by Gayle Lynds
To Katia, the man did not appear at all intimidated. He was lean and muscular, an outdoorsy sort, with a craggy face. His nose was strong, his jaw solid. A good-looking man if you liked them unfinished. He wore a Hawaiian shirt.
Staring across the garage at Pyotr, he said, “My name is Greg Roman. We have a message for Krot—Pyotr Azarov. That’s you.”
As soon as the man identified him, Pyotr changed—the warmth he had been showering on Katia vanished, replaced by a chilly emptiness. She stared at him.
Pyotr did not even glance at her. He was focused on the strangers. His voice deepened. “Yes, I’m Krot. Who’s your message from?”
The redheaded woman interrupted: “My name is Courtney Roman. Are you all right, Katia?”
The woman was probably in her early thirties, Katia judged. Pretty enough, with an oval face and blue eyes. There was an air of confidence about her.
The question brought Katia up short. She had made peace with Pyotr’s lies, and she had been happy. But now Pyotr was different. His handsome face was a mask. His eyes were flat, without depth.
Breaking her gaze away, Katia cleared her throat. “I’m okay.”
“Krot wants to find your father,” the woman warned. “He’s already killed once. You’re in danger, especially if you refuse to tell him.”
Katia frowned.
Pyotr was getting impatient. “Did the Carnivore send you?”
The man nodded. “He wants a meeting.”
“Agreed, but only under certain conditions. My conditions.” Pyotr did not query, or discuss. His voice commanded.
Katia felt a surge of fear, then fury with herself. “Pyotr!”
He scowled, not looking at her but instead watching the man and woman. “Yes?”
“You’re playing weasel-and-rat with the Carnivore. Do you honestly care? If you could vanish so well the KGB couldn’t find you, then you sure as hell ought to be able to hide from a few assassins who don’t have nearly the same resources.” Katia’s voice rose. “There’ll always be one more meeting. One more threat you think you have to take care of. I can’t live the way my mother did. I can’t keep worrying about you—and me. Stop this. Stop it now, or I’m going back to Maine.” She heard the strength in her voice and realized she meant it.
His eyes still on the man and woman, Pyotr told her, “That sounds good in theory, but a lot’s at stake, and it’s not just money.”
“You’re right,” Katia retorted. “The stakes are huge. Your life. Your future. Our future. Make a decision. This stupid game—or me.”
The garage was silent. She was aware everyone was staring at her. She had surprised them. Good, she thought. Fuck all of them and their miserable lives!
The fingers of Pyotr’s free hand twitched nervously. “I don’t want to lose you, Katia, but I need to do just this one last thing with the Carnivore—”
“Horseshit. Good-bye.” She spun on her heel and marched back toward the door and pushed it open.
“Wait!” Pyotr’s voice sounded like the Pyotr she knew. “I’ll quit looking for Seymour. No, I’ve quit. Right now.”
She turned. “How do I know you mean it?”
He holstered his pistol, walked to her, and took her hand. “Let’s leave.”
She hesitated only a moment. “Yes. I’d like that.”
Holding hands, they walked down the steps into the garage.
“As you can see, Mr. Roman, my plans … our plans … have changed,” Pyotr told the man. “Let’s be clear. The Carnivore doesn’t want a meeting with me as much as he wants my tablet pieces and information about how to find Seymour. I still don’t know where Seymour is, and I’m quitting the business for the last time. Both are the truth. Here, take my cuneiform pieces.” Moving slowly, he reached inside his jacket and removed the aluminum box. “This will prove I’m done. In fact, I’m so done that if The Assassins’ Catalog is published, I don’t care.”
“What about your father, Katia?” the woman asked. “We’d like to talk to him.”
Katia found herself bristling. “You can’t do that. Ever.”
“Let’s take the Citroën, Katia.” Pyotr pulled her toward it. “Our suitcases are already in the trunk. That makes it easy.”
“Yes. What a wonderful idea. Yes.”
Pyotr turned to Liza. “I’ll send you cash for the car, old friend. Do you mind parting with it?”
