Masquerade (48 page)

Three weeks later Alex Bosa told his new CIA friend he'd taken the name
Carnivore
and was for hire. In turn, Bremner told Langley he'd heard rumors about a first-rate new assassin. Only Red Jack O'Keefe knew Bremner's personal connection to him.

To further hide his identity, the Carnivore resumed his birth name, Hal Sansborough, a step which only Bremner, O'Keefe, and his mob family knew. For additional cover, Sansborough decided to marry a London girl. He chose her carefully.

Her name was Melanie Childs, the daughter of a British colonel. While her mother was busy with social engagements, Melanie had raised her three younger brothers. Like her father, she was a firm disciplinarian. Hard rules, high expectations, and no excuses. But there was a sweetness to Melanie that covered her toughness like velvet over an iron fist, and that combination was what Hal Sansborough needed.

When the colonel was assigned to Whitehall, Melanie was delighted. After years in foreign outposts around the world, they were stationed back in England at last. That's when Sansborough met her. She was seventeen. The colonel was impressed by Hal's obvious success as a salesman of U.S. products. Hal Sansborough drove a Daimler, wore classic clothes, and had good manners. Also, he was ten years older than Melanie, mature enough to accept a husband's responsibility for a wife. His long sales trips were worrisome, but Melanie was used to the head of the household being gone. And she was in love.

Hal and Melanie married, he bought her a place in Chelsea, and Elizabeth was born. Like most military brats, Melanie had
always done what she was supposed to. Rules were inflexible, there was little chance for personal choices, and the needs of others came first. Hal was first, Liz second, her parents third, herself last. She was a housewife, unimportant. A cipher.

The Carnivore's business flourished. Through Hughes Bremner, he occasionally served Langley and the intelligence agencies of other friendly nations. This enhanced Bremner's reputation as a man who could walk in all worlds. The Carnivore also worked for Iron Curtain countries. That was a fact of life, and all sides accepted it even while they tried to take him.

After twenty years the Carnivore's involvement with Hughes Bremner and Jack O'Keefe shifted radically because of his daughter, Liz. She had no idea her father was the Carnivore. His haven was his family, but that was threatened when Liz went up to Cambridge.

Hired to assassinate a prominent Pakistani dissident, the Carnivore met the dissident's son, a student at Cambridge. The son was Liz's friend. When the Carnivore killed the father, the boy spotted a connection between the “accidental” death and the actions of Hal Sansborough. The son told everyone he could think of—Liz, the KGB, British intelligence, Langley.

Liz didn't believe him. She told her father.

Hal Sansborough pretended shock. He denied everything.

Liz trusted him, but the son had raised such a stink that Hal Sansborough's cover was in danger. And so was his relationship with his innocent daughter, because she'd fallen for the boy.

The Carnivore called on his friend Hughes Bremner to eliminate the son. He himself could have no ties to the Pakistani boy's death.

Afterward, the Carnivore set about erasing all questions about his now-shaky identity. He asked his mafia family in New York to arrange the “deaths” of Harold and Melanie Sansborough. Both hated to let their daughter think them dead, Melanie most of all, but Melanie was a good wife. This was the only way they could keep the secret of Hal Sansborough's hidden life.

And so they “died,” and the Carnivore resumed his work.

After that Liz seemed to recover and do well. She met and
married Garrick Richmond. But he turned out to be like the boyfriend of the Carnivore's first wife—an abuser. He beat Liz.

All this time the Carnivore had been watching over his daughter. When he could stand it no more, he again called on Bremner, this time to demand he eliminate one of his own people. Richmond had to die, and, again, with no connection to the Carnivore.

Bremner sent the abusive husband to Lebanon, then tipped the Shiite Jihad. The Jihad did as expected, and the Carnivore's goal was achieved.

After her husband's death, Liz joined Langley. Bremner and O'Keefe watched her closely. She no longer seemed to wonder whether her father had been the Carnivore. Then, three years ago, she was sent to pull a message in Lisbon. But her father had a contract on the courier. When Liz got to the intercept, he'd killed the courier. He'd been so fast, Liz had no time to interfere.

But she'd recognized him. He was her “dead” father.

That night she crossed over.

