The Assassins Part 9

"Absolutely. And I keep the cuneiform pieces."

"Done." Chapman walked to his desk, his stride long and purposeful. He checked his Rolodex and dialed. "Senator Leggate, please. Martin Chapman calling." The mogul tapped the toe of one of his boots on the parquet floor. "She's not? Patch me through to her cell." His tone grew cold as he continued, "Then as soon as she gets reception, tell her to call me." Chapman hung up, his expression irritated. "She's back in Colorado, meeting const.i.tuents in some remote mountain resort. She's due to helicopter into Denver in a couple of hours. She knows to return my calls quickly. She'll phone from the air."

"Why Senator Leggate?"

"The answer is Tucker Andersen. If anyone knows how to find Judd, it's usually Tucker. The two are close friends. Senator Leggate is on the Intelligence Committee. She doesn't have to guess where the bodies are buried at Langley. She'll have ways."

"Why didn't you contact her for the Padre when he was looking for Ryder?" Eli asked.

"How do you think he found out Ryder was in Iraq?"

Eli nodded. Contacts were everything, for both billionaires and a.s.sa.s.sins.

24.

Williamsburg International Airport

Newport News, Virginia

As a cool afternoon wind whipped across the tarmac, Eva Blake followed Frank Smith up the staircase into a Dash 8 twin-engine plane. Holding about thirty pa.s.sengers, it had a standard configuration of a central aisle lined with rows of two seats on either side. Frank and she were the only pa.s.sengers.

Frank closed and secured the door. There was a sudden hush, and for a moment Eva felt as if she were in a time capsule, suspended, waiting for the unknown. Suddenly she was nervous. For what exactly did Tucker want her?

Frank hung their coats in the forward closet. With a courtly gesture, he indicated she should precede him down the aisle. She chose a seat above the wing, and he sat across from her. Dressed in charcoal-gray wool slacks, a gray-and-white herringbone jacket, and a pale blue b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, he looked every bit the professor.

"How long have you been CIA, Frank?" She peeled off her brown wig, and her red hair tumbled to her shoulders. She sighed with relief. A wig was like wearing a heating pad shaped like a skullcap.

"Too long, and not long enough," Frank told her. "As a round figure, let's say thirty years. One of the greatest tragedies I've witnessed is that Langley's only famous spies seem to be the failures and the traitors. Pity, when so much crucial work is done by the vast majority who must remain unsung. Still, I'm not near my expiration date yet, so I hope to be in use long enough to see the public perception of Langley improve."

Eva studied him, the large elegant nose, the good bone structure, the solid body. There was something familiar about him. She watched his gestures, listened to the timbre of his voice.

"Here's a little insider intel." He waved his hand grandly, taking in the aircraft. "This is a Dash turboprop, as you no doubt noticed. If you were in Afghanistan a few years ago, you would've seen her or one of her sisters bristling with unusual antennae. That's because Langley was secretly using them for 'special' transportation. That's just between you and me and the exit row, of course."

She asked where he had been stationed and the operations on which he had worked. But no matter how she phrased her questions over the next few hours, she never got real answers from him. He seemed to be the ultimate spy-charming, anecdotal about irrelevant topics, and close-mouthed about what mattered. As they sat on the tarmac of the Williamsburg airport waiting for word from Tucker, the pilot served soft drinks and sandwiches. Frank worked on e-mail. She had no computer, but the pilot brought her newspapers and magazines. Thinking about what Tucker might have in mind for her, she scanned through them, noting that the b.l.o.o.d.y lead-up to the election of Iraq's next prime minister dominated the news.

At last the c.o.c.kpit door opened, and the pilot walked toward them, carrying a satellite phone.

"We have a message from Tucker?" she asked eagerly.

Nodding, he touched the b.u.t.ton that activated the speakerphone.

The voice was a woman's, and her tone was authoritative. "My name is Jane Squires. Tucker says you're to fly to Merrittville Airport in Maryland and wait there for instructions."

Frank Smith's voice boomed, filling the aircraft. "What's this all about?"

"Someone named Martin Chapman," the woman said.

Eva felt a burst of adrenaline. "Is Chapman involved in something we can get him for?"

"Ask Tucker when you see him." Squires hung up.

The pilot snapped his phone shut and announced, "We'll take off as soon as I get clearance." He walked back to the c.o.c.kpit.

Frank focused on her. "You seem to know something about Martin Chapman."

Eva's chest was tight. She glanced down at her hands, saw they were clenched. She took a deep breath. "He set me up so it looked as if I killed my husband in a drunk driving accident. I spent three years in prison. Not jail, prison." Without thinking, she was back in the Central California Women's Facility, a harrowing world of steel bars, guards, and violence. She thought she would lose her life, then her mind. Instead it had hardened her, made it easier to tune out what she did not want, made it possible to give up what she thought she needed.

