“He owes me a decade of my life,” Ren’s tone was bitter. She lowered the gun.
Dima moved forward and slid the Glock out of Ren’s hand.
“I won’t be of any use you,” Peter said, keeping his hands in the air. “I’m walking dead now.”
Scott swore. “You went off the grid?”
“Since that thing in France, last year. I gave him Cueto just to get him off my back. Contact has always been through cut outs. You know how it goes. I had no idea who I was dealing with. It was only when I saw him rounding up everyone whose location I sent back, last year, that I put it together. Then Ren and I stayed in Israel for those few days…” He shrugged. “Let’s say I lost my taste for the business, after that.”
He was not saying it with any pleading notes. He was not trying to win Ren back with a romantic confession. His voice was dry, knowing. He understood that this was the end. He sounded very tired.
“Get him out of my sight,” Ren said.
Noah used his tie to wrench Peter’s arms back behind him and tie them up by the elbows where he would not be able to loosen the tie.
Lochan wrapped his own tie over the wound on Peter’s thigh and yanked it tight. He straightened and looked Peter in the eye. “You are personally and directly responsible for Leela’s death. Remember that. If I ever come across you again, only one of us will walk away afterward.”
“For what it’s worth, I regret that,” Peter said. “All of it, in fact. I just didn’t know how to get out. Once he grips…” He sighed.
Noah pushed him toward the door.
“Scott, you and Noah find out what you can from Peter. Bring Leander in on it. As fast as you can, please.”
“You don’t need Lea,” Peter said. “I’ll tell you everything I know. That will take about two hours.”
“Unless we figure out a way to make it stretch out, so we can double our entertainment value,” Noah said, his voice dry. He shoved Peter out onto the footpath, making him cry out as his wounded leg landed heavily.
The sound of movement farther inside the house stirred Dima. She took Ren’s arm. “You and I will are going back to the hotel. We will drink lots of champagne. Then we will talk.”
“Don’t you mean debrief?” Ren’s voice was tired as Peter’s.
“First, I will ensure you are feeling no pain. Only then will I ask questions.”
“Oh, yes please…” Ren sighed.
[5]
Darnytskyi District, Left Bank, Kiev. The next day.
Fabian woke to bright sunshine on her face.
She stayed still, orienting herself. The smells, the sounds, everything was wrong.
“Good morning,” Mischa said.
She opened her eyes. Mischa sat on an upright chair in the corner of the bedroom loft. By his right shoulder, the wall of windows began. They were letting in a flood of sunshine.
He gave her a warm smile.
“How did you know I was awake?”
His smile grew. “You snore. It is utterly adorable. When you stopped, I knew you had woken.”
Fabian could feel her cheeks glowing rosy red. “Have you been watching me for long?” She sat up. She wore a T-shirt and panties. She had put them on to go to bed last night, after Mischa had shown her up to this bedroom loft well past midnight. He had pointed to a door which led to a compact bathroom, then wished her good night and gone back downstairs to sleep upon the sofa there. “Now is not the time to give in to impulses,” he’d told her as they stepped inside his apartment. “We have time now. Let’s make the best use of it.”
And so, he had left her to sleep in his bed.
This morning he was dressed in fresh clothes, but still normal business pants and a more casual sweater with a vee neck.
His legs were crossed. He looked relaxed. “I have been watching you for a while,” he admitted. “I wanted to think, yet I couldn’t think clearly until I came up here and sat on this chair where I could see you.”
Fabian cleared her throat. “I feel as though I should do some heavy thinking, too. I don’t think I was doing much of it last night.”
“If you have changed your mind…”
She shook her head. “Not on that. Only, I’m glad we didn’t, well…”
“At least, not yet,” he said. His tone was one of agreement. He got to his feet. “I’ll let you get dressed. I have coffee ready to go, downstairs. And a strudel, if you care for one.”
“Coffee sounds wonderful. I thought you drink tea?”
“I do. There is a delicatessen around the corner. I was there as it opened this morning. After breakfast, I have an errand to run. After that, if you like, we could start the hunt for your uncle.”
“Isn’t it Tuesday? Don’t you have to go into work?” At the Embassy, she remembered. She did not give a damn about that. She hadn’t before. She really didn’t now.
“I think I have something like a thousand vacation days due. That’s why they forced me to Greece for a week. I extended my vacation for another few days.” His smile was conspiratorial. “I’ll get the coffee started.”
Fabian waited until he had moved to the end of the loft, down the stairs and out of sight. She threw back the covers and turned so her feet were on the colorful cotton rug beside the bed. Her leg brace laid right there on the rug. He had clearly seen it. Was that why he had left to let her dress in private?
It gave her a small warm sensation and told her that perhaps she wasn’t completely and utterly crazy to be doing this.
Long after Ren passed out in an alcoholic haze on the sofa in the sitting room of the hotel suite which Dima rented, Scott tapped on the room door.
