by Gayle Lynds
“I can’t tell you. If I could, I would.”
“This is my dead body,” she reminded him. “My investigation.”
“I need a full report yesterday,” he ordered, “and this can go no further than you, the ME, and the door, at least for now. You don’t have to like it, Annie. Just do as I say. National security.”
She sniffed. “National security? That old saw?”
He ignored her tone. “Yes, national security, goddammit. And I need to find out who the corpse really is, pronto.”
“Oh, I can tell you that, too. There was nothing on his fingerprints, so I ran him through the tristate facial recognition database. Bingo. His name is Jeff Goos. He’s a professional actor. Lives in an apartment in Richmond and does theater and TV up and down the coast. Divorced a couple of times. Heavy child support payments. I could go on and on.”
That was the thing about Annie, she was damn good. “Christ,” Tucker said. “Wait for me. I’m on my way.”
10
As soon as Tucker Andersen left the movie theater, Sabino Zaragosa—the Padre—ripped off his white clerical collar and black vest. His man, Ricardo Agote, who had been sitting quietly ten rows below, was soon at his side. In seconds, they traded clothes, and Ricardo settled into the Padre’s seat, the black cashmere overcoat folded on his lap, the bag of popcorn in his hands, the black brimmed hat sitting squarely on his head.
Wearing Ricardo’s thermal jacket, the Padre trotted down the aisle, took Ricardo’s seat, and leaned comfortably back, eyes half closed, observing a thirtyish woman enter the theater. By turning his head slightly, he saw her settle into one of the higher seats from where she could easily keep tabs on the moviegoer she believed to be the Padre. She was one of Tucker Andersen’s surveillance spies.
Smiling to himself, the assassin peered at the screen again. George Clooney and his men were creeping toward a cabin where the villains were hiding. The villains were in terrible danger. The Padre knew intimately what that was like, the threat of imminent attack, of annihilation. It made his gut sour, and yet he wanted Clooney and his men to win. In a rare moment of insight he realized that was the conflict that had fueled his life.
The last ten minutes of the movie passed quickly. At the thrilling end, the Padre felt the sweet heat of redemption.
As the credits ran on the screen, Ricardo marched down the aisle, wearing the Padre’s black hat and long black overcoat. His white clerical collar shone in the reflected light.
The surveillance spy rose and descended, too, tailing discreetly.
As the audience vanished, the Padre removed a red plaid cloth cap with ear protectors from his jacket pocket. Pulling it on, he Velcroed the strap tightly, producing a roll of flab beneath his chin. Lowering his head, he shuffled downstairs, out the rear door, and into a long gray corridor toward the main lobby.
Ahead were glass exit doors into the parking garage, where some patrons were awaiting rides. Just then the door opened and cold air blew in, carrying the stink of vehicle exhaust. And standing next to the door was what looked like another of Tucker Andersen’s spies, wiry build, brown hair, bland features. While apparently texting on his handheld, Tucker’s spy was assessing everyone who left the theater.
As the Padre observed all of this, a familiar nerviness swept across his shoulders and down his right arm toward the navaja, the knife, in his pocket. He carried it because it was foolish not to carry something, and he had always disliked the bulk of a pistol. He was long past needing to prove his finesse as a knife fighter, and even less interested, so this weapon was a state-of-the-art WASP injector knife—so fast and powerful it could drop the globe’s largest land predators.
Still, the last thing the Padre wanted today was a confrontation and the inconvenience of a dead body. He needed to get away undetected. So he joined the line, shambling along as if feeble. When the spy noticed him, the Padre snuffled then casually wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.
For a moment there was no reaction. Then disgust flitted across the spy’s face, and his eyes focused down again on his handheld’s screen. His fingers tapped the keyboard.
But as the Padre passed, he glanced at the screen, too—and saw his own photo.
As if the spy had been reading the Padre’s mind, he lifted his gaze.
In an unexpected moment, each stared directly into the other’s eyes.
