The Assassins (The Judd Ryder Books)

by Gayle Lynds

  “Gee whiz, too bad,” Eva said. “Your employers hired you to commit murder!”

  Bosa peered at her gravely. “One of them was the U.S. government.”

  She sighed. “Of course.”

  “What’s worse, the sender claims to have detailed fifty jobs each of us did—that’s three hundred assassinations—in something he calls The Assassins’ Catalog. The good thing is, he’ll trade it for the tablet pieces. He says the tablet is a map to some ancient Mesopotamian treasure, and he wants it. He gave us five rules. First, if any of us drops out, he’ll e-mail the Catalog to online blogs, TV networks, and international newspapers like The New York Times and The Times of London. So he’s damn well blackmailing us. The second rule is one of us—but only one of us—can win the Catalog. Third, we have to kill each other off.” Flushing with anger, Bosa jumped up and stalked down the aisle. “Fourth, each of us has to keep our tablet pieces with us so they’ll efficiently make their way to the winner. And fifth, we have to check in every twelve hours to the blackmailer’s anonymous e-mail address. It’s a means for him to keep tabs on who’s alive, and it gives the winner a way to set up a meet to exchange the tablet pieces for the Catalog.”

  “So the last man standing wins,” Eva said. “He’s set up a contest to find out which of you is best.”

  Bosa dropped back into his seat. “Over the years there’s been speculation about that, but it’s an impossible question to answer. All of us have strengths, and merely living as long as we have says we’re damn good.”

  “You don’t know who sent the e-mail?” Judd asked.

  “When I say ‘untraceable,’ I mean it. I have a stable of black hatters that would make Russia drool. They couldn’t find the source. I was in touch with Krot, and his people couldn’t find it either. I have to assume the Padre and Eli Eichel were unsuccessful as well.”

  “You said the e-mail went to all six of you,” Judd said. “That should’ve at least given you a way to contact each other.”

  Bosa shook his head. “The sender addressed the e-mail to us, but he sent it out individually. The first time I knew there was something to it was when Krot confirmed receiving it, too. He was in touch with Eli Eichel, and Eichel confirmed it to Krot. We already had certain loose alliances. For instance, I was working with Krot, while he was working with Eli Eichel. Because of Eli, Krot learned the Padre had doubled you, and he told me. Anyone who got in the way was going to get scrubbed, and that included both of you.”

  “So Morgan died when his car was bombed in Paris,” Judd ruminated. “The Padre died at his hunt club in Maryland. You killed Eli Eichel and his brother in Martin Chapman’s library. That leaves Krot, Seymour, and you. How good is Krot?”

  “The best. I hired a surveillance expert to follow him. According to her, he’s been playing tourist with a schoolteacher staying at the same hotel. There’s no sign he’s been searching for Seymour, even though his latest e-mail to me claims he’s ‘close’ to finding him.”

  “Why Marrakech?” Eva wondered.

  Bosa shrugged. “Don’t have a clue. What’s concerning me is I just got an e-mail from my surveillance woman reporting Krot was continuing his daily routine, but her e-mail arrived much later than usual. And even stranger, she didn’t ask to be paid for her report. I have to assume her abnormal behavior and Krot’s unexplained choice of Marrakech could indicate problems for me.”

  “Have you told Krot that the Padre and the Eichel brothers are dead?” Judd asked.

  “Only that the Padre is, and I said I had the Padre’s limestone pieces. If he thinks I’ve stopped looking for Eichel, he might suspect I’m planning to pay him a surprise visit. I’m not fond of walking into a propeller blade, and that’s what Marrakech feels like. I could go in disguise—that’s effective 99.9 percent of the time. But it’s damn hard to fool colleagues. You saw how quickly Eli Eichel recognized me even though I was wearing Chapman’s snow gear and my face and hair were different. We’re vulnerable that way.”

  “So your second idea is us,” Judd said. “You need us to help you.”

