Part 3 (2/2)
”Jesus. Someone went to a lot of trouble.”
”They sure as h.e.l.l did. Your double's name was Jeff Goos. He was an actor living in Richmond. I have my people digging into his background. Did you know him?”
”Never heard of him. How long do I have until the cops and ME release the information that he isn't me?”
”The ME wanted to go public immediately, but I convinced him to give you your week. I had to hold 'national security' over his head to get it.” Tucker changed the subject. ”You once told me you didn't know where the Carnivore lived or how to find him. Is that still true?”
”Yes. Why?”
”Have you ever heard of an a.s.sa.s.sin called the Padre?” Tucker asked.
”A longtime independent. Works mostly in Europe.”
”Right. After you and I talked, I had a meeting with him. Turns out he's trying to locate the Carnivore. The closest he's gotten so far is finding out the Carnivore's last job was with you, Eva, and me. Does Eva know where he is or how to get in touch with him?”
”She's never said anything about it one way or the other,” Ryder said.
”If she does know, the Carnivore's got to worry she's told you or me.”
”You're saying the Carnivore might've been the one who killed my double, thinking it was me.”
”Yes. It'd be a threat to his security.”
Ryder studied the street. ”Do you have photos of them you can send me?” He had never seen the Padre, and he had been in the Carnivore's company twice, but both times the a.s.sa.s.sin was disguised.
”We have today's surveillance video of the Padre. I'll e-mail it to you. But as for the Carnivore, no. He's known as the man without a face for a reason. We've never had any video, photos, or drawings, at least that we've been able to dig up. His security is notoriously tight. I'll phone if I learn anything. You do the same.” Tucker hung up.
Stuffing his Galaxy into his pocket, Ryder slung on his backpack, hurried to Eva's door, and rang the bell. The street was so quiet he could hear the drone of the East-West Highway from over the hill. He punched the doorbell again. Finally, he leaned across the porch rail and peered into the front window. A club chair was overturned, lying on its side. The coffee table was broken in half. The screen on the television set was shattered. Adrenaline shot through him. What happened to Eva!
Ripping off his gloves, he pulled off his backpack and dug out his picklocks. In seconds he was inside. He closed the door softly, listening in the silence. He studied the shadowy living room. Besides the broken furniture, there were scuff marks on the hardwood floor and a spray of blood in front of the television. There had been a struggle violent enough to leave blood. Eva could be dead, or she could've been taken away by force. And now he knew the Carnivore had motive.
Controlling his emotions, he ran through the dining room and kitchen. Everything seemed to be where it belonged. Through the rear window he saw Eva's car in her private spot. It was covered by nearly a foot of snow. He ran upstairs, moving quickly into and out of the deserted office and bathroom, peering inside all of the doors. And walked through her bedroom. He inhaled the scent of rose water, her scent. There was no sign of her anywhere.
Spinning on his heel, he ran out, dialing her cell. He pressed his Galaxy against his ear and heard her cell ring into it-but at the same time a phone was ringing somewhere beneath him, on the first floor.
He pounded downstairs into the living room. Following the sound, he stopped at her sofa and dug among the cus.h.i.+ons with both hands. At last he felt two items jammed together. One was vibrating and ringing. Pulling both out, he found a brand-new cell phone-hers, since it was responding to his call-and a GPS tracker. Christ, she was clever. He hit his Galaxy's OFF b.u.t.ton, and the ringing stopped. She would expect the Carnivore to appropriate her cell, so she had managed to be preemptive, hiding both items in hopes Ryder would come as he had promised. And when he did, he would see the wrecked living room, break in, call her, and follow the ringing to discover the GPS.
He turned on the GPS. With a faint beep, the screen came to life, showing a grid of the state of Maryland north of Eva's house. His pulse quickened-a green dot, which meant some kind of vehicle, was heading away on Route 650 at 63 miles per hour. Ryder smiled grimly. Eva left the tracker because she had planted a bug on herself. With the tracker, he could follow her.
Sprinting out the front door and through the cold afternoon light, he jumped behind the wheel of his pickup and sped off.
12.
Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.
Set in the heart of historic Capitol Hill, the organization known as Catapult operated out of one of the area's century-old Federalist brick houses. The sign above the door announced the Council for Peer Education, apparently just another group that had settled here so it could conveniently lobby the White House and Congress. In truth, Catapult was a CIA black unit charged with taking aggressive covert action to direct or deter negative events around the planet.
Arriving at the side entrance, Tucker Andersen tapped his code onto the keypad and waited until the iris-reader recognized him. When a soft click announced the door was unlocked, he walked in. Staffers moved briskly through the corridor, carrying folders color-coded to denote security levels. The old house seemed to vibrate with energy, and Tucker thrived on it.
In the reception area, Gloria Feit peered up from behind her big metal desk, slid her rainbow-framed gla.s.ses down her nose, and a.s.sessed him. ”You appear healthy,” she said tartly. She was in her late forties, a small woman with crinkled smile lines around her blue eyes. Wearing a black wool jumper and a long-sleeved white s.h.i.+rt, she looked more like a nun than a covert officer with a black belt in karate.
”What did you expect-a bullet-riddled corpse?” He unknotted his m.u.f.fler and unb.u.t.toned his wool overcoat.
”With you I never know,” Gloria said airily. ”Here's what we've collected so far about the Carnivore.”
”Thanks.” He took the stapled sheets she held out to him.
”Bridgeman's waiting for you.” That was Scott Bridgeman, Catapult's new director.
Repressing a sigh, Tucker nodded.
”Tucker, I thought it was you.” The familiar voice was behind him.
Turning, he saw Bash Badawi striding toward him. Bash was one of Tucker's infiltration artists. A lean, loose-jointed jock with straight ink-black hair, Bash had recently wrapped up a long-running operation in Rome. He had been home three weeks and was restless.
”Need any help?” Bash asked. ”A mission? A quick trip to Peshawar?”
”You've got to decompress, Bash,” Tucker warned. ”Take it easy.”
Gloria intervened: ”Tucker, the boss wants to see you. Remember?”
”Okay, okay. I'm going.” Tucker walked around her desk and tapped on the Catapult director's door.
”Come in.”
Tucker entered. Scott Bridgeman had the best office in the three-story building, with large windows overlooking the tree-lined avenue. All of Catapult's window gla.s.s was bulletproof and distorted to prevent anyone from seeing inside or successfully using a demodulator to eavesdrop on conversations.
”Have a seat, Tucker.” Bridgeman put down his pen. With regular features, wheat-blond hair, and bulging muscles, he was handsome enough to be a Calvin Klein model. Despite the handicap of good looks, he had proved to be deft in fieldwork, able to vanish into the background of almost any setting. The reverse was true at Catapult, where his presence was unmistakable and constant.
”Glad to.” Tucker tossed his overcoat onto one of the chairs facing the desk and sank into the other. He was tired from all of the day's running around.
”Okay, so let's have the latest.” Bridgeman leaned back, hands clasped behind his head.
Tucker described his noontime meet with the Padre in the movie theater. He explained how the barrel of armaments had landed on the Gaza seash.o.r.e. ”Of course, the Padre wanted something in exchange for the intel-the Carnivore. I asked Gloria to put together a preliminary report about the Carnivore.” He started to slide it across the desk.
Bridgeman waved it away. ”No, tell me.”
”The short version is the Carnivore has been an international a.s.sa.s.sin for close to forty years. Sometimes he was useful to us. Sometimes not-”
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