When Dima let him in, he held out a steaming Starbucks cup. “Getting toward dawn, boss.”
“Are Noah and Quinn settled?”
“Tucked away in a suite on the next floor. I sent Cain and Agata back to their apartment. I suppose it’s a honeymoon for them, too. Lochan and Leander are two doors down.”
“You should be asleep, too.” Dima sipped the coffee.
“Pot meet kettle.”
“And Peter?” Dima asked heavily.
“I handed him over, signed for him and the company took delivery. No longer our issue.”
“Santiago should be happy about Peter. It will keep him occupied for a few weeks, digging everything he can out of him.”
“Aren’t you afraid that by handing him over to the company without squeezing him of everything, you might miss the one fact which will help us?”
“Peter wasn’t a reluctant subject,” Dima said. “The last few weeks have pulled all the pith from him. He was glad it was over, and he was cooperating for Ren’s sake. He gave us everything he could…he didn’t know anything in the first place.”
“You’re the boss, boss.” Scott bent and tugged the blanket over Ren so it covered her better. He realigned the wastepaper basket beside her. “What’s next?”
“As soon as it is a more civilized hour, I must phone Benny. He was in a panic about Fabian. He’s probably having a latent father moment. I’ll sort that out, make a few phone calls or something. Then the shackles are off. We can get back to the work we’re supposed to be doing. We have a lot of time to make up for.”
Scott settled in the armchair Dima had been using with a heavy sigh which told her he was more tired than he allowed to show. He gripped his hands together between his knees. “I’ve been thinking about it. You said Fabian failed to show up to her hotel in Istanbul, right?”
“A week’s vacation, apparently.”
“By herself?”
“That wouldn’t seem extraordinary to you, if you knew Fabian. She is very independent. Always has been. The accident and her leg have made her even more so.”
Scott nodded. “It’s just that, in one of our weekly check-ins, Lochan told me Fabian was constantly hounding him for news about who was responsible for the bombing of the hotel. Then, a few weeks ago, she stopped asking.”
“As she was a victim, tha
t would make sense,” Dima said placidly. “A few weeks ago, she went back to Iceland. Is there a point you’re trying to make?”
“I can’t get out of my head a parallel which makes me nervous.” Scott stretched and scratched at the back of his head, trying to wake himself up. “It occurred to me that Istanbul is just across the Black Sea from Ukraine. There are daily ferries to Odesa.”
“I’m listening,” Dima assured him. Scott’s instincts were superb. He’d saved her life more than once by acting upon his gut feelings.
“Okay, so Peter got all the information he needed by raiding Ren’s files,” Scott continued. “What if Fabian got all the information she needed by raiding her father’s files? And now she’s gone missing from Istanbul, a hop, skip and jump away from Ukraine, where Aslan came from—and, we think, the Kobra did, too.”
Dima weighed it up. “Benny is too smart to leave his files lying around at home for his daughter to read.”
“And his laptop is as secure as Ren’s, right?” Scott replied. “Ten digit code to break it—who remembers that? Who doesn’t write it down?”
“Ren remembered hers,” Dima said grimly. “Benny has a cycling fob.”
“Which would make it even easier for Fabian to get into his laptop. I’m saying that Fabian going off grid right now, and in such a suggestive place, makes me uneasy.”
“Me, too,” Dima admitted. “So let’s check it out. Everyone, Scott. Including Ren. She needs the distraction. Oh, but give Noah and Quinn the option to stay back here a few days and follow along later.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “They won’t take it.”
“We give them the option, anyway. Only…tomorrow is soon enough. You can hand out tickets and seat assignments with breakfast, but not a moment sooner.”
Scott leaned back in the corner of the chair, his head rolling back. “Yes, boss,” he murmured.
Dima watched him, a smile forming, as Scott snored softly.
There were still some goddam ugly Soviet-era tenements in tucked away corners of the city. Unlike the colorful, painted and updated apartment blocks the tourists loved to photograph, these buildings were still raw concrete, often with mold growing up them. No other greenery softened their harsh lines. They were squat, depressing buildings, and the rent was cheap.
Mischa didn’t like walking through the cold canyons formed between the buildings, yet he dutifully made the journey every second or third day. As he had been away for a week, it was even more important he visit the old man.
At least the elevator worked, although it often took thirty seconds or more to respond to the prod of the button. It clanked and ground its way to the upper floors at a pace Mischa could beat by running up the stairs.
The corridors inside the buildings were just as depressing. Cold, unpainted and echoing. Even the doors of each apartment were unadorned steel plate, scratched and often covered in graffiti.
He tapped on 832.
“It’s open!” Ilari called, in Russian.
Mischa shook his head and pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Once the door was closed, it was easy to forget the chilly building this apartment was housed in. The apartment was small and bookshelves lined every available inch of wall space in the main room. The shelves were crowded with mementos and photographs…and books, too. It was an old man’s life laid out for anyone to peruse and Mischa did browse the shelves. Often.
