The Assassins (11 page)

Ryder sighed with disgust. “I bet I drove past the cleanup vehicles. About a mile from the hunt club’s entrance, a flatbed truck carrying a street sweeper was parked nose to tail with a sanding truck that had a snowplow fronting it. I didn’t connect any of it to the hunt club.”

“The Eichels did a hell of a job covering their goddamn bloody tracks.” Ending the connection, Tucker spun his chair around to his file cabinet, opened the bottom drawer, and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. As he poured himself a shot and downed it, warm memories of his previous boss filled his mind. At the end of an aggravating day they would meet in one of their offices to philosophize, analyze missions, and share a drink. Unlike his current boss, she had understood the terrible danger of being risk-averse in intelligence work. If you followed hidebound rules while facing an enemy who had no rules, you inevitably met disaster. She was not afraid to go where the outcome was uncertain. What was driving Catapult’s new boss bat-shit was that Tucker still operated that way—because it worked.

He got to his feet and paced. If he told Bridgeman the hunt club had been sanitized, Bridgeman would say the hunt club had never been the scene of a sniper kill, because there was no evidence—just Judd Ryder’s oral report. And Bridgeman did not trust Ryder.

Tucker turned on his heel and marched back across the room. On the other hand, if he delayed telling Bridgeman, he would have a chance to prove Judd was right about the hunt club, about being doubled, about Eva’s being doubled, and that international assassins were operating in-country—which was what scared the bejesus out of him.

He paused at his desk, poured himself some more Jack. Drinking it, he could almost see his former boss in the shadows of his office, hear her voice: “Dammit, Tucker, you know Bridgeman isn’t going to give you a break on this. Do what you have to do.”

Nodding to himself, he sat and dialed Bash Badawi, picturing his aggravation as he stomped around the hunt club.

Bash answered at the first ring. “What do you want me to do, Tucker?”

“Fly your people home to Langley,” Tucker ordered. “Tell the pilot his next assignment is to ferry me back to Maryland, but to a different destination—Merrittville. If he needs to refuel, he should do it as soon as he lands.”

There was no hesitation. “Want some help in Merrittville?”

“Not this time.” Getting himself into trouble by bucking Bridgeman was one thing; getting his people into trouble was an entirely different matter.

“Merrittville,” Bash repeated thoughtfully. “Doesn’t Martin Chapman have a place near there?”

“Sometimes your memory is too good.”

“Are you going to Chapman’s? Will the Eichels and Judd be there, too?”

“Yes to your questions, but you don’t get any more. And keep what I just told you to yourself. I’ll see you at Langley.” Feeling marginally better to have made a decision, he drank more Jack. Then he dialed Judd Ryder again.

“What in hell’s going on, Tucker?” Judd wanted to know.

“I’m flying out to join you. Are you at Chapman’s yet?”

“I’m about fifteen miles away. Why are you coming?”

“I’ll fill you in when I get there. I’ll be bringing dossiers on the Padre, the Carnivore, Eli Eichel, Krot, and Seymour. I’m hoping there’s a clue in there about this situation. I’m commandeering one of Langley’s choppers. There’s an old airfield outside town. Meet me there.”

After giving Judd directions, Tucker capped the bottle, set it back inside the file cabinet drawer, and put on his heavy wool overcoat. He strode out the door and down the hall. He could hear the tapping of Gloria at work on her computer keyboard.

He stopped at her desk.

She looked up. Her forehead crinkled as she saw his overcoat. “You’re going out again? It’s not on your schedule.”

“I’m impressed you still think I have a schedule, and that if I had one, I could stick to it.”

“Being an optimist keeps me young.” The smile lines around her eyes deepened.

“I like getting old. I’m good at it. I’ve got the printouts of the reports on the Carnivore and the Eichel brothers that you assembled. Now I need ones on the Padre, Krot, and Seymour.”

“No kidding. Krot and Seymour, too. But don’t worry. I’m not going to ask.”

“Good. And I want up-to-the-minute satellite photos of Martin Chapman’s horse farm and the country around it. Building plans, too, if you can get them. Send everything to my secure handheld. I need all of it in an hour.”

She took off her glasses and stared at him. “Where are you going?”

“To Langley.”

“And then you’ll be back?”

“Not until late.” He glanced around. “When the chopper I requisitioned for Bash returns to Langley I’m going to nab it and head north, too. Judd and I are planning a surprise visit to Martin Chapman. It’s better Bridgeman not know anything about any of this, at least not yet.”

She nodded. “So Bash’s report about the hunt club was bad news?”

“Like the
Titanic
.”

ELI EICHEL

[T]hose who do not have power assassinate to get it, and those who have power assassinate to keep it.

—
The Assassination Business,
by Richard Belfield

23

Montgomery County, Maryland

Eli Eichel stopped the Dodge van at a reinforced wrought-iron entrance gate. Above it arched an ornate wrought-iron sign:

The Chapman Farm

Arabian Horses

He rolled down his window and touched the intercom button.

A voice answered instantly: “Good evening, sir. What can we do for you?”

“I’m a friend of the Padre’s,” Eli lied. “I’m here to give Mr. Chapman an update on Judd Ryder.”

“I’ll relay your message.”

Closing his window, Eli looked up, studying the place. On the other side of the gate, a wide drive climbed past mounds of snow and picturesque wood corrals to a plantation-style mansion that was as white and fancy as a wedding cake. Fronted by stately columns, the house boasted railed porches across each of its three stories. The compound was highly secure, with closed-circuit cameras and electrified concertina wire atop the granite wall that surrounded the property. A sentry dressed in white patrolled among the buildings. Unless an outside light shone directly on him, the man was almost impossible to see against the snow. Soon Eli spotted a second guard, also wearing white head-to-toe.

“I estimate the mansion is twelve thousand square feet.” Danny was gripping his knees, staring through the windshield. “Since it’s fundamentally a box, it’s easy to do the math. Would you like me to tell you the size of the other buildings, too?”

“Yes, I’d be interested in that.” Long ago Eli had given up trying to understand why Danny was fascinated by such things. In any case, the exercise would keep Danny occupied.

“I’ll start with the next biggest building,” Danny said. “The barn. It’s ten thousand square feet—perhaps it contains a riding ring. After that is the garage. It’s five thousand square feet. He must have several cars. Then there’s…”

Eli stopped listening. When the voice sounded again from the intercom, he rolled down his window.

“Go to the main house,” the voice ordered. “You’ll be met and searched.”

Eli drove the van up the slope, passing under bright lights.

“I can’t take any weapons inside, can I?” Danny said.

“No. They’d just confiscate them if you tried. And we don’t want any fights, at least not yet.”

They parked at the top of the circular drive. As they climbed brick steps, the front door opened.

“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 noble 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 mass 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 shirt. 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 assassination, 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.”