The Book of Spies (27 page)

The danger that worried him most was Judd Ryder, who was CIA, and in that one word lay all the worry in the world: Langley had the resources, the knowledge, the expertise, the guts, to accomplish far more than the public would ever know. One did not cross the Agency lightly, but once done, one had no choice but to end it quickly, which was why Chapman was in Oman now.

The Oman Air section of the ultramodern passenger terminal was quietly busy. He passed tiles, potted palms, and Old Arabia wall decorations without a glance. Turning down a wide arrival and departure corridor, he followed memorized instructions toward a duty-free shop. Near the bathroom door an airport employee in a desert-tan janitorial uniform and a checkered Bedouin headdress was bent over, swabbing the floor.

As Chapman passed, he heard a voice float up toward him: "There's a supply room four doors to your left. Wait inside. Don't turn on the light."

Chapman almost broke his stride. Quickly he regrouped and went to the supply room door. Inside, he flicked on the light. The little room was lined with shelves of cleaning products, paper towels, and toilet paper. He turned off the light and stood in the dark against the rear, a small penlight in one hand, the other hand inside his jacket on the hilt of his pistol.

The door opened and closed like a whisper.

"Jack said you needed help." The voice was low. The man seemed to be standing just inside the door. "I'm expensive, and I have rules. You know about both. Jack says you've agreed to my terms. Before we go further, I need to hear that from you."

"You're Alex Bosa?" Chapman assumed it was a pseudonym.

"Some call me that."

"The Carnivore."

No expression in the voice. "I'm known by that, too."

Chapman inhaled. He was in the presence of a legendary independent assassin, a man who had worked for all sides during the cold war. Now he worked only occasionally, but always at astronomical prices. There were no photos of him; no one knew where he lived, what his real name was, or even in which country he was born. He also never failed, and no one ever uncovered who hired him.

The assassin's voice was calm. "Do you agree to my terms?"

Chapman felt his hackles rise. He was the boss, not this shadowy man who had to live hidden behind pseudonyms. "I have a cashier's check with me." There were to be two payments--half now, half on completion, for a total of $2 million. Ridding himself of the CIA problem was worth every cent. "Do you want the job or not?"

Silence. Then: "I work alone when it's time to do the hit. That means 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 tonight, you will not 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. I'll give you a new phone number through which you can reach me when you have the additional information about the targets' whereabouts. Do you agree?"

The menacing power in the quiet voice was breathtaking. Chapman found himself nodding even though there was no way the man could see him in the dark.

He spoke up, "I agree." The Carnivore specialized in making hits look like accidents, which was the point--Chapman wanted Langley to have nothing to trace back to him or the Library of Gold.

"Tell me why Judd Ryder and Eva Blake need to be terminated," the Carnivore demanded.

When Chapman had decided to bring in outside talent, he had gone to a source outside the book club, a middleman named only Jack. Through encrypted e-mails, he and Jack had arranged the deal. Now he repeated the story for the Carnivore: "Ryder is former military intelligence and highly skilled. Blake is a criminal--she killed her husband when she was driving drunk. I'm sure you've checked both facts. They've learned about a new secret business transaction I'm working on, and they want it for themselves. I tried to reason with them, but I got nowhere. If they steal this, it'll cost me billions. More important, now they're trying to kill me. They're on their way to Istanbul. I should have information soon about exactly where."

"I understand. I'll leave now. Put the envelope on the shelf next to you. Open the door and go immediately back to your jet." He gave Chapman his new cell number.

There was a movement of air, the door opened and closed quickly, and darkness surrounded Chapman again. He realized he was sweating. He put the envelope with the cashier's check for $1 million on the shelf next to him and left.

As he walked down the corridor, he looked everywhere for the cleaning man in the brown uniform and Bedouin headdress. He had vanished.

Istanbul, Turkey

JUDD STARED
down from his window on the jet at the twinkling lights of fabled Instanbul. He drank in the sight of what had once been mighty Constantinople, the crown of the Byzantine Empire--and the birthplace of the Library of Gold.

Eva awoke. "What time is it?" She looked nervous.

"Midnight."

As the jet touched down and taxied toward the terminal of Ataturk International Airport, he checked his mobile.

"Anything from Tucker about where Yakimovich is?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No e-mail. No phone message."

"If Tucker can't find him, it could take us days."

Although there seemed to be no way they could have been followed, they had stopped in Rome on their way to the airport not only to buy supplies but also to disguise themselves. Now as they deplaned, Judd helped Eva into a wheelchair. She curled up low, her head hanging forward as if asleep. A blanket covered her body, and a scarf hid her hair. He put her shoulder satchel and a large new duffel bag containing other purchases on her lap. He was dressed like a private nurse, in white slacks, a white blast jacket, and a white cap. Tucked inside his lower lip was a tight roll of cotton, making the lip protrude and his jaw look smaller.

Keeping his cheeks soft and his gaze lazy, he adjusted his internal monitor until he was comfortably projecting a not-too-bright attendant to the nice lady in the wheelchair. Watching surreptitiously around, he pushed her into the international terminal and showed his fake passport and her real one at the visa window. They acquired visa stamps and passed through customs. Although the terminal was less congested than at high-traffic
hours, there were still plenty of people. Beyond the security kiosk waited even more, many holding up signs with passengers' names.

