The Assassins (The Judd Ryder Books)

by Gayle Lynds

  Judd hurled the suitcase and shopping bag at Hata.

  Screaming obscenities, the little man leaped out of the way while tissue paper and silky slips, bras, and panties exploded from the bag. Cursing a string of oaths, he dropped to his knees to gather up the garments.

  Eva saw Judd dash off. As she raced around the block toward their rental car, she smiled to herself. Now they would find Krot.

  53

  In the medieval souk, smoke from charcoal braziers drifted past shuttered windows, the odor oily. Streets twisted in a snakelike maze. Katia looked around with relief—the passageway was too narrow for the Mercedes to follow. Perhaps they were safe at last.

  “Who exactly is the person you phoned—Liza Somebody?” Katia asked.

  “Her name is Liza Kosciuch,” Pyotr told her. “She grew up in Warsaw and Leningrad. We’ve known each other since the old days. Her inn is private, the sort of place the police ignore and others fear. No one talks about it. No one can find it even if they’ve heard rumors of its existence.” He gestured. “This is it.”

  They stopped at a three-story building, where a small round window near the top of a short door was covered by an ornate iron grille that appeared strong enough to bar a prison cell.

  Pyotr knocked, and soon the window opened. Behind the grille appeared the face of a middle-aged woman. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight, and her chin square. Deep lines cross-hatched her cheeks. She must have been a great beauty in her day.

  “Ah, is you, Pyotr.” She had a heavy Russian accent.

  “Hello, Liza,” he said. “Glad you can take us in.”

  “Naturally.”

  The face retreated, and the window closed. As Pyotr found his wallet and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, the door opened.

  Liza beckoned. “Come.”

  Bending over to pass through the doorway, they left the drabness of the souk for a bright foyer with a high ceiling, sunny yellow walls, and a tile floor that was a mosaic of blue and green. Katia looked eagerly around. An antique silver samovar shone atop a mahogany table. But the centerpiece was Liza herself. Her luxuriant silver-gray hair was pulled back in sterling clips, and she was dressed in a baby-blue Donna Karan jogging suit.

  “I appreciate your help.” Pyotr tried to hand the greenbacks to Liza.

  She waved him off. “Is always pleasure to see you, Pyotr. And who is this beautiful woman?”

  “Katia Levinchev,” Pyotr told her. “Katia, meet a Cold War heroine.”

  Liza laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Welcome to safety.”

  As Pyotr returned the money to his pocket, Katia studied the foyer. Perhaps eight feet wide, it extended twelve feet to a generous arch through which a corridor showed. Inside the arch stood a silent, heavyset man with shoulders like boxcars. He carried some kind of rifle. His eyelids blinked slowly as he watched them.

  “Spartak, you remember Pyotr,” Liza told him. “This is his lady friend. First lady friend he ever show me.”

  Spartak nodded. “Da.” There was a straight-back wood chair behind him. Sitting down, he laid the rifle across his lap, one hand firmly on the grip.

  “So, Pyotr, you look good,” Liza said. “Any more big changes since Switzerland?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” He took Katia’s hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. “I want to marry Katia.”

  “Oh? You are crazy new man. What next—babies?” She laughed. “But what about you?” She turned to Katia. “Will you marry this broken-down old assassin?”

  “I’m thinking about it.” The truth was, despite everything, she did want to marry him.

  “I hear hesitation,” Liza decided.

  Katia shrugged. “We still have things to talk about.”

  Liza’s eyes narrowed, and she studied them. “Is wacky world we live in. Cold War made sense. Grab happiness while you can.” She turned to Pyotr: “Your room is ready. Your luggage is here soon. I will call when Hata is close.” She handed him an electronic key. “Enjoy.” Opening a door next to the samovar, she disappeared.

  His gaze bored, Spartak said nothing as they passed him.

