Part 2 (1/2)
There were moments when strong coffee was the only answer. Shaking off tension, Ryder drove through Coffee Blast, got his usual three-shot caffe americano, and parked off Maryland Avenue. He drank deeply, welcoming the heat and caffeine. Then he inspected the double's cell phone. It was disposable, anonymous, no surprise. The address book had no pa.s.sword protection, but it did not need any-it was empty.
Ryder checked the calls the double had made. And stared. The man had phoned Eva Blake's home number. His chest tightened. He kept her in a special place in his memory, Eva of the long red hair and the cobalt-blue eyes that could pierce him to the soul. He remembered the first time he saw her-running through a cold night rain in London, no umbrella, hair flying, frightened and furious as she tried to escape her murderous husband. There had been something about her defiance, her bravery despite being on the losing end of a bad deal, that had gotten to Ryder. Now she was at the Farm, the CIA's highly secret facility at Camp Peary, where she was learning tradecraft. Maybe she was home on break. He dialed her.
”Hullo,” she answered.
Hearing her, he felt a rush of emotions. He had saved her that night in London, and they had grown close. He'd had fantasies they might have a future together. But when the mission they were on finished, she abandoned her earlier life as a museum curator and joined Langley. The problem was, the clandestine life was one he never wanted again. So it was better to keep his distance.
”Hi, Eva.”
”Judd!” There was surprise in her voice. ”Are you calling from Baghdad?”
”No, I just got back to D.C.”
”I thought you weren't coming home until tomorrow.” Her voice sounded strained. Probably stress from the Farm's tough training, he decided.
”I finished a day early, so I decided to move my flight ticket,” he told her. ”And before you ask, yes, it was a productive trip. We'll talk about it later. Right now I have a question. Who phoned you a little after four o'clock yesterday on your land line?”
”I don't think anyone did. Why? What's happened?”
”I've been doubled.” He described watching the imposter leave his row house and then the snowmobiler deliberately run him down.
”My G.o.d, that's awful. You're sure he's dead?” she asked.
”Yes, and it's too bad. I had serious questions for him. What about his call to you?”
”Hold on.” She read him digits. ”Is that his number?” When he said it was, she continued, ”According to my phone, he called at four-twelve. But I wasn't home, and he didn't leave a message. Maybe he called to enhance his credibility. You know, trying to get in touch with me would help to make him look real. If I'd actually answered, he could've said he dialed the wrong number.”
He nodded. ”Makes sense.” But then he warned: ”Maybe not only my double knows about you, his killer might, too. I don't know why the double-or I-got targeted, but his phoning you makes me think you could also be in danger.”
”I'll be careful. Drive over here. We can work on this together.”
He agreed. As he said good-bye, he remembered Tucker Andersen had called and left a message on his answering machine. It was because of Tucker that he had met Eva. It had all begun six months ago, when Ryder's father was shot and killed. To find his father's killer, he had accepted contract work with Tucker, who had been tracking terrorist financing based on a tip the old man had given him just before he was killed.
He dialed the CIA man.
As soon as he heard Ryder's voice, Tucker demanded, ”What took you so long to get back to me?”
He found himself smiling at Tucker's cantankerousness. ”I don't work for you anymore, remember?”
”We both know you should. Are you home now?”
”I am. You haven't been up to your old tricks, have you, Tucker?”
”What in h.e.l.l are you talking about?”
”I've been doubled,” Ryder told him. ”It's a professional job. Did you order it?”
”If I were going to double you”-Tucker's voice had an edge-”I would've told you.”
Ryder nodded to himself. Then he again related the story of the imposter and the snowmobiler. ”The double was wearing clothes I'd expected to pick up at my dry cleaner today, and he was carrying duplicates of my ID. He was killed at the time I would've ordinarily walked to the grocery store. He was following my routine.”
”Who wants you dead?”
”Let me count the ways.” He sighed. ”I searched my row house but couldn't find anything about who the double was or why I got chosen. He was carrying a cell. It's disposable, but he called Eva-”
”You've warned her?” Tucker interrupted.
