"A lot originated with me." Judd described the murder of his double and then Tucker's persuading both the medical examiner and Bridgeman to keep it quiet so he could investigate. "The only reason Bridgeman went along with Tucker was because Tucker convinced him international a.s.sa.s.sins were working on U.S. soil and it was in Catapult's best interests to find out why and what they were doing. But then the Eichel brothers made the hunt club pristine, which left only Tucker's word that the Padre had cut a deal with him to find the Carnivore, and only my word about our doubles and the ma.s.sacre at the hunt club, which meant only circ.u.mstantial evidence of a.s.sa.s.sins. So Tucker came looking for the Eichels here-without Bridgeman's knowledge, much less his permission."

The wind had risen, and the SUV swayed as it left the parking lot for the drive to the landing strip.

"But what about the gunfight tonight?" she asked. "The Eichels' bodies are in Chapman's library. That should prove Tucker was right about them being in-country."

Judd shook his head. "It doesn't save Tucker, and it's probably even worse for us. I'm a civilian with no authority to be there, so I could be perceived as just as bad as the men we left dead. Remember, there's well-known history between Chapman and me-and I'm the one who ended up shooting him. A good case could also be made that you abandoned your Farm training to help me wipe him."

Eva thought about it. "I made a commitment to the CIA, and I intend to keep it. Once Tucker is safely in the hospital, I'll rent a car and drive back to the Farm so I can explain what happened. That way I can speak on Tucker's and your behalf and maybe even save what's left of my career."

Bosa rotated in his seat, his knee up on the divider between him and the driver. He a.s.sessed Eva. "I have a better idea. Stay with us." He couched it like an invitation, but she did not believe for an instant that was all there was to it. "It's in your best interests."

"The reason you want both of us along is you're worried we'll go public with what we know," she accused. "A group of top international a.s.sa.s.sins fighting over pieces of a cuneiform tablet has got to be mighty interesting to the press. They'll be sniffing up your a.r.s.e, and for a man who's gone to a great deal of trouble to stay unknown, unseen, and unfindable, that's got to disturb you."

Bosa smiled. There was something almost innocent in his expression, guileless, as if he were a man who had compartmentalized his life so well that when the killer in him receded, an almost grandfatherly man emerged.

"All of that's true, but I'm worried about you, too," he told her.

The killer might actually believe the sincerity in his voice, Eva thought.

"The Padre and Eli Eichel have already tried to terminate you and Judd," he continued. "What makes you think Krot and Seymour aren't reaching out to contacts right now, searching for you, too, also thinking they can find me through you?"

Eva shook her head. "I'm going back to the Farm."

"You won't be welcomed," Judd warned her. "Did you call in this afternoon to say you were dropping out because of a family emergency and you didn't know when you'd be back?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Then someone else did-someone who claimed to be you and sounded like you. Tucker told me the murder board has voted, and you're out. Fired."

For a moment she was stunned, speechless. Then she turned on Bosa. "d.a.m.n you! You did this to me!"

He shrugged. "My people hadn't been able to track down the Eichel brothers. I wasn't going to release you until I was sure you were safe from them. One of my compadres, a female and a gifted mimic, called the Farm only when it was clear I wasn't going to be able to slip you back in. You might consider readjusting your att.i.tude-if you weren't alive, you couldn't be mad at me."

"h.e.l.l. Screw all of you!" Eva grabbed her disposable cell and dialed the number she had been told to memorize her first week at the Farm. Staring out at the night, she listened as it rang three times.

A woman answered: "Yes?"

"This is Eva Blake. I'd like to speak to Dan Lord, please."

"There's no 'Dan Lord' here. You must have the wrong number."

Eva recognized the voice-Judith Mignogna, a fellow recruit. "Please, Judie. It's Eva. I've had an emergency, and I need to explain it to my instructor. That's Dan. You see, I was kidnapped late this afternoon in Williamsburg, except it wasn't a true kidnapping. This is my first chance to call in."