Without changing his expression, the Padre cursed silently and shuffled out through the door. Knowing he would be followed, he continued shuffling. In the parking garage, he headed down the stairwell. His footsteps sounded like sandpaper on the cement. At the bottom level, he pushed through the door and slipped around the corner, where he would be out of sight. Breathing evenly, he slid out his WASP knife and listened.
As soon as he heard the door open, the Padre ran back around the corner and used his bulk to slam the smaller man against the wall. At the same time he rammed the point of the WASP blade into the spy’s gut. He pressed the button on the Neoprene handle, shooting 24 grams of carbon dioxide gas at the blinding speed of 800 pounds per square inch from the handle through a small tube in the blade and out the tip.
And into the man. The spy screamed. Horror shone from his eyes. As he jerked and writhed, the basketball-size cavity of his internal organs was being snap frozen. Soon he slumped, and the Padre lowered his shoulder and pulled him over it. With one hand, the Padre texted for his limo. He had to get rid of the corpse and hope Tucker Andersen would never be able to associate him with the death.
In less than a minute, his chauffeur was backing the black Cadillac limousine up to the Padre. The angle of the vehicle prevented the passenger in the rear seat from seeing what the Padre was doing. The trunk opened silently. As he dumped the corpse inside, the chauffeur appeared. The Padre gave him instructions about its disposal and soon was sliding in next to his wife, inhaling her expensive perfume. He dismissed all thoughts of business.
“Hola, generalissimo, querido mío.” Catalina greeted him in Spanish with a smile and a shy kiss on the cheek.
He felt welcomed to the center of his heart. She was small, just nineteen years old, with the wide face and hips of a solid Basque woman. Her beautiful black eyes glowed in admiration for him. Her teeth were small—straight now, due to the excellent orthodontist he had found near their new home in Gstaad. Her fingers were tiny, but her hands were broad and strong. As he watched, she knitted her fingers into his. This was his first marriage. He lifted his arm, and she slid under it.
“It went well?” She was an innocent and knew nothing of his work.
“As well as could be expected,” he responded in Basque. As he had grown older he had yearned for his heritage. One satisfaction was to bring their conversation back to their native tongue.
“Did you locate the man you wished to?” she asked curiously in Basque. “I think I heard you call him the Carnivore.”
“Do not worry. It is only business, but I have more to do. The limo can drop you off in Bethesda for shopping, or you can stay with me.”
She patted his chest. Her diamond-drenched wedding band and engagement ring glittered. “I’ll stay with you.”
He was rich and gave her all the money she wanted. Still she had chosen not to go shopping. He prized her modesty and common sense. She was like his mother—solid, reliable, and strict. His throat tightened with emotion as he remembered his mother. He had joined ETA when he was only fifteen years old to help force Spain to give the Basques their own nation. But then his mother was killed in the crossfire between his ETA unit and Franco’s police. His unit could have saved her but had decided to sacrifice her to make a political statement.
It was then that he had taken the skills ETA had taught him and left. Long ago he had stopped caring about governments and their small issues. They paid him very well to do their dirty work so they could deny their dirty motives. They were no different from ETA.
Catalina sighed and burrowed against him. He smiled and stroked her silk
y hair. When his iPhone vibrated against his hip, he slid it out. And smiled again. Everything was on schedule.
11
Silver Spring, Maryland
The sky glistened blue, and the air was warming. As snow dripped from eaves and mailboxes, Ryder drove onto Derby Ridge Lane. Homes lined the left side of the curving street, while on the right a snowy forest spread into the distance. He parked in front of Eva’s place, a modern row house with white pillars and shutters. As he turned off the engine, his Samsung Galaxy smartphone vibrated.
Tucker’s voice was loud and strong: “I’ve been to the ME’s office to check on the corpse of the man who was pretending to be you. The reason he looked like you was prosthetics.”
Ryder frowned. “Are you sure?”