Liza was smiling an amused smile. “I do not mind. Go, go. Prashcháytye. Zhiláyim vam shchástya!” Farewell. We wish you happiness. “Hata, open the garage door. Our friends are leaving.”
As the door rose, Katia and Pyotr climbed into the auto. It smelled of fine leather. He started the engine. They looked at each other. She could not believe her dream finally had come true.
“I’m so happy,” she told him. “I’ve heard it said you can’t choose love; it chooses you.”
He pulled her across the seat and kissed her.
She let herself sink into him. “Wow.”
He grinned. As he backed the car out of the garage, Katia waved good-bye. The group lowered their weapons and waved back. Soon the Citroën was in the street, and Pyotr was turning the steering wheel to drive off.
Neither Pyotr nor Katia saw a gunman sprint up on the driver’s side of the car. The man carried an F2000 bullpup assault rifle set to automatic. He wore a bulky black jacket and a motorcycle helmet with a dark face shield.
Katia screamed. Krot reached for his pistol at the same time he whipped his head around.
The gunman made it a rule to avoid looking into the faces of his victims. But this time was different. He owed Krot the respect of letting him know who was taking him out. He lifted his face shield.
When Krot saw him, his eyes widened in shock. “But I’m out of the game,” he mouthed.
“Nothing personal,” the assassin answered as he fired.
58
The street behind the souk was cast in evening shadows. Judd and Eva had been heading out of the garage when the helmeted gunman fired into the Citroën. They saw Krot’s face explode, and then Katia Levinchev’s. Blood sprayed through the car and out the broken windows. The gunman had not aimed at Katia, so the rounds that hit her had to have gone through Krot’s head first. Eva’s heart seemed to stop.
The gunman spun on his booted heels and raced off.
“You set them up!” Liza screamed at Judd and Eva from the doorway. “You’re dead, dead!” She aimed her gun.
But they were already tearing off after the killer, who jumped on a motorcycle. As the man kicked it into gear, Judd threw himself at him. But the bike bolted off, and Judd grabbed air and hit the street. Swearing, he started to scramble up.
“Stay down!” Eva snapped. She was crouched, Glock in both hands, firing, as the motorcycle angled sharply into the oncoming traffic. She paused, then had a clear shot as the motorbike wove around an SUV. She fired twice more. One bullet put a hole in the bike’s tail and the second came close to the killer’s left arm. The motorcycle swung in front of the SUV and out of sight.
“Let’s follow him!” Their car was on the other side of the street. She could do a U-turn and—
“Stop, Eva!” Judd scrambled up.
“What?”
He turned back toward the garage. “We’ll never catch him. I’ve got another idea.” Hurrying, he held his Beretta down close to his thigh where it was less noticeable. “Liza may be able to help us find Seymour.”
She caught up with him. “In case it’s slipped your mind, she just threatened to scrub us.”
As they neared the garage, Hata drove the Citroën back inside. He stared straight ahead, his profile wooden. There was a streak of blood on his cheek. Neither Liza nor any of her other men were in sight.
Watching warily, Eva and Judd followed the Citroën. The car’s trunk opened silently, and the metallic odor of fresh blood drifted out. There was Krot’s corpse, tucked in neatly, curved like the letter C.
Liza stepped out from the shadows, ca
rrying a full highball glass. She glanced at Krot’s body and drank. As she lowered the glass, she sighed then addressed them. “I saw you try to stop the prick that killed them. Is not necessary to wipe you. Do not give me a reason.”
Hata climbed out from behind the steering wheel. His white linen djellaba was bloody and matted with gore, and his expression was grim. One of the guards opened the passenger door and lifted out Katia. The guard curled her body into the trunk with Krot’s.
Liza looked away and drank.
Hata returned to his driving post again, and the guard got into the passenger seat. Hata backed the car out and drove off down the street.
“Where will they leave Katia and Krot?” Eva asked.
“In the souk. At least they will be together. Is best I can do for them.” Liza drank again.
Eva hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
Liza gave a Slavic shrug. “Part of the business.”
“Did either of them say how to find Seymour or Katia’s father?” Judd asked.
