The Assassins (27 page)

She fought an impulse to rip open the door and run. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, entwining her fingers, holding herself together. “Yes. Once. We met in Vienna. It was … it was incredible.”

For a few seconds she was with him again, smelling the Old Spice he had put on just for her, feeling the gentleness of his hands. They had laughed together, the joy of it all, the bittersweet pain, too.

“He was dying of esophageal cancer,” she told him. “He’d smoked all his life. He wouldn’t let me go back with him to where he lived. He said it still wasn’t safe. He was so thin and pale, like a piece of chalk. He said someone was taking care of him. I can’t remember for sure now, but I think he called him Seymour.” Reaching into her purse, she found notepaper and a pen. “I’ll give you the contact information, but it may not be good anymore.” She uncapped the pen and began to write.

“Can’t you just tell me?”

She gave a hard shake of her head. “No, getting in touch with him was always very secret. I don’t know why, but I’m not going to start questioning it. Here’s the phone number.”

He leaned close. “Baghdad?”

She nodded. “He’d been in Baghdad for years. Whoever answered spoke Arabic.” She pointed to the words with her pen.

“Is it a real business?”

“I don’t know. Next you say, ‘I need to buy some wrenches’ in Russian. That was when I’d be told he’d call me back at a specific time. I don’t know where this will lead you—or maybe it’s just a dead end.”

He studied the instructions. “Got it.”

“Good.” Wadding up the paper, she walked to the fireplace and tossed it into the blaze. She turned.

He smiled. “I love you,” he said simply. “I know that was hard.”

A phone rang. It was sitting on a writing desk next to his elbow.

He answered. “Yes, thanks.” Then to Katia: “Our suitcases are here. We can pick them up in the garage.”

55

Alex Bosa sat in his darkened trijet on the tarmac of Marrakech-Menara Airport, checking local news on his iPad. It was not long before he discovered why his surveillance expert had not reported on schedule—she was dead, shot sometime between three and four o’clock this morning.

Crossing his arms, Bosa mulled. Her murder explained the lapse before her most recent e-mailed report. Whoever had written it had been motivated to pretend she was still alive. The logical deduction was Krot had wiped her then impersonated her to lull Bosa into thinking nothing unusual was going on in Marrakech.

Bosa felt his iPhone vibrate. He checked the digital identification—Sacher Torte.

Bosa answered immediately. “You have news?”

“More than that … an answer.” There was an unusual amount of steel in the timbre of the old voice, which told Bosa something had happened—or was about to. “I did some digging into the woman Krot’s been romancing. From everything I could learn, her American identity started some twenty-five years ago. Before then, she was a cipher. So I ran her face through several Cold War data banks of known spies. Here’s the shocker—she looks a lot like Roza Levinchev. Remember Roza? She was married to Grigori Levinchev, the bastard. I’m going to forward the photos and background to you. On top of the physical resemblance, the young woman’s arrival in Maine coincided with Roza’s assignment to Marrakech.”

“Jesus.” Bosa closed his eyes in frustration. “So Krot’s involved with Grigori’s daughter. If I remember correctly, Grigori and Seymour worked a lot of jobs together even after they left their organizations.”

“Indeed they did. But the daughter is registered at the hotel as Francesca Fabiano.”

“The woman I paid to tail Krot said he called her Katia.”

“Roza’s daughter was named Katia. Grigori was crazy about her.”

“How do you know all this?” Bosa demanded.

“Seymour. He told me years ago.” There was a pause. “Guess I’m getting senile. I should’ve remembered the relationship.”

Bosa repressed a sigh. They were all getting older, but this was the kind of mistake that could have far-reaching consequences. “Does Katia Levinchev know where her father is?”

“Why else would Krot bother with her at this point? He’s taken her into the souk, poor deluded woman. But the two kids—Judd and Eva—have planted a bug on the car that picked up their luggage. Clever.”

“Where in the souk?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Find out!”

Bosa ended the connection and sat in the low light of the plane. Jack, George, and Doug were in the dining area playing Texas hold ’em. Letting the hum of their voices grow distant, he closed his eyes. He had slept well on the flight, but he could think better in the darkness.

Making a decision, he opened his eyes and punched in the number to Judd’s disposable cell. He listened to it ring twice.

