The Brotherhood of the Rose

  Another thing bothered him—his present location, Atlantic City. After a job, he always went to a predetermined neutral site—in this case, a locker at a Washington gym—finding money and instructions on where to disappear. Eliot knew the locations Saul preferred—the mountains, Wyoming and Colorado in particular—and as a favor, Eliot always agreed to them. So why the hell was I sent to Atlantic City? he thought. He’d never been here. He didn’t like crowds. He tolerated them only as a necessary evil when he gratified his need to ski. Here, people swarmed around him like scavenging insects.

  Something was wrong. The orders to use explosives, to go to Atlantic City—they were blatant violations of routine. As roulette wheels clattered, Saul’s hands itched with apprehension.

  He left the cocktail lounge, approaching the blackjack tables. He hated crowds, but in the locker at the gym, he’d found two thousand dollars and orders to play blackjack.

  Accepting his cover, he found an empty chair and bought five hundred dollars’ worth of chips. After betting a twenty-five dollar chip, he received a king and a queen.

  The dealer won with blackjack.

  10

  “Goddamned bastards,” the president said. He punched a fist against the palm of his hand. He hadn’t slept. The news had aged him shockingly, much more than the recent assassination attempt. Fatigue made him tremble. Grief and anger pinched his face. “I want the man who killed my friend. I want those sons of bitches—” Abruptly the president stopped. Unlike his predecessors, he understood the wisdom of silence. What he didn’t say couldn’t be used against him.

  Eliot wondered if the president knew the tapes of his Oval Office conversations were being duplicated.

  The director of the CIA sat next to Eliot. “The KGB got in touch with us at once. They flatly deny they had anything to do with it.”

  “Of course they deny it,” the president said.

  “But I believe them,” the director said. “The job was too sensational. It’s not their style.”

  “That’s what they want us to think. They’ve changed their tactics to confuse us.”

  “With respect, Mr. President, I don’t think so,” the director said. “I’ll grant you, the Soviets don’t like the shift in our Mideast policy—away from the Jews toward the Arabs. The Soviets have always counted on our pro-Israeli stance. They’ve used it to turn the Arabs against us. Now we do what They’ve been doing. They’re upset.”

  “So it makes sense for them to interfere,” the president said. “Our deal with the Arabs is simple. If we turn our back on Israel, the Arabs will sell us cheaper oil. The Paradigm Foundation was established to hide our negotiations with the Arabs—businessmen dealing with other businessmen instead of government with government. Destroy the Paradigm Foundation—you destroy the negotiations. You also warn us not to reopen them.”

  “Sure, it makes sense,” the director said. “Too much sense. The Russians know we’d blame them. If they wanted to interfere, they’d hide their tracks. They’d be more clever.”

  “Who the hell did it then? The FBI found Andrew’s arm a half a mile away from the wreckage. I want to get even with someone. Tell me who. Qaddafi? Castro?”

  “I don’t think so,” the director said.

  “We did it,” Eliot said. He’d been silent, waiting for the proper moment.

  The president swung toward Eliot, stunned. “We what?”

  “Indirectly at least. One of our men did. Naturally it wasn’t authorized.”

  “I hope to God not!”

  “We found out by accident,” Eliot said.

  The director, who was also Eliot’s superior, stared at him indignantly. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t have a chance. I learned about it just before this meeting. We’ve been watching the man for several months. He’s ruined several assignments. His behavior’s erratic. We’ve been thinking of letting him go. Three weeks before the explosion, he dropped out of sight. Today he resurfaced. We managed to retrace his movements. We can put him in the area at the time of the blast.”

  The president’s face turned pale. “Go on.”

  “He’s under surveillance in Atlantic City. He seems to have a lot of money. He’s losing at blackjack.”

  “Where’d he get the bankroll?” the president said, eyes narrowed.

  “He’s Jewish. The Mossad helped us train him. He fought in their October War in ’73. He’s got expensive tastes, which he can’t maintain if we let him go. We think the Israelis paid him to turn.”

