The Assassins Read Online Free PDF

smile, it was unlikely the uninformed would know that the man who seemed to be a kindly Roman Catholic priest was in fact an infamous international assassin. A half hour earlier, Tucker had been eating lunch at Teaism Caf é when the Padre had appeared, laid what looked to be a business card on the table, and walked away. It invited Tucker to follow for a meet. No details, just that it would be worth his while.
    About twenty feet behind, Tucker trailed the Padre into a wide paseo and then through glass doors into Gallery Place, an indoor shopping complex of several stories. The contract killer stopped at the Regal Cinemas box office, where he bought a matinee ticket for the new George Clooney movie.
    As the Padre stepped onto the up escalator, Tucker bought a ticket and followed. Soon he spotted the three-man surveillance team he had summoned from Catapult. One was at the complex’s main entry. The second was near the ice cream parlor. And the third was riding the escalator behind Tucker.
    Satisfied no one else was surveilling them, Tucker stepped off the escalator. The scent of hot buttered popcorn infused the air, and the Padre was leaving the concession stand with a large bag of it. Unbuttoning his overcoat, Tucker followed him into the theater, where he had taken the aisle seat in the top row. He was already eating popcorn, his black overcoat folded on his lap. No one was within listening distance.
    Tucker made an impatient gesture, and the assassin moved his legs. Tucker slid in and sat next to him.
    “I like George Clooney.” The Padre’s voice was a gravelly whisper. “He owned a potbellied pig named Max. The pig weighed three hundred pounds, but he did not eat the pig. Consider that. They lived together in Hollywood for eighteen years.” He nodded at the screen, where Clooney was jumping off a building. “I see all of George Clooney’s movies. I never miss one.” He ate a handful of popcorn. “Still, I do not understand why people live with animals.”
    On the screen, Clooney was making a getaway in a speeding Jaguar. Lucky Clooney, Tucker thought.
    Tucker kept his whisper neutral. “You wanted to talk. I’m here. Talk.”
    For more than four decades no one was certain whether the Padre was Spanish or Portuguese. Little was certain about him except he was exceptionally talented with knives. Then two years ago, a Spanish mole in ETA, the Basque terrorist group, reported that the Padre’s real name was Sabino Zaragosa and he had come up through ETA. No one was sure why he had resigned years ago and gone independent.
    “I would like a favor.” Watching the movie, the assassin barely moved his lips. “It is not a large favor, and of course I will give something even more valuable in return.”
    This is my day to be asked for favors, Tucker thought. “What are you offering?”
    “You are perhaps aware of the barrel of weapons schoolchildren stumbled upon last week on a Gaza beach?”
    “Of course.” Palestinian youngsters had been playing on the seashore when they found an oil barrel—sealed, waterproofed, and painted black—sitting alone on the sand. Inside were grenades, automatic rifles, and mortar shells.
    “I think you might very much like to know how those big bad armaments came to land in the heart of Hamas territory.”
    Not only did Tucker want to know, Mossad would, too. “What will it cost me?”
    The Padre smiled, his teeth white and large in the flickering darkness. Then his expression turned grim. “Tell me where I can find the Carnivore.”
    Tucker’s eyebrows rose. Interesting. The Carnivore was also an independent assassin. He was known for making wet work look like accidents, suicides, or natural deaths.
    “Why do you want him?” Tucker asked.
    “It is a matter of competition. We are competitors—and he has lived a long time. It is personal. Nothing to do with anyone or anything else.” The Padre thrust a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
    “Why come to me?”
    “His last