by Brian Drake
Nina said okay. Alexis grumbled and returned to the room. Advancing further down the hall, she found a locked door that, when opened, led to the side yard. She shined the light on the brick steps and saw a patch of mud on the middle part. She went into the bathroom, shining the light around, and caught another bit of mud in a corner where it might have dropped after the shoe that had brought it in was hastily removed.
Could Alexis have been spying on her?
She followed the beam of light back down the hallway to the one lighted room—the television room. Solange Daudet sat on one of the large leather couches facing a wide-screen TV showing a music video. She muted the show as Nina joined her. She sank into the large cushions. She set the gun and flashlight on the carved oak coffee table in front of the couch.
“Everything outside okay?”
“I’d feel better if we had ten or twenty other guys on watch.”
Solange’s big brown eyes widened.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”
“How do you know?”
“This isn’t my first trip to the rodeo,” she said.
“The what?”
“Never mind.”
Solange said, “I wish Dad hadn’t insisted on coming here.”
“Your father is looking for a comfort level. It’s the way a lot of people deal with shock or a sudden change in life. They want something familiar close by so things don’t seem so out of control. For your father, it’s this house.”
She wanted to say his family should have been enough to fill the psychological requirement, but after what she’d witnessed at the hospital, it was too much to suggest.
Solange said, “You know something about that yourself, don’t you?”
Nina nodded.
“How did you handle it?”
“Never mind. Anything to drink in this house? Glass of wine, maybe?”
Solange stood up. “I prefer vodka.”
“That will work, too.”
Nina lost count of how many glasses they had polished off. The bottle was more than halfway gone, though. They made the usual rounds of girl talk about clothes and movies and makeup and food and men and men again, and finally Nina said, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“I think I was that age once.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of things happen,” Nina said, “that make you forget where you came from. But we mustn’t dwell on the past.”
She swallowed more vodka and let it burn down her throat and warm her belly. Twenty-three, she thought.
Her eyes darted left and right, her neck and shoulders tightening; the usual fight-or-flight response she felt whenever Steve wasn’t around. A lithe, feral cat. But there was nobody here to harm her. She knew that. Right now, anyway. That could change, and she had to be ready. She wanted to blame too many years of field work, but that would have been a lie. She could trace her anxiety to one freezing Moscow night under the Zhivopisny Bridge when she was twenty-three years old, the same age as Solange, fighting the chill off the Moskva River, while men with guns hunted for her.
She had been out on a date with her boyfriend at the time, crossing the bridge to the midway point to look at the dark river below as it rippled and slapped against the concrete walls on either side that had been built to contain the water while Moscow grew up around it.
Dimitri had been babbling all night about his acceptance for an investigator’s position at the FSB after spending a few years as a Moscow beat cop. Dimitri wanted to see Russia return to its glory days as a world power; protecting her interests from the inside seemed like a good way to help, what with all the corruption and blatant abuse by the elites taking place all over the country. To Nina, it had been too much to think about, so she hadn’t. But Dimitri thought a lot about it.
They stood on the bridge and listened to the water and watched the lights of the city, and then Dimitri’s grip on her tightened. A trio of men approached from the left side of the bridge, and Dimitri told her to run. “Run, fast! Run, now!” Before she cleared the span, the pops of gunfire destroyed the tranquility of the night, and she turned to watch Dimitri fall as the bullets ripped through him, his own pistol discharging uselessly as he landed. The trio saw her. She turned to run again.
She managed to elude them in the park on the other side of the bridge, taking advantage of the trees and shadows and swimming back across the Moskva to where Dimitri had left his car.
It didn’t take long to learn that Dimitri had been making inquiries on his own time regarding a local Mafia chief, who ultimately decided that snuffing a junior officer was worth the trouble and time.
Later, Nina met a man named Alek Savelev, who saw her desire for vengeance and showed her how to get it.
“How long have you known Steve?”
Nina blinked a few times as Solange stirred her from the memories. “Couple years,” she said. “We met in Montenegro. He was trying to steal some jewels that I wanted to bring back to my country. They belonged to my country, actually. Ever hear of Princess Anastasia? They were supposedly some of her jewels. But they were fakes. And instead of jewels, I caught Steve and only went back home long enough to resign from the FSB.”
“What’s that?”
“Russian federal police. Used to be the KGB, and they still are. In Russia, all we do is change the letters around but nothing else changes.”
“What made you join them?”
“What did I tell you about the past? I want to talk about now. Now I travel the world with a handsome man and we cause all kinds of trouble. Good ol’ Stevie.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Not always.”
“Why?”
“One hotel room after another sounds fun? Sometimes I wake up and wonder where I am.”
“Don’t you have a house or something?”
“Austria, just outside Vienna, but we aren’t there much.”
“In the Alps? I love skiing there.”
“Near the Alps.”
“Well what you describe is better than this place,” Solange said. “I want to get away from this family. Fernand seems like the best ticket.”
“Is that all he is to you?”
“Oh, I like him, but—you know. It’s like you and Steve. Good ol’ Stevie, you said.”
“Don’t misjudge me,” Nina said.