"Tucker got me out to help him with an operation," she went on, "and that's where Chapman came in again. He sent people to kill a colleague and me, and we were shot up rather badly. I don't like it when a criminal doesn't pay for his crimes, but most of the people who could've testified against Chapman died. Then, when the operation ended in Greece, Chapman's lawyers brokered a deal between the Greek and U.S. governments. Chapman and his cronies paid off Greek officials, who agreed not to prosecute them, and the U.S. backed off because the CIA had been caught operating on Greek soil illegally."

Frank frowned. "That's terrible. Was the colleague you mentioned Judd Ryder? Before you ask, I naturally did my homework about you."

"Yes." In her mind she could see Judd's face, feel the warmth of his smile ... and she was back in Los Angeles four months ago. Her house had been sold, and her things were packed and on their way to Judd's place on Capitol Hill, where they would live together. It was one of those perfect Southern California evenings. The sun was setting in a dramatic swath above the glittering lights of the city. Judd and she stood on the balcony of their room at the Chateau Marmont. He leaned close, his breath spicy. She lifted her lips, and he cradled her chin and kissed her. Heat spread into her belly and legs. She pushed him back into their room, and they hurried to their bed.

Afterward, they returned to the balcony, holding hands, their flesh moist, the aroma of good s.e.x lingering around them. There are rare times when one is in the right place at the right time, doing the right thing with the right person, and that was how she felt. They were together. They were happy. The mood was right to tell him.

"Tucker phoned," she said. "Langley has accepted me. I'm to start in two weeks, first at headquarters, then I go to the Farm."

"You're sure it's what you want?"

"Yes, but I want you, too. We're bigger than our differences over this."

He gazed at her, his expression somber. "It'd ruin me, Eva." He turned back into the room and walked through the shadows to the pile of clothes on the floor.

She followed him. "I don't understand."

He dressed. "The truth is, I was an a.s.sa.s.sin. A hit man, a closer, a clean-up man, a janitor, an executioner." He said the words as if he were pounding nails. "With you in the business, it'd be a daily reminder of what I did. What I was. What I could easily slip back into again."

"But you were working for the government. It was your job."

He shook his head hard. "I came to like it." And he was gone, the hotel room door closing softly.

Now she was sitting on an airplane, waiting to fly off to meet Tucker for a new mission. She closed her eyes and inhaled. She had never stopped missing Judd. She wished she could let him know Chapman had resurfaced, but Judd would not be back from Iraq until tomorrow.

25.

It was twilight when the plane took off, heading north. For a long while Eva looked out her window, unseeing, then she slept. When she awoke, it was night, and they were flying over a vast expanse of snow-mantled hills and streams. The lights of a town sparkled ahead. By the size of it, perhaps fifteen thousand souls.

"Merrittville?" she asked Frank.

He nodded. "The airport is on the north side. A little terminal, a control tower, and just two runways. The runways are large enough to land a 737. They've become a low-ha.s.sle backup for planes that might've otherwise touched down at Dulles or National or even Baltimore. Discreet, too."

She said nothing, understanding. Movie stars, political celebrities, and well-known scoundrels would find the airport useful when dodging the press, divorcing spouses, or even the law.

"Nap well?" he asked.

"I did. And you?"

"No rest for the wicked." He lifted his head and smiled.

She admired his ability to appear serene while her insides were quivering.

The plane made a wide loop, and the landing strip appeared ahead. Touching down, the craft taxied to a fenced-off area marked for private planes. After the engines turned off, the pilot emerged again from the c.o.c.kpit. He was carrying his phone again.

Eva straightened in her seat. "Has Tucker called?"

He shook his head and touched the speakerphone b.u.t.ton.

"This is Jane Squires." It was the same woman's voice. "Tucker sends his apologies that he can't personally talk to you. He has a message for you, Frank. He had me arrange a rental car for you. It's waiting at Peebles Air and Land Transportation. You should be able to see the place from your plane. Your orders are to drive to Martin Chapman's house."

She related the address.

Frank wrote it down.

Puzzled why she was not included, Eva memorized it.

"Tucker will call while you're en route to discuss exactly where you're to go and what he wants you to do, Frank," the voice continued. "As for you, Ms. Blake, Tucker sends his regrets. He says you're to wait on the plane. He knows you have a personal interest in this matter, but as it turns out, he doesn't need your special skills at this time."

"But I-" Eva tried.

"He said you'd argue. Have you graduated from the Farm yet?" the woman demanded.

"Of course not, but-"

"That's Tucker's point. He's ordering you to stay put. This could be more dangerous than he antic.i.p.ated, and you're not fully trained."

Suddenly there was a vacuum of sound. Squires had hung up. Eva stared down at her knotted hands, wanting for a moment to strangle Tucker for getting her hopes up.

