailed.
Beatrice ran into the smoke. Tree limbs littered the area like broken toothpicks. Car parts were strewn about, sizzling. A streetlight had snapped in half. With horror, she saw a charred arm on the sidewalk. And there was a giant hole where the car had been, a black hole that spread across the asphalt and took out grass and parking.
Coughing, she wiped tears from her face.
“Madame, venez avec moi.” The concierge took her arm and guided her back. “Your gentleman did not suffer, madame. I am very sorry. Venez avec moi.”
She could feel people’s eyes on her. She was shaking from the shock and cold, but the cold was good. It helped to clear her mind. At her building, she turned to gaze back at the smoke, to think about the enormity of the blast that had killed Morgan. It would have been much simpler and cheaper to shoot him. This was not just about murdering some old assassin. Someone powerful had sent a warning.
THE PADRE
Victory is gained not by the number killed, but by the number frightened.
—Basque proverb
5
Washington, D.C.
It was one of those bitterly cold January mornings that cut to the bone. Snow blanketed the city. Icicles sparkled from phone lines. As a frosty wind burned his cheeks, Judd Ryder shouldered his duffel bag and walked away from Union Station, heading east. He was tall, about six feet one, and thirty-four years old. Seldom did anyone find his face memorable—the arched nose, the gray eyes that tended toward detachment, the jaw that could turn stubborn. That was the way he wanted it. He liked being forgettable.
Turning onto Fifth Street, he entered Metro Cleaners and hefted his duffel onto the counter. “I’ve brought you a month’s worth of dirty clothes. Do your worst.”
The clerk pulled the duffel to her. “Happy to take care of you. What’s your phone number?”
Ryder related it. She looked it up on her computer.
“I’ve got two shirts and a sports jacket to pick up, too,” he told her.
She frowned. “Says here you got them yesterday.”
“I was out of the country yesterday.” He thought a moment. “I always pay with my Visa. Does your computer show that?”
Tapping the keyboard, she studied the screen. “Nope, it was a cash transaction.” She glanced at him apologetically. “If we find your stuff, someone will call you.”
Perplexed, he thanked her and pushed outdoors. He had been in Baghdad nearly four weeks and was glad to get back to Washington and even more eager to be home. Digging his hands into his pockets, he hunched his shoulders against the cold and hurried off, turning onto G Street. Most of the sidewalks were shoveled, but the city plows had not reached the street, where the snow was a good twelve inches deep. Buntings of snow covered the branching trees and the tall row houses and the little front lawns with their little wrought-iron fences. The neighborhood sparkled white and clean in the sunlight. He took in the tranquil beauty.
Then a door closed, an unnaturally loud sound in the hush. A man had stepped outside and was hunched over, locking his front door. What the hell! That was Ryder’s row house—668 G Street Northeast.
Remaining across the street, Ryder saw the man turn away from the door, head bowed as he buttoned his trench coat. A gust of wind flipped open the coat. The lining was black-and-green tartan—Ryder had a subzero lining in the same tartan fabric sewed into his trench coat. He focused on the man’s boots. They were L.L. Bean. Above the tops showed tan shearling linings. Those were his damn boots. His damn trench coat. The man was a frigging burglar. What else had he stolen?
The intruder raised his head to scan around. For the first time his face showed. It was as if Ryder were looking into a mirror—gray eyes, arched nose, square face. The man was about six feet one. Ryder’s height. He had wavy chestnut-brown hair. So did Ryder. The bastard even had a good tan, and of course Ryder was tanned from his month in Iraq. This was no ordinary burglar. Ryder had been professionally doubled.
Knotting his hands, Ryder felt a hot tide of fury. He wanted to strangle the bastard. He could do that. God knows he had killed enough in Iraq and Pakistan. He inhaled, exhaled, calming himself. But dead men did not talk. Tugging his knit cap down past his ears, Ryder slapped on sunglasses.
The double peered to the left, checking out a cross-country skier gliding toward the intersection of G and Seventh streets, then he scanned past the elementary school on the corner, and paused at Ryder. Ryder kept his expression neutral, his pace unhurried. Finally the double scrutinized the far end of the street, descended the steps, and ambled to the corner. He stopped at the curb, waiting for the cross-country skier to pass.
The skier wore a black balaclava, exposing only his eyes, nose, and lips. Suddenly extending his stride and arm swing, the skier accelerated through the intersection as if he were a racer crossing the finish line.
The double stepped off the curb. His boots sank into the snow.
The noise of a powerful engine sounded from around the corner.
The double started slogging across the street.
A big white Arctic Cat snowmobile careened around the corner. Wearing a white helmet, goggles, and jumpsuit, the driver expertly guided the Cat as it bore down on the double.
The man stared. Abruptly there was an explosion of snow as the double reversed direction. His feet slipped and his arms flailed as he fell and scrambled back up.
Two women had come out on the steps of the elementary school.
“Watch out!” one yelled, while the other gave a piercing shriek.
The Cat rammed into the double, sending him high in a spine-breaking backward arch. He landed spread-eagled on his back, blood oozing from his nose, mouth, and ears.
The snowmobile skidded from the impact. The driver turned into the skid, bringing the Cat under control. With a glance over his shoulder at the motionless man, he sat down, revved the Cat’s engine, and shot away.