Rolling the wheelchair down the long corridor toward the exit doors, Judd stayed on high alert. Which was when he spotted the one person he did not want to see--Preston. How in hell had he known to come to Istanbul? His chest tight, Judd studied him from the corners of his eyes. Tall and square-shouldered, the killer was leaning against the exterior wall of a news store, apparently reading the
International Herald Tribune
. He was dressed as he had been in London, in jeans, a black leather jacket, and probably a pistol.

Because he did not have ID to carry a weapon onto a commercial flight, Judd had left his Beretta in Rome. He considered. It seemed unlikely Preston had been able to see his face in London from the floor of the alley. On the other hand, it was possible the killer had somehow figured out who he was and had acquired a photo.

"Preston." The worried whisper floated up from Eva.

"I see him," Judd said quietly. "You're asleep, remember?"

She returned to silence as he continued to push the wheelchair at a sedate pace.

Above the newspaper, Preston was studying the throngs. His eyes moved while his body gave the appearance of disinterested relaxation. He paused at the faces of not only women but men the right age, the right hair color, the right height--which told Judd that Preston had somehow learned what he looked like. Watching couples and singles, Preston missed no one, took no one for granted. He pulled a radio from his belt, listening and speaking into it. That meant he had a least one janitor nearby.

As Preston hooked the radio back on to his belt, he noticed Judd and Eva. And focused.

His gaze felt like a burning poker. Judd did not look at him, and he did not speed the wheelchair. Either action would make Preston even more curious. Then he saw a tall woman sweeping along, pulling a small suitcase. Despite the late hour, she wore large diva sunglasses--and her hair was long and red, like Eva's.

Seeing an opportunity, Judd moved the wheelchair alongside her and slumped his shoulders to make himself appear even more boring in his attendant's uniform. Preston's eyes moved, attracted to the woman. He stepped away from the news store, following as the woman hurried in front of Judd and Eva to a car rental stand.

Judd exhaled. He pushed Eva out the glass doors and to the line of waiting taxis.

AS SOON
as the yellow cab left the terminal, Judd closed the privacy window between the front and rear seats. It was an old vehicle, the upholstery threadbare, but the glass was thick, and the driver would not be able to hear their conversation.

"How could Preston have found us?" Eva asked again. "The Charboniers knew about Yakimovich and Istanbul, but they died before they could tell anyone."

"It's hard to believe Tucker has another leak. IT will be covering headquarters like a mushroom cloud. Maybe it's us. Could Charles have planted a bug on you in London?" As they talked, he watched the rear for any sign of Preston.

"If he did, those clothes are gone. But why would he bother? He thought he had me. Did you see anyone following us at any time?"

He shook his head. They were silent.

"Okay, let's take it from the top," he finally said. "It's not a bug, and it's not a cyberbreach at Catapult."

"If Charles were alive," she decided, "he would know we'd be heading to Andy Yakimovich."

"Peggy Doty's the only loose end I can think of. But she didn't know about Yakimovich or Istanbul, so there's no way Preston could've gotten the information from her."

Eva suddenly swore. "Of course--Peggy's cell phone. Whoever killed Peggy could've found my number on it." She pulled her cell from her satchel. "The only time I dialed out was in the Athens airport, when I called around looking for Andy. I was calling Istanbul."

"Give it to me." He turned on the phone, then watched the screen to make certain it was connected to the network. Rolling down his window, he tossed it into the open bed of a passing pickup.

Eva smiled. "That'll give Preston something to chase."

He smiled back. In the small rear seat of the taxi they inadvertently gazed deeply into each other's eyes. For a long moment warm intimacy passed between them. Judd's heart rate accelerated.

Saying nothing, Eva looked away, and he turned to stare out the side window. That was the problem with shared danger. Inevitably it led to
bonding of one sort or another, and one of the "sorts" could be sexual. He sensed her discomfort, her sudden aloofness, but he was not going to go there and explain what had just happened. Or that he had liked it.

Mentally he shook himself. They were on the outskirts of the city. Choosing a busy intersection, he told the driver to stop. There was a chance Preston had gotten their taxi's plate number.

After helping Eva into her wheelchair, he paid the driver. The taillights disappeared into traffic, and he wheeled her around, heading in the opposite direction. He scanned cautiously.

"There's an alley ahead," Eva prompted.

"I see it." He pushed her inside.

She got up and discarded her blanket and scarf, piling them into the wheelchair's seat. From the duffel bag she took out a midnight-blue jacket. As he removed the cotton from his lower lip, stripped off his attendant's jacket, and unbuckled his white trousers, she pulled on her jacket and, without looking at him, took her shoulder satchel and hurried off to keep watch.

He slid into jeans, a brown polo shirt, and a brown sports jacket. Folding the wheelchair and their discarded belongings against the wall, he turned to gaze at her, a slender figure dwarfed by the alley's tall opening, somehow jaunty and more unafraid than he would have thought.

Carrying the duffel, he joined her. "See anything?"

"No sign of Preston. Which way?"

They walked six blocks, went around a corner, and Judd hailed another cab. Within twenty minutes they were in the Sultanahmet district in the heart of historic Old Town, not far from Topkapi Palace, the Hagia Sophia, and the Hippodrome. The taxi stopped, and they got out.

They walked another ten minutes, at last crossing onto a narrow street, at best a lane and a half wide. There were no cars, but trolley tracks ran down the middle. Tall stone buildings from centuries past abutted one another, shops and stores on the ground and second floors. He inhaled. The exotic scents of cumin and apple-flavored tobacco drifted through the night air.

"This is Istiklal Caddesi," he told her. "
Caddesi
means avenue. Our hotel's four blocks farther."