Comes a Horseman (55 page)

The man stared at it a long while. When he looked up, he was scowling. The hair around his mouth was bent into a deep frown. His eyes held so much loathing, Brady took a step back. The man's hand came up from under the counter. His fingers were bony, with chipped brown fingernails. He nimbly pinched the card with two of them and lifted it. Without a word he turned, dropped from his stool, and pushed through a curtain of beads that covered a doorway behind the counter.

Brady watched the beads swing in the old man's wake. They rattled like seashells in the surf. He had half a mind to follow. Instead, he stepped up to a table. The books stacked on it were all in Middle Eastern languages. He opened one old volume. Hand lettering filled the pages. A diary or a journal. He flipped through the pages. Sandwiched between scrawled paragraphs was a crude drawing of a face, half man, half bear—split vertically down the center. Now he wished he could read the hash marks.

The beads rattled. He turned to see the old man reclaiming his position on the stool. Once again, he stooped over the book. He no longer had the card.

Before Brady could say anything, a man in his late twenties came through the beads. He was handsome, with short-cropped black hair, black eyes, heavy eyebrows. He flashed Brady a winning smile, big white teeth. He practically skipped around the counter, opened his arms as though he expected a hug.

“You are welcome, my friend,” the man said as though he meant it. His English was heavily accented.

“Thank you. I—”

The man held out his hand. Brady shook it.

“I am Avi,” the man announced.

Brady nodded. He did not think tossing his name around was a wise idea under the circumstances.

Avi seemed to understand. After giving Brady a few seconds to introduce himself, he said, “Nice to meeting you.”

Brady tipped his head. “I need—”

Avi interrupted him with raised palms and a sharp clicking of his tongue. He looked around quickly, possibly to make sure some customer dressed entirely in book-patterned clothing wasn't pressed up against one of the bookcases.

“Come,” he said, gesturing with one hand. He went around the counter and through the beads.

Beyond the beaded curtain was a room stacked high with cartons. Several were open, and Brady could see books inside them. Two long workbenches appeared outfitted for specific tasks. One contained an assortment of bottles and clothes, a blow-dryer, a feather duster, needle and thread: repair and cleaning, he guessed. The other workstation was more obvious. Bubble envelopes, a postal scale, a postage meter, pages of labels. Hanging from the ceiling above the table was an enormous clear plastic bag of Styrofoam peanuts, pinched closed at the bottom with a clothespin.

“We ship world over,” Avi explained. “Our mail order sells . . . uh . . . outsells our retail ten times to one.”

“Books?” Brady asked.

Avi's grin stretched wider. “Mostly.”

He opened a door, stepped through. The room they entered was barren by comparison. Floor-to-ceiling cabinets, doubtless made on the spot, lined one wall. Padlocks on all of them. A large workbench occupied the center of the room. Over it hung a bare bulb, lighted, with a metal coned hood and a coiled yellow tube—Brady recognized it as a compressed- air hose. A single metal chair was pushed back from the workbench. A tarp the size of a beach towel covered something on the workbench that could have been a model of a mountain range. The odd odor Brady had caught in the store was much stronger here, and he knew what it was: gun oil.

“Would you please . . . ?” Avi motioned toward the far side of the workbench. He put his fingers under the near side and hefted it. Only the top came up.

Brady lifted his end. It was heavy. He saw it was a board that had been laid over the work surface of the bench. Avi indicated two sawhorses near the back wall. They shuffled over to them, balanced the board across them. Avi lifted the tarp so Brady could see.

“What do you think?”

It was a huge machine gun. A tight grouping of six three-foot barrels jutted from an open metal box. Sprockets and screws lay all around it.

“GEC Minigun,” Avi said with pleasure. “Seven-point-six-two NATO rounds. The barrel spins”—he twirled his index finger—“like a . . . a . . .”

“Gatling?” Brady offered.

“Gatling, yes! But with electric. Fires six thousand rounds in single minute. Something in front of you—no more. Okay. You take. Enjoy.”