“What?”
“Steve is not a ticket to anywhere except fun and excitement and romance and plenty of exotic locales, and hand me the bottle, child.” Nina topped off her glass and set the bottle between them again.
“I would hate to see you waste your time and his,” Nina said. “If you want to get out of here, that’s okay, but don’t link up with a stooge just because he’s there.”
“But what if—”
“If is a dangerous word,” Nina said. “We shan’t say it again tonight, okay?”
“Are you sure you should drink so much?”
“Don’t worry. It takes more than a few glasses of vodka to spoil my aim.”
Anna Dalen handed Dane a rum and Coke. She took a seat next to Dan Hunter on the couch opposite Dane. She’d untied her hair, and the unbrushed black mane, thick and wild, fell around her shoulders.
Hunter, sans leather coat, looked like a cowboy in his flannel shirt, jeans and boots. Appropriately enough, he was from Texas, but most of his accent had faded long ago—a casualty of living everywhere in the world but Texas.
Dane smiled as Anna scooted close to Hunter and he put an arm around her. They had not always been lovers. Hunter, a former major in the Army Criminal Investigations Division had once tried to arrest Anna for selling stolen US weapons; when the pursuit blossomed into a romance and the weapons in question were found in the possession of a terrorist instead of Anna, Hunter resigned from the Army and hooked up with her for good.
“You two look well,” Dane said.
“Not so bad yourself,” Anna said.
Dane had worke
d with Anna and Hunter many times; they had supplied him with weapons and other necessary equipment and even shelter when the heat was on.
“Where’s Nina?” Hunter said.
Dane gave them a rundown of his activities in Paris so far; he filled them in on the events in Mestre and how he’d first learned about the Duchess.
“She’s not wasting time with nickel-and-dime stuff,” Hunter said. “A backpack nuke is serious hardware.”
Dane saluted Hunter with his glass. “Quite the understatement, my friend.”
“We hadn’t heard of this,” Anna said. “Our interest—”
“Is preserving your customer base?” Dane said.
“Gotta look out for number one,” Anna said. “I’m the girl who sells guns, not this poser. And I certainly don’t sell nukes to al-Qaeda. Even I have standards. Despite Dan.” She gave him a playful nudge. He smiled.
Hunter said, “You probably just want to shoot her.”
“Sure,” Anna said.
“The thought had occurred to me as well,” Dane said.
“But nobody knows where she is or what she looks like,” Anna said.
Hunter said, “We do know that she’s working with Leo Gordov.”
“Monty mentioned that.”
“He blew his retirement money, you know,” Anna said.
“If by retirement money you mean what he made selling his services to the highest bidder,” Hunter said. “Usually bad guys.”
“Monty didn’t know where Gordov was.”
“Oh, we do,” Anna said. “Would you like to join us for a little old-fashioned hammer party?”
11
Break Something
Nina removed her bathrobe and left it on the carpet. The blue silk pajamas, also from the late Mrs. Daudet’s wardrobe, were perfect, even if they didn’t fit quite right. If she had to run out and engage the enemy, she didn’t want her top or bottom or any other part of her body covered only by a wispy piece of lingerie.
The bedroom had a private bathroom and a double bed with a pillow top. Nice digs, she thought. The bedroom adjoined Solange’s, and as Nina climbed into bed and turned off the lamp, she heard Solange’s music thump-bumping through the wall. She stayed awake until the music switched off. Before she drifted off, she decided that the bed was nice but it would have been nicer with Steve to curl up with.
The gunshot jolted her awake. Before Solange screamed, she had her slippers on and the Smith & Wesson in hand. She shoved Solange’s door open. The girl, sitting up in bed, screamed again, pointing out the shattered window. Nina went over, keeping to one side. Part of the roof and yard were visible; it would not have been hard for the shooter to climb up, but why shoot at Solange?
Nicholas and Alexis Daudet, sans robes, their PJs rumpled, ran in.
“What happened?”
“Somebody—”
“Are you hurt?” Daudet said to his daughter. Without leaving the doorway. Solange continued sobbing into her comforter.
Alexis wandered over to the window.
“Don’t show yourself,” Nina said.
“Please,” Alexis said, peering through the hole. Further shots were not fired, and Alexis turned away with his face still intact. Nina could not decide if that was a tragedy or not.
She said, “We can’t stay—”
“I will not be forced from my home,” Daudet said.
“Then we need—”
“No police!”
“What the hell is your problem?”
“If you need help,” Alexis said, “call Dane and tell him to come back.”
“He’s busy trying—”
“I told you in the beginning I wanted this handled discreetly,” Daudet said.
“And your boyfriend,” Alexis said, “has not checked in. Do you think he’s dead?”
“I’d know.”
“How?”
“Sixth sense.”
Solange jumped off her bed and, shoving by her father, ran out of the room. Her father did not pursue. Nina followed, calling her name. Solange disappeared into the shadows at the end of the hall. Nina went downstairs and found the young woman in the kitchen, in a dark corner, with her knees up to her chin. She wasn’t crying, but her unblinking thousand-yard stare broke Nina’s heart.