  “If you’re as good as I think, Judd, you should be able to get close and scope out the situation,” Bosa said. “I want two things. First, the location of Seymour, and second, a safe, controlled environment where Krot and I can meet.” He gazed steadily at Judd, ignoring Eva.

  Before Judd could say anything, Eva turned to him. He could feel waves of outrage sizzle from her.

  “Judd, I need to know more about the mission, don’t you?” Her tone was so naive she was almost batting her eyes.

  Bosa interrupted sharply. “You’re too inexperienced for this, young lady. I can’t have any more fuckups. You’re staying on the plane.”

  “Well,” she drawled, “I’m not sure how anyone could fuck up more than you have, Alex. First, you can’t collect money that’s owed you. Don’t you have a rule about wiping anyone who stiffs you? You do, and you couldn’t pull that off either. Then you let Morgan drop the tablet and break it. Hmm. And finally, when you realized one of your ‘colleagues’ was coming after Judd and me, you had to hustle your arse to ‘save’ us, which you couldn’t really do without goddamn kidnapping me and ending my career.”

  Bosa glowered at her.

  Judd interrupted. “She’s got a point. She’s a beginner, but she’s a good one.”

  Bosa raised his eyebrows, considering her.

  She glared at him. Her blue eyes were silvery with outrage.

  Bosa pursed his lips, looking irritated. Then he made a noise in his throat that sounded to Judd like the beginning of a chuckle. “All right, Eva’s in,” he decided. “Now, about Krot … here are photos my surveillance woman took of him and the girlfriend.” He passed copies to them.

  Leaning together, Eva and Judd studied the small blond woman and the tall, black-haired man. There were individual shots and one of them together.

  “Nothing here to show how deadly he supposedly is,” Judd said.

  “Right,” Bosa agreed. “He’s registered in the hotel under the name Pyotr Azarov. She’s Francesca Fabiano, but after a while he started calling her Katia. They both speak Russian. He seems to be genuinely fond of her, but you can’t trust it. His specialty is unusual—he has an uncanny ability to meet other people’s emotional needs. He’s manipulative in the extreme. It’s a talent he’s used time and again to position his victims so he can easily terminate them.”

  49

  Washington, D.C.

  At precisely 7:55 A.M., Scott Bridgeman parked his car and marched into Catapult headquarters. Gloria was sitting at her desk, sifting through color-coded files and making neat stacks. At the same time, she kept glancing up, watching him walk down the hall toward her.

  “Morning, boss,” she said.

  “Morning, Gloria.” It paid to be nice to Gloria. She knew more than anyone what was going on in the building and often inside Langley itself. “Send Tucker to my office.” He headed past her, toward his door.

  “Can’t do that, boss. Sorry.”

  He stopped. She was usually cheerful, but not this morning. He studied her unsmiling face. Her reluctance was palpable.

  “Why not?” he said.

  She stood, straightened her tartan skirt, adjusted her red pullover sweater, and walked to his office door. Opening it, she said, “We’d better talk privately.”

  He had a moment of nervousness. Her skin looked almost gray. He headed past her. “Are you scared, or did someone die?” It was a joke. Probably some nasty memo had come over from the seventh floor. Gloria could take things personally.

  As he stood behind his desk, she closed the door and turned.

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “Tucker Andersen has been shot in the head. He’s in the trauma center at Merrittville Hospital up in Maryland. His wife, Karen, is there. I sent a two-man Catapult team to bird dog Tucker. The hospital’s done an MRI. Other tests, too. The last time I talked to Karen, the doctors were performing emergency surgery on him. He
’d begun to hemorrhage inside his skull, so they needed to reduce the pressure on his brain. I’m hoping for a call soon about how the operation went. I haven’t told anyone here yet.”

  “Jesus.” He sat in his executive chair. “Christ.”

  “We don’t know whether he’ll survive. They’re hoping for the best.”

  His voice hardened. “The last I heard, Tucker and Judd Ryder were on their way to Martin Chapman’s place.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You knew about that?”

  He ignored the question. “Is that where he was shot? I want all the details. Everything.”