  “That does make sense,” the director said grudgingly.

  The president clenched a fist. “But can you prove it? Can you give me something to raise hell with Tel Aviv?”

  “I’ll speak to him. There are ways to stimulate conversation.”

  “After that, do we have procedures for dealing with double agents?”

  The president’s evasive language made Eliot wonder again if he knew the Oval Office tapes were being duplicated.

  Tactfully Eliot nodded.

  “I suggest you implement them,” the president said. “It doesn’t make a difference, but for my satisfaction, what’s his name?”

  11

  As he left the casino’s restaurant, Saul saw a man in the crowd who suddenly turned to walk the other way. A man with a cleft chin and a mustache. No, it couldn’t be. From the back, the man had the same narrow build. The color and style of his hair were the same. The man Saul had spoken to in Baltimore. The man who’d helped on the job.

  Saul’s muscles hardened. He had to be wrong. When a team disbanded after a job, the agency never sent two men to disappear in the same place. For the sake of caution, the team wasn’t supposed to see each other again or be connected in any way. Then what was this man doing here?

  Relax, Saul told himself. You’ve made a mistake. Go after the guy and take another look. Satisfy your mind.

  The man had blended with the crowd, moving along a corridor, going through a door. Saul slipped around two women, passing a row of clattering slot machines. He recalled the moment when he’d seen the man—the sudden turn to walk the other way, as if the man had forgotten something. Maybe. Or had the man turned because he didn’t want Saul to recognize him?

  Grabbing the door, Saul pulled it open and saw a theater, dimly lit, deserted. The entertainment wouldn’t start for several hours. Empty tables. A curtain hid the stage.

  The right edge of the curtain trembled.

  Saul ran down plush stairs. He reached the lowest tables and vaulted to the edge of the stage, creeping toward the right edge of the curtain, silently cursing himself because he’d left his pistol in his room. There’d been no choice. In Atlantic City, the quickest way to draw attention was to carry a handgun, no matter how well concealed.

  The curtain stopped trembling. He stiffened as a door banged open—to his right, below the stage, past the tables, beneath an Exit light. A waiter came in, carrying a pile of tablecloths.

  The waiter squinted at Saul and braced his shoulders. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Random chance again. Another version of the cleaning lady coming in the room when she wasn’t supposed to. Christ.

  Saul made his choice, dropping to the floor, rolling beneath the heavy curtain.

  “Hey!”

  He heard the waiter’s muffled shout beyond the curtain. He ignored it, continuing to roll, springing to a crouch beside a grand piano. Dim light from the wings cast shadows on the stage. Drums, guitars, microphones, musicians’ stands. His eyes adjusted to the shadows. He crept toward the right wing of the stage. A space between angled partitions led him to a table, a chair, a rack of costumes, a wall of levers and switches.

  No one.

  “He went through there!” the waiter shouted beyond the curtain.

  Saul stepped toward a fire door. He’d trained himself to ignore distractions, staying alive this long because of his concentration. Again, it saved him. As he touched the knob on the door, he paid no attention t
o the quick steps on the stage beyond the curtain. He was preoccupied by something else—the whisper of cloth behind him. He dodged. A knife rebounded, clattering off the metal door. A shadow lunged from behind a crate, the only corner Saul had deliberately failed to check. Don’t go to your enemy. Make him come to you.

  As adrenaline quickened his instincts, Saul crouched, bending his knees for balance, ready to meet the attack. The man struck, surprising Saul by using the heel of his palm as a weapon, his fingers upright, thrusting straight ahead. Trained to defend himself against this form of combat, Saul blocked the hand. He used the heel of his own palm, slamming the man’s rib cage, aiming at his heart.

  Bones cracked. Groaning, the man lurched back. Saul spun him, grabbed from behind, and pushed the fire door, dragging him out.

  Five seconds had passed. As he closed the door, he glimpsed two waiters on the stage. He spun toward a hall of doors. At its end, a guard had his back turned, making a phone call.