Brady just stared.

Avi laughed and waved a hand at him. “Ha-ha, no. Just kidding.” He let the tarp fall over the gun. “For a very special customer. In South America. You don't want it anyway. Needs a helicopter or tank. Or Arnold Schwarzenegger.” He laughed again. As he did, he hinged open the top of the workbench. It went a little farther than straight up, then stopped. The interior of the shallow box underneath was lined in black velvet, upon which was arranged an assortment of weapons—rifles, submachine guns, pistols, knives, swords, throwing stars, a crossbow, a compound bow, a recurve.

“What do you have in mind for?”

“Just a pistol.”

Ave nodded. “Revolver or semiautomatic?”

“I'm used to a semiautomatic.”

“Then same here.” He picked up a big black gun. “Beretta 92FS. Sidearm choice of U.S. military. Nine millimeter. Thirty-four ounces, unloaded. Three-dot sight. This one with laser grip.” He straight-armed it toward the wall, did something with his thumb, and a red dot appeared against the plaster. It danced around as he jiggled his hand. He flipped off the laser and set the gun back on the velvet. He selected another.

“Taurus PT25. Small weight, twelve ounces. Twenty-five caliber. Not best for takedown, but backup good.” He showed how the barrel tipped forward. “Quick load.”

He replaced it, considered the others.

“You know, anything will do,” said Brady. He felt the seconds ticking away. “How about the—” His eyes stopped on a black cylinder. “Is that a silencer?”

“Sound suppressor,” Avi corrected. He picked it up. “Very nice. The coils keep quiet twenty rounds before needing replace.”

“What will it fit on?”

“I . . . uh . . .” He twirled his finger again, tighter.

“Turned?”

He shook his head. “Machined! I
machined
single barrel for it, so far, but very good, absolutely.” He lifted a small gray semiauto. “Kimber Ultra RCP—refine carry pistol. Modeled after the Colt 1911, but smaller, smoother. Forty-five caliber. Big punch.” He screwed the silencer into the barrel, handed it to Brady, butt first.

Brady pulled back on the slide to verify it was unloaded. He held it out as if he were shooting. Running the length of the barrel was a circular groove.

“No sights,” he said.

“A ‘sighting trench' takes place. Hard to learn . . . uh . . . get used to. No can focus on front sight. No front sight! Close-quarters action, it does not matter.”

Brady thought of working his way into the Italian Embassy. Mostly offices. Some corridors, but he could avoid them. He nodded. “How much?”

“Two thousand, American.”

Brady winced.

“Tell you something,” Avi said. “I will put in a holster, box of ammo, and this . . .” He held up a gray-handled knife in a black sheath with two short Velcro straps dangling from it.

“I don't need a knife.”

“You never can know,” Avi cautioned. “This one go right here . . .” He slapped his ankle. “Very nice.”

Brady appraised the handgun. He imagined pressing the extended barrel to Scaramuzzi's forehead.

“Throw in binoculars,” he said, “and we have a deal. ”

72

T
he buildings of Tel Aviv began rising out of the desert after Brady had been on Highway 1 only a few minutes. They shimmered in the heat, seeming to form from the moisture in the air.

He thought about Asia House. Ambrosi had said it housed several foreign embassies. It was the site of Prime Minister Santo Mucci's assassination. To make that hit, Scaramuzzi had breached it, probably by exploiting the inherent weaknesses of buildings occupied by multiple tenants. Common areas would have the weakest security. That might have changed after Mucci's assassination, but five years was enough time for people to forget and for tightened procedures to loosen again. There would be metal detectors at the lobby doors. He held no delusions about getting the pistol into the building that way. He hoped a quick reconnaissance would give him new ideas about the gun and getting to Alicia.

Halfway to Tel Aviv by now.

