by Seeley James
“Uh,” I said eloquently. “Hungry?”
“Famished.” She gave me that electric smile.
I led the way to the kitchen. The staff was busy making breakfast for the security team. Since Viktor made his threat, we’d quadrupled the guards at all Sabel locations. Which meant Chef was working around-the-clock to feed everyone. Not wanting to bother her, I grabbed a mixing bowl, buttermilk, flour, malt, and the other ingredients and stirred it up. I added walnuts and blueberries to the batter and let it sit while I whipped egg whites into a fine meringue. I gingerly folded in the meringue to boost the fluff-factor. Just before pouring it into the waffle iron, I drizzled in melted butter. Sylvia watched me work but said nothing. She didn’t have to. I’m impressive in the kitchen.
We took our finished waffles to the nook, where I topped them with whipped cream and syrup. She stared at the plate, speechless.
I sliced the first bite and held the fork up. Her gaze locked on mine while she enveloped the offering with her lips and drew back. She chewed and swallowed and didn’t think it odd that I had a second bite ready and waiting for her. She took in five more mouthfuls before I could stop staring into her pale blue eyes.
We managed to finish eating without having to “get a room”—as some of the kitchen staff suggested.
We took Sabel Three to New York City and watched dawn break across the Appalachians on the way.
We walked through Central Park while waiting for the stores to open. She resisted getting a new wardrobe until I explained that Ms. Sabel felt bad about whisking her away without giving her time to pack. I added a personal guarantee: no strings attached, which did the trick. When the first boutiques opened, she slowly warmed to the idea of shopping on Ms. Sabel’s dime and eagerly picked out a few modest things.
We traipsed from Barneys New York to MTTM to Acne Studios, none of which I’d ever heard of before. She picked out several outfits for me that looked like they came from the Feed and Farm Store a few miles up the road from my folk’s place in Donnellson, Iowa—at fifty times the price. Fashion appeared to be rich people spending a fortune to look like edgy poor people. If taking down bad guys doesn’t work out, I can always make a living smuggling threads from back home.
She picked up some lacy personal items and asked if she needed to model them for me. I figured she was testing my no-strings guarantee and declined. She looked disappointed. When it comes to reading women, I never get it right.
After lunch at a trendy place, I left her to shop on her own and went to meet Kasey Earl.
On entering the café, the strong smell of freshly ground beans and all-American nectar floated my way. Patrons ordered in voices raised above the chatter of the remoras who operate out of American coffee shops armed with phones and laptops. Kasey sat midway down the row with his back to both the entrance and the window. A good indicator of why I always got the drop on him. I patted him on the back and swung into the chair opposite him.
He looked up and sneered at my fashion statement. “You coming out of the closet?”
I glanced at my chic outfit. “New girlfriend.”
He nodded his understanding of the myriad humiliations a man must face to spark a fire.
He pushed the phone I’d given him across the table. “Ain’t gonna need this no more.”
“What’s up, big boy?” I grinned. “We’re not friends?”
“You ain’t taking me seriously, Jacob.”
“Sorry, buddy.” I nudged the phone back in his direction but not across the halfway line. “We’ve been a little busy. The Russians invaded—”
“Think I give a shit about your bromance with Popov?”
The fact that he knew the name took me by surprise. Then I realized what it meant. Watson had found a way to communicate with Roche Security people after I stripped him of his personal phone.
“You haven’t given us a reason to meet,” I said. “Ms. Sabel’s a busy woman.”
“What I gotta do with you? I told you she’d pay big for what I got. Get real, or we’re done.”
I felt my temper building up. Who did this subterranean weasel think he was?
Mercury waved a hand behind Kasey’s head. Listen to the man, dawg. Pia-Caesar-Sabel told you to find out what he wants, and you’re picking a fight. So think: what does he want even more than money?
I said, Sex?
Mercury rolled his eyes. Duh, but even more than sex?
I shrugged, I’m lost.
What does everyone want?
Sex.