Alarmed, Bremner scrambled to cover himself. He fabricated the girl-friend story for Liz's Langley file and declared her a rogue agent. Since then, no murders had been attributed to the Carnivore. Was that because of the new world order? The aging of the Carnivore? Or had it been Liz's influence?

Chapter 55

4:28
P.M
.

The odor of sawdust drifted on the hot air in the circus tent north of Paris. Poodles pranced around the center ring to merry calliope music. A middle-aged Frenchwoman gripping a shabby Samaritaine shopping bag paused beneath the bleachers.

Soon a dozen clowns tumbled out of the side exits, heading toward the rings. One knelt next to the Frenchwoman to retie a shoelace.

“Well?” the clown whispered in English.

“I'll be at the Languedoc at eight o'clock tonight, as scheduled. All my arrangements are made. Are yours?”

“Of course. The contingencies have been covered.”

“Are you worried?” the Frenchwoman asked.

“Worry's not a word I understand.”

The shabby Frenchwoman hesitated. “Quill's dead. One of our most trusted contacts passed the news. Maybe we should worry.”

“I heard, too.” The clown glanced around the colorful tent. “We were together a long time, but that doesn't change anything.”

“No,” the Frenchwoman said, “but I'll miss him very much.”

“I will, too, Liz.” The clown stood, waggled gloved hands high as if it were all part of the act. Then, in a loud, guttural voice in French:
“Pardon, madame!
Enjoy the show!”

The clown did a back flip onto buffoon feet and dashed off to join the others in the ring. Wearily the Frenchwoman climbed the bleachers. She watched and clapped appropriately. Never did she show how distracted she was. At intermission she left.

4:36
P.M
.

In the courtyard of the Château de la Vere, Sarah Walker had watched a metamorphosis take place, and she'd lost an uncle she'd never really found.

As he told the story of Hughes Bremner and the Carnivore, Jack O'Keefe had become robust and lucid. He'd reveled in his knowledge, the spymaster once more. When he finished, he ordered aperitifs for everyone, his face shrewd behind the sunglasses.

Now Sarah had more evidence the Carnivore was dead. Unless Quill had not been Hal Sansborough. The smile in the photo had been the same, but not the face. He'd said he was her uncle, but smiles could be imitated and people could lie. Especially loyal assistants. She remembered reading that in medieval battles squires wore armor and livery identical to their king's.

Perhaps Quill hadn't been her uncle, but it made no difference, because they still had to stop Bremner. They had to get answers, get out of here, and get back to Paris.

“We're really worried about Hughes and the coming-in,” she reminded O'Keefe. “Why would Hughes want to kill the Carnivore?”

O'Keefe grinned. This was his favorite game. “Because Hughes and his group inside Langley and a few other agencies own Sterling-O'Keefe, and the Carnivore has information that would destroy them and it. Kill the billion-dollar goose
and
its golden eggs.”

Sterling-O'Keefe was owned by Hughes and others inside the government, and maybe funded by stolen government money. Now Sarah understood, and with a glance at Asher, she saw he did, too. No wonder Bremner's name was associated
nowhere in the public record with Sterling-O'Keefe Enterprises. It was the same way the byzantine and rogue BCCI had used fronts to acquire, control, and operate businesses secretly all over the world.

Sarah kept her face impassive. “We guessed that much, Jack. What are the specifics? What does the Carnivore know?”

O'Keefe paused, enjoying his knowledge and his game. “Back in the early days when Sterling-O'Keefe was struggling, Hughes had two obstacles. One was the CEO of a rival S&L. You see, OMNI-American Savings & Loan is one of Sterling-O'Keefe's largest enterprises, and OMNI-American needed to buy that competing S&L. But the CEO had the clout to block it.” O'Keefe leaned back. “The second obstacle was a deputy in the French finance ministry. Good family, right schools. He'd just been invited to be treasurer of a hotshot French insurance company. The last thing he wanted was competition to slow him down. So he blocked Sterling-O'Keefe's insurance company from coming into France.”

Sarah could compute the rest. “Hughes wanted the CEO and the finance deputy eliminated. And the deaths had to look like accidents. He could afford no mistakes.”

“Which meant he hired the Carnivore,” Asher said. “But the Carnivore's smart, Jack. He's not going to rat on Hughes.”

