by Seeley James
Yuri took his seat on the seaplane heading for Barbados, his laptop under his arm. His Avos’ swung hot and cold. But he didn’t believe in superstition. He knew his next move.
He called Sabel Security’s main desk. Yuri said, “I need to speak to Jacob Stearne. Tell him, his friend from the New York Public Library is calling. He will want to speak with me.”
CHAPTER 60
A third guard had snuck in the back door behind Pia and taken her pistol. Her heart sank when she realized her mistake. Her battle-hardened agents would’ve been more careful. Thousands of options went through her head in a second. She had nothing. She would have to do as he asked and they both knew it.
Then Tania’s voice came through her comm link. “You’re in my line of fire. Drop on three.”
Tania counted down.
Pia buckled her knees and dropped two vertical feet straight down. It’s the least-expected move for a detainee. Her guard was ready for a sideways move or an elbow to the gut. He was surprised by her drop.
He fired. But his pistol was still aimed upward where her head had been. His bullet went into the ceiling. Tania’s dart caught his heavy collar.
As she dropped, Pia worked out what he was thinking. He had to decide in a split-second whether to shoot Jacob or return fire. The first option would fulfill his duty. The second might save his life. He was a professional, which meant he would kill Jacob. When she reached the bottom of her deep squat, she powered back up at an angle. Her momentum thrust her shoulder into his extended arm an instant before he pulled the trigger.
His second shot went high.
Tania’s second dart struck below his ear. He fell in a heap. Pia grabbed his pistol and hers, regained her balance and ran forward.
In the foyer, Jacob dropped the head guard. Sylvia screamed, her pent-up horror released. Two guards had come in the front door; one had gone upstairs. The other was in the process of aiming at Jacob.
Without time to level her weapon, she bolted at the guy, hoping to draw his aim. The man’s eyes turned to her. He moved his pistol and fired. The round buzzed Pia’s ear.
She drove toward him, wondering why she hadn’t heard Jacob return fire. The Russian’s second shot singed her hair. She launched herself and wrapped her arms around his waist, driving him into the umbrella stand. They slid across the polished floor and crashed into the front door. She rose and pounded her elbow into his jaw. He tried to fight back, but she kneed his groin then twisted back, landing her other elbow on his temple. His eyes rolled back in his head. Not out, but not present either.
Behind her, Jacob fired three shots in rapid succession. She looked back to see the last guard at the top of the stairs. Jacob’s darts missed the man. He ducked away.
Tania’s voice rang out from the dining room. “Three more, front side.”
Jacob pushed the film crew under the stairs. Pia darted the man under her knees and rolled to a better position.
Upstairs, the last inside man peeked over the banister.
Jacob brushed him back with a couple darts. He shouted over his shoulder, “Did you find it yet?”
“Haven’t had time,” Pia said.
Tania joined her by the front door and checked the window.
“Now would be good.”
She couldn’t argue with that. She ran back to the library.
Pozdeeva’s clue was vague: In his library, one book stands out among the others. She looked over the books on the shelves. Most were in Russian, a few in English, even fewer in French. They were ordered by look, not logic. Older, canvas-bound academic books lined the bottom shelves. Many worn titles filled the reachable range. Up high were more academic books. There were no photographs, no art, no families or loved ones.
The first book to catch her eye took her by surprise. The title was in Russian, which meant nothing to her. But the author was in English: Dale Carnegie. An old worn copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People in Russian. Next to it, another recognizable author, Stephen R. Covey. Its title was also in Russian. The big 7 on the front led her to believe it was 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. She stepped back and took another look at the shelves.
Behind her, Tania ran through the hall to the kitchen. “Two more in the back.”
In front of her were many recognizable self-empowerment books. The bedrock of American business and management theory lined the shelves. The section next to it was filled with classic history books, from Guns, Germs, and Steel to de Tocqueville’s 1835 classic, Democracy in America. One entire case was devoted to biographies of American presidents. Scattered throughout were essays and treatises on American politics. Some were rare and others bestsellers.