"Kidnapped?" Judie's tone was alarmed. "Then you should phone the police. I'll hang up so you can do it right away. Good luck." The line went dead.

Eva stared at her cell phone, absorbing the fact she had been cut off.

Silent, they watched her.

Gathering herself, she hit the REDIAL b.u.t.ton. Again the phone rang. But this time it rang and rang. She remembered Bill, a fellow trainee whom the murder board had voted out last month. Security had arrived as he was eating dinner, told him the result of the meeting, and escorted him off premises. He was out of the Agency with no job and no place to live. The Agency was tough, but that was one of the reasons it remained one of the best in the world.

Eva listened to one more ring then hung up. For a moment she felt invisible. It was hard to breathe. With her CIA career ahead of her, life had made sense.

"They don't believe me," she told them quietly. She avoided looking at Judd.

No one said anything.

Putting away her cell phone, she focused on the Carnivore. "You could've let Chapman kill us. That would've eliminated any problems we'd cause you later. Why didn't you do that?"

"Because I might not have survived in Chapman's library without you. Unfortunately, I owe you again. On the other hand, you owe me. Let's not make a habit of it. Come with us, Eva. There's nothing left here for you."

She leaned back, feeling painfully adrift.

As they neared the plane, the roar of the three jet engines was impressive. Blue ground lights outlined the runway. A staircase was in place.

She had to decide what to do, but her thoughts kept returning to Tucker. He had a strong sense of himself and did not seem to worry much about what anyone thought of him. He had a hard time hiding his impatience with fools, but he made an effort to obey protocols. Sometimes he succeeded. Then there was his covert background-from London to both Berlins, from Moscow to the Middle East. He had been not just successful, but also honored. And he had believed Judd that the Eichels had ambushed the Padre and his people. He had been right. But then, he placed a lot of trust in "gut," the extra sense that came from a combination of experience and talent. And now she had a strange sensation. Something inside her was telling her to go with Bosa.

"All right," she said to the Carnivore. "I'm in."

40.

Vibrating with power, the Carnivore's plane was the sleek, silver-skinned Da.s.sault that Eva had spotted at the Merrittville airport. A trijet, it was decorated in expensive taste, with beige wool carpet, ivory-colored leather seats, and cherry cabinetry. Bosa liked not only comfort but also cla.s.s.

She headed toward the rear. "This is all yours?" she asked over her shoulder.

He was right behind her. "Every one of its fifty thousand parts. Paid a fortune for it. I could say it was a necessary business expense."

They stopped at one of the pa.s.senger seats where he unloaded his pockets.

"What about the turboprop that flew you and me to Merrittville?"

"Rented," he said. "Langley doesn't have expensive planes like this for regular duty. I figured you might know that."

The c.o.c.kpit door opened, and Jack stuck out his head, his cap at a jaunty angle. "What took you so long?"

Bosa ignored the jibe. "Get this bird off the ground. We've got an appointment with an ambulance."

"That's not all we have," Jack reminded him. "h.e.l.lo, Eva. I'm glad you were persuaded to join us."

"Blackmailed is more like it."

Giving a knowing chuckle, he returned to the c.o.c.kpit, and she hurried aft.

George brushed past her, heading in the opposite direction. "Got to make sure Jack doesn't think there's a foot brake and clutch on this flying saucer." Which she interpreted to mean George was copilot.

As she pa.s.sed through the cherrywood galley, she heard the engines ratchet up for takeoff. The dining area had four more ivory leather seats, and in the rear of the plane was a three-place electric berthing divan, the open part covered with a white sheet. That was where Tucker lay, eyes closed. Judd was sitting nearby, leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching as Doug worked on Tucker.

Judd's expression was gloomy. He gestured, and she sat beside him.

"Is there any improvement, Doug?" she asked.

"Sorry, no." Doug fastened an oxygen mask to Tucker's face.

"Drop into your seats, troops, and snap on those seat belts." It was Jack's voice on the intercom.

