The Assassins (The Judd Ryder Books)

by Gayle Lynds

  “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 passed farmhouses and corrals, he felt Tucker assessing 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 tortoiseshell glasses 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 sex 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 damnedest 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 hell is really going on with these damn assassins.” 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 assassin 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 assassin’s real face because of his disguises.

  “Not a single photo,” Tucker said. “He’s been called the Assassin Without a Face because there aren’t any visuals of him. It’s a hell of a handicap to anyone who wants to find him.”

  “What about his targets?”

  Tucker scrolled through the document 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 asset “Salsa” reports it was an assassination.

  “‘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 association. 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 relationship 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 assassins 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, Japan, 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 Japan 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 assassinations 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, passengers on airliners and cruise ships. And this was done by political, religious, and independent terrorists and assassins 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 w
ere silent.

  Judd finally asked, “Did you find any clue in your research about what connects the assassins 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 assassins 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 assassins 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 hell is it?”

  Tucker nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Where is this place you want me to stop?” Judd asked.

  Tucker indicated a large single-story building ahead. A sign over the driveway announced LONG PLAINS FEED & SUPPLIES. “We’re here. Doesn’t look like much, but it’s our ticket into Chapman’s.”

  28

  Their arrangements finished, Ryder kept watch, his Uzi on his lap, as Tucker drove them to Chapman’s horse farm in a delivery truck owned by Long Plains Feed & Supplies. It was a large truck with a full load. The cab was aromatic with the earthy odors of hay and alfalfa. The owner of the feed store had kept the truck on the premises until they arrived, and then he had loaned Tucker a winter jacket displaying the store’s logo. Under the jacket in Tucker’s shoulder holster was his favorite pistol, a 9-mm Browning.

  “That’s Chapman’s house.” Judd nodded at a white mansion on a hill.

  Tucker glanced up. “The house looks as if it’s hatching the hill and little white cupcakes are going to Pop-Tart out of the ground.”

  Ryder repressed a smile. “The Eichels have arrived,” he pointed out. “That’s their van parked in front.”

  “I can hardly wait to meet the bastards.”

  “Check out the house lights.”

  The windows on either side of the front door showed bright light, while the rest of the first floor was dark. The top floor was completely dark.

  “From what I saw when I was surveilling the place,” Ryder went on, “the rooms on the first floor are lit only erratically and go dark at eleven P.M. The rooms on the third story are generally not lit until after eleven P.M., indicating someone going up to bed.”

  “That leaves the second floor,” Tucker said. “There’s a lot of light spilling out of four of the French doors.”

  “Just the way it was the last time I was here. The lights were usually on there until almost eleven o’clock. I was never able to get any architectural plans for the house, but there’s got to be some kind of big room behind those French doors, and it’s Chapman’s favorite. Maybe his office or den, and he sits up there until bedtime, working, reading, or watching TV.”

  “Or ‘entertaining’ Eli and Danny Eichel.” Tucker stared at the hill’s flat summit. “Did you see movement near the house?”

  Ryder stared, spotting a shadow cast out from the house’s northwest corner, followed by a man in some kind of white snowsuit. “He’s a guard. In the summer, the outdoor ones wear green sweatsuits. Looks as if he’s wearing a bandolier. That’s new.”

  “A bandolier?” Tucker repeated. “Chapman must be scared as shit.”

  “I see another guard back around the barn,” Ryder commented.

  “Great.”

  Tucker swung the delivery truck onto the rural road that ran alongside Chapman’s property. On the left spread open fields, milky white in the moonlight. On the right was the horse farm’s high wall, a long stone testament to wealth and fear.

  “Time to get down,” Tucker said.

  Ryder picked up the container of frozen water from the floor and fit himself and his gun down into the foot well. He set the container up on the seat while Tucker reached behind, pulled out a blanket, and threw it over Ryder. It stank of horse.

  “There’s a wrought-iron gate at the service entry,” Tucker said. “I’m going to punch the intercom button to let them know I’m here with the goods.” He stopped the truck, and a draft of cold air seeped in under the blanket—Tucker had rolled down the window. Ryder listened as he announced: “Delivery for Dean Jennings.” Jennings was the head horse trainer.

  A voice came back with a question. “Where’s Tim?” Tim Wayne worked for the feed store and usually made the delivery to Jennings, according to the store’s owner.

  “Poor bastard has the flu,” Tucker explained. “My name’s Jon Jacobsen. We brought you some extra roughage for the horses. It’ll help ’em through this wicked cold snap.”

  “Okay, Jon,” the voice decided. “Come on in. I’ll tell Dean you’re here.”