There were books on gerrymandering, the Civil Rights movement, American economics, unions, libertarians, religious minorities, and a host of books written by Americans about Russia. The Cold War, nuclear war theories, books by generals, books by CEOs, books by US Senators, virtually all written by American authors.
Viktor Popov knew more about America than most Americans. She felt a shiver run down her spine.
“Find it yet?” Tania ran back to the foyer. “We’re at DEFCON 1 out here.”
Pia scanned the room looking for what stood out.
On her third pass, she found it: The Art of Happiness by the Dali Lama.
It was not a large book. Not the coffee table-sized book stuffed full of papers she’d expected. She pulled it from a high shelf and opened it carefully. Between pages 112 and 163 a small square had been cut out with a razor. In it were hundreds of microdots.
She closed it. She searched the desk for rubber bands and secured the covers. She stuffed it in the lining of her coat, where she’d created hidden pockets in case they were stopped.
She raced back to the foyer. “Ready.”
Tania tackled her, driving her to the ground. Shots rang out, coming from the upstairs landing. Tania spun on her back and fired a Russian assault rifle through the ceiling. The last Russian inside staggered to the stairs and rolled down.
Pia started to say thanks.
Tania said, “That’s two. I save your life one more time, you owe me a vacation in Bali.”
“Deal.” Pia rose to her feet.
They bumped fists.
Jacob trained a confiscated Russian rifle through a broken window and fired a burst. The louder noise made by regular bullets escalated the tension in the air.
A reply of gunfire erupted outside. Shouting and more gunfire. Jacob counted off the adversaries. Tania confirmed. The three of them against six fresh Russians. Pia could only hope things were working the way she planned.
The Russian assault began with a barrage of bullets. Two charged the front, two crashed the back. Pia fired into the hallway, pinging bullets off the body armor of the attackers. They fell into the kitchen. Tania and Jacob dispatched the two in front then joined her, circling the two trapped in the kitchen.
The Russians emptied their magazines and swapped.
During the lull, Dhanpal snuck in from outside and surprised the Russians. Both soldiers surrendered. Tania darted them.
“Anyone home?” Miguel’s voice came from out front.
“Mission objectives achieved.” Pia gave each of her team a hug. They went about their cleanup chores, retrieving all darts and casings.
With Jacob by her side, she faced the cowering film crew. “Everything’s going to be fine. We’ve cleared the immediate area, and now we’re leaving.”
The Latvian director pulled himself up. “Are you going to kill us too?”
She glanced at Jacob. He shrugged. He hadn’t had time to explain.
Pia grabbed a fistful of the Latvian director’s shirt and pulled him to his tiptoes. “I am not here. She is not here.” She pointed at Tania, then Miguel and Dhanpal. “They are not here either.” She waved her free hand around the room. “The guards had some kind of breakdown. Mass hysteria. Drugs. Probably. Who knows. This guy—” she pointed at Jacob “—saved you from them. Are
we clear?”
“But you killed all those men!” Sylvia’s shriek echoed off the walls. “They could have children who need them at—”
Pia grabbed her wrist, silencing the actress, then held up a dart and explained its function. The film people crowded around the tiny needle-tipped dart, then looked up at her in unison.
“We were not here.” She pointed to her people again. “Tell me you understand.”
The director nodded with an anxious rapidity. The rest followed suit.
Sylvia looked at Jacob, then pointed at Miguel and Dhanpal. “Who are they?”
Jacob glanced over his shoulder. “Plan C.”
Pia didn’t have time to ask what they were talking about. She said, “I have to go.”
She shook hands with each and thanked them for their participation. A generous check for their performance would follow. In back of them, Jacob pulled something off a shelf and examined it. A small reproduction of the central fountain at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC: Mercury, winged messenger of the gods. They shared a glance, and she smiled her approval. He pocketed the hand-sized bronze.