  More tiles paved the hall. To the left, the top half of a Dutch door was open, showing a spotless kitchen. At last Pyotr stopped at a simple wood door, no peephole. “This is ours.” Using Liza’s electronic key, they entered to the romantic music of Sergei Rachmaninoff. It filled the room.

  “Oh, my God.” Katia walked inside, listening excitedly. “Piano Concerto Number Two.”

  Locking the door, Pyotr grinned at her. “Rachmaninoff himself is playing. There’s nothing like great Russian music played by a great Russian composer. It was recorded in 1929.” He sat on the love seat, watching her.

  “How did you— Oh, never mind.”

  As the music soared, she wrapped her arms around her breasts and closed her eyes. Each note seemed to resonate within her, and in her mind it was spring in Bedford, with the linden trees leafing and tulips blooming along Main Street. She had finished her homework, the dinner dishes were done, and they were watching television. Papa and Mama were on the couch, his arm around her, and Katia was sitting on the floor between them, feeling their legs pressed against her shoulders. It was a sweet feeling, the tactile sensation of protective love.

  At nine o’clock, she had gone off to bed. Then something unusual happened—Papa said good night not only in the living room, but came into her bedroom as well.

  “You are happy in school?” He sat on the edge of her bed.

  “I like it.”

  “No, you’re not happy.” His blue eyes scoured her face, looking for the truth of her.

  “I miss home,” she admitted.

  “Of course you do. Your mother and I do, too.”

  He had a simple face, nothing distinctive about it, but a good face, a solid peasant face with a snub nose and round cheeks and curly brown eyebrows.

  “Always remember you come from Stalingrad,” he told her. “Two million Soviets and Germans died there in World War Two. The city survived and became great again. When you have problems, think about their resolve and their sacrifices, and you’ll come through like Stalingrad, still standing.” He looked down at his hands. “Have fun, too. You have a good life ahead of you, my dear Katyusha.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and both cheeks. With a big smile, he stood. In the doorway he turned and gave her a cheery wave.

  But she did not see him again for years. For a few seconds, she could still feel the security of his presence, could still smell his old-fashioned aftershave, Old Spice. Her throat tightened. But then the music ended.

  54

  The room was quiet except for the warm crackle of the fire in the stone fireplace. Katia saw Pyotr was watching her from the love seat, head cocked, smiling tenderly.

  She sat beside him. “My parents loved Rachmaninoff’s music.”

  “Liza always has something Russian playing for me. Kind of her.”

  “But you don’t pay for the room.”

  He hesitated. “Years ago we happened to be working in Athens at the same time. I got word she was in trouble. I arrived in time to help.”

  “You saved her. You feel safe here, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes. I’m sure no one followed us, and Liza’s security is cutting edge.” He paused. “Liza’s right, I’ve been going through a lot of changes. Getting older can do that to you. Affairs come and go—I never wanted any of them to last. But with you, Katia … I’d do anything to slow down time, stretch every moment.” He lifted her hand and kissed the fingertips. “It feels to me as if we belong together. You understand my past, what I was. I love you for more reasons than there are stars in the sky, and I think you love me.” He paused. “But if you can’t believe in my love, we should end this right now.”

  Her lungs tightened.

  “Will you tell me how to get in touch with your father now?” he asked gently. “I just want to find a way to reach out
to Seymour.”

  She looked away and bit her lower lip. “Papa is dead. He died seven years ago.”

  For a moment he appeared stunned, then discouraged. “I’m sorry, Katia. I’m really sorry. Did you ever get to see him again?”

  She fought an impulse to rip open the door and run. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, entwining her fingers, holding herself together. “Yes. Once. We met in Vienna. It was … it was incredible.”

  For a few seconds she was with him again, smelling the Old Spice he had put on just for her, feeling the gentleness of his hands. They had laughed together, the joy of it all, the bittersweet pain, too.

  “He was dying of esophageal cancer,” she told him. “He’d smoked all his life. He wouldn’t let me go back with him to where he lived. He said it still wasn’t safe. He was so thin and pale, like a piece of chalk. He said someone was taking care of him. I can’t remember for sure now, but I think he called him Seymour.” Reaching into her purse, she found notepaper and a pen. “I’ll give you the contact information, but it may not be good anymore.” She uncapped the pen and began to write.

