Masquerade Read Online Free Page A

Fortunately he ran. We figured right away it was him, and the next day we got confirmation from covert ops.”
    Liz shivered. Then she realized Gordon was staring at her. He was intense, gloomy. She studied his pallid face, his bandaged shoulder, his arm in the sling. She thought about the sudden, violent attack on her condo and the CIA’s swift rescue.
    The pieces began to fit together with chilling logic. “Obviously the CIA’s been watching me,” she said. “Those men who attacked us! Who were they?”
    â€œWe’re not sure. The one we caught hasn’t talked and probably won’t. But we know what they wanted.”
    She waited, her heart pounding.
    He said, “We’ve had a leak. The Carnivore’s heard you survived, Liz, and he says your claim that you didn’t see his face is too convenient to be believable. He’s spread the word he’ll pay top dollar to your killer. He’s taking no chances, so he’s personally looking for you, too. One way or another, he’s going to make sure . . . this time . . . you die.”

Chapter 3
    In a working-class area of Paris, a man wearing soiled jeans and a tight T-shirt fought his way through a pack of striking bus drivers and entered a tough bar. He needed the maintenance van that had been parked outside. He intended to steal the van and its driver.
    The man had a light gait and an uncanny ability to blend into his surroundings. He was about sixty years old, but he looked at least a decade younger. In Zurich, cosmetic surgery had erased his wrinkles, flattened his nose, and decreased his chin. In Rome, a doctor had capped his teeth and destroyed the records, making the new teeth impossible to trace. In Berlin, a special acid had burned off his fingerprints. Now he was taking steroids again and working out daily. His mind was clear, and his heart was as cool and ruthless as it had ever been. He was a businessman. He had returned to Paris yesterday.
    He kept his gray hair in a crew cut, and for that reason in some French circles he was called Plume. In English, he was Quill.
    Quill moved straight to the bar, caught the bartender’s eye, and jerked his head. As the bartender approached, scowling and wiping a glass, Quill scanned the patrons lined up as if at a trough. Better here than outside in the noise and chaos.
    The bartender stood before him.
“Qu’est-ce que?”
    â€œBock
. Miller.” Quill laid a few coins on the bar.
    As the bartender scooped them into his white apron andheaded for the tap, Quill spotted the man he needed. The driver. On the back of his tan jumpsuit was the name of the maintenance company, which was also stenciled on the van outside.
    Quill picked up his beer and headed toward him. The man was drinking beer, too. It was early afternoon, and a hard-working Frenchman grew dry.
    Far south of Paris, on the green banks of the Rhone, the
citoyens
of the ancient city of Avignon stepped from shops, offices, and homes into the sparkling summer sunshine. Gay calliope music was ringing in the distance, calling forth the city’s excited children, who knew from colorful posters pasted to twelfth-century walls and twentieth-century lampposts that a circus would parade through that day. As the country spiraled deeper into yet another recession, people hungered for any respite from their troubles.
    In the back of a petrol stop, a young woman in bicycling clothes locked herself into a primitive stall. There was no toilet, only a hole in the ground and two worn spots in the stone where she was to place her feet.
    But she wasn’t there to use the facilities.
    With smooth, practiced skill she stripped off her cap, sunglasses, backpack, and biking clothes. From the backpack she took out a cheap, formless dress, put it on, and stuffed the bicycling outfit into the backpack.
    She did not rush. Nor did she waste motion. Consequently she was very fast.
    From a side pocket she removed a compact