As everyone strapped in, the trijet rolled off. Aware of Judd sitting close to her, Eva turned away and leaned her cheek against the window, gazing out. The moonlit snowscape blurred as the aircraft increased speed and lifted off.

Using his stethoscope, Doug listened to Tucker's heart. He held Tucker's wrist, then pressed behind his ankle. "Heart and circulation appear normal." He studied Tucker's torso. "His bilateral chest expansion is good. He a runner?"

"Yes," Judd told him. "Three or four times a week. How did you know?"

"Lungs. Heart rate. Pulse. Thin but muscular. Being in good condition is always a plus."

Choosing supplies, Doug opened overhead and floor compartments containing what could be the contents of a mini paramedics van-everything from splints and tubing to a portable defibrillator and a roof hook for an IV. "Alex believes in being prepared." Pulling up Tucker's coat sleeve and swabbing the arm, he inserted a needle for an IV. "Saline solution. Aggressive fluid resuscitation is standard."

"What do you think his chances of recovery are?" Eva asked.

"If the bullet damaged both sides of his brain or struck the brain stem, he's likely to have extensive permanent damage, or end up in a vegetative state, or die. But from what I can tell, the bullet appears to have stayed on the left side and missed the brain stem. There are just too many variables for me to say more than that, and of course I could be wrong." He hesitated. "The truth is, I'd feel a lot more optimistic if he'd open his eyes, talk, or move on purpose. That'd tell us the bullet didn't completely destroy the parts of his brain responsible for thinking, understanding speech, and having motor function."

Eva and Judd were silent.

Then Judd did something unexpected. He took her hand. "He'll pull through," he told her.

Without thinking, she squeezed his hand and nodded, her throat tight.

Doug glanced at them. "If I need help, I'll call. If there's a change in him, I'll call. Get out of here. You have other things to do."

Standing up, Eva and Judd peeled off their coats. As they hung them in a narrow closet, the trijet dipped and bounced. She grabbed for an overhead handhold and suddenly felt Judd's arm around her waist, steadying her. She listened to the faint hum of the engines. Her emotions whipsawed. And then his arm was gone.

They moved off, grabbing seat backs and the rail. Bosa was sitting in the forward cabin, an iPad on the retractable tray before him. His gray hair was no longer the artfully tousled arrangement of Frank Smith, but brushed straight back, utilitarian, away from his wide face. Drugstore reading gla.s.ses perched on the end of his Roman nose. He wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt and dark blue jeans. His stocky figure was intense, focused on whatever he was reading. Without looking up, he turned off the iPad.

Sitting across from him, Eva and Judd swiveled their chairs to face him.

He peered over his reading gla.s.ses at one, then the other. "Yes?"

"Are we seeing the real Carnivore at last?" she asked. "Every other time you've been in some disguise."

"This is the me you're getting for this operation," he told her. "How's Tucker?"

"Not good," Judd said.

"He's alive. Take the batteries and SIM cards out of your phones so they can't be traced." There was a Staples shopping bag next to his seat. He reached in, pulled out new cells, and tossed them at them. "These are disposable and can be used for international phoning. They're also smartphones, so you can e-mail and do research. Memorize your numbers and everyone else's, too. I made a call for you, Judd. The delivery van you left at Chapman's place will be picked up in a few minutes and taken back to the feed store. Whatever's personal in it will be transferred to your pickup, and the pickup parked in your garage, the keys in a holder under the driver's door. Questions?"

"Yes." Eva gestured at the microfiber box on his retractable tray. "We want to know about the tablet pieces. Talk."

41.

As the trijet flew east, Eva watched Bosa lay out the limestone pieces on his seat tray. "I have Eichel's three pieces. The Padre's three. And my four. Ten altogether. Krot and Seymour have the rest-and maybe Morgan's two pieces, too." He turned them upside down. "As you can see, I've numbered the backs to make fitting them together more efficient."