  “Can’t you just tell me?”

  She gave a hard shake of her head. “No, getting in touch with him was always very secret. I don’t know why, but I’m not going to start questioning it. Here’s the phone number.”

  He leaned close. “Baghdad?”

  She nodded. “He’d been in Baghdad for years. Whoever answered spoke Arabic.” She pointed to the words with her pen.

  “Is it a real business?”

  “I don’t know. Next you say, ‘I need to buy some wrenches’ in Russian. That was when I’d be told he’d call me back at a specific time. I don’t know where this will lead you—or maybe it’s just a dead end.”

  He studied the instructions. “Got it.”

  “Good.” Wadding up the paper, she walked to the fireplace and tossed it into the blaze. She turned.

  He smiled. “I love you,” he said simply. “I know that was hard.”

  A phone rang. It was sitting on a writing desk next to his elbow.

  He answered. “Yes, thanks.” Then to Katia: “Our suitcases are here. We can pick them up in the garage.”

  55

  Alex Bosa sat in his darkened trijet on the tarmac of Marrakech-Menara Airport, checking local news on his iPad. It was not long before he discovered why his surveillance expert had not reported on schedule—she was dead, shot sometime between three and four o’clock this morning.

  Crossing his arms, Bosa mulled. Her murder explained the lapse before her most recent e-mailed report. Whoever had written it had been motivated to pretend she was still alive. The logical deduction was Krot had wiped her then impersonated her to lull Bosa into thinking nothing unusual was going on in Marrakech.

  Bosa felt his iPhone vibrate. He checked the digital identification—Sacher Torte.

  Bosa answered immediately. “You have news?”

  “More than that … an answer.” There was an unusual amount of steel in the timbre of the old voice, which told Bosa something had happened—or was about to. “I did some digging into the woman Krot’s been romancing. From everything I could learn, her American identity started some twenty-five years ago. Before then, she was a cipher. So I ran her face through several Cold War data banks of known spies. Here’s the shocker—she looks a lot like Roza Levinchev. Remember Roza? She was married to Grigori Levinchev, the bastard. I’m going to forward the photos and background to you. On top of the physical resemblance, the young woman’s arrival in Maine coincided with Roza’s assignment to Marrakech.”

  “Jesus.” Bosa closed his eyes in frustration. “So Krot’s involved with Grigori’s daughter. If I remember correctly, Grigori and Seymour worked a lot of jobs together even after they left their organizations.”

  “Indeed they did. But the daughter is registered at the hotel as Francesca Fabiano.”

  “The woman I paid to tail Krot said he called her Katia.”

  “Roza’s daughter was named Katia. Grigori was crazy about her.”

  “How do you know all this?” Bosa demanded.

  “Seymour. He told me years ago.” There was a pause. “Guess I’m getting senile. I should’ve remembered the relationship.”

  Bosa repressed a sigh. They were all getting older, but this was the kind of mistake that could have far-reaching consequences. “Does Katia Levinchev know where her father is?”

  “Why else would Krot bother with her at this point? He’s taken her into the souk, poor deluded woman. But the two kids—Judd and Eva—have planted a bug on the car that picked up their luggage. Clever.”

  “Where in the souk?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Find out!”

  Bosa ended the connection and sat in the low light of the plane. Jack, George, and Doug were in the dining area playing Texas hold ’em. Letting the hum of their voices grow distant, he closed his eyes. He had slept well on the flight, but he could think better in the darkness.

  Making a decision, he opened his eyes and punched in the number to Judd’s disposable cell. He listened to it ring twice.

  “Yes?” Judd sounded distracted.

  “Where are you?” Bosa demanded. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re following the car that picked up Krot and the woman’s luggage. Eva’s driving. I’m monitoring the tracker. We’ve got the Citroën in sight. Christ, there’s some kind of a parade going down the street.”

