Part 8 (2/2)

”Come in, sir. My name is Troy.” The speaker was an enormous man probably in his early thirties, at least six foot five, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, and dressed in a dark green sweat suit. Weighing close to 250 muscular pounds, he carried an M4 and wore across his chest a bandolier crammed with rounds.

The bandolier was ridiculous overkill, Eli thought to himself. But then, it fit in with what Eli had learned about Chapman. Behind the big guard stood two more guards-older and smaller-also wearing green sweat suits and bandoliers, also carrying M4s. They frisked Eli and Danny, then led them into a three-story foyer dominated by a life-size painting of an older man. His thick silver hair was brushed back in waves, crowning an unlined, untroubled face. There was something n.o.ble about his erect carriage and the directness of his gaze. From his research, Eli recognized him-Martin Chapman.

With Troy in the lead, they climbed a curving staircase to the second floor and turned down a corridor. The tables and chairs along the wainscoted walls appeared to be authentic antebellum.

Troy tapped on a paneled door. There was a soft click, indicating it had been unlocked from inside.

He pushed it open, gestured, and they entered a softly lit library. Thousands of leather-bound books peered down from three towering walls. As he looked up, Danny's breath exploded in small excited bursts, while Eli simply stared at the ma.s.s of volumes covered in deep brown, rich red, and glossy black leathers. It was a majestic sight. Exhibition cases stood around the room, also displaying leather-bound books.

Across the room, a tall man stood up behind a giant carved desk. He was the live version of the man in the painting. Behind him were French doors that opened onto the porch and the deepening twilight. He was dressed casually in wool trousers and a neatly tucked-in Pendleton s.h.i.+rt. His expression was stern.

”My name is Chapman.” He walked toward them with the graceful gait of an athlete.

Eli shook the mogul's hand, noting the neutral grip, a sign of self-confidence; the insecure either gripped too hard or had no grip at all. ”You've got quite a library here.”

A flash of pleasure appeared on Chapman's face. ”How do you know the Padre?”

”It'd be more useful to tell you what I know about you and Judd Ryder's father,” Eli said. ”For months you've been worried Ryder was going to come after you for killing him, which is why you've got such intense security.” He gestured at the three guards who stood against the rear wall with their bandoliers and M4s.

Chapman laughed as if he had just heard a good joke. ”You're a man who likes tall tales. I had nothing to do with the man's death. Tell me who you are. It's only fair, since you seem convinced you know a lot about me.”

”My name is Eli Eichel, and this is my brother, Danny. I realize you can't easily terminate someone who's a threat to you, so we'll do it for you. All I need is help finding Ryder.”

Danny had been ambling around the room, gazing at the walls of books. He announced to Chapman, ”You have eleven hundred forty board feet of bookshelves.”

Chapman's eyebrows rose in surprise. ”How did you figure that out?”

”A simple calculation. Once you know how long a shelf is, you multiply it by the number of them on the wall, and that gives you the total for that wall. There are three walls of books, and all are of equal size, so the figure then must be tripled.”

”I didn't see you measure any of the shelves,” Chapman said. ”How do you know how long they are?”

”It has to do with the waves.” Danny's expression was almost doting; he had found an interested pupil. ”I see three waves for every foot. Waves are pieces of air that wrinkle. So I just wait until I see the wrinkles. The farther I am from a line, the harder it is to see them, but if the light's decent and I have time to wait, I can be pretty accurate.”

Chapman said nothing. He simply stared for a moment, then turned to Eli. ”Is he an idiot savant?”

”No, autistic. What's really important is he's a gifted sniper.”

Chapman's gaze narrowed. ”Independent?”

”Yes, both of us, for more than thirty years. But we're comfortable with other means of a.s.sa.s.sination, too.”

Chapman watched Danny continue to roam the room.

”What will he do next?” Chapman asked.

”If you'd like to know the wattage of your lightbulbs, individually or collectively, he can tell you-or the depth of your rugs, or the average width of your books, or how quickly he can use Krav Maga to kill the three men guarding your door.” In Hebrew, krav maga meant ”close combat.” Brutal and efficient hand-to-hand combat, it was stressed at Mossad's two-year training course at their school in the city of Henzelia, near Tel Aviv.

Chapman gestured at Danny. ”He's Mossad?”

”No, I was. After Henzelia, a few of us were sent to a special camp in the Negev Desert to become executioners. Bullets, blades, bombs, poison, the garrotte, and of course the body, especially the hands. After I resigned, I taught Danny everything I knew.”

”And you resigned because-?”

”Danny had become a serial killer. He'd murdered three men in Tel Aviv and a woman in Jerusalem. He was fascinated by the mechanics of execution, but he needed to learn to do it right, and to make money at it. Otherwise he wasn't going to survive. I've always taken care of my little brother.”

Danny slid a book out from one of the shelves. He balanced it on his fingertips as if his hand were a scale and he were weighing the book. His hands looked big enough to clasp cinder blocks, almost dwarfing the leather hardback.

”Is what your brother told me accurate, Danny?” Chapman asked.

”I like perfectly clean kill shots with minimum spray.” Danny curled then flicked his fingers upward. The book flipped over and landed solidly again on his fingertips.

Chapman nodded to himself. He faced Eli. ”You have my attention. Both of us know you don't want to eliminate anyone to please me. You need to find Judd Ryder for your own reasons.”

”The answer is simple-Ryder stole from me. My brother and I were hired to scrub the owner of three pieces of a rare cuneiform tablet,” Eli lied. ”Instead, Ryder did the hit then swiped the pieces.”

”Who did Ryder kill?”

”The Padre.”

Chapman's pale eyebrows rose. ”The Padre's dead?”

Eli suppressed a smile. ”Yes, as well as his wife and the employees he brought with him.”

A moment of terror flashed across the mogul's face. ”If Ryder could get to the Padre-”

”It's more than likely he can get to you, too.”

Chapman looked away. ”He tried once. For some reason he changed his mind at the last minute.”

Eli had not known that, but he could use it: ”Now that he's bloodied himself with the Padre, whatever internal censor stopped him from doing you is gone. You're as good as dead.”

The mogul asked stonily, ”Where have you looked for him?”

”I sent people to his row house on Capitol Hill. His mother's estate in Chevy Chase. Eva Blake's place in Silver Spring. They talked to neighbors, but nothing useful developed. I understand he was close to Tucker Andersen, the CIA man.” He was repeating the reports the Padre's men had turned in to describe their search.

”There's no way Ryder can get past my security.” There was a long moment of silence as Chapman looked away, seeming to collect himself. ”When you arrived, you acted as if the Padre were still alive. Either you were lying then-or you're lying now.”

Eli smiled. ”I said what was necessary to get inside to meet you. Danny, what do you think?”

His broad back to them, Danny had reached above his head to caress the thick gold lettering on a book spine. Without looking back at them, he said, ”Mr. Chapman doesn't care whether you're lying. He just wants to liquidate Ryder. He should pay us a lot because he's so scared his spit is dry.”

Eli chuckled.

Chapman was expressionless. ”Let's be clear ... you'll eliminate Ryder in exchange for information about where he is?”

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