“According to the ME, you would’ve needed a magnifying glass, or you would’ve had to inspect his face with your fingers. There are minute seams, and the prostheses feel a little stiffer than human flesh.” Tucker described the colored polymer layers, the cosmetic paint that blended the edges, and the waterproof biocompatible drying adhesive.
“Jesus. Someone went to a lot of trouble.”
“They sure as hell did. Your double’s name was Jeff Goos. He was an actor living in Richmond. I have my people digging into his background. Did you know him?”
“Never heard of him. How long do I have until the cops and ME release the information that he isn’t me?”
“The ME wanted to go public immediately, but I convinced him to give you your week. I had to hold ‘national security’ over his head to get it.” Tucker changed the subject. “You once told me you didn’t know where the Carnivore lived or how to find him. Is that still true?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Have you ever heard of an assassin called the Padre?” Tucker asked.
“A longtime independent. Works mostly in Europe.”
“Right. After you and I talked, I had a meeting with him. Turns out he’s trying to locate the Carnivore. The closest he’s gotten so far is finding out the Carnivore’s last job was with you, Eva, and me. Does Eva know where he is or how to get in touch with him?”
“She’s never said anything about it one way or the other,” Ryder said.
“If she does know, the Carnivore’s got to worry she’s told you or me.”
“You’re saying the Carnivore might’ve been the one who killed my double, thinking it was me.”
“Yes. It’d be a threat to his security.”
Ryder studied the street. “Do you have photos of them you can send me?” He had never seen the Padre, and he had been in the Carnivore’s company twice, but both times the assassin was disguised.
“We have today’s surveillance video of the Padre. I’ll e-mail it to you. But as for the Carnivore, no. He’s known as the man without a face for a reason. We’ve never had any video, photos, or drawings, at least that we’ve been able to dig up. His security is notoriously tight. I’ll phone if I learn anything. You do the same.” Tucker hung up.
Stuffing his Galaxy into his pocket, Ryder slung on his backpack, hurried to Eva’s door, and rang the bell. The street was so quiet he could hear the drone of the East-West Highway from over the hill. He punched the doorbell again. Finally, he leaned across the porch rail and peered into the front window. A club chair was overturned, lying on its side. The coffee table was broken in half. The screen on the television set was shattered. Adrenaline shot through him. What happened to Eva!
Ripping off his gloves, he pulled off his backpack and dug out his picklocks. In seconds he was inside. He closed the door softly, listening in the silence. He studied the shadowy living room. Besides the broken furniture, there were scuff marks on the hardwood floor and a spray of blood in front of the television. There had been a struggle violent enough to leave blood. Eva could be dead, or she could’ve been taken away by force. And now he knew the Carnivore had motive.
Controlling his emotions, he ran through the dining room and kitchen. Everything seemed to be where it belonged. Through the rear window he saw Eva’s car in her private spot. It was covered by nearly a foot of snow. He ran upstairs, moving quickly into and out of the deserted office and bathroom, peering inside all of the doors. And walked through her bedroom. He inhaled the scent of rose water, her scent. There was no sign of her anywhere.
Spinning on his heel, he ran out, dialing her cell. He pressed his Galaxy against his ear and heard her cell ring into it—but at the same time a phone was ringing somewhere beneath him, on the first floor.
He pounded downstairs into the living room. Following the sound, he stopped at her sofa and dug among the cushions with both hands. At last he felt two items jammed together. One was vibrating and ringing. Pulling both out, he found a brand-new cell phone—hers, since it was responding to his call—and a GPS tracker. Christ, she was clever. He hit his Galaxy’s OFF button, and the ringing stopped. She would expect the Carnivore to appropriate her cell, so she had managed to be preemptive, hiding both items in hopes Ryder would come as he had promised. And when he did, he would see the wrecked living room, break in, call her, and follow the ringing to discover the GPS.
He turned on the GPS. With a faint beep, the screen came to life, showing a grid of the state of Maryland north of Eva’s house. His pulse quickened—a green dot, which meant some kind of vehicle, was heading away on Route 650 at 63 miles per hour. Ryder smiled grimly. Eva left the tracker because she had planted a bug on herself. With the tracker, he could follow her.
