Masquerade (19 page)

He was a strange man. About her height, he had a wiry body that radiated intensity. His black hair was wild and curly, his black eyebrows like Brillo, and his nose aristocratic. He wore clothes as if they were an irritation, and when he talked he often jabbed the air as if it were life's punching bag. She wondered what he'd done to end up in the Ranch job, which he obviously hated.

They stopped in another town and bought sunglasses. He chose Stetsons. She didn't want a hat, but he insisted: “We've got to fit in.” He handed her black hair dye and scissors.

“You want me to cut my hair?”

“And dye it, too. I'm growing a beard.” He rubbed his long chin. He already had plenty of black stubble.

He paid with cash this time. They stopped outside town,
and he massaged forest duff into their hats and boots. He slapped the hats around. He showed her how to scuff her boots with a pine branch, and he did the same to his own. When they'd finished, the Stetsons and boots looked worn.

As they were about to return to the Chevy, they heard the distant buzz of a helicopter.

“Gordon?”

“Yeah, could be his people.” Flores's gaze was instantly on the far-off bird.

They moved back under the trees and watched the helicopter draw closer, following the highway toward them. It patrolled a ridge-line and then swooped down over the highway again. For ten long minutes it approached, inspecting the vehicles beneath.

“Lucky we were out of the car,” she murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Glad you suggested the Stetsons.”

“Thought you might be.”

The helicopter hovered over the empty, parked Chevy, then passed on down the highway. She let out a long breath. “Nothing like a little more excitement to keep the adrenaline pumping.”

In the next town they traded the Chevy for an old Ford pickup, which they'd noted was a particularly popular make and style in this part of the Colorado Rockies.

Flores took the wheel, and they headed east on Interstate 70. Liz opened the files on herself and Sarah Walker. There was nothing new in the Walker dossier, but the Sansborough dossier showed the last three years as Flores had said: She'd fallen in love with the Carnivore, gone over to him, and was now his go-between with Langley. She shivered. Who was lying? Gordon or Langley? And, for God's sake, why? Or was the Langley file some kind of trick to make her think she really was mad?

She glanced at Flores and wondered again how much she could trust him. Then she gazed out at the mountain scenery, and in her mind she saw silvery creeks and snow-crowned mountains. She had a sense of picnics, backpacking trips, and long mountain drives. This, when she'd grown up in England?
But it could be true, she reminded herself, thinking of family vacations in Europe.

She glanced at Flores, again suspicious.

“I didn't make up the Langley file, Sansborough. If it's a trick, they're using me, too.” His eyes never stopped moving, surveying the interstate and the air overhead.

He had a quick mind. She hoped it was an honest one.

She opened the next dossier: Huseyn Shaheed Noon, her first lover. “Listen to this.” She read aloud, remembering the photos she'd studied: He'd been a handsome youth with smooth dark skin, serious eyes, and black hair that tumbled over his forehead.

“In Pakistan, a 1980s referendum endorsed the president's Islamic-law policies and extended his term six more years. With that security, President Zia called for elections to a civilian parliament. Huseyn Shaheed Noon's father, a popular statesman, announced his candidacy. But before the election, the father visited Shaheed at Cambridge and was killed in an automobile accident. There were no witnesses, and the father was driving alone. According to the police report, he ran his car into a ditch and broke his neck when he was ejected. According to the coroner, he'd been drinking heavily. Authorities found no reason to suspect foul play.

“Shaheed never accepted his father's death as an accident. He claimed his father was a devout Muslim, and Muslims do not touch alcohol. From Cambridge, Shaheed charged President Zia with murder because of his father's outspoken support of the outlawed Pakistan People's Party.

“Shaheed investigated the death himself, and later told friends he believed President Zia had hired the shadowy international assassin called the Carnivore for the job. When Shaheed next returned to Pakistan to visit his family, his single-engine plane went down not far from his ancestral home in West Pakistan and he died.
He was alone. The Pakistani government investigated and found a faulty fuel line had broken, Shaheed had panicked, and the plane had crashed through pilot error.”