  Saul tugged the injured man in the opposite direction, shoving open a door marked Stairs but not going through, instead rushing farther down to a door with a large red star. He turned the knob. It wasn’t locked. He went into a dressing room, dropped the man, and shut the door. Flicking the lock, he swung to protect himself. The room was deserted.

  He held his breath, listening at the door.

  “Hey!” a waiter shouted. “Anyone pass you down there?”

  Saul didn’t hear the guard’s response.

  “The door to the stairs!” a second waiter shouted.

  Saul heard them running. The sound of their footfalls receded.

  He stared at the man on the floor. Unconscious, the man breathed shallowly, expelling red foam from his nostrils and mouth. The splintered bones from the shattered rib cage caused extensive internal bleeding. Death from lung and heart congestion would occur in minutes.

  A man with a mustache. The man Saul had talked to in Baltimore. No doubt about it. He must have followed me here, Saul thought.

  But how? He’d been confident he wasn’t shadowed. Conclusion—the man was good at his work.

  Too much so. When the man had turned abruptly outside the restaurant, his motive hadn’t been to keep Saul from recognizing him. Exactly the opposite. The man had wanted to confuse Saul into following him—to lead Saul to a quiet place and…

  Kill me. Why?

  Something else disturbed him. Method. The knife would have done the job if I hadn’t been alert. But the way he came at me, lunging straight ahead with the heel of his palm, aiming toward my rib cage. It’s unique. Only someone trained in Israel knows how to do it.

  The Mossad. The Israeli intelligence network. The best in the world. Saul had been taught by them. So had the man on the floor.

  But why would they—?

  No professional assassin works alone. Somewhere close, other members of the death team waited.

  He stepped from the dressing room, glancing along the hall. The guard was gone. Wiping his fingerprints off the doors, he left the way he’d come—past the stage and its curtain, through the empty theater.

  In the casino, the noises from the crowd swept over him. Slot machines jangled. He glanced at his watch. A voice crackled from the public address system, asking Princess Fatima to pick up a service phone. Translated, the announcement meant the casino had an emergency. All security personnel were ordered to contact the office at once.

  He tried not to hurry as he left the casino’s glitter and reached the boardwalk, his eyes not used to twilight. Tourists leaned against a rail, a cool breeze tugging their clothes as they gazed past the beach toward whitecaps. Passing them, his footsteps rumbling on the boardwalk, he glanced at his watch again.

  The man would be dead by now.

  12

  The lights of the greenhouse reflected off its glass, concealing the night. Pacing the aisles, Eliot tried to distract himself with his roses, savoring their fragrance. Different varieties—myriad sizes and colors. Complicated, delicate, they required perfect care and cultivation.

  Like the men he controlled, he thought. Indeed, he’d always believed that his men were as sensitive as his roses and as beautiful. With thorns.

  But sometimes even the best of his creations had to be culled.

  He paused to study a rose so red it was crimson. It seemed to have been dipped in blood. Exquisite.

  He concentrated on the rose he’d mentioned to Saul in Denver. Blue.

  Frowning, he glanced at his watch. Near midnight. Outside, the April night was chilly and dry. But the greenhouse was warm and humid. Though he sweated, he wore his black vest and suit coat.

  He pursed his lips. His wizened forehead narrowed. Something was wrong. An hour ago, he’d been told of the mission’s failure. Saul had survived. The death team had removed the assassin’s body, but not before an Atlantic City security guard had found it. That sloppy detail had to be taken care of. To quell his nervousness, Eliot amused himself by imagining the startled look on the Atlantic City headliner’s face if he’d entered his dressing room and found a corpse on the floor. After the many gangster movies the superstar singer had appeared in, real life might have been an education for him. But how would that sloppy detail have been taken care of?

  His amusement died when he heard the phone. The special phone—green, appropriate for a greenhouse, next to the black phone on the potting table. Only a handful of people knew its number. He hoped one man in particular would be calling.