“Yes?” Judd sounded distracted.

“Where are you?” Bosa demanded. “What are you doing?”

“We’re following the car that picked up Krot and the woman’s luggage. Eva’s driving. I’m monitoring the tracker. We’ve got the Citro
ë
n in sight. Christ, there’s some kind of a parade going down the street.”

“A wedding procession.” It was Eva’s voice.

“Put your cell on speakerphone,” Bosa said. “You both should hear this.”

In a moment, Judd said, “Done. What’s up?”

“The real name of the woman Krot picked up is Katia Levinchev,” Bosa told them. “Her father is Grigori Levinchev, an old KGB assassin. Levinchev and Seymour have been tight for years. Katia’s father may know where Seymour is.”

“So Krot’s turned up a lead. That’s good news.”

“Maybe. The problem is, the woman I sent to surveil Krot is dead, and he’s probably the one who killed her. Plus, we don’t know whether Krot and Katia are a couple, or whether Krot has kidnapped her. Go in prepared.”

“You still want us to try to set up a meeting with him?”

“Yes, if you can. And if you can’t … use your best judgment.”

56

Judd alternately watched the tracker and the traffic while Eva drove. Across the street, the wedding party was dancing and singing down the block. Donkeys pulled wood carts piled with gaily wrapped gifts. Dressed in satin gowns, the bride’s attendants twirled as musicians played drums and pipes.

Judd rolled down his window. “Smell that?”

Eva rolled hers down, too. “Marijuana.”

“Yup. It’s called
kif
around here. We’re at the back of the souk. That’s it.”

He gestured to the left, across the traffic to where buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder, two and three stories high, gray and faintly sinister in the streetlight.

“There’s the Citro
ë
n.” Eva nodded.

It was slowing for the parade. A garage door began to roll up in the sheer wall of dirty buildings.

“Has to be an automatic door opener,” she observed. “That seems sophisticated for the souk.”

“Agreed. Check out the mini surveillance cameras up in the eaves. They’re high end, too. Let’s stop here. I’d rather confront Hata in the garage than on the street. If we move quickly, we may be able to get inside and take charge of the situation before anyone can react to the cameras.”

As the Citro
ë
n drove into the garage, Eva parked the car.

He gave her a look. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned. “Let’s go.”

Dodging traffic, they ran across the street and landed against the garage wall. They took out their pistols—his Beretta, her Glock.

Eva stared at the garage door. “It’s getting so low we’re not going to be able to get under. Let’s move!”

Before Judd could respond, she dropped to her heels and crab-walked inside. Swearing silently, he followed.

57

Inside the quiet inn, Katia and Pyotr followed the blue-and-green tile floor down the hallway toward a large steel door. He slid the bolts and opened it. Headlights blinded her. She raised her hand, shielding her eyes, and listened to the rumble of a powerful automobile engine coming to rest. The headlights went dark, and overhead fluorescent lights turned on. The vehicle’s engine stopped. It was a black Citro
ë
n.

Pyotr and she were standing on a large platform above the two-vehicle garage. As they walked to the rail, the door opened behind them, and Spartak appeared, cradling his rifle. He inspected the area then stepped aside. Liza hurried past him, carrying a pistol. Two guards followed closely.

Her expression tense, Liza stopped at the top of the steps. “We have uninvited visitors,” she told them. “Stay up here.”

Pyotr slipped his PB pistol from his shoulder holster. “Need help?”

“No. Is covered.”

Motioning, Liza led the men downstairs and past the Citro
ë
n to the big door. She divided them in half—Spartak and she on one side, and the two other guards on the other. All moved back into the shadows. Seconds later, two strangers—a man with light brown hair and a redheaded woman—slid in under the closing door, pistols up and ready. Their expressions were wary.

“Now!” Liza ordered.

She and her people converged, their weapons aimed down at the crouching pair. The couple exchanged a glance and stood, swinging their pistols slowly around, but they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

Liza cocked her head, studying them. “Before you ask, you do not get to know my name or what this place is. Unless you behave yourselves, you will not leave alive. So, to begin, you must answer two questions: Who are you? What are you doing here?”