“No. Are important men?” Liza asked.
“Maybe,” Judd said. “I noticed you’ve got security cameras to spot anyone trying to break in. That tells me you’re seriously concerned about security, and that you may have extended your concern to indoors.”
Liza’s eyes narrowed. She said nothing.
“We can offer you one thousand dollars for any recordings you have of Krot and Katia—video, audio, whatever.”
Liza’s face darkened. She seemed to think about it. “Is more likely for two thousand.”
“Done.” He pulled out his wallet. His Beretta in one hand, the wallet in the other, he thumbed it open so she could see the hundred-dollar bills.
“I should have asked for more.” Liza turned away. “Spartak, watch they do not steal anything.”
A tall, muscular man with a bowling-ball head appeared on the landing. He was carrying a Radom Beryl carbine. Saying nothing, he aimed it at Judd.
Liza hurried upstairs and into the building.
The next few minutes were tense. Spartak continued to aim at Judd, while Eva and Judd pointed weapons at Spartak. No one spoke.
At last, Liza returned, sauntering down the steps into the garage, carrying a CD and her refilled highball glass.
She held up the CD to Judd. “So, American, here is the audio of everything that was said in their room. It is noise activated. Give me money.”
Judd took the CD and turned over the cash.
Liza counted the bills. “Nice doing business with you.” She nodded at Spartak, and he lowered his weapon.
Judd grabbed Eva’s arm and hustled her out. Lamplight cast the street in a ghostly glow. They waited for an old Volkswagen bus to pass and then ran to their car and climbed inside.
Shoving the transmission into gear, Eva drove off, passing the place in the street where the motorcyclist had killed Krot and Katia. “It’s terrible Katia died. She wasn’t involved in any of this.”
Judd nodded. “You did a good job going after the gunman. He planned the assault well and moved fast. He was a pro.”
Judd did not hand out praise lightly. As she nodded thanks, he slid the disk into the car’s player and punched the ON button.
Static sounded, then music by Rachmaninoff. As they drove on, they listened.
59
Life was to be lived linearly, or so Eva had always believed. But now as she listened to the recording of Pyotr and Katia’s conversation, she was thrown back in time to the almost palpable love they had for each other. Against all common sense, Eva found herself rooting for them to survive.
Pyotr was talking: “Will you tell me how to get in touch with your father now? I just want to find a way to reach out to Seymour.”
“Papa is dead,” Katia admitted. “He died seven years ago.”
“Jesus,” Judd breathed.
Katia described meeting her father a final time, and the diagnosis of cancer. “He said someone was taking care of him.… I think he called him Seymour.… I’ll give you the contact information, but it may not be good anymore.”
Eva felt a surge of excitement.
But instead of Katia’s giving instructions, there was a long pause.
In the car, Judd decided, “I think Katia’s not talking because she’s writing it out for him.”
“Bad luck for us,” Eva said, frustrated.
At last Katia spoke again: “Here’s the phone number.”
A few seconds later, Pyotr asked, “Baghdad?”
“He’d been in Baghdad for years,” she confirmed.
Katia told Pyotr what to say when he dialed the number, then the phone rang, and the couple left the room. The recording ended.
In the car, Eva and Judd were silent.
“Poor sods,” he said at last. “At least they died fast.”
“Some consolation. Like choosing the flavor of your poison.”
He nodded. “Pyotr may have been a master emotional manipulator, but in the end, it sure looks as if his own feelings took over. He let his guard down when they left the garage. He got them both killed.”
They drove southwest on Avenue Guemassa past groves of citrus trees. The number of camels, donkeys, and carts were few. Ahead loomed the modern Marrakech-Ménara International Airport.
Eva sighed. “All we salvaged out of this mess was incomplete directions to Seymour, and no guarantee he’s still in Baghdad. Are you sure you want to go back to Bosa’s plane and report in?”
He glanced at her. “Other than the usual risk of working with him, did you have something else in mind?” He leaned back against the door and crossed his arms, studying her.
As she drove, she focused on the street and changed the subject. “I didn’t see another tail on the Citroën while we were following it, did you?”