She and Tania left the way they came, out the back and into the woods. Not far behind them, Miguel and Dhanpal left the building and picked up pine branches they’d positioned earlier.
Miguel called out to her. “Sure, leave it to the Indian to sweep up the tracks. Typical.”
“Indians, plural,” Dhanpal said.
“You’re not an Indian.” Miguel pushed the smaller man. “I’m an Indian.”
“You’re not an Indian.” Dhanpal pushed back. “You’re a Native American.”
“Then you’re a Mumbai … ian.”
“It’s Mumbaikar.”
“Mum biker?”
Their voices faded into the distance as Pia and Tania began running through the woods. Dogs began barking on the other side of the subdivision. As they picked up their pace, she thought about fate and the intricate web of life. The man trying to destroy her democracy was also the man who ordered her parent’s murders. All three of them. She couldn’t decide what that was. Synchronicity? Concurrency? Serendipity?
She settled on convenient.
A slow and painful death awaited Popov. He was nothing more than a rabid animal whose destruction would ensure the safety of everyone else on Earth.
Those thoughts surprised her. Was she losing it?
Stefan’s voice came back to her: Leave it all behind and join me.
CHAPTER 61
We held out our glasses and watched the Latvian director pour Riga Black Balsam from the liquor’s iconic handmade ceramic flagon. He claimed the thick black syrup is a form of vodka infused with twenty-four different plants and herbs. Supposedly, it cured Catherine the Great of a deadly illness back in the day.
My phone buzzed with another call from Dhanpal. Then one from headquarters. The thing had been buzzing ever since the Latvian cops gave it back to me. I pressed ignore. Sometimes, you have to be present for the people whose lives you saved. It doesn’t hurt if one of them has auburn hair, ice-blue eyes, and a smile that could cause a spontaneous mutiny on a battleship.
We toasted to the local lawyers who convinced the authorities that our story was true and that the Russians were lying. They may have inflamed some of the ethnic distrust between the native Latvian police and the Russian-born guards at Popov’s dacha. Which was not cool—but was effective. We were free. Our last engagement before the long drive back to Vilnius and the Sabel jet was this celebration. Our Latvian host insisted on it. He’d never felt so invigorated in his life—although the invigoration came after he’d pissed himself. Apparently.
I hoisted my glass and held my breath because I’ve had drinks in foreign countries before. My French friends, including Sylvia, made the mistake of sniffing it. They gagged. I slugged my shot back like an oyster and collected a nod of approval from our host. The others tried to sip it and once again nearly gagged. It had the flavor of bad cough syrup with the aftertaste of dry fertilizer. Our Latvian laughed. On the bar next to us were five tall glasses filled with black currant juice on the rocks. He poured our second shot into the juice.
“All world’s a stage,” the Latvian said in his thick accent. “We do finest acting in whole lives today, yes?”
We clinked glasses and sipped more cautiously. The sweetness helped a little, but it was still clear why this was a regional drink and not taking global market share from rum or tequila.
Sylvia had warmed up to me since I saved her life. A little. She turned to me and smiled and waited for me to say something.
I smiled and gave her my sexy look. Which dove into epic awkward territory.
“So.” I took another sip to change my expression. “Why are you so interested in foster children?”
“Don’t you feel like the gods were smiling on us today?” She lit up that atomic smile of hers so I wouldn’t mind that she dodged my question.
“Truth.” I clinked glasses, held my breath, and took a sip. Something in the way she watched my reaction struck me as odd. “Which gods watch over you?”
“Aphrodite.” She giggled.
BOOM!
All of Mercury’s hatred for her came into focus. I faked a smile and turned away.
Mercury stood in my new line of sight. You understand now, right, homes? This is some serious shit. You can’t be hanging with no Juno-damn Greeks.
I asked, Is she Aphrodite? Or does she just talk to Aphrodite the way I talk to you?