Mercury clenched his fists. Other than… Aside from… In order to get…
Then it hit me. Sometimes my tarnished god comes through.
“Kasey, if we aren’t showing you the respect you deserve, it might have something to do with your many attempts—”
“Can we just get over that shit? OK? We agreed that trying to kill her was just business.” Kasey glared and squeezed his paper cup hard enough to pop the plastic lid off. “You don’t make her call me—I take this to the press.”
“Two hundred people want to meet with her every day.” I pushed the phone a little farther across the table. “Most of those people have an ounce of credibility. And all of them give her a reason.”
“I got credibility.”
“I know that.” I tried to catch his wandering gaze. “But give me something. Anything.”
Kasey looked over his shoulder then leaned across the table and looked me straight in the eye. “I know who killed her dad.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t speak.
Twenty-two years ago, when she was a toddler, two men broke into her home. At the tender age of four, Pia Sabel killed one intruder, Leroy Johnson. The other man shot her father and fled. He was never found.
“Don’t fuck with me on this one, Jacob.” Kasey grabbed my forearm and squeezed hard. “Don’t try to guess. Don’t try none of them tricks you play. And don’t ask that Greek god of yours neither.”
Mercury stomped between the small tables. Greek? Who the fuck is he calling Greek? Shoot the squirmy little motherfucker, right now. Greek! You’re not going to let him dis me like that and walk away, are you?
I said, I’ll kill him later. I need to get a name out of him.
C’mon now, bro. Zeus is my bitch! I wouldn’t let Aphrodite give me a lap dance. Fuck the Greeks. Show him who’s boss. Right here, right now.
“A lot of time has passed, Kasey.” I tried to look skeptical. “Is this guy still alive?”
“You ain’t getting nothing from me.” He crossed his arms and leaned back. “I come across a clue and worked it. I put a lot of time and effort into this. And I come up with a lot more than you ever got.” He leaned forward again to emphasize his point. “I got what’s coming to me.”
Mercury pointed out the window. Hey now—looky here, homie. Who dat?
I glanced outside. Multitudes of anonymous people passed by.
Kasey kept staring at my eyes while he waited for me to say something.
One of the faces outside looked familiar. But it couldn’t be. Thousands of miles and many millions of people separated us.
“Jacob, you spacing out on me or something?” Kasey snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You gonna get me that meeting?”
I looked back at Kasey as the face outside registered in my brain. “Yeah, my brother. I gotcha on this one.” I stood and grabbed my jacket off the chair. “She’ll talk to you. Keep the phone. I’ll be in touch. But you better have some evidence to back it up, or she’ll rip you in half.”
I patted his shoulder and strode out quickly.
When I reached the street, I looked in the direction I’d last seen the man. Sometimes, the most random things in life just happen. Sometimes the gods make them happen. Knowing Mercury, I was leaning toward random. The man I was looking for was disappearing down the sidewalk with a hot blonde on his arm. He had a reddish beard that conjured the word ‘beatnik’ while his darting dark eyes invoked high intelligence with the mora
ls of a rattlesnake.
The Russian from Stavanger. Yuri Belenov.
CHAPTER 32
Yuri felt so giddy, he wanted to laugh. Everything was going right. He was free of Strangelove and Russia. It was risky and premature, but it was done. Life was beautiful on a sunny autumn day in New York City. And he had the finest young lady he could imagine by his side. He’d always scoffed at romantic clichés about floating on clouds and fluttering hearts, yet here he was holding hands with Andrine. He floated down the sidewalk, and his heart fluttered like mad.
Their outing to MoMA had turned into an education for him. She explained the exhibits, and he listened—and loved every minute of it. They walked soundlessly through Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in awe of the stunning architecture and meticulous details in every corner. Even as an avowed atheist, he could appreciate the intricate work involved in building the church.