“No. Go on.”
“Pyotr said he was sure no one had followed them into the souk. So if no one followed them, and no one besides us followed the baggage, how did the motorcyclist know to be at the garage door, ready to kill Pyotr?” Without waiting for him to respond, she continued. “Of course, Liza could’ve called the motorcyclist to alert him, but I doubt she’d betray Pyotr.”
“Your deduction?”
“Someone followed us. The only person we told what we were doing and who had reason to terminate Pyotr was the Carnivore. He knew we were waiting at their hotel. He knew our rental car was around the block. When we talked to him on the phone, he might not have been on the plane. He could’ve been staking out our car. What I don’t understand is how we missed a motorcycle on our tail.”
“If he planted a transmitter on our car just as we did on the Citroën, he would’ve been able to stay out of sight as he tailed us.” He hesitated. “There’s something I’m missing. A piece of logic, maybe.”
“I don’t think the Carnivore lied to us about anything … at the same time, I’m equally sure he hasn’t told us the complete truth. What worries me is he may wait so long to fill us in that he’ll put us in danger. Sometimes I wonder whether he considers us expendable.”
“He went to a hell of a lot of trouble to save us from the Padre,” Judd said.
“He could’ve changed his mind since then.”
Judd nodded. “Still, unless you know something I don’t, the Carnivore remains our best lead.”
“Yeah, but he’s about as trustworthy as a hedge fund manager with an insider tip.”
They left the car in the rental agency’s lot. Gray clouds floated overhead, hiding the moon. Scanning, they hurried across the tarmac.
“The plane’s engines are running,” Judd noted. “He’s eager to leave.”
They broke into a jog.
The door opened, and Alex Bosa walked out to the top of the staircase. The craft’s interior light glowed around him. “Glad you made it,” he said as they climbed the staircase. “I’ve been watching for you.” It was hard to see his expression in the darkness, but his voice was as strong and authoritarian as ever. “Is Seymour in Baghdad
?”
“He was a few years ago,” Judd said. “How in hell did you know about Baghdad?”
“Come inside. I’ll tell you.”
BURLEIGH MORGAN
[A]ssassination remains hardly a dying institution worldwide. Political assassination exists and has existed ever since humankind formed a body politic.
—Encyclopedia of Assassinations, Carl Sifakis
60
Aloft over North Africa
Bosa hustled Judd and Eva onto the trijet, drew up the staircase, and locked the door. The accelerating growl of the engines told Judd the craft was in final preparation for takeoff.
Bosa stuck his head into the cockpit, where Jack was in the first officer’s seat with George, his copilot, beside him. “Baghdad,” Bosa ordered.
As the aircraft rolled across the tarmac, Eva, Judd, and Bosa rushed to their seats and strapped in. Bosa was on one side of the aisle in his usual place, his iPad beside him, his collection of cuneiform pieces on a tray on his other side. Across from him, Judd and Eva turned their seats so they could see him and each other.
Once they were in the air, Bosa said, “Tell me what you learned.” His large face seemed weary. Still, he favored them with a smile.
Eva looked Bosa in the eye. “Why did you kill Katia Levinchev, Alex?”
He frowned. “It wasn’t me. Tell me what happened.”
“Both Krot and Katia are dead,” Judd said. He related the events in Liza Kosciuch’s garage. “No one but you knew about our rental car and that we’d bugged the Citroën that was carrying Krot’s and Katia’s luggage to them.”
“Ah, I see,” Bosa said. “You think I followed you.”
“I can understand wiping Krot,” Eva said. “But you should’ve been careful of Katia. She wasn’t part of this. She was a bystander.”
“I’m sorry about her, but I didn’t do the hit,” Bosa told them. “You’ve got to remember Krot had a lot of enemies, just as I do. You can’t be in our business without them, and some are extremely powerful. That’s just one reason I maintain tight security. I haven’t told you any lies, and I’m not going to start now.”
As the plane climbed the night sky, Judd glanced thoughtfully out the window. There was something wrong with what Bosa had just said, another piece of logic missing—or maybe the same one.