To Katia, the man did not appear at all intimidated. He was lean and muscular, an outdoorsy sort, with a craggy face. His nose was strong, his jaw solid. A good-looking man if you liked them unfinished. He wore a Hawaiian shirt.

Staring across the garage at Pyotr, he said, “My name is Greg Roman. We have a message for Krot—Pyotr Azarov. That’s you.”

As soon as the man identified him, Pyotr changed—the warmth he had been showering on Katia vanished, replaced by a chilly emptiness. She stared at him.

Pyotr did not even glance at her. He was focused on the strangers. His voice deepened. “Yes, I’m Krot. Who’s your message from?”

The redheaded woman interrupted: “My name is Courtney Roman. Are you all right, Katia?”

The woman was probably in her early thirties, Katia judged. Pretty enough, with an oval face and blue eyes. There was an air of confidence about her.

The question brought Katia up short. She had made peace with Pyotr’s lies, and she had been happy. But now Pyotr was different. His handsome face was a mask. His eyes were flat, without depth.

Breaking her gaze away, Katia cleared her throat. “I’m okay.”

“Krot wants to find your father,” the woman warned. “He’s already killed once. You’re in danger, especially if you refuse to tell him.”

Katia frowned.

Pyotr was getting impatient. “Did the Carnivore send you?”

The man nodded. “He wants a meeting.”

“Agreed, but only under certain conditions.
My
conditions.” Pyotr did not query, or discuss. His voice commanded.

Katia felt a surge of fear, then fury with herself. “Pyotr!”

He scowled, not looking at her but instead watching the man and woman. “Yes?”

“You’re playing weasel-and-rat with the Carnivore. Do you honestly care? If you could vanish so well the KGB couldn’t find you, then you sure as hell ought to be able to hide from a few assassins who don’t have nearly the same resources.” Katia’s voice rose. “There’ll always be one more meeting. One more threat you think you have to take care of. I can’t live the way my mother did. I can’t keep worrying about you—and me. Stop this. Stop it now, or I’m going back to Maine.” She heard the strength in her voice and realized she meant it.

His eyes still on the man and woman, Pyotr told her, “That sounds good in theory, but a lot’s at stake, and it’s not just money.”

“You’re right,” Katia retorted. “The stakes are huge. Your life. Your future.
Our
future. Make a decision. This stupid game—or me.”

The garage was silent. She was aware everyone was staring at her. She had surprised them.
Good,
she thought.
Fuck all of them and their miserable lives!

The fingers of Pyotr’s free hand twitched nervously. “I don’t want to lose you, Katia, but I need to do just this one last thing with the Carnivore—”

“Horseshit. Good-bye.” She spun on her heel and marched back toward the door and pushed it open.

“Wait!” Pyotr’s voice sounded like the Pyotr she knew. “I’ll quit looking for Seymour. No, I’ve quit. Right now.”

She turned. “How do I know you mean it?”

He holstered his pistol, walked to her, and took her hand. “Let’s leave.”

She hesitated only a moment. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Holding hands, they walked down the steps into the garage.

“As you can see, Mr. Roman, my plans …
our
plans … have changed,” Pyotr told the man. “Let’s be clear. The Carnivore doesn’t want a meeting with me as much as he wants my tablet pieces and information about how to find Seymour. I still don’t know where Seymour is, and I’m quitting the business for the last time. Both are the truth. Here, take my cuneiform pieces.” Moving slowly, he reached inside his jacket and removed the aluminum box. “This will prove I’m done. In fact, I’m so done that if
The Assassins’ Catalog
is published, I don’t care.”

“What about your father, Katia?” the woman asked. “We’d like to talk to him.”

Katia found herself bristling. “You can’t do that. Ever.”

“Let’s take the Citro
ë
n, Katia.” Pyotr pulled her toward it. “Our suitcases are already in the trunk. That makes it easy.”

“Yes. What a wonderful idea.
Yes
.”

Pyotr turned to Liza. “I’ll send you cash for the car, old friend. Do you mind parting with it?”

Liza was smiling an amused smile. “I do not mind. Go, go.
Prashch
á
ytye. Zhil
á
yim vam shch
á
stya!
” Farewell. We wish you happiness. “Hata, open the garage door. Our friends are leaving.”