Brady slammed on the brakes. The wheels locked. He managed to swerve onto the shoulder amid a streaking blare of car horns. He pressed against the seat belt, then dropped back hard when the Peugeot finally came to a shuddering stop. A second later gray smoke enveloped the car, reeking of burned rubber. It drifted on, dispersing in a light breeze.

He got it, what was bugging him.

Everything about Scaramuzzi was deceptive. He had mentioned Tel Aviv twice—by name and indirectly by implying that Alicia would be held at the Italian Embassy there. Just in case Brady attempted to do what he was going to do. Ambrosi had explained Scaramuzzi maintained a public headquarters and a secret one. He wouldn't risk tainting his reputation, his political rise by bringing an abducted FBI agent to his embassy.

He had taken her to Jerusalem, to his covert hideaway.

On the chance Brady showed up at Asia House with the file, Scaramuzzi's men could quietly murder him and take it; no need for Alicia to be there. Or they could make a show of killing him and claim he was a deluded assassin; even the Bureau might back them up on the deluded part. If Brady demanded to see Alicia before exchanging her for the file, Jerusalem was fifty minutes away; she could be sent for. Maybe Scaramuzzi had been planning on redirecting Brady to Jerusalem all along. Ambush him en route or do it leisurely on his own turf, but where public eyes weren't focused on him.

Brady saw a narrow opening in the traffic, cranked the wheel, and stomped on the gas. The Peugeot fishtailed around, cut straight across the road, and plunged into the shallow, grassy depression that separated the westbound lanes from the eastbound. The front bumper plowed into the rising hill on the other side and tossed soil and sod into the air. It rained down on the sedan, sounding like a barrage of BBs. For five seconds, Brady's only view was of the shifting dirt that covered his windshield. He fumbled frantically with levers and buttons until the wipers engaged. Through the glass he saw sky, baby blue and unadorned. Then the Peugeot's front end crested the incline and plunged down onto the asphalt. A white vehicle, all grille and glass, was shooting toward the right side of the Peugeot. Its front end dipped sharply as the driver obviously tried to push the brake pedal through the floor. Brady caught a glimpse of an oval face with grotesquely round eyes and the black “O” of a mouth that he suspected was emitting a screech to put the tires to shame.

The Peugeot's rear wheels thumped onto the highway and immediately followed the front ones into the farthest lane. The white vehicle squealed past it, missing the bumper by a finger's breadth. Brady cranked the wheel and stomped the gas. The Peugeot whipped around, aligned itself with a white line, and shot forward. In the rearview, cars were braking hard and jutting off in all directions, trying to avoid the accelerating Peugeot and the stalled white vehicle, which Brady now saw was a utility van. The horns again, fading quickly as Brady brought the speedometer needle up to seventy kilometers . . . eighty . . . ninety.

The maneuver not only got him moving in what he was certain was the right direction, but it would help thwart or reveal anyone tailing him. He checked the mirrors and did not see any vehicles attempting the same U-turn he had made. No flashing lights either. Maybe his luck was turning.

SOMEONE WAS inside her head, pounding mallets against the backs of her eyes. Her brain flexed against the confines of her skull. Her eyelids flickered, opened. Gray all around her, swirling, congealing into shapes. A dim bulb in a wire basket. Stone ceiling.

Alicia stared up at it, waiting for the throbbing in her head to subside. She was lying on her back, on something softer than the floor, but not a bed.

The air was chilly, damp. And the smell . . . One of the many trips her mother had taken her on had been to Limerick, Ireland. There they visited Bunratty Castle, built on the site of a tenth-century Viking trading camp. It had seen great battles between Irish chieftains and the Normans and English. According to the tour guide—an elfish young woman whose lilt had mesmerized ten-year-old Alicia—it was the most complete and authentic medieval castle in Ireland. The basement, which had at various times served as storehouse, armory, and prison, had been filled with the redolence of stone and something else. At the time, she could not describe it. Now, with that scent in her nostrils again, she knew what it was: antiquity, as though the walls had absorbed time itself.