  Tucker drove again. Ryder felt the nose of the truck rise—they were heading up the slope to the compound. He breathed shallowly under the blanket, trying to minimize the stench.

  “We’re passing the stand of spruce trees,” Tucker said.

  In his mind Ryder could see the forest spreading up into the horizon. Earlier, when he had examined Tucker’s satellite photos, he described seeing Chapman riding horseback into the woods. Studying the photos, they identified a horse trail Tucker could use tonight. Beyond the trail, at the rear of the property where the land was flat, were Chapman’s airstrip and a hangar more than large enough for his Learjet. The photos, which had been taken earlier today, showed someone out on a snowplow, clearing the airstrip. That was Chapman for you—always prepared.

  “A guard’s walking down the driveway toward us,” Tucker continued. “He’s toting an M4 and wearing a bandolier and scanning all around. He keeps looking at the truck.”

  “Is it safe for me to stick my head out so I can breathe?”

  “Yes, but stay down.”

  Pushing back the blanket, Ryder took a deep breath and saw Tucker’s expression was bored, the complete pro, as he kept his gaze on the drive. Ryder tilted his Uzi up toward the window.

  “Chapman’s security must’ve warned him Tim has a replacement tonight,” Tucker said, barely moving his lips. “He’s stopped. He’s checking out the store logo on the door. Now he’s looking at me.” He turned and gave a friendly wave. “He’s gone.” His shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Gave me a nod, which is as good as gold.”

  Lowering his weapon, Ryder felt the truck level off.

  “We’re at the top of the drive,” Tucker said. “I’m taking us around to the rear of the house.”

  According to the photos, there was a point behind the house that was sheltered by the garage and out of sight of the barn. Near the middle of the house was the door through which Chapman would leave to get quickly into his waiting limo. From what Judd had been able to see, there was a lot of traffic in and out of the door, so it should be unlocked. That was where Tucker was supposed to let Ryder off.

  “Christ.” Tucker’s voice was strained. Again his lips were nearly motionless as he talked. “A guard’s coming around the corner of the garage.”

  “Does he have a clear view of the door into the house?”

  “Fuck, yes.”

  Tension filled the truck. Tucker was supposed to slow the vehicle to a crawl, but that would make the guard suspicious.

  Tucker gave a tight smile. “He just walked off toward the barn.” He touched the brakes, slowing the vehicle, and grabbed the frozen water bottle from the seat. “Get the hell out of here before someone else shows up.”

  But Ryder was already opening the door. The truck was still moving. Holding the Uzi with both hands, Ryder stumbled out. Tucker leaned across the seat, pulled the door shut, and sped up again, heading to the barn.

  Ryder sprinted to a lace-e
dged window. Flattening next to it, he peered inside and saw a short hallway. No one was in sight, then a door on the right opened, and out stepped a muscular man dressed in the dark green sweats Ryder remembered. Carrying an M4, he also wore a packed bandolier across his chest. Yawning widely, he walked away down the corridor and opened the door at the end.

  As soon as he disappeared, Ryder slipped indoors. To his left was an archway framing a butler’s pantry and on the far side a kitchen counter showed. He could hear pots and pans clattering. He paused at the door where he had seen the guard leave. He pressed his ear against it, listened, then cracked it open. It was a small locker room. Stepping inside, he closed the door.

  Piles of folded green sweatshirts and matching sweatpants were stacked on a table. Across the room stood a glass-covered gun case. Inside hung four M4s and four bandoliers. There was room for six more M4s and bandoliers, which suggested that besides the two outside guards, there were four more in the house or elsewhere, so armed for overkill they could be advertisements for gun magazines. Smiling grimly, Ryder went to work.

  29

  Covered in blankets, a dozen Arabian horses whinnied and stamped the ground outside Chapman’s large white barn. As handlers led them in a side door, Tucker backed the delivery truck up and jumped out of the cab. He needed to unload quickly so he could join Judd in the house.

  A stringy man in padded winter coveralls walked toward him.

  “Are you Dean Jennings?” Tucker said.

  “I am. And you are?” Dean studied the Long Plains Feed & Supply jacket Tucker wore.

  “Jon Jacobsen.” Tucker gave him the explanation about the illness of the regular driver. “Where do you want your supplies?”

  Dean took him inside. The earthy odor of horse manure sharpened the air. Tucker noted needlenose cameras observing from the rafters as two men tended, fed, and watered the horses. Although the grounds were not under observation, at least the interior of the barn was. But then Chapman was raising a small fortune in thoroughbred Arabians.