Everything he saw, he saw as if it were brand-new. Freedom had opened his eyes and allowed him to drink in everything with a new attitude. No longer observing the USA as a hostile environment, he could sense the excitement of it. No longer looking for opportunities to exploit, he could see Americans as they were: free to be good or bad, smart or dumb, kind or mean.
On their way to the famous New York Public Library, he glanced at Andrine. She sensed his gaze and smiled back and squeezed his hand.
They walked another block in pure bliss, but something began to bother him. He felt as if a spider were crawling on his back. It was an odd sensation. Yuri Belenov was used to being in charge, giving orders, bestowing medals, and having everyone else watch his back.
Then the pain in his ribs stung a warning and his phone rang. Glancing at the screen, he knew the country code immediately. His reverie collapsed.
Strangelove.
“Excuse me,” he said to Andrine. “I need only a minute.”
He turned from her, faced the nearest storefront, and took a moment to compose himself. How had Strangelove tracked him down? They had all new identities courtesy of an alcoholic at the Estonian Embassy. He’d crushed the phone Vasili bought. He grabbed a new one when he reached America. The money and credit cards came from Alexi’s account and had been washed through the Caymans and Luxembourg and Panama. Vasili died without even asking Yuri’s destination. How did Strangelove find him?
In the windows of the giant H&M store, he saw Andrine’s reflection.
She watched people walking by, innocent and unaware of the dangers so close at hand. Strangelove had located them by tracing her passport to New York. Which could mean only one thing: Vasili had betrayed Yuri’s love for the girl knowing full well it could lead to her torture and death. It was a good thing he’d killed the bastard. A man who would stoop so low deserved to die. Hate filled the space between his ears. He raised the phone.
“You are having a good time?” Strangelove chuckled.
“Until your call. What do you want?”
“I understand your girl has beautiful legs.” Strangelove’s voice grew louder with each word. “It would be a shame if they were destroyed in a trash compactor.”
Yuri gripped the phone and felt his soul collapse. “What must happen to prevent that?”
“Vasili gave you the name of a troubled Mexican. You were going to talk him into mass murder. That was a very good plan. You should do that right after you kill Jacob Stearne.”
“Where is Stearne? How do I find him?”
“Others have done your work for you. They traced him back to Washington, DC. He has a home in Bethesda.”
“What about Alan Sabel? Where can I find—”
“You’ve proven ineffective at multitasking. I’ve made other arrangements.”
Strangelove clicked off.
Yuri looked up at Andrine’s reflection in the window.
She was giving directions to a stranger.
The conversation consumed him. He had to protect Andrine at all costs. She was everything, Strangelove was nothing. Yet Strangelove had leverage. Yuri was not free. Not yet.
He refocused on the reflection and took a closer look at the familiar-looking man talking to his girl.
In that instant, Yuri stopped being an atheist. He was suddenly filled with proof of God’s existence and His divine hatred of Yuri Belenov. First Strangelove and now his new nemesis. Dressed more like a New Yorker than a soldier, Jacob Stearne chatted with Andrine. What had he done to deserve such a wretched fate?
It didn’t matter. He would not accept his Avos’. Not this time.
Yuri reached for the pistol he always carried beneath his jacket—and found nothing. It was in the hotel safe because Andrine was an avowed pacifist who hated guns and violence.
Time for brains over brawn.
He sucked in a deep breath and faced the Sabel agent. “Mr. Stearne?”
Andrine looked surprised that they knew each other. If Stearne was stunned, it didn’t show. The man was tall and muscular. He stared with an insane intensity. He looked directly into your cornea, but off by a millimeter to the upper left, as if staring three kilometers beyond.
“How ya been, Yuri?” Stearne grinned like a bear watching salmon come upstream. He stuck out a hand.
“Quite well, thank you, Jacob.” Yuri found himself shaking hands with a forced smile plastered on his face. “May I call you Jacob?”
“I always honor a man’s last request.”