  Though he’d waited anxiously, he forced himself to let the phone ring two more times. Clearing his throat, he picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Romulus,” the strained voice said. “Black flag.” The man sounded out of breath. Eliot took for granted the greenhouse and its phones were bugged. He and his men used prearranged codes. Romulus was Saul. Black flag meant an emergency—specifically that his cover had been blown and someone was dead.

  Eliot answered, “Give me a number. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

  “No,” Saul blurted.

  Eliot bit his lip. “Then tell me how you want to do it.”

  “I’ve got to keep moving. You give me a number.”

  “Wait ten seconds.” Eliot reached in his suit coat, pulling out a pen and notepad. He wrote down a number he knew Saul had memorized.

  967-876-9988

  Below it, he wrote the number of a pay phone he knew was safe.

  703-338-9022

  He subtracted the bottom from the top.

  264-538-0966

  He read Saul the remainder.

  Saul in turn would subtract that number from the one he’d memorized.

  967-876-9988

  –264-538-0966

  703-338-9022

  He’d then have the number of the pay phone Eliot planned to use.

  “In thirty minutes,” Saul said abruptly.

  Eliot heard a click as Saul hung up. He set the phone down. Tense, he forced himself to wait till he had control. Saul’s insistence that he call Eliot, not the other way around, was unexpected but not disastrous. He’d have needed to leave here and reach a safe phone, no matter what. But if Saul had given him a number, he could have used it to locate the phone Saul was calling from. He could then have sent a team to that location.

  Now he had to think of another way. He concentrated on his roses, nodding as the solution came to him.

  He checked his watch, surprised that ten minutes had elapsed since Saul had hung up. But he still had time to drive to the phone he planned to use outside a local supermarket—after midnight, no one would be in the area—and make a hurried call to set up the trap. A minute to explain instructions. Then he’d wait for Saul to get in touch with him again.

  All the same, as he turned off the lights in the greenhouse, he felt a moment’s hesitation. Standing in the dark, he thought that Saul was so superior he regretted having to terminate him. But then again, Eliot had many superior men. One less wouldn’t matter, given the stakes.

  But someth
ing else troubled him. The way Saul had avoided the trap in Atlantic City. What if Saul was even better than Eliot thought?

  13

  The bowling alley rumbled from strikes and gutterballs. Only a third of the lanes had players. Ricky’s Auto Parts was beating First-rate Mufflers.

  Saul sat with his swivel chair turned so his back was to the luncheon counter. He tried to look preoccupied by the games, but actually he studied the entrance to the bowling alley.

  Stay off the streets—too great a risk of being seen. Choose a public place—the cops won’t bother you. Pick a spot that isn’t crowded—you’ve got to have room to maneuver. And an exit—the service door behind the counter.

  “Refill?” the waitress said behind him.

  He turned to the tired woman in the wrinkled uniform. She held a pot of coffee. “No, thanks. I guess my friend won’t be coming.”

  “Closing time.” She glanced at the clock above the milk dispenser. “In five minutes.”

  “What do I owe you?”

  “Eighty cents.”

  He gave her a dollar. “Keep the change. I’d better call and find out what happened to him.”

  “Over there.” She pointed to a pay phone near a glassed-in display of bowling balls for sale.

  Distressed, he hoped his smile looked convincing as he walked to the phone. He’d told Eliot he’d call back in thirty minutes. On schedule, he shoved a coin in the slot and pressed the button for the operator. He told her the number Eliot had given him. A Virginia area code. The corresponding pay phone would have to be near Falls Church, where Eliot lived. Eliot didn’t have time to drive far.

  The operator told Saul the charges for three minutes. He inserted the coins, listened to the different tones as they dropped through the slots, and heard a buzz.

  Eliot answered quickly. “Yes?”

  Though these phones weren’t tapped, the operator might overhear the conversation. Saul used indirect references, quickly explaining what had happened. “Our friends from Israel,” he concluded. “I recognized their style. They don’t want me working for the magazine. Why?”