When he turned them right side up, nearly half the unfinished tablet appeared, a puzzle in pale gritty limestone. About twenty inches long, it was eighteen inches wide and nearly two inches thick. He rotated the tray so it faced Eva and Judd.

Eva leaned close, once again the art historian and ma.n.u.script curator. Some pieces were chipped, and there were gaps near the middle and top where others were missing. The cuneiform symbols were mostly clear.

Bosa watched her. "Can you read cuneiform?"

She looked up. "Not as much as I'd like. I studied it when I curated an exhibit about the transition from pictographs to cuneiform. It can take a lifetime to become truly expert."

"Can you tell whether the tablet is authentic?" he asked.

They were silent as she a.s.sessed.

At last she looked up. "The artisan was skilled. He carved the wedges clean and deep. There's nothing amateurish about this. Generally, there are three different types of wedges-vertical wedges with the head at the top, horizontal ones with the head to the left, and slanting ones with the head either at the upper left or the center. Putting the heads in the wrong direction or in the wrong place is one of the most common mistakes forgers make. Another mistake is repeating groups of signs. They're being lazy or showing ignorance."

"The heads look to be in the right places," Bosa said.

"I don't see any repet.i.tions," Judd added.

"Yes, the cuneiform symbols are correct," Eva agreed. "Also, we Westerners read books by turning the pages from right to left, but cuneiform is read from bottom to top. That's correct on this tablet, too. Of course, there are variations depending on the era and kingdom. From what little I know, the tablet appears to be authentic. Now, the problem is translation. I see the Sumerian word for 'war' on the tablet-the Sumerians invented cuneiform around 3,000 B.C. But which war ... when, where?" She studied the lines and shapes, finally pointing to several symbols. "I think this means some kind of palace." She shook her head. "We need a real expert. I know people in L.A., of course, but that's in the opposite direction we're flying."

There was a moment of silence.

"Where did the tablet come from?" Judd asked Bosa.

"The Iraq National Museum by way of Saddam Hussein," Bosa said. "Iraq had laws against anyone owning antiquities, but Saddam took what he wanted and gave pieces away, even to foreigners. Of course, if someone else took something, Saddam had them shot."

"Okay, but why this tablet?" Judd tapped his index finger on the tray that held it. "Why have six a.s.sa.s.sins been fighting over it?"

"I'll start at the beginning, and then maybe I won't have to waste my time answering questions later. Do you know how Saddam began his political career?" When neither spoke, Bosa went on, "As an a.s.sa.s.sin-just like Eli Eichel, the Padre, Krot, Morgan, Seymour, and me. By the age of twenty he was doing wet work for the Baath party. By thirty-one, when the Baathists took over the country, he was known as a shaqawah, a man to be feared. His rise was spectacular. Eleven years later, he was president. At the same time, Iraq's neighbor Iran was on the verge of revolution. The Shah of Iran needed to hide his fortune. So Saddam hired an international financier who talked the shah into depositing a hefty chunk in the Central Bank of Iraq for safekeeping. The shah paid the financier a 1.5 percent handling fee. Saddam paid him, too-another 1.5 percent-but this time it was to transfer the shah's money out of the bank and into Saddam's personal numbered accounts in the Cayman Islands and Credit Suisse in Switzerland."

"Did the shah or his family recover any of the money?" Judd said.

"No, and the ayatollahs couldn't get it either. And while they were fighting over the shah's money, Saddam was next door, turning Iraq into his personal piggy bank. He took a cut of everything made, sold, or stolen. A few of his closest family members managed it all until his paranoia got so bad he wanted to be the only one who knew all the parts. That's when he sent for a master of financial deception-"

"The financier who stole the shah's money," Eva guessed.

Bosa nodded. "His name was Rostam Rahim. His mother was English, but his father was Iraqi. He lived primarily in London. Rahim brought in five 'a.s.sistants,' each a sophisticated moneyman in his or her own right. They set up a six-part network using more than seventy banks."