  She sat, folded her hands in her lap, and related the story.

  He listened with growing outrage. Among the dead were Martin Chapman and the Eichel brothers. Eva Blake was involved, as was the Carnivore. Blake, Ryder, and the Carnivore had flown off somewhere, leaving a mess of dead bodies.

  “You know this is exceedingly bad, don’t you, Gloria?” Bridgeman said.

  She looked down at the toes of her black pumps. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have the Maryland authorities figured out Catapult’s involved?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been keeping tabs. At the moment, they have several theories. One is Chapman’s guards stopped a robbery, and the robbers ran before the authorities could get there. There are a lot of valuable things in his place. They’re hoping Chapman’s attorney has an inventory and can tell them what, if anything, is missing. Another top theory is that it was a revenge killing for one of Chapman’s equity deals. He wasn’t exactly an angel to the people whose companies he bought or to the banks when one of his big house-of-cards deals crashed, especially since he somehow always made a profit.”

  Bridgeman heaved a sigh. “Langley knows?”

  “Of course not. That’s your decision.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Judd and Eva? I don’t know.”

  He stared at her.

  She moved uneasily in her chair. “Honestly, I really don’t know.”

  He nodded. “If they call, tell me instantly. Now it’s time for damage control. It’s unlikely they’re staying in the United States. Makes them too vulnerable. Notify Interpol. Tell them we want Judd Ryder and Eva Blake for possible involvement in a multiple homicide that includes two international assassins, and that a third assassin is likely roaming around somewhere with Ryder and Blake. All are armed and dangerous—the usual warnings. Send photos, bios, everything you have. We want them shut down as quickly as possible. That’s it. Get to work.”

  Gloria did not move. “Tucker was right—international assassins were operating inside the country. He could be right, too, that it’s just the beginning of something very bad. Shouldn’t we find out what they were up to?”

  “Tucker lied so much I doubt he knew when he was telling the truth. But there isn’t a hint they were doing anything illegal except killing each other off. And in some quarters, fewer assassins is a good thing.”

  “And Martin Chapman’s death?”

  Bridgeman shrugged. “Chapman was shot and killed. It could’ve been Tucker’s bullet.”

  “If it was Tucker’s bullet, then it was self-defense. The whole thing in the library could’ve been an attack on Tucker, Judd, and Eva.”

  “Or the reverse. It could’ve been them going after Chapman. Unfortunately, Chapman’s not alive to tell us, and it’s hard to believe anything Tucker, Ryder, Blake, or the Carnivore claims.”

  Her eyebrows rose. She changed the subject. “Would you like me to gather the staff in the lunchroom so you can tell them about Tucker’s head injury? If you’d rather not, I’ll talk to them. They’re going to be upset.”

  He frowned. “Of course I’ll do it,” he said firmly. “It’s my job. Let me know when everyone’s there.” He would praise the legend of Tucker, not mention the shell of an intelligence officer the old man had become.

  Gloria nodded and opened the door.

  Bridgeman spoke again: “You’ll notice I didn’t ask you why you didn’t call me as soon as you got off the phone with Ryder. That’s a dereliction of your duty. I’ll let it go this time, but don’t ever give me reason not to trust you again.”

  50

  Marrakech, Morocco

  Katia felt like a cat, purring and stretching in bed. She sighed contentedly. They had slept long. It was nearly noon.

  “Hello, darling. You’re awake?” Pyotr was coming out of the bathroom stark naked, toweling his hair dry.

  “Yes.” She snuggled back down, peeking over the covers and staring at his long lines, the spray of black hair on his chest, his curly pubic hair black, too, and his cock at half mast. “More?” she asked.

  He had been walking to the window to check the day. Abruptly he turned. Wadding the towel, he stalked toward her, head lowered, grinning widely. He hurled the towel at her. “You’re going to wear me out.”

  She rose up and caught the towel. “I don’t think so.”