”Sure. He phoned her land line but didn't leave a message. I need a favor. First, there were three other numbers on the cell. Would you get them checked?”
Tucker agreed, and Ryder related the numbers.
”Second,” Ryder continued, ”I'm hoping the police and medical examiner don't realize the dead guy is my double, at least not right away. I'd like at least a week to stay under the radar while I try to figure out whose cross-hairs I've landed in.”
Once the news was released, the media would home in like heat-seeking missiles. The District medical examiner had in his icebox a cadaver that not only carried the ID of a former member of U.S. Army intelligence, but also had been made to look like him right down to the color of his eyelashes. Photos of Ryder would be plastered on TV and Internet screens around the globe.
”I understand,” Tucker told him. ”I'll see what I can do.”
”Thanks. Your turn. Why did you want to talk to me?”
”Your trip to Iraq. The situation there is deteriorating again. We're worried something new is in the wind, some big operation, maybe devastating to us and the region. I'd like to know what you saw and heard. Whom you met-and trust.”
”Sure, but let's have that conversation later. I'm on my way to Eva's place.”
”Right.” The line went dead.
8.
His heavy wool overcoat b.u.t.toned up to his chin, Tucker Andersen wove among the pedestrians in Chinatown. It was lunchtime, and the sidewalks teemed with office workers. Tucker sniffed, smelling Mexican, Greek, and Italian food. Like much of life, Chinatown was not what it used to be. A lifelong jogger, he walked lightly. He was five feet ten inches tall, fifty-three years old, and slender. All that was left of his once thick hair was a gray fringe touching the back of his collar, so to ward off the cold, he wore a burgundy beret. Tortoisesh.e.l.l-rimmed eyegla.s.ses accented his face, a Grand Canyon of lines. His mustache was brown and his beard gray, short, and, as usual, in need of a trim. He looked ordinary and blended easily, and to him that was what ”style” was all about.
As he put away his secure handheld, he wondered why Judd Ryder had been doubled. He had plans for Judd, and they did not include early death. Besides, Tucker liked him, and he did not like many people. He had just made a couple of calls on his behalf. Now it was time to refocus on the covert business at hand.
Tucker was tailing the Padre, a bulky man who was decked out in his signature disguise-black brimmed hat set square on his head, long black cashmere overcoat, black wool suit, and white collar. With his benign smile, it was unlikely the uninformed would know that the man who seemed to be a kindly Roman Catholic priest was in fact an infamous international a.s.sa.s.sin. A half hour earlier, Tucker had been eating lunch at Teaism Cafe when the Padre had appeared, laid what looked to be a business card on the table, and walked away. It invited Tucker to follow for a meet. No details, just that it would be worth his while.
About twenty feet behind, Tucker trailed the Padre into a wide paseo and then through gla.s.s doors into Gallery Place, an indoor shopping complex of several stories. The contract killer stopped at the Regal Cinemas box office, where he bought a matinee ticket for the new George Clooney movie.
As the Padre stepped onto the up escalator, Tucker bought a ticket and followed. Soon he spotted the three-man surveillance team he had summoned from Catapult. One was at the complex's main entry. The second was near the ice cream parlor. And the third was riding the escalator behind Tucker.
Satisfied no one else was surveilling them, Tucker stepped off the escalator. The scent of hot b.u.t.tered popcorn infused the air, and the Padre was leaving the concession stand with a large bag of it. Unb.u.t.toning his overcoat, Tucker followed him into the theater, where he had taken the aisle seat in the top row. He was already eating popcorn, his black overcoat folded on his lap. No one was within listening distance.
Tucker made an impatient gesture, and the a.s.sa.s.sin moved his legs. Tucker slid in and sat next to him.
”I like George Clooney.” The Padre's voice was a gravelly whisper. ”He owned a potbellied pig named Max. The pig weighed three hundred pounds, but he did not eat the pig. Consider that. They lived together in Hollywood for eighteen years.” He nodded at the screen, where Clooney was jumping off a building. ”I see all of George Clooney's movies. I never miss one.” He ate a handful of popcorn. ”Still, I do not understand why people live with animals.”