The Book of Spies

36

The Sultanate of Oman
MUSCAT INTERNATIONAL Airport lay on flat sands above the Gulf of Oman. In the distance, clusters of oil rigs stood glittering with lights, their toothpick legs sunk deep into the gulf's black waters. The night smelled of the desert as Martin Chapman descended from his Learjet. He was breathing hard with anger: Robin Miller had stolen The Book of Spies and escaped. Magus and a team were searching for her in Athens, but it was one more problem, and right now he did not need it.
The danger that worried him most was Judd Ryder, who was CIA, and in that one word lay all the worry in the world: Langley had the resources, the knowledge, the expertise, the guts, to accomplish far more than the public would ever know. One did not cross the Agency lightly, but once done, one had no choice but to end it quickly, which was why Chapman was in Oman now.
The Oman Air section of the ultramodern passenger terminal was quietly busy. He passed tiles, potted palms, and Old Arabia wall decorations without a glance. Turning down a wide arrival and departure corridor, he followed memorized instructions toward a duty-free shop. Near the bathroom door an airport employee in a desert-tan janitorial uniform and a checkered Bedouin headdress was bent over, swabbing the floor.
As Chapman passed, he heard a voice float up toward him: "There's a supply room four doors to your left. Wait inside. Don't turn on the light."
Chapman almost broke his stride. Quickly he regrouped and went to the supply room door. Inside, he flicked on the light. The little room was lined with shelves of cleaning products, paper towels, and toilet paper. He turned off the light and stood in the dark against the rear, a small penlight in one hand, the other hand inside his jacket on the hilt of his pistol.
The door opened and closed like a whisper.
"Jack said you needed help." The voice was low. The man seemed to be standing just inside the door. "I'm expensive, and I have rules. You know about both. Jack says you've agreed to my terms. Before we go further, I need to hear that from you."
"You're Alex Bosa?" Chapman assumed it was a pseudonym.
"Some call me that."
"The Carnivore."
No expression in the voice. "I'm known by that, too."
Chapman inhaled. He was in the presence of a legendary independent assassin, a man who had worked for all sides during the cold war. Now he worked only occasionally, but always at astronomical prices. There were no photos of him; no one knew where he lived, what his real name was, or even in which country he was born. He also never failed, and no one ever uncovered who hired him.
The assassin's voice was calm. "Do you agree to my terms?"
Chapman felt his hackles rise. He was the boss, not this shadowy man who had to live hidden behind pseudonyms. "I have a cashier's check with me." There were to be two payments--half now, half on completion, for a total of $2 million. Ridding himself of the CIA problem was worth every cent. "Do you want the job or not?"
Silence. Then: "I work alone when it's time to do the hit. That means your people must be gone. You must never reveal our association. You must never try to find out what I look like or who I am. If you make any attempts, I will come after you. I'll do you the favor of making it a clean kill, out of respect for our business relationship and the money you will have paid me. After tonight, you will not try to meet me again. When the job is finished, I'll be in touch to let you know how I want to receive the last payment. If you don't pay me, I will come after you for that, too. I do wet work only on people who shouldn't be breathing anyway. I'm the one who makes that decision--not you. I'll give you a new phone number through which you can reach me when you have the additional information about the targets' whereabouts. Do you agree?"
The menacing power in the quiet voice was breathtaking. Chapman found himself nodding even though there was no way the man could see him in the dark.
He spoke up, "I agree." The Carnivore specialized in making hits look like accidents, which was the point--Chapman wanted Langley to have nothing to trace back to him or the Library of Gold.
"Tell me why Judd Ryder and Eva Blake need to be terminated," the Carnivore demanded.
When Chapman had decided to bring in outside talent, he had gone to a source outside the book club, a middleman named only Jack. Through encrypted e-mails, he and Jack had arranged the deal. Now he repeated the story for the Carnivore: "Ryder is former military intelligence and highly skilled. Blake is a criminal--she killed her husband when she was driving drunk. I'm sure you've checked both facts. They've learned about a new secret business transaction I'm working on, and they want it for themselves. I tried to reason with them, but I got nowhere. If they steal this, it'll cost me billions. More important, now they're trying to kill me. They're on their way to Istanbul. I should have information soon about exactly where."
"I understand. I'll leave now. Put the envelope on the shelf next to you. Open the door and go immediately back to your jet." He gave Chapman his new cell number.
There was a movement of air, the door opened and closed quickly, and darkness surrounded Chapman again. He realized he was sweating. He put the envelope with the cashier's check for $1 million on the shelf next to him and left.
As he walked down the corridor, he looked everywhere for the cleaning man in the brown uniform and Bedouin headdress. He had vanished.