Part 6 (1/2)

Eva walked toward him. As she forced a smile, she let her ankle turn just enough that she stumbled. Falling into him, she pressed The Was.h.i.+ngton Post against his chest. Hidden by the newspaper, her hand flew under his shearling coat, found a wallet, and with two fingers confiscated it.

Grinning, he grabbed her elbows, supporting her.

”I'm so sorry.” She straightened. ”I'm usually not so clumsy.” The wallet was now safely hidden under the newspaper.

”On the contrary,” he said genially as he guided her down the sidewalk. ”That was an expert dip. I'd heard you were a pickpocket in your youth. You must've been quite successful, if that maneuver on me was any indication. Now you'll see I'm not carrying any additional papers under another name, and the ones in your hand are in order. Please do check.”

Eva fought to keep surprise from her face, and annoyance. The only other person to make her had been Tucker Andersen, but then he, like Frank Smith, had been forewarned.

”I intend to.” She kept her tone businesslike. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she opened the leather wallet. Inside were credit cards, a Virginia driver's license, CIA identification, and a members.h.i.+p card in the Westwood Country Club in Vienna, Virginia.

”I'm a golfer,” he explained, indicating the country club card. ”Because of the sort of work we do, I've been fortunate to play some of the best courses on the planet. Of course, my favorite is St. Andrews. Scotland, you know.” He rubbed his gloved hands together in delight. ”And the whiskey is like velvet.”

She handed him his wallet. He talked a lot but said little. ”Why are you here?” she asked.

”Tucker Andersen needs you for a job. He's cleared it with the Farm, and I was ordered to collect you. Your supervisor is sending someone to retrieve your rental. I'll drive us to the airport. We're to wait there, ready to fly off at a moment's notice, when Tucker sends word where we're to meet him.”

An excited thrill coursed through Eva. She owed Tucker. Her life in the museum world had exploded when her husband had betrayed her, lied to her, and used her. In the end, she had gone to prison for a crime she had not committed. But Tucker had offered her a reprieve because he needed her expertise in illuminated ma.n.u.scripts. During the mission, she was able to prove her innocence. At the same time, she had discovered she had a talent for clandestine work, and that it gave her life meaning, a reason to go on. When the mission was over, she asked to join the CIA. The only problem was, she had fallen a little in love with Judd Ryder, and Judd wanted nothing to do with the CIA or any covert agency. She closed her eyes a moment, shaking off the hurt.

”I've not been told what it's about.” He shook his head in disgust, giving her the impression he hated being kept out of the loop. If so, he was in the wrong profession.

Eva found her cell phone, a disposable one issued by the Farm.

Smith saw her. ”Tucker has a new number.” He relayed it. ”Go ahead, call him. Might as well get it straight from the horse's mouth. No, no. Really. My feelings won't be hurt. Tucker will tell you exactly what I've told you.”

Eva studied Frank Smith. Screw his feelings. She tapped the numbers onto the keypad. Lifting the cell to her ear, she listened to the ring. Soon Tucker's voice came on in a recording: ”I can't talk now. Leave your name, number, day, and time, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

She left a message for Tucker, confirming she wanted the a.s.signment.

18.

Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

Tucker Andersen had spent much of the afternoon at his desk, going through Catapult mission reports. After the phone call from Judd Ryder, he sat motionless, hands splayed on his desktop, mulling what Judd had said about the Padre, Eli Eichel, limestone chunks with cuneiform writing, and a murdered woman who had been impersonating Eva. Finally he picked up his phone again and made a call.

”David R. Erickson,” a strong voice answered.

”It's Tucker Andersen, David. I need a helicopter, and I need it fast for a short trip into Maryland. It has to carry a dozen people and medium-sized equipment. No big machinery. Can you do it?”

Erickson was a top ”scavenger” in Langley's Support to Mission team, which built and operated CIA facilities, created and maintained secure communications, managed the CIA phone company, and hired, trained, and a.s.signed officers to every directorate. As far as Tucker was concerned, he was a magician. Erickson found the unfindable-supplies, equipment, and personnel-often languis.h.i.+ng unused and forgotten.