O'Keefe's grin held something like childish delight. Was he slipping back into the darkness of his disease, or challenging them to follow the twists and turns to the right conclusion?

It was Sarah who saw the truth. “The Carnivore doesn't realize Hughes—Sterling-O'Keefe—hired him!”

Jack O'Keefe nodded his wigged head. “Hughes went to the Carnivore directly, told him the jobs were for Langley. After he comes in, at his debriefing, the Carnivore will give a list of his work for Langley, and when Langley records show it didn't authorize the hits, they'll dig until they discover Sterling-O'Keefe. Boom! Hughes and his secret board are unmasked!”

“But Bremner could warn him, tell him to keep quiet—” Then Sarah saw the ramifications. “No. Bremner would never trust someone who's used to working all sides. The Carnivore would have too much power over him.”

Langley could absorb peccadillos, infractions, even Bill Casey's violations in Central America. But it couldn't tolerate massive theft, fraud, and personally arranged executions on the scale of Hughes Bremner's.

If the revelations leaked, the entire U.S. intelligence complex would be involved in a scandal worse than Watergate, Iran-contra, or Iraqgate. But why the urgent need to silence the Carnivore
tonight
, in total defiance of the President? Why not wait, stall, talk to the President again?

Sarah heard Dr. Allan Levine's triumphant voice at Je Suis Chez Moi, euphoric with the delirium:
By Monday the Carnivore will be dead and I'll never have to beg for money again . . . he'll have millions to give my work
. . .

She studied O'Keefe's face behind the sunglasses. “There's something else, Jack. Something more urgent, maybe bigger than anything Sterling-O'Keefe and Hughes have ever done. Something that will make billions. And it happens tomorrow.”

Jack O'Keefe's shoulders suddenly trembled. He shook his head, his face clouded. “What? What did you say?”

Sarah and Asher exchanged glances.

Sarah tried again. “An operation here in Paris vital to Hughes. One that's going to make him enormously rich.”

But Jack O'Keefe said nothing. He smiled a distant smile, started to sing the “Marseillaise.” He swung his arms in time to the music. His white wig fell off to the side and over his ear.

Asher frowned. “Looks like that's all we're going to get.”

It was time to leave. They stood up. The rest of the answers would have to be found in Paris . . . somewhere.

Abruptly Jack trotted off toward the Château. They followed him to a door, not the one Sarah had used when she'd accompanied the butler in and out. Inside was a seventeenth-century hat rack. And hanging from it among the other hats was a straw Panama with the red tartan band.

In one smooth, expert motion, she pulled the Walther from her belt, slammed Jack O'Keefe against the wall, and shoved the muzzle up under his chin.

“Sarah!” Asher was stunned.

“Take off his sunglasses!”

Asher glanced at her, then pulled the glasses from O'Keefe's face. The old spymaster was rigid, his hands low, palms pressed into the wall. She looked into his eyes. It was he all right, the man with whom she'd exchanged an unguarded look as they'd both sat watching Je Suis Chez Moi.

“You bastard!” she snarled and pushed the muzzle deep into his throat. “You tell me what the hell's going on, or I'm going to pull this trigger.”

Chapter 56

4:50
P.M
.

Jack O'Keefe froze against the château wall. His voice was suddenly clear and firm. “Careless of me to leave my hat at the door.”

Sarah kept the Walther firmly imbedded in his neck. His silver head leaned back against the old stone wall, and he gazed down at her with weathered blue eyes.

“Talk, Jack.”

“Hard to do that with my larynx squeezing shut.” He gasped for effect. “Be a dear and give an old man a break.”

Sarah almost smiled. He was so obviously trying to con her. But he'd been among the best, and from all signs he was still a force to be reckoned with. “Just like you gave the people in Je Suis Chez Moi a break? You're lucky none of the clients died from your bomb.”

“No, my dear.
They're
lucky. Not like those poor slobs in the alley you and Asher so viciously did in.”

He waited for her to react, but she ignored his bait. “I saw you sneak into Je Suis Chez Moi, and decided to give you a hand breaking out, for all the good it's doing me now. A small bit of plastic explosive to rattle the mansion's façade, and I cut the army on your heels to a battered pair, and you did just fine.”