Part 19 (1/2)

She made herself breathe. She liked the way he looked at her, his gaze steady but concerned. His nose was a little crooked, and she liked that, too. Odd that he had not had it straightened. She admired that about him-he seemed not to mind imperfection, even in himself.

He took her hand and covered it with his own. ”Let me fall in love with you, Katia.”

s.h.i.+vers of pleasure spread up her arm and down into her belly.

He pulled her to him. Her head fell back, and she sank into his muscles and heat. She lifted her mouth hungrily, and he kissed her long until she felt weak and had to pull away.

He walked her back into her room, kissing her ears, her throat. She ran her fingers down his cheek, over his beard stubble, and down his throat. Somehow the door closed behind them, and the little bed light came on. Fumbling, she unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt. His mouth went to her shoulder, wet and probing. She arched back, and he slid off the straps of her sundress and pulled it down over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

She could feel her nipples harden. Fingers trembling, she unzipped his pants, and then he was against her, hard, pus.h.i.+ng her into the wall. She shook with need. He flipped up her skirt and slid his hand between her legs.

She moaned, eager to greet the inevitable.

47.

At three A.M. Pyotr untangled himself from the hotel bed sheets. The only illumination in Katia's room was moonlight slanting in from where the drapes did not quite touch the wall. Listening to her regular breathing, Pyotr slid out of bed and padded across the carpet, picking up his clothes. He had a short errand.

Dressing quickly, he left, running along the hall to the staircase then down to the second floor. He was inside his room in seconds, changing into a black zippered jacket, black pants, and black athletic shoes. He slid his PB ”silent pistol” into his shoulder holster. Based on the famous Soviet Markov gun, it had been his favorite small arm since his days in the KGB.

He peered out the door and sprinted to the stairwell again, traveling down another flight, to the first floor. Through the closed door to the lobby he could hear the television broadcasting what sounded like an old French movie.

He opened the door, padded along another corridor, and pressed his ear against the kitchen door. Silence. Opening it, he stepped into darkness tinged with the aroma of cinnamon and cloves. He had scouted the kitchen earlier. With the aid of moonlight from a high window, he headed straight to the rear door. As expected, it was bolted from the inside. It was a solid bolt, but he was not trying to break in. Sliding it open, he was soon outdoors and hurrying along the brick alley.

Her name was Doktor Hanke Brger, or Sarah Rosenblatt, or Seora Agrifina Cortez. Or tomorrow, just plain Jane Smith. She was in a very good mood, because the Carnivore was regularly wiring $5,000 payments into her Liechtenstein account for her reports on the tall man with the black hair staying at the Hotel Fas.h.i.+on under the name Pyotr Azarov. She had no idea whether Azarov was his real name, and she did not care. Her a.s.signment was simply to follow him and report in detail whom he saw, where he went, what he did, and whatever conversations she could listen in on.

Standing in a dark doorway across the street from his hotel, she finished her thermos of hot green tea and honey and smiled at the tally on her Droid. So far she had earned $20,000 for this one a.s.signment, a lucrative gig.

She yawned and checked her watch. Surely by now Azarov and his girlfriend were inside for the night. She was so tired she ached. Surveying the sidewalks and street, she left the doorway and headed toward her riad, the little hotel where she was staying. The nighttime traffic was intermittent.

As she pa.s.sed a gra.s.sy area between two buildings, she had a sense of being followed. It was not so much that she heard footsteps, it was almost a change in energy. She glanced in a store window, hoping to see whether she was right. The only reflection was her own, her narrow face, her dark hair pulled loosely back in a ponytail.

”What did you do with her?” The voice came from behind. A man's voice. She recognized it-Pyotr Azarov.

Glancing over her shoulder, she pulled out a small Luger and sprinted. All she could see were palm trees, buildings, and parked cars. She could no longer hear him, and she did not sense him behind her either. Not slowing, she angled into an alley, dodging cans and crates, then through a side gate she had discovered three days earlier, in case something like this happened.

Azarov was waiting on the other side. His feet were planted solidly, and his PB pistol with sound suppressor was pointed at her. She stopped quickly, hunched over, her body still in running position. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She started to raise the Luger, but as if from nowhere his forearm slashed it from her hand.

Keeping his gaze on her, he scooped it up. ”What did you do with the old woman who was fronting for you? The one who was taking photos to distract me from noticing you?”

Thinking quickly, she reached for her pocket. ”Are you going to rob me? I'll give you my billfold. There are a lot of dirhams and euros in it-”

”Christ, woman, don't be stupid.” Azarov was tall and muscular. There was a darkness in his eyes she did not like. ”What the h.e.l.l did you do with your gray-haired employee?”

She drew herself up. ”Vivienne flew back to Paris tonight. Her vacation's over, and she has to report to work tomorrow.”