Mercury said, Hey now, I know she’s pretty and all that, but dawg, who’s been watching over you all these years, huh? Besides, Venus is much hotter. You want babes—stick with Venus. Dude, they named body parts after Venus.
I looked over his left shoulder, then his right. Where’s Venus been hiding then?
Don’t be playing with me, brutha. Mercury straightened up and smoothed his toga. You’re alive today because of me. Whereas Aphrodite figures killing you will spare a hundred future deaths. Never trust those Greeks. Especially if she starts talking wooden horses.
Sylvia said, “Are you OK? You look like you’re going to be sick.”
“War wound.” I winced and put my hand on my side. “Flares up now and then.”
“You were a real hero today.” She squeezed my bicep and turned her pale-blue eyes up at me. Electricity zinged up and down my spine. “None of us have to be back in Monaco tomorrow. We might take a day. Enjoy the scenery. Catch up on some sleep. You know?”
I felt my grin spread across my face like a zipper opening on a sleeping bag.
Before I could answer, my phone pinged. Again. Headquarters was now dinging me on auto-redial. I had to deal with it, but it was far too loud in the bar. I excused myself through the side door and stepped into the frigid night air.
“He’s been calling the main switchboard all afternoon.” Bianca was in a hurry. “He said he’s the man from the NYPL. We ran a voice analysis and think it’s your guy from Stavanger, Yuri Belenov. I need you to call him. I want to hijack his phone.”
“Love you too, babe.”
“In your dreams. Call the guy.” She clicked off. The number appeared on a text.
The building next to the bar offered a nook that kept the icy wind off my neck. I screwed in my earbud and called him.
“I’m hurt,” Yuri said when he clicked on. “You killed Strangelove—for which I, and all of humanity, thank you—but you never gave me credit.”
“Three-hundred sixty-five Americans died on flights 1028 and 31.”
“What does that have to do with me?” He huffed with contempt. “I can deliver Viktor Popov.”
His boast almost made me listen to him. I said, “Turning yourself in would be better than waiting for me to find you.”
“You’re better than these little threats, Jacob.” Yuri’s voice was calm and smooth. “You’re looking for bigger fish than me. Do you know who killed Kasey Earl? Do you know what they took from him?”
That too
k the wind out of my bravado. How the hell did he know about Kasey Earl? Was he the killer? “Do you know anything, or is that a name you heard on Twitter?”
Miguel called. I clicked ignore.
“You want to be your girlfriend’s hero.” His voice turned cocky. “You’re looking for the people who ordered her parents’ murders. I can lead you to the answers.”
“She’s not a girlfriend. More like a sister.” Ms. Sabel had once referred to our relationship as siblings in madness.
“Whatever. Sister then.” Yuri almost laughed. “She wants to know who these people are.”
His words felt like an ice pick striking at the question that kept Ms. Sabel awake for over twenty years—which was the same as ice-picking me.
“Nothing you’ve said is a secret.” I tried to sound calm. “What do you want?”
Two cars stopped side-by-side in the middle of the street near the bar. Both were loaded with men who spoke to each other through the partially lowered windows.
“Two things.” He left a dramatic pause for me. “Popov dead—and an American pardon for my team.”
“Your first demand is only a matter of time, with or without your help.” I left a dramatic pause of my own. “The second is not my call. If it was, I’d lie to you, bring you in, and kill you in Times Square. They’d give me a medal.”
“Talk to your girlfriend. She has friends in high places.”
“Sister.”
One of the two cars pulled to the curb. Four men got out and went into the bar. The other car sped off and turned the corner.
“Too tall for you, Jacob?” He laughed. “Do powerful women intimidate you?”
“If you think ‘just following orders’ is going to save you, read up on the Nuremberg Trials.”
“You won’t make this decision on your own.” He hesitated a second. “I’ll give you this much: A banker named Eleni collected evidence of Chuck Roche laundering money in Cyprus. Popov’s people beat Pia Sabel to it and destroyed it. She arrived five minutes too late. Tell her that, see if it moves her.”
