"Jesus," Judd breathed.

Katia described meeting her father a final time, and the diagnosis of cancer. "He said someone was taking care of him.... I think he called him Seymour.... I'll give you the contact information, but it may not be good anymore."

Eva felt a surge of excitement.

But instead of Katia's giving instructions, there was a long pause.

In the car, Judd decided, "I think Katia's not talking because she's writing it out for him."

"Bad luck for us," Eva said, frustrated.

At last Katia spoke again: "Here's the phone number."

A few seconds later, Pyotr asked, "Baghdad?"

"He'd been in Baghdad for years," she confirmed.

Katia told Pyotr what to say when he dialed the number, then the phone rang, and the couple left the room. The recording ended.

In the car, Eva and Judd were silent.

"Poor sods," he said at last. "At least they died fast."

"Some consolation. Like choosing the flavor of your poison."

He nodded. "Pyotr may have been a master emotional manipulator, but in the end, it sure looks as if his own feelings took over. He let his guard down when they left the garage. He got them both killed."

They drove southwest on Avenue Guema.s.sa past groves of citrus trees. The number of camels, donkeys, and carts were few. Ahead loomed the modern Marrakech-Menara International Airport.

Eva sighed. "All we salvaged out of this mess was incomplete directions to Seymour, and no guarantee he's still in Baghdad. Are you sure you want to go back to Bosa's plane and report in?"

He glanced at her. "Other than the usual risk of working with him, did you have something else in mind?" He leaned back against the door and crossed his arms, studying her.

As she drove, she focused on the street and changed the subject. "I didn't see another tail on the Citron while we were following it, did you?"

"No. Go on."

"Pyotr said he was sure no one had followed them into the souk. So if no one followed them, and no one besides us followed the baggage, how did the motorcyclist know to be at the garage door, ready to kill Pyotr?" Without waiting for him to respond, she continued. "Of course, Liza could've called the motorcyclist to alert him, but I doubt she'd betray Pyotr."

"Your deduction?"

"Someone followed us. The only person we told what we were doing and who had reason to terminate Pyotr was the Carnivore. He knew we were waiting at their hotel. He knew our rental car was around the block. When we talked to him on the phone, he might not have been on the plane. He could've been staking out our car. What I don't understand is how we missed a motorcycle on our tail."

"If he planted a transmitter on our car just as we did on the Citron, he would've been able to stay out of sight as he tailed us." He hesitated. "There's something I'm missing. A piece of logic, maybe."

"I don't think the Carnivore lied to us about anything ... at the same time, I'm equally sure he hasn't told us the complete truth. What worries me is he may wait so long to fill us in that he'll put us in danger. Sometimes I wonder whether he considers us expendable."

"He went to a h.e.l.l of a lot of trouble to save us from the Padre," Judd said.

"He could've changed his mind since then."

Judd nodded. "Still, unless you know something I don't, the Carnivore remains our best lead."

"Yeah, but he's about as trustworthy as a hedge fund manager with an insider tip."

They left the car in the rental agency's lot. Gray clouds floated overhead, hiding the moon. Scanning, they hurried across the tarmac.

"The plane's engines are running," Judd noted. "He's eager to leave."

They broke into a jog.

The door opened, and Alex Bosa walked out to the top of the staircase. The craft's interior light glowed around him. "Glad you made it," he said as they climbed the staircase. "I've been watching for you." It was hard to see his expression in the darkness, but his voice was as strong and authoritarian as ever. "Is Seymour in Baghdad?"

"He was a few years ago," Judd said. "How in h.e.l.l did you know about Baghdad?"

"Come inside. I'll tell you."

BURLEIGH MORGAN.

[A]ssa.s.sination remains hardly a dying inst.i.tution worldwide. Political a.s.sa.s.sination exists and has existed ever since humankind formed a body politic.

-Encyclopedia of a.s.sa.s.sinations, Carl Sifakis

60.

Aloft over North Africa Bosa hustled Judd and Eva onto the trijet, drew up the staircase, and locked the door. The accelerating growl of the engines told Judd the craft was in final preparation for takeoff.

Bosa stuck his head into the c.o.c.kpit, where Jack was in the first officer's seat with George, his copilot, beside him. "Baghdad," Bosa ordered.

As the aircraft rolled across the tarmac, Eva, Judd, and Bosa rushed to their seats and strapped in. Bosa was on one side of the aisle in his usual place, his iPad beside him, his collection of cuneiform pieces on a tray on his other side. Across from him, Judd and Eva turned their seats so they could see him and each other.