”You killed her,” he decided. ”Did you leave her body where the authorities would find it quickly?”

”I didn't-”

He swore loudly. ”d.a.m.nation, you've really f.u.c.ked things up. I'm going to have to figure out how to convince Katia I didn't do it. Who do you work for-the Carnivore or Eli Eichel?”

”The Carnivore, not that it matters. I wasn't able to find out anything about you,” she lied. ”He fired me tonight. How did you make me?”

”Honey, if you have to ask, you're in the wrong business.”

Her lips peeled back. ”I'm sorry I ruined your little plans...”

She did not hear the single gunshot, but the impact of the bullet was like a sledgehammer to her forehead. She felt herself stagger back. Then blackness shrouded her.

48.

Aloft, over the North Atlantic Ocean Alex Bosa walked down the trijet's aisle, carrying a tray with six sandwiches on three china plates. ”I'll finish debriefing you as we eat,” he announced.

”How long until we reach Marrakech?” Eva asked as she chose the plate with turkey sandwiches. She had not realized she was hungry. She ate eagerly.

”It's an eight-hour flight. We arrive in the afternoon.”

”Talk fast. We need to get some sleep.” Judd grabbed rare roast beef sandwiches and chewed.

Sitting in his usual seat across the aisle, Bosa put the last plate on his lap, also roast beef. He took a large bite. ”I'll start with Burleigh Morgan. A bomb exploded under his sports car a few days ago in Paris. He was the central figure in this situation. He was a Brit, and in the sixties, the Brits had plenty of oil interests in Iraq, so when the Baath party took over the country and needed someone to partner with Saddam for some hits on British oilmen and officials, they hired Morgan. Flash forward forty years, and Saddam needs an outsider to honcho the wet jobs on his financiers-”

”He went to Morgan,” Eva said.

The a.s.sa.s.sin nodded. ”And Morgan came to us. All things considered, the money was so good it was hard to refuse-four million dollars a corpse. The problem was, afterward Saddam wouldn't pay the second half of what he owed us. Naturally, we decided to scrub him. But Saddam varied his routine and used body doubles, sometimes five at a time. They were so good, when one brushed his teeth supposedly Saddam was the one who went to bed.” He paused, his voice tight with anger. ”All we could do was wait for an opening. We finally got it in 2003, when it was clear the United States and friends would invade Iraq. Saddam was going down.”

The trijet bounced and swayed. Bosa looked out his window, his brow furrowing as if considering how to stop the forces of nature. ”Morgan found out about a valuable cuneiform tablet Saddam had stashed in the Iraq National Museum. The tablet was supposed to be worth at least twelve million dollars as an antiquity. So we broke in and confiscated it. The problems began when the Republican Guards shot up Morgan so bad he dropped it, and it smashed into bits. All of us took pieces. Since we believed its value was as an artifact, we never got around to agreeing about the details of having it a.s.sembled.”

”It's been a dozen years since then,” Judd pointed out. ”What's changed?” Finis.h.i.+ng one sandwich, he picked up the other and ate.

”We received anonymous, untraceable e-mails that described one high-profile wet job by each of us,” Bosa told them. ”The information was accurate and included contact information for both employers and targets as well as details of the hits themselves. Several jobs, including mine, are still believed to be accidents. None of us wants that e-mail read by anyone else. It could destroy the lives of our employers, and it could lead to our arrests. In any case, it'd make it d.a.m.n hard for us since we guarantee our employers secrecy.”

”Gee whiz, too bad,” Eva said. ”Your employers hired you to commit murder!”

Bosa peered at her gravely. ”One of them was the U.S. government.”

She sighed. ”Of course.”

”What's worse, the sender claims to have detailed fifty jobs each of us did-that's three hundred a.s.sa.s.sinations-in something he calls The a.s.sa.s.sins' Catalog. The good thing is, he'll trade it for the tablet pieces. He says the tablet is a map to some ancient Mesopotamian treasure, and he wants it. He gave us five rules. First, if any of us drops out, he'll e-mail the Catalog to online blogs, TV networks, and international newspapers like The New York Times and The Times of London. So he's d.a.m.n well blackmailing us. The second rule is one of us-but only one of us-can win the Catalog. Third, we have to kill each other off.” Flus.h.i.+ng with anger, Bosa jumped up and stalked down the aisle. ”Fourth, each of us has to keep our tablet pieces with us so they'll efficiently make their way to the winner. And fifth, we have to check in every twelve hours to the blackmailer's anonymous e-mail address. It's a means for him to keep tabs on who's alive, and it gives the winner a way to set up a meet to exchange the tablet pieces for the Catalog.”

”So the last man standing wins,” Eva said. ”He's set up a contest to find out which of you is best.”