  “A wedding procession.” It was Eva’s voice.

  “Put your cell on speakerphone,” Bosa said. “You both should hear this.”

  In a moment, Judd said, “Done. What’s up?”

  “The real name of the woman Krot picked up is Katia Levinchev,” Bosa told them. “Her father is Grigori Levinchev, an old KGB assassin. Levinchev and Seymour have been tight for years. Katia’s father may know where Seymour is.”

  “So Krot’s turned up a lead. That’s good news.”

  “Maybe. The problem is, the woman I sent to surveil Krot is dead, and he’s probably the one who killed her. Plus, we don’t know whether Krot and Katia are a couple, or whether Krot has kidnapped her. Go in prepared.”

  “You still want us to try to set up a meeting with him?”

  “Yes, if you can. And if you can’t … use your best judgment.”

  56

  Judd alternately watched the tracker and the traffic while Eva drove. Across the street, the wedding party was dancing and singing down the block. Donkeys pulled wood carts piled with gaily wrapped gifts. Dressed in satin gowns, the bride’s attendants twirled as musicians played drums and pipes.

  Judd rolled down his window. “Smell that?”

  Eva rolled hers down, too. “Marijuana.”

  “Yup. It’s called kif around here. We’re at the back of the souk. That’s it.”

  He gestured to the left, across the traffic to where buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder, two and three stories high, gray and faintly sinister in the streetlight.

  “There’s the Citroën.” Eva nodded.

  It was slowing for the parade. A garage door began to roll up in the sheer wall of dirty buildings.

  “Has to be an automatic door opener,” she observed. “That seems sophisticated for the souk.”

  “Agreed. Check out the mini surveillance cameras up in the eaves. They’re high end, too. Let’s stop here. I’d rather confront Hata in the garage than on the street. If we move quickly, we may be able to get inside and take charge of the situation before anyone can react to the cameras.”

  As the Citroën drove into the garage, Eva parked the car.

  He gave her a look. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned. “Let’s go.”

  Dodging traffic, they ran across the street and landed against the garage wall. They took out their pistols—his Beretta, her Glock.

  Eva stared at the garage door. “It’s getting so low we’re not going to be able to get under. Let’s move!”

&
nbsp; Before Judd could respond, she dropped to her heels and crab-walked inside. Swearing silently, he followed.

  57

  Inside the quiet inn, Katia and Pyotr followed the blue-and-green tile floor down the hallway toward a large steel door. He slid the bolts and opened it. Headlights blinded her. She raised her hand, shielding her eyes, and listened to the rumble of a powerful automobile engine coming to rest. The headlights went dark, and overhead fluorescent lights turned on. The vehicle’s engine stopped. It was a black Citroën.

  Pyotr and she were standing on a large platform above the two-vehicle garage. As they walked to the rail, the door opened behind them, and Spartak appeared, cradling his rifle. He inspected the area then stepped aside. Liza hurried past him, carrying a pistol. Two guards followed closely.

  Her expression tense, Liza stopped at the top of the steps. “We have uninvited visitors,” she told them. “Stay up here.”

  Pyotr slipped his PB pistol from his shoulder holster. “Need help?”

  “No. Is covered.”

  Motioning, Liza led the men downstairs and past the Citroën to the big door. She divided them in half—Spartak and she on one side, and the two other guards on the other. All moved back into the shadows. Seconds later, two strangers—a man with light brown hair and a redheaded woman—slid in under the closing door, pistols up and ready. Their expressions were wary.

  “Now!” Liza ordered.

  She and her people converged, their weapons aimed down at the crouching pair. The couple exchanged a glance and stood, swinging their pistols slowly around, but they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

  Liza cocked her head, studying them. “Before you ask, you do not get to know my name or what this place is. Unless you behave yourselves, you will not leave alive. So, to begin, you must answer two questions: Who are you? What are you doing here?”