  * * *

  Pyotr left to go to his room to put on fresh clothes while she showered. By the time he returned, dressed in a pressed white shirt and bone-colored linen slacks, she was out of the bathroom and wearing her favorite blue sundress.

  “You’re beautiful.” He handed her a pink rose. “I stole it from a vase in the hallway, but as long as it remains in the hotel, it’s not stealing, right?”

  “Don’t expect me to absolve you of your petty sins.” She grinned. “Thank you anyway—I love it.”

  Not only Pyotr had arrived, so had breakfast. Well, brunch, Katia thought. They’d had a long night of off-and-on lovemaking and sleeping. Sitting across from each other at the little table by the window, they drank their lattes and devoured their croissants.

  “I’m going to get fat if I keep eating croissants,” she warned.

  “Not likely. But if you do, there will just be more of you to love.” He smiled.

  “Were you always so handsome?”

  He laughed. “No. The cosmetic surgeries helped. Why?”

  “I would’ve thought anyone who wanted to go unnoticed would’ve had surgery to make them look as plain as possible.”

  “Under ordinary circumstances you’d be right. My last surgery was just after I retired, and being somewhat attractive made me seem less likely to have been in my profession.”

  “Are you growing a beard?” She reached across the table and stroked his holiday stubble. The hair was longer now, springy and soft.

  “I’ll wait until winter to cultivate a beard. I hope you’ll like it.”

  She had a catch in her throat. Was he saying—

  “You look stunned.” He was grinning again. “What did you think? Of course we’ll still be together this winter, and next winter, and next.” He frowned. “Unless of course you don’t want to.”

  She tested her emotions. There was no way she had enough sense right now to test her brain. “I’d like that. One day at a time, okay?”

  He sat back, his latte cup in one hand. “I need to talk with you about something that happened last night. I didn’t want to scare you, but I was worried about the woman who was taking pictures of you. I figured if she were really following you, I might be able to spot her outside the hotel. So I got up around three o’clock and went out. I didn’t find her, but I did find her employer, the person who was the real surveillor. She was operating under the name Laura Billingsley. She’d hired the older woman to take photos as a distraction, because it was me she was following, not you. Billingsley ended up killing her, probably because she was the only witness to what Billingsley was doing.”

  Katia covered her mouth with her hand. She was speechless, horrified.

  Pyotr inhaled. “Billingsley had done a good job on me—she knew who I was, and she’d overheard enough of our conversation to know we speak Russian and you have two names. She pulled a Luger on me. I had to shoot her. She’s dead.”

  Katia gasped.

  “My past haunts me,” he said quietly. “I try over and over
to leave it behind, and then something like this happens.”

  She was silent.

  “Katia? Darling?”

  She stood shakily. “Give me a moment.”

  Her legs were weak. She walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and leaned back against it. She took several deep breaths then went to the sink and ran cold water. Leaning over the basin, she splashed her face until it numbed. She grabbed a towel and held it to her skin. It smelled of Pyotr. She muffled a sob.

  Staring into the mirror, she wondered how her mother had handled learning about her husband’s clean-up work for the KGB. Had she felt as if she had just received a gut punch? Or had she accepted it as filling an honorable need for the country. But Pyotr no longer had the excuse of patriotic duty.

  She stared longer, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to remember what else Pyotr had said. Her memory seemed to have stopped once he told her he had shot the woman. That was when it came to her—the woman was dangerous. She had been armed. Pyotr had simply done what he needed to save not only him but her.

  As if it had been a sudden summer thunderstorm, the horror passed. She was surprised at how calm she felt. She could handle this.

  Opening the door, she saw Pyotr pacing across the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned, questions in his eyes.

  “Thank you for telling me, Pyotr,” she said. “Is there any way you’ll be connected to Billingsley’s death?”

  “I don’t think so. I left her body in the souk. The police have few friends there.” Gazing worriedly at her, he walked to her, his hands helpless at his sides. “You’re all right with me then? You forgive me?”

  “Of course, darling. It’s good you knew what you were doing. You survived, and you cleaned up the mess. Now we can get on with our lives.”