Sprinting out the front door and through the cold afternoon light, he jumped behind the wheel of his pickup and sped off.
12
Washington, D.C.
Set in the heart of historic Capitol Hill, the organization known as Catapult operated out of one of the area’s century-old Federalist brick houses. The sign above the door announced the Council for Peer Education, apparently just another group that had settled here so it could conveniently lobby the White House and Congress. In truth, Catapult was a CIA black unit charged with taking aggressive covert action to direct or deter negative events around the planet.
Arriving at the side entrance, Tucker Andersen tapped his code onto the keypad and waited until the iris-reader recognized him. When a soft click announced the door was unlocked, he walked in. Staffers moved briskly through the corridor, carrying folders color-coded to denote security levels. The old house seemed to vibrate with energy, and Tucker thrived on it.
In the reception area, Gloria Feit peered up from behind her big metal desk, slid her rainbow-framed glasses down her nose, and assessed him. “You appear healthy,” she said tartly. She was in her late forties, a small woman with crinkled smile lines around her blue eyes. Wearing a black wool jumper and a long-sleeved white shirt, she looked more like a nun than a covert officer with a black belt in karate.
“What did you expect—a bullet-riddled corpse?” He unknotted his muffler and unbuttoned his wool overcoat.
“With you I never know,” Gloria said airily. “Here’s what we’ve collected so far about the Carnivore.”
“Thanks.” He took the stapled sheets she held out to him.
“Bridgeman’s waiting for you.” That was Scott Bridgeman, Catapult’s new director.
Repressing a sigh, Tucker nodded.
“Tucker, I thought it was you.” The familiar voice was behind him.
Turning, he saw Bash Badawi striding toward him. Bash was one of Tucker’s infiltration artists. A lean, loose-jointed jock with straight ink-black hair, Bash had recently wrapped up a long-running operation in Rome. He had been home three weeks and was restless.
“Need any help?” Bash asked. “A mission? A quick trip to Peshawar?”
“You’ve got to decompress, Bash,” Tucker warned. “Take it easy.”
Gloria intervened: “Tucker, the boss wants to see you. Remember?”
“Okay, okay. I’m going.” Tucker walked around her desk and tapped on the Catapult director’s door.
“Come in.”
>
Tucker entered. Scott Bridgeman had the best office in the three-story building, with large windows overlooking the tree-lined avenue. All of Catapult’s window glass was bulletproof and distorted to prevent anyone from seeing inside or successfully using a demodulator to eavesdrop on conversations.
“Have a seat, Tucker.” Bridgeman put down his pen. With regular features, wheat-blond hair, and bulging muscles, he was handsome enough to be a Calvin Klein model. Despite the handicap of good looks, he had proved to be deft in fieldwork, able to vanish into the background of almost any setting. The reverse was true at Catapult, where his presence was unmistakable and constant.
“Glad to.” Tucker tossed his overcoat onto one of the chairs facing the desk and sank into the other. He was tired from all of the day’s running around.
“Okay, so let’s have the latest.” Bridgeman leaned back, hands clasped behind his head.
Tucker described his noontime meet with the Padre in the movie theater. He explained how the barrel of armaments had landed on the Gaza seashore. “Of course, the Padre wanted something in exchange for the intel—the Carnivore. I asked Gloria to put together a preliminary report about the Carnivore.” He started to slide it across the desk.
Bridgeman waved it away. “No, tell me.”
“The short version is the Carnivore has been an international assassin for close to forty years. Sometimes he was useful to us. Sometimes not—”
Bridgeman sat forward. “The Carnivore turned up in the Library of Gold operation and delivered intel to you—even though only members of your team had access to it. How did the Carnivore get the intel? The answer has to be from one of your people. My people now. There was no other source. We’ve got a goddamned mole in here somewhere. Does this have you pissing your pants, Tucker? It does me.”