"Well, well." Frank shot her a sympathetic look. "Sorry about that, Eva, but you know how Tucker is. The thing to do is to remember you're at the beginning of your career. There are a lot of operations in your future, more than you'll ever be able to remember. Take it from an antique like myself-missing this one will pale against the number you'll be sent on."

She gave a stoic nod. She felt raw with disappointment. She wanted Chapman.

She watched Frank put on his coat and hurry out the door and across the tarmac to the long metal building that housed Peebles Transportation. Soon he was out again and trotting past a row of what looked like rental cars to a Chevrolet sedan parked in a dark spot between overhead lights. He climbed inside. As he drove away, he pa.s.sed beneath pole lights and she could see the car was black. Before the red taillights could disappear into the night, she memorized the license plate.

26.

Merrittville, Maryland Growing bored, Eva gazed out her window, watching the few taxiing planes and the occasional pilot, pa.s.senger, or airport staff person cross the tarmac. A Da.s.sault Falcon 7X docked a distance away. It was the only trijet in the private section. That was as exciting as it got.

As she leaned back and closed her eyes, she heard in her mind, You're not fully trained. She still was bothered by what was going on. It was not only that she had worked closely with Tucker in the past, but also that she had done so well, Tucker had personally recommended her to Langley. The more she thought about it, the more difficult it was to believe he would bring her this far then decide she did not have the chops for the job.

What was going on?

In surveillance training, the one mistake guaranteed to get you booted out of the Farm was missing a surveillance tail. Was she missing something here? You're not fully trained ... it was the word trained that was important. Training.

Her eyes snapped open as she remembered the whispered rumors that there would be two particularly difficult exercises at the Farm. In one, the trainees were "captured" and thrown into a sham POW camp as terrorists. They underwent hours of interrogation, sleep deprivation, and isolation, first to coerce, and if that did not work, to force them to give up the name of one of the other terrorists-one of their fellow students-because it was vital the students learn the limits of their endurance. In the second exercise, the Farm ran a surprise operation on each trainee: Staff and sometimes retired or active officers created a situation that looked real from every aspect. It would be so well executed any normal person would believe it. In spookspeak, the operation was called a movie. The trainee's job was to detect and give evidence of the truth.

If it was illogical for Tucker to sideline her, then this whole situation could be a movie. Her frustration about not being able to make Chapman accountable was well known, and Langley had an entire department dedicated to creating ident.i.ties-"Frank Smith" could easily be an alias.

Eva drummed her fingers on her armrest. Langley demanded its spies follow orders, but it also prized entrepreneurs.h.i.+p. The line between the two was hair-thin, and what was left unsaid was that undercover officers were expected to know when to break the rules. If this really were a training exercise, she needed to reveal it.

She heard the c.o.c.kpit door open.

It was the pilot-Jack-b.u.t.toning his black pilot's jacket. "I'm going out." He reached into the forward closet and grabbed a down jacket.

"Where are you headed?" she asked.

"Next door. The owner's an old friend."

She nodded. "I think the intent of Tucker's orders was for me to stay here at the airport within hailing distance, don't you?" Without waiting for him to respond, she went on, "I'm starving. I saw a pizza sign next to the Peebles building. How about I get us some?"

"Sorry, Ms. Blake, but you've got to stay here. You don't want to get kicked out of the Farm for disobeying orders." Jack added kindly, "I'll swing past for pizza. What can I bring for you?"

She made up an answer then watched as he turned the wheel on the door, lifted a lever, and pushed outside. Cold air gusted in, and the door shut.

Standing up, she paced the aisle and mulled the problem. The thing was she had heard nothing directly from Tucker himself-just from some woman named Jane Squires who claimed to work for him. Since Tucker had brought her all the way out here to the middle of nowhere, the least he could do was tell her what the mission was about. On the other hand, if this were a movie, he might know nothing about it-and she would be able to unmask it as a training exercise.

Hurrying back to her seat, she dug her Farm-issued cell from her shoulder bag and dialed Tucker's new number, the one Frank had given her. Soon the recording of Tucker's voice sounded in her ear. Disappointed, she ended the connection without leaving a message.

She considered a moment then tapped onto the keypad Tucker's old number, the one he had given her months ago. The phone rang three times. Eagerly she listened to the connection being made, but then to another recording of Tucker's voice. Jabbing the OFF b.u.t.ton, she stared at the cell. The messages were identical. Quickly she again dialed one number then the other. Recordings answered both times. She listened carefully. Not only were the words the same, so were the inflections, the emphases, the rhythms.

Pacing the aisle, she hugged herself. It was possible Tucker had made a tape of his message and used it for the new number. But it was equally possible the Farm had made a copy of Tucker's recording and put it on Tucker's supposedly new phone number for Frank Smith to give to her-and she was in the middle of a movie.

She stooped to peer out the window. The door to the trijet was open, and Jack was stepping inside. As Eva watched the door close, she decided she would rather go down for being enterprising than for being an idiot.