The Assassins Read Online Free Page B

used the other to fish it out of his pocket.
    *   *   *
    A snow-dusted Chevy van was parked at the curb across H Street and a half block back. It was an older model, indistinguishable from thousands of others in the metropolis. The lone occupant sat in the rear at a darkened window, peering out through binoculars. He studied the man in the navy blue peacoat driving away in the green truck. He recognized Judd Ryder.
    He grabbed his cell phone and made the call. “You were right. I’ve picked him up.”

 
    7
    There were moments when strong coffee was the only answer. Shaking off tension, Ryder drove through Coffee Blast, got his usual three-shot caff è americano , and parked off Maryland Avenue. He drank deeply, welcoming the heat and caffeine. Then he inspected the double’s cell phone. It was disposable, anonymous, no surprise. The address book had no password protection, but it did not need any—it was empty.
    Ryder checked the calls the double had made. And stared. The man had phoned Eva Blake’s home number. His chest tightened. He kept her in a special place in his memory, Eva of the long red hair and the cobalt-blue eyes that could pierce him to the soul. He remembered the first time he saw her—running through a cold night rain in London, no umbrella, hair flying, frightened and furious as she tried to escape her murderous husband. There had been something about her defiance, her bravery despite being on the losing end of a bad deal, that had gotten to Ryder. Now she was at the Farm, the CIA’s highly secret facility at Camp Peary, where she was learning tradecraft. Maybe she was home on break. He dialed her.
    “Hullo,” she answered.
    Hearing her, he felt a rush of emotions. He had saved her that night in London, and they had grown close. He’d had fantasies they might have a future together. But when the mission they were on finished, she abandoned her earlier life as a museum curator and joined Langley. The problem was, the clandestine life was one he never wanted again. So it was better to keep his distance.
    “Hi, Eva.”
    “Judd!” There was surprise in her voice. “Are you calling from Baghdad?”
    “No, I just got back to D.C.”
    “I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow.” Her voice sounded strained. Probably stress from the Farm’s tough training, he decided.
    “I finished a day early, so I decided to move my flight ticket,” he told her. “And before you ask, yes, it was a productive trip. We’ll talk about it later. Right now I have a question. Who phoned you a little after four o’clock yesterday on your land line?”
    “I don’t think anyone did. Why? What’s happened?”
    “I’ve been doubled.” He described watching the imposter leave his row house and then the snowmobiler deliberately run him down.
    “My God, that’s awful. You’re sure he’s dead?” she asked.
    “Yes, and it’s too bad. I had serious questions for him. What about his call to you?”
    “Hold on.” She read him digits. “Is that his number?” When he said it was, she continued, “According to my phone, he called at four-twelve. But I wasn’t home, and he didn’t leave a message. Maybe he called to enhance his credibility. You know, trying to get in touch with me would help to make him look real. If I’d actually answered, he could’ve said he dialed the wrong number.”
    He nodded. “Makes sense.” But then he warned: “Maybe not only my double knows about you, his killer might, too. I don’t know why the double—or I—got targeted, but his phoning you makes me think you could also be in danger.”
    “I’ll be careful. Drive over here. We can work on this together.”
    He agreed. As he said good-bye, he remembered Tucker Andersen had called and left a message on his answering machine. It was because of Tucker that he had met Eva. It had all begun six months ago, when Ryder’s father was shot and killed. To find his father’s killer, he had accepted contract work