The Assassins by Gayle Lynds Page A

files, records, or any sort of information to tell us more about the people that supposedly died here.”
    “Jesus.” A knot formed in Tucker’s chest. “What else?”
    “I made some phone calls and tracked down the company that maintains the place. The manager said they were sent in a few days ago to put it in order. All their business with the owner is handled by telephone. His name is Sabino Zaragosa.”
    “That’s the Padre’s name.”
    “No surprise there. So now I’ve got a bunch of pissed-off Langley people on my hands. They want to know why in hell Catapult has wasted their time and government money sending them out here on a wild-arse chase.”
    Tucker hesitated. Not finding anything incriminating at the hunt club gave Bridgeman the excuse he needed to withdraw support for Judd and the investigation, and to tar Tucker with a very thick brush. Frowning, he sorted through events over the past few hours. That was when he remembered Judd had said he had planted an open cell phone and a tracking bug on Tom á s Lara.
    “I’ve got to make another call. I’ll get back to you.” Tucker hung up and dialed.
    Judd’s voice was tense. “Yes?”
    “Check your tracker for the bug you left on Lara. I want to know where his corpse is.”
    “Shit. The body isn’t at the hunt club? Hold on. I have to activate the tracker again.” In seconds, he was back. “The bug’s either been turned off or it’s dead. In any case, there’s no signal. What in hell’s going on, Tucker?”
    “The hunt club’s been sanitized. I was hoping the cleaners had missed the bug you planted so we could figure out where the corpses and other evidence were taken. But then, hope is the last bastion of the frustrated.”
    Ryder sighed with disgust. “I bet I drove past the cleanup vehicles. About a mile from the hunt club’s entrance, a flatbed truck carrying a street sweeper was parked nose to tail with a sanding truck that had a snowplow fronting it. I didn’t connect any of it to the hunt club.”
    “The Eichels did a hell of a job covering their goddamn bloody tracks.” Ending the connection, Tucker spun his chair around to his file cabinet, opened the bottom drawer, and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. As he poured himself a shot and downed it, warm memories of his previous boss filled his mind. At the end of an aggravating day they would meet in one of their offices to philosophize, analyze missions, and share a drink. Unlike his current boss, she had understood the terrible danger of being risk-averse in intelligence work. If you followed hidebound rules while facing an enemy who had no rules, you inevitably met disaster. She was not afraid to go where the outcome was uncertain. What was driving Catapult’s new boss bat-shit was that Tucker still operated that way—because it worked.
    He got to his feet and paced. If he told Bridgeman the hunt club had been sanitized, Bridgeman would say the hunt club had never been the scene of a sniper kill, because there was no evidence—just Judd Ryder’s oral report. And Bridgeman did not trust Ryder.
    Tucker turned on his heel and marched back across the room. On the other hand, if he delayed telling Bridgeman, he would have a chance to prove Judd was right about the hunt club, about being doubled, about Eva’s being doubled, and that international assassins were operating in-country—which was what scared the bejesus out of him.
    He paused at his desk, poured himself some more Jack. Drinking it, he could almost see his former boss in the shadows of his office, hear her voice: “Dammit, Tucker, you know Bridgeman isn’t going to give you a break on this. Do what you have to do.”
    Nodding to himself, he sat and dialed Bash Badawi, picturing his aggravation as he stomped around the hunt club.
    Bash answered at the first ring. “What do you want me to do, Tucker?”
    “Fly your people home to Langley,” Tucker ordered. “Tell the pilot his next assignment is to ferry me