“That stuff about his father being drunk—” Flores said. “Devout Muslims abstain. And I can believe old Zia would have both of them killed. Zia was a savage. He liked to strut around in a uniform covered with medals he'd awarded himself.”

“Look at this about the Carnivore. The first file said nothing about him. You'd think it would have had
something
, since so much seems to revolve around the Carnivore.”

“Maybe Gordon or someone else didn't want you to know the Carnivore had been involved with Shaheed.”

“But to what purpose?” As they drove through the deepening afternoon shadows, she read Garrick Richmond's file. He'd been an all-American boy—Presbyterian, Eagle Scout, captain of his high school football team, and president of the senior class. He'd won a full scholarship to college, where he'd played quarterback, graduated
summa cum laude
in economics, and won a Fulbright to Cambridge. With his blond good looks and happy-go-lucky charm, no wonder she'd fallen in love with him.

“Oh, lord. Listen to this.” She read:

“Garrick Richmond's senior honors thesis dealt with popular knowledge of the Carnivore, the international assassin. Richmond compiled clippings, contacted Langley's public information, interviewed spokesmen for Interpol and intelligence agencies of the United States, Britain, and West Germany. Because of his initiative, he was offered a position with Central Intelligence upon graduation. He accepted. He went through training and then moved to Cambridge, where he studied and worked for Central Intelligence. There he met and married Elizabeth Sansborough.”

“The Carnivore again.” Flores scratched his head. “He do keep poppin' up.”

“Consider the odds. Both my lover and husband ‘investigated' the Carnivore. That can't be a coincidence. It's got to mean something, but neither Gordon nor my dossier ever mentioned any of it.”

“And of all people,
you
just happened to be seen and shot by the Carnivore. Another coincidence, right? Jesus, maybe Gordon Taite himself was involved with him!”

She pondered it all. Then she finished reading Garrick Richmond's file. According to the dossier, he'd died as she'd been told—tortured and killed by the Shiite Jihad. It was a tragic end, but somehow worse because his life had been so young and promising.

They filled the pickup's tank about an hour from Denver. When they returned to the highway, Liz again opened Sarah Walker's file. There was the computer-generated face the file claimed was Walker—unremarkable, no mole, slightly crooked nose. She held the image of herself next to Walker's and studied the two portraits as if they could not only give her the answers she sought, but the questions she didn't know enough to ask.

“She looks a little like you,” Flores observed. “There's something about her bone structure.”

“She
is
me, idiot.”

“Not Liz Sansborough. Sarah Walker.”

Liz contemplated the picture of Walker. “Maybe someone at Langley took my photo, made some cosmetic changes, including getting rid of my mole, and
voilà
—Sarah Walker, an official portrait for an official file for a nonexistent person.”

“Langley tailors a cover to match the person being covered.” He poked his finger at her. “In other words, since Sarah Walker was your cover, her photo should look exactly like you.”

“Are you saying she really exists?”

“That would explain the different photo.”

“I've been thinking the same thing. But if there's a real Sarah Walker, where was she while I was pretending to be her?”

“Maybe in Paris, cozying up to the Carnivore?”

“That would explain a hell of a lot. But why would Langley give me her name and life as a cover?” Liz shook her head, frustrated, and her mind returned to the assassin. How could
anyone cozy up to him? She'd put it off until last. She opened the Carnivore's file. Then she snapped to attention, suddenly aware something was wrong.

“Oh, great,” Flores breathed. “Down to the floor, fast!”

Without question or complaint she dropped to the floor of the pickup and squeezed herself small. “Helicopter again?”

He pulled the brim of his Stetson low over his face. “No, an Olds Cutlass. I remember seeing one like it at the Ranch. It's coming up on us from behind.”

Chapter 21

As the pickup sped along the Colorado interstate, Liz Sansborough began to sweat. Squeezed down on the floor, she felt helpless. She hated to have to rely on Flores.

“What's the Olds doing?” she demanded.

“Hell! It's Gordon himself!”

Her heart beat faster. “Where?”

“Coming up on the right. God, that guy's got a barber pole for a neck. His head never stops turning.”