“Call 911!” Ryder shouted at the women. In seconds he was at the downed man’s side.
The double’s eyes were open, staring up at the icy blue sky. His jaw hung slack, lips parted as if he were about to speak.
Ryder felt for the carotid artery. No pulse. Opening the trench coat, he saw the man was wearing the sports coat and one of the shirts Ryder had tried to pick up at the cleaners just minutes before. Ryder found a wallet inside the jacket—one of his old ones. Inside was about one thousand dollars in cash and a District driver’s license forged to appear identical to the one Ryder carried. He returned the wallet, cash, and driver’s license. Continuing to search, he found a cell phone. He pocketed that.
He stood up. He had to leave before police arrived. The women were motionless on the school’s steps, horror in their faces.
“You called 911?” he asked.
“Yes, they’re on their way,” one told him. “How is he?”
“Unconscious and in bad shape. My sister lives on Seventh.” He was lying. The imposter was definitely dead, and Ryder had no brothers or sisters. “She’s a doctor. I’ll go see if she’s home.”
As the women nodded, sirens sounded in the distance.
Ryder got back on the sidewalk and ran. At H, he headed west. It was a busy boulevard, running parallel to his street. Traffic rushed past. At last he slowed and took deep breaths. He needed to focus. What had just happened, and what did it mean?
The cross-country skier had been moving at a normal speed until the double approached the corner. Then the skier had accelerated and hurtled through the intersection. As the double had started to cross, the snowmobile engine had roared to life. The way Ryder figured it, the skier had been the lookout and his speeding through the crossway had signaled the hidden snowmobiler that the double was about to enter the deep snow and be vulnerable.
This was the time Ryder usually walked over to the little market on Seventh to buy groceries. When he did, he always crossed that intersection. His lungs tightened. The double had been targeted for murder—or Ryder had been.
6
Ryder wanted to get inside his row house to search for an explanation of why he had been doubled. As the sirens grew closer, he hurried past insurance offices, down a driveway, and south across a parking lot. Ahead was the rear of his house. Opening the gate, he saw no footprints in the snow. No one, the double included, had been back here today.
Ryder plodded across the yard, unlocked his rear door, and opened it. A billow of warm air enveloped him. The only sound was his refrigerator’s hum. He was home at last, but this was not the way he had expected to find his sanctuary; it had become someone else’s lair. Smelling burned toast, he stepped into the kitchen. His years in the army had changed him from a slovenly youth to a man who prized order. When one lived with the unpredictability of violent death, orderliness was not only efficient, it was as comforting as a finely tuned weapon. So it was with irritation that he surveyed the grease thick on the stove and the dirty dishes piled on the counter.
Scraping snow from his boots, he went into his living room. The Washington Post was strewn across his sofa. He climbed the stairs. In his bedroom, clothes were piled on a chair and scattered around the floor. Ignoring the mess, he went into his closet, pushed aside boxes, and crouched in the corner. Running his hands over the parquet floor, he located four finger holds then lifted out a square of wood, revealing his subcompact semiautomatic Beretta pistol, ammo, sound suppressor, cash, two billfolds containing cover identities and passports, and pocket litter.
Removing his peacoat and sports jacket, he buckled on the canvas shoulder holster. Then he checked his Beretta, loaded it, and balanced it in his hand. A familiar calmness settled over him, and he felt complete. Automatically, he lifted the weapon and aimed. If you don’t kill the memories, the memories will kill you. He had been military intelligence, MI, then recruited and trained by an MI black unit for special death missions. He was good at it. Worse, he had liked it. That was why h
e had retired from the army, why there were moments when a dark cloud seemed to envelop him.
He snapped the Beretta into his holster and packed his black backpack with the rest of the things from his hidey-hole. Then he went to the window and peered down between the slats at two police cruisers and an ambulance parked at angles in the intersection, roof beacons rotating. Yellow crime scene tape already outlined the area. The two women who had witnessed the attack were talking to the officers. They would describe the death as, at best, a hit and run, and, at worst, deliberate murder. At some point soon, the officers would come here to his home to investigate.
Quickly he searched his bedroom. The only items of interest were jeans, a flannel shirt, underwear, and shoes that were not his—but with no identifying tags or pocket litter. He methodically inspected the rest of the rooms, finally going back downstairs to the living room and then into the kitchen. The red light on his answering machine was flashing. He hit PLAY.
Tucker Andersen’s voice sounded from the machine: “I hope you’re bored. Or you’ve come to your senses and realize you suck at being a civilian. Call me.” Tucker was the number two at Catapult, a Langley black unit that specialized in counteroperations.
Not now, Tucker. First I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Some homecoming. Pulling on his coat, hat, and gloves, he stepped outdoors. The door slammed behind him, locking automatically. His face already felt frozen.
He slogged through the snow. Waiting inside his garage was his faded green 1978 Ford pickup, which was retrofitted with a powerhouse Audi V8 Quattro drive train. He climbed in. Minimal cranking, and the big engine fired.
In seconds Ryder was driving away through the parking lot. He had escaped without having to talk to the police, but he had no clue what the hell the double was all about. Before entering H Street, he scanned. Seeing nothing unusual and no one seeming interested in him, he merged with the traffic.
As he drove off, he remembered the cell phone he had taken from the dead man. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, he used the other to fish it out of his pocket.