Yuri’s adrenaline flowed, and his heart rate skyrocketed. He could not believe the man was standing there less than twenty-four hours after meeting him in Stavanger. Where did he come from? How did he find them? Did he know who killed Vasili? Or Alexi? What about the airline crash? Stearne wasn’t calling the police, so he didn’t know everything. There was no need to panic or give in to hysteria just because the man turned up on a random sidewalk in the biggest city in America.
Yuri nodded at Stearne, grabbed Andrine’s arm a little harder than he intended, and continued their walk to the library.
He leaned to her ear. “He is a business associate of mine. I must speak to him privately. You don’t mind wandering a little, do you? I’ll find you when we’re done.”
Only mildly perturbed, she nodded as they passed the stone lions marking the entrance. The three of them trotted up the steps. Yuri slyly tossed his phone in a trash can as they entered. Andrine excused herself and headed for the main reading room.
Jacob pointed to one side and led the way up some crowded stairs. “How did a nice girl like her end up with a jerk like you?”
Yuri laughed it off and followed. He considered several ways to kill the man should he find the opportunity. The movies always make it look easy to stab a man with a pen or some other trivial object. In real life, the precision needed would require the victim to hold still while the pen was delivered at extreme velocity. The taller, stronger Stearne would not be easy. Yuri ran his fingers over his razor-sharp belt buckle knife. With the element of surprise, he could slice the man’s throat. Maybe. A switchblade would be better.
Stearne snapped a glance over his shoulder as if he’d heard Yuri thinking. His gaze dropped to Yuri’s buckle. A remorseless killer rose behind the American’s eyes.
Not a chance he could take the man in public.
Then an idea came to him. One that should’ve come to him days ago.
“You appear quite hostile, Mr. Stearne,” Yuri said as they climbed. “I am not your enemy. Why follow me around the world?”
“Why live-stream a lighthouse on a remote Danish island?”
“Do you want the official story?”
“I can guess. You’re a security company guarding a client site.”
Yuri smiled. They were both professionals; there was no need to lie.
They arrived in the McGraw Rotunda. Stearne leaned against a Corinthian walnut pilaster, ignoring the exquisite artwork surrounding them. The seventeen-foot barrel ceiling sheltered them with a fresco and intricate carvings.
Yuri marveled at the woodwork and murals. He looked u
p at the fantastic painting centered in the ceiling. “Why harbor a grudge about soldiers doing their master’s bidding?”
“Why run from me in Stavanger?” Stearne faced him with his death stare; every muscle in his face devoid of normal, everyday tension.
“Why search for Strangelove?” Yuri asked.
“Why so many questions?”
“Because we have a common enemy.” Yuri looked at the murals again, projecting his fearlessness.
Stearne tilted his head. “Are you applying for political asylum?”
Stearne’s sarcastic answer proved one thing: they hadn’t traced the airliners to him. Yet. It was only a matter of time. When they did, his life was over. The Americans would stop at nothing to kill him and everyone in the banda. They invaded Iraq, killing hundreds of thousands because of their frustration at losing Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan’s mountains. They were an imperial wrecking machine, capable of destroying any person or nation that stood in their path. They would come for him, and they would never stop.
He had hours to change Andrine’s identity and get lost among the anonymous hordes of Big Apple tourists. He held Stearne’s gaze long enough for the soldier to take him seriously.
“You saying your enemy is Strangelove?” Stearne asked.
“He is my general.” Yuri nodded. “I am a major in his unit. He asks too much. He violates the Geneva Convention worse than Dick Cheney.”
“You don’t like your boss,” Stearne said. “Big leap from that to betrayal. Keep going.”
“Why did Strangelove order me to kill you?” Yuri turned back to the paintings.
“They were painted by Edward Laning,” Stearne said. “Under the Works Progress Administration during the Great Depression. They depict the history of the written word.”
Yuri couldn’t hide his surprise that a soldier from Iowa, stationed in Washington, would know details about a library in New York.
Stearne checked his curiosity with a nod at a plaque on the wall. “Quit gawking and talk.”
Americans. Always business, never appreciating everyday wonders surrounding them.