”It's your lucky day. A couple of choppers I liberated yesterday just arrived at Langley from Andrews.” Ten miles southeast of Was.h.i.+ngton, Andrews Air Force Base was not only home to Air Force One and several air commands, it was the CIA's transfer point for VIPs and persons of interest. ”One of the choppers is a Bell 412. Should work perfectly for what you need, and it's free until tomorrow. You lead too boring a life, Tucker. I'll call you with the details.”

Tucker hung up and went to his coat rack. A knock sounded on his door. ”Enter.”

It was Bash Badawi again, wiry and casual in jeans and a black short-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt. He watched Tucker put on his sports jacket. ”Leaving?” he asked. ”Aren't you the one who complains about being lashed to your desk?”

”I'm going down the hall to see Bridgeman,” Tucker told him. ”What do you want?”

”The same thing as the last time-something to do. How about letting me buy you a drink? You can tell me what you have going on.”

”I may have a job for you,” Tucker decided. ”Wait here.” He marched through the doorway and down the corridor.

In the reception area, Gloria was busy at her computer.

Tucker stood in front of her desk. ”I need an audience.”

”My, my. I'll check.” She punched the intercom b.u.t.ton. ”Tucker would like to see you.”

Scott Bridgeman's baritone announced, ”Send him in.”

Her eyebrows rose above her gla.s.ses. ”I do believe you've charmed him.”

”Hardly.” Tucker headed for the Catapult chief's door.

Scott Bridgeman was tired and frustrated. He'd had a long day that had included another run-in with his number two, Tucker Andersen. The old spymaster behaved as if it were still the freewheeling days of the Cold War, before Twitter, Instagram, and Wikileaks could blow a black op and the careers of those involved into smithereens. Tucker's recklessness was going to backfire sooner or later and spray s.h.i.+t that could seriously hurt Bridgeman.

Bridgeman watched Tucker walk in the door. The old man's gray hair lay in an untidy fringe at the back of his bald head, and his chinos and sports jacket were, as usual, rumpled.

Controlling his irritation, Bridgeman gestured. ”Have a seat.”

Tucker dropped into a chair and crossed his legs. ”You have word about the week Judd Ryder needs to investigate his imposter?”

”When I asked the ME for seven days,” Bridgeman said, ”he acted as if what I really wanted was to rip out his organs. So the answer is no. Ryder doesn't get a week. However, I did manage to get him three days. Be grateful for it. And he'd d.a.m.n well better turn up something so I don't look like a jacka.s.s for going to bat for him.”

”Maybe that'll be enough to figure out the basics of what's going on.” For a moment Tucker looked appropriately appreciative. ”I've got good news. The immediate problem between the Padre and the Carnivore is over.” He described a two-sniper kill at a private hunt club in Maryland, the facts of which he said were Judd Ryder's eyewitness account. ”The good end is we no longer owe the Padre anything, since he's dead. The bad end is he's no longer available as a source. On the other hand, it's possible there's evidence at the kill site about what was really going on between the Padre, the Carnivore, and the Eichel brothers. Eli Eichel was a notable Kidon.”

”Eli Eichel, the Choirmaster,” Bridgeman said.

”Yes. Which means we've got confirmation that international a.s.sa.s.sins are operating on U.S. soil. Second, there were pieces of cuneiform writing that the Eichels wanted from the Padre, which appears to be why the Padre and his people were killed.”

Bridgeman felt a moment of relief. ”So it could be something personal after all.”

”Maybe. Maybe not. Third, one of the dead women was impersonating Eva Blake. Blake is ours, a trainee at the Farm.”

Bridgeman gave a slow nod. ”That's bad. Were there any other witnesses besides Ryder?”

Tucker shook his head. ”No, just Ryder.”

Bridgeman sighed. ”What do you want?”