Nina sat on the tiled floor beside the girl and put out an arm. Solange curled close.
“They don’t care,” she said.
Nina gave the girl a squeeze. “I care,” she said.
Dane, Anna and Hunter were rigged for nighttime combat. Black clothes and boots, face paint, caps over their heads. Anna had offered Dane a weapon more potent than his little Detonics, but he’d refused. Anna and Hunter went for heavier arms—Hunter his micro-Uzi and Anna an HK MP5K.
Anna picked the lock and pulled open the warehouse’s alley door as Hunter shimmied down a phone pole. The warehouse alarm would have sent a signal to the cops via telephone line; Hunter had cut the circuit to avoid that hurdle.
Dane let Hunter enter after Anna and pulled the door shut behind them.
Each carried a flashlight, and the bright beams stabbed through the dark interior. They picked out stacks of crates against one wall; the rest of the warehouse was wide-open concrete floor.
“They wouldn’t keep anything here, would they?” Dane said.
“We use fronts like this all the time,” Anna said. “Who pays attention to warehouses?”
Dane’s light landed on the window of a small office across the floor. He went that way while Anna and Hunter checked out the crates. The door beside the window wasn’t locked. Dane entered and scanned the papers on the desk, peeked through bare filing cabinets, and flashed the light everywhere looking in vain for anything that even looked like a clue.
He rejoined Anna and Hunter, who had popped one of the crates open. Inside were cardboard boxes. Hunter removed one box; Dane slit it open with a knife. In the box were individually packaged bottles of Passion Flower, Daudet’s best-selling perfume.
Nobody said a word. They kept pulling out boxes until they reached a compartment containing three automatic rifles. They were US M-16A2s, possibly from the cache reportedly stolen by the Duchess.
“A piece of the puzzle?” Hunter said.
“Maybe,” Dane said.
A vehicle rumbled up the alley, the brakes squeaking as the machine stopped. Doors opened and closed.
Dane, Anna and Hunter ducked around the side of the crates. The side door they’d entered through did not swing out; instead another door, out of sight, opened. Two men exchanged words, their voices growing louder; they rounded the corner and entered the office. They snapped on a light and illuminated part of the open floor.
“Know them?” Dane said.
Both Anna and Hunter shook their heads.
The two men did not stop talking, and their voices echoed through the warehouse.
“If we stay in the shadows, we can get out of here,” Hunter said.
Dane covered the lit office with his .45 as Hunter and Anna moved out, staying away from the spill of light. They reached the alley door and waited. Dane’s shoes brushed the concrete as he ran. Hunter shoved open the door, and the trio gained the blacktop outside.
Somebody shouted.
Up the alley sat an SUV with a man leaning against the bumper, smoking. He hollered again and reached behind his back. A burst from Hunter’s micro-Uzi drove the man to cover; he was still yelling as the trio piled into Anna’s convertible. The motor fired with a single twist of the key, and she peeled off into the night.
It took about an hour to calm Solange enough to get her back into bed, but no further incidents disturbed the house.
Until everybody woke up in the morning anyway.
When Nina finally arose, the first thing she saw was a text from Steve on her cell: Safe. Be in touch soon.
She spit out a curse. This house wasn’t safe. She had to get them out somehow. She showered and dressed and went downstairs, where Nicholas Daudet sat reading the
paper.
“Where—”
“Alexis has gone for a walk,” Daudet said, bifocals gripping the edge of his nose, “and Solange remains asleep.”
“She deserves it.” Nina entered the kitchen with a triumphant grin. She’d actually completed a sentence in front of the man! But seeing him engrossed in the newspaper told her he hadn’t been listening anyway.
She finished her second cup of coffee, and Solange still had not come down.
Nina made a circuit of the grounds, noting footprints in the grass from the overnight shooter. He’d scraped part of the outside wall when he’d climbed to Solange’s window. There were no footprints anywhere else. The shooter had gone straight for Solange’s window.
Why her? Alexis had a bedroom on the ground floor. Why was he not a target, too?
And how did the shooting relate to Alexis’s sneaking around the grounds, like she suspected?
Nina went upstairs to the girl’s bedroom and found the bed empty.
Daudet was still reading his newspaper when she went back downstairs.
“Solange is gone. Did you see her leave?”
The older man looked up with only a frown.
Nina ran to the garage and found the girl’s car gone. She told Daudet.
“Where did she go?” the father demanded.
Nina shook her head and grabbed the keys to another car.
Daudet said, “You can’t leave me alone!”
Nina tossed him her pistol. He tried to catch it, fumbled, and the gun dropped on his left foot. He glared at her. She went out.
Yes, she was abandoning her principal. But she couldn’t abandon Solange too.
She remembered where she used to run when home turned rough, and it gave her an idea of where Solange had disappeared to. Solange would go to Fernand’s. She tried his home first and was told he was at work; she went to the bakery. Nina entered the small white-walled establishment and saw Solange at a corner table munching a croissant. She stopped chewing and turned guilty eyes on Nina.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” Solange said as Nina sat down.
“We have to go.”