Once they were in the air, Bosa said, "Tell me what you learned." His large face seemed weary. Still, he favored them with a smile.

Eva looked Bosa in the eye. "Why did you kill Katia Levinchev, Alex?"

He frowned. "It wasn't me. Tell me what happened."

"Both Krot and Katia are dead," Judd said. He related the events in Liza Kosciuch's garage. "No one but you knew about our rental car and that we'd bugged the Citron that was carrying Krot's and Katia's luggage to them."

"Ah, I see," Bosa said. "You think I followed you."

"I can understand wiping Krot," Eva said. "But you should've been careful of Katia. She wasn't part of this. She was a bystander."

"I'm sorry about her, but I didn't do the hit," Bosa told them. "You've got to remember Krot had a lot of enemies, just as I do. You can't be in our business without them, and some are extremely powerful. That's just one reason I maintain tight security. I haven't told you any lies, and I'm not going to start now."

As the plane climbed the night sky, Judd glanced thoughtfully out the window. There was something wrong with what Bosa had just said, another piece of logic missing-or maybe the same one.

Bosa broke the silence: "Let's listen to the CD Liza sold you."

Loading the disc, Judd fast-forwarded, and soon they heard again Krot and Katia discuss her father, his death, and how she had contacted him.

"We have the code Katia used to reach him," Judd said, "but no phone number."

For a moment, Bosa sounded discouraged. "I didn't know Grigori Levinchev was dead. That's a blow. He was by far our best link to Seymour."

"You were going to tell us how you found out Grigori was in Baghdad," Eva reminded Bosa.

He nodded. "Once I knew Katia had been using the name Francesca Fabiano and lived in or around Portland, Maine, I contacted a source who was able to acquire three phone numbers she'd had over the last ten years-two land lines and one cell. Then he pulled her computerized phone records and discovered the only calls she'd made overseas were to Baghdad, and all were returned from Baghdad. There were a dozen Baghdad numbers. Eleven belonged to disposable cells, so they were untraceable. The twelfth belonged to a land line-someone in Baghdad had used that number to return her call. That was seven years ago, so maybe it was the time she and Grigori arranged to meet. In those days, the number was blocked, but of course the phone company had the name and address of the owner-the Save Iraq League, a political party. I dialed the number. A nightclub answered."

"The SIL is closely aligned with Iran," Judd remembered. "It's vying with the current prime minister's party for control of the country."

"Grigori Levinchev was Russian," Eva said. "Why would he be in Baghdad and using the phone line of an Iraqi political party?"

"Because he was friends with Seymour, probably," Bosa said.

"Is 'Seymour' his real name?" Eva asked.

"I doubt it." Bosa crossed his arms. "I heard he was born in the United States to an Iraqi mother and an American father and was raised in Basra in southern Iraq. There were a lot of stories about him after he joined Islamic Jihad, one more outlandish than the other.... He was a descendant of Mohammad.... He was a South American pretending to be Muslim.... He was the most bloodthirsty killer the jihad ever had.... He saved the lives of a thousand children.... He could vanish like a puff of desert sand. On and on. He wore the lies like gold medals. Seymour was restless, though, and I had the feeling that nothing was ever going to be enough."

As Eva and Bosa had talked, Judd dug Tucker's handheld out of his backpack and scanned through it. "I have an old photo of Seymour. It was in one of the dossiers Gloria put together for Tucker."

In his twenties, Seymour was a striking man. His build was heavy, rugged, while his clean-shaved face was cherubic, almost sweet. The burly body of a football player topped by the face of an angel.

Judd pa.s.sed the handheld to Bosa. "Is that him?"

Bosa examined the picture. "He was overweight the last time I saw him. The face is in the ballpark but not the same-could be because of plastic surgery. You can see his confidence. And the way he tilts his head back and to the side shows some of his charm. Yes, I'd say it's him." He pa.s.sed the handheld to Eva.

"He doesn't look a bit like one would expect an a.s.sa.s.sin to look," she decided. "The worst he seems capable of is returning a book late to the library."

Bosa smiled. "Such navete."

She shook her head. "Any lingering a.s.sumptions I had that a.s.sa.s.sins were the same have been fully trashed-except that they're all cold-blooded killers." She avoided Judd's gaze.

"She's auditioning me for the list," Judd explained to Bosa.

Bosa shrugged. "One does what one's good at."