Ilari sat by the window in his usual chair. The window faced north, so no morning sun brightened the room. Yet the cloudless day outside was cheerful and no building blocked the light.
The FSB had gratefully given the apartment to Ilari when he retired, fifteen years ago, for services which could not be mentioned.
Ilari was Ukrainian by birth yet had given the USSR his heart and soul when he was a boy. He was an old man now, with a full silver beard and florid mustache, thinning silver hair and an excess of wrinkles. The edges of the beard and mustache around his mouth were yellow with nicotine from the unfiltered Belomorkanal cigarettes which were killing him.
“At least you have the window open this morning, thank you,” Mischa told him. He put the paper bag on the table by the overflowing ashtray.
“Oooh, a gift,” Ilari said. He raised a brow. “Ouzo?”
“Only the best.”
“How was Greece?”
“Busy.” Mischa took off his coat and settled on the chair on the opposite side of the little table and eyed the Go board. “Only a short game, today,” he added. “I hope you don’t mind. Things piled up while I was away.”
“Eighteen squares, then,” Ilari replied. His voice had an old man’s waver. It had wavered since Mischa had met him, seventeen years ago. Mischa’s supervisor, Pasternak, had indicated that Mischa, as the newest recruit in the department, should visit the newly retired former director on a regular basis. It was both a pragmatic and kind arrangement. Ilari had no family but the FSB. By staying in contact with him, they were also availing themselves of his memories and wisdom when they needed it.
The game started quickly. Mischa sighed as he was boxed in and six black pieces removed.
Ilari laughed. “You’re distracted this morning. Did it go badly in Greece?”
“Not at all,” Mischa said. He placed another black stone. “In fact, I’ve met someone.”
“Man, woman, uncertain?” Ilari placed a white stone far over on the other side of the board—a favorite gambit of his.
Mischa rolled his eyes. “Woman.” He placed another stone and grimaced as Ilari put his white stone right beside it and scooped up three more of Mischa’s blacks.
Ilari sat back and lit a cigarette. He blew the smoke toward the window. “You’ve met someone,” he repeated, in a tone which said he was only now processing the profundity of the fact. “The great Mikhail Sokolov has met someone who distracts him so much he lets an old man like me win at Go.”
“You win all the time.”
“Exactly half the time,” Ilari shot back. He drew in another lungful of smoke and let it dribble out as he spoke. “And on half of those occasions you let me win.”
“Maybe I’m doing that today.”
“Maybe this woman has befuddled your brains. Stirred them to soup the way she has your genitals, eh?”
Mischa pushed away the protest which wanted to form. The words leapt to his lips; It isn’t like that.
Only, what was it, if it wasn’t about the sex? Why hadn’t he stayed in the bedroom with her last night? It would have been easy enough. The single kiss she’d given him at the station was a foretaste of how pleasurable it would be.
“Ahhhh….” Ilari said, his voice low and wise. “It is about time you fell in love, Mischa. You’ve held yourself apart from it for far too long.”
“This isn’t love,” Mischa said sharply. Quickly. “I’ve been in love. I’ve had my time. This isn’t like that.”
“No?” Ilari smiled and blew more smoke toward the window, his eyes narrowed against the acrid fumes…and more.
“It isn’t,” Mischa insisted. “I only met her on the train last night.”
“You took her back to your apartment, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but…” He grimaced.
Ilari was an old man, but he wasn’t a fool. He’d seen far too much of life and human foibles. He had seen humans under all types of pressure—usually pressure he himself had brought to bear. He’d learned more about human psychology out in the field than most certified psychologists ever managed in their formal training.
Mischa’s pathetic “yes, but” had told Ilari more than he wanted the old man to know. He tossed the black stones he had been holding back onto the board. They clattered and knocked the already played stones off their grid points.
Ilari didn’t react. He drew on his cigarette, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. Despite his age, his eyes were those of a much younger man. “Mischa, listen.”
Mischa sighed and nodded. He knew what was coming, although he wou
ld listen, anyway. It was the respectful thing to do.
“Be careful,” Ilari said.
“I know that much,” Mischa replied impatiently.
Ilari shook his head. “You think you know. I’m telling you, boy, you really don’t understand the lengths you will go, the things you will do for the sake of love, when it has you by the throat.”
Mischa tried to understand. Truly understand, but he couldn’t grasp it. “Is this where you say ‘don’t make the mistake I made’?”
“I didn’t make that mistake,” Ilari said grimly. “I’m still here, am I not? I’m in my nice little state-provided apartment, as snug as can be.”
It was a deflection. Mischa spotted it as if Ilari had written it in Cyrillic on his forehead. He gave the old man an impatient look.
Ilari’s gaze wasn’t on Mischa, though. His focus had shifted. To