Flores pulled the brim of his Stetson down some more, and he adjusted his dark sunglasses. The brim and glasses almost touched. And then Liz saw a strange and awesome sight. While he'd made the two small motions with his hands, his face had somehow thickened itself. His features had grown heavier and broader, and the short black fuzz on his jaw and cheeks enhanced the new effect. He looked burly, black-bearded, and rough, not like wiry Asher Flores.

“Where's Gordon?” she asked.

“Almost on top of us. If he knew we were in this pickup, he'd have tried to stop us long ago. By the way he's acting, I figure he—and probably a squad from security, too—are fishing, hoping they'll spot us. He's going to pass us on the right. I think I'll inspire him to go look for another fishing hole.”

She frowned. “Just don't mess up.”

“Here we go!” He pressed the turn signal, indicating he wanted to move into the right lane. He pulled over abruptly.

“Are you crazy?” she said. “You're pulling right in front of him!”

“That's the idea.”

“Flores!”

She listened for a horn's blare or the screech of wheels, but there were only normal traffic sounds.

“What's going on?” she demanded.

Flores was watching his rear-view mirror. “He's annoyed. I think I did it just right. Yup, here he comes. He's passing me on the left and speeding up. Make me eat his dirt.”

“Gordon's ego. You were counting on it.”

Flores was watching ahead. “There he goes. Gave me one real dirty look. He's still picking up speed. But you'd better stay down there on the floor, just in case. There may be others. Sorry.”

“No problem.” She was relieved. “The way you look, I wouldn't want to be seen with you anyway.”

He was curious. “How do I look?” His eyes never stopped moving, watching for another threat from the Ranch.

She was honest. “Neanderthal.”

“Thanks. It took me a long time to learn to let my real character come out.” He grinned, and for a moment she felt oddly safe.

As the pickup continued along the Colorado interstate, Liz stayed on the floor and opened the Carnivore's file on the seat. She skimmed the Langley printout, then she reread the opening:

The international assassin who calls himself the Carnivore is believed to have been born in the late 1930s. He may have at least one U.S. parent, since reports from informants indicate he has an American accent when speaking English. He also speaks at least four other languages, most with no accent—German, French, Italian, and Spanish.

His real name is allegedly Alex Bosa. Bosa could be Hungarian, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, or from any Central or South American nation, such as Cuba. He is believed, however, to be Italian.

She told Flores what she'd read. “It also says: ‘He apparently began a monogamous liaison in the late 1950s.' ”

“Married?”

“Doesn't say. Makes you wonder, though, what happened to her. And it also makes me wonder about this woman over in Paris who's calling herself Liz Sansborough. Whether she really knows what she's gotten herself into.”

“Or whether she can get herself out of it.”

“Good point.”

She read aloud:

“The Carnivore's fame began at Fidel Castro's overthrow of the Batista regime in Cuba on January 1, 1959. Afterward a CIA operator picked up a rumor that a new assassin called the Carnivore had eliminated one of Batista's top generals, thus paving the way for Castro's victory.

“The Carnivore is also considered responsible for the December 1975 attack on a Vienna meeting of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries in which three powerful oil ministers were killed.

“He supposedly assassinated Hans Martin Schleyer, president of the Employer's Association of West Germany, in the late 1970s.

“In 1978 he loaded a tiny metal pellet containing poison into the tip of an umbrella and bumped into renowned emigré writer Georgi Markov in London—”

“I remember that,” Flores said soberly. “A case I studied at the Farm. A near-perfect kill. Looked like a heart attack, not murder. But the pathologist was suspicious, thank God.”

“How did the pathologist figure it out?”

“Checked the entire body. Finally he found the remains of a pinhead-sized pellet in Markov's thigh, and that's when somebody remembered a guy with an umbrella had bumped into Markov earlier. By the time the pathologist found the pellet, the poison had decomposed. It was ricin, highly toxic, made from castor-oil seeds. That assassination sent all kinds of nasty
waves through intelligence circles, because it showed how vulnerable all of us really are. In the end, the Bulgarians got the blame. We only found out it was the Carnivore because he sent word after the pathologist figured it out but before anyone else knew.”