"I'm just trying to figure things out," Eva said.

c.o.c.king his head, Bosa a.s.sessed one then the other, finally settling on Eva. "We're all ages, nationalities, personalities, and personal lives. Years ago I had a wife and child and lived a 'normal' life. I grocery-shopped, kept in touch with my sister, took my family for outings, and of course left town occasionally for business. Everyone thought I ran an import-export company, and I did, minimally. I enjoyed that life."

"What happened?" Eva asked.

Bosa took a deep breath. "My daughter-Liz-grew up, married a bad man, and I eliminated the problem. Liz found out I was responsible for the death, and then she discovered what my business really was. By then my wife was doing wet work with me. Liz walked out of our lives. Later, when my wife was killed on the job, I'd hoped Liz would come back." He sighed heavily. "Liz disapproves of me."

"Do you ever see her?" Eva wondered.

"No." There was a long silence, then briskly: "Let's see where Krot's cuneiform pieces fit in." He pulled the tray table toward him.

As Judd opened Krot's aluminum box and removed the padded chunks, Eva peeled back the Velcro coverings, and Bosa found each's place in the puzzle of the shattered limestone tablet. They studied the result. Six pieces were still missing. Judd could feel Eva's intensity as she focused.

"Can you translate it now?" Bosa asked.

She shook her head. "I'm not good enough. If you'll take photos of it, I'll e-mail them to a friend at the Getty Center. She's an expert."

"Right." Bosa stood, positioned his iPad, and started photographing the tablet from different angles.

Judd watched, noting the a.s.sa.s.sin's efficiency. There was deliberation in his movements, also a sense of leaving nothing to chance. The uncomfortable feeling Judd had had earlier returned. There was something about Bosa's denial. Minutes ago, Eva had asked, "Why did you kill Katia Levinchev?" and Bosa had replied, "It wasn't me." Then when Eva persisted and told Bosa he should've been careful of Katia because she was a bystander, Bosa had said, "I didn't do the hit."

Suddenly Judd understood-Bosa was right ... he literally had not shot them with his own hand. He said to Bosa: "While we were following the Citron to the souk, you called to give us Katia's real name and that her father was tight with Seymour. You didn't know any of that when we left the plane, or you would've told us. So either you were in Marrakech, too, and found out there-or whoever gave you the information was there."

Eva stared at Judd, impressed. "You're right."

Judd said nothing, his gaze fixed on the wily a.s.sa.s.sin. "Well?"

"Took you long enough." Bosa gave a brief smile. "Would you do an old man a favor and grab me a blanket, Judd? My legs are getting cold. You should go, too, Eva. Get a blanket for yourself. We keep them in sick bay." He gestured aft.

Eva's eyes narrowed. "You don't really want a blanket, do you?"

Bosa shrugged. Then he chuckled.

Judd and Eva were on their feet and moving. The trijet had been flying smoothly, so the trip down the aisle took seconds. They pa.s.sed through the galley, where Doug was making sandwiches. His black watch cap was gone, and his brown-gray ponytail hung loosely down his back.

Eva reached the door first and opened it. Judd peered over her shoulder. Lying on the same divan Tucker had used was a skinny old man with a prominent nose and neatly trimmed silver mustache. His silver hair was pulled back, a ponytail lying down over his chest, coiled on top of the blanket. Despite his advanced age, or maybe because of it, there was a tough look about him. He snored lightly.

Judd and Eva turned as Doug came up behind them. He smiled, entertained, but said nothing.

They looked at him, then at the man on the bed. The faces were different, but there was a resemblance in the men's bone structure and something about the c.o.c.kiness in their expressions. And then there was the unusual fact both wore ponytails.

"A relative?" Eva guessed.

"He's the one who told Bosa about Krot and Katia?" Judd wanted to be sure.

Doug nodded. "My father. He and Bosa go back a long time."

On the double jump seat was a large bundle with a blanket tossed over it. Judd pulled off the blanket, revealing a bulky black motorcycle jacket, a black motorcycle helmet, and an F2000 bullpup a.s.sault rifle.

Recognizing the items, Eva said angrily, "He's the one who shot Katia."

"And Krot, too," Judd said.

He studied the sleeping man, all bone and sinew. His skin was almost translucent. Still, he had tailed them to Krot's hideout in the souk, waited outside for the chance to eliminate Krot, and then mercilessly done it. That showed a lot of motivation, maybe the kind of motivation inspired when someone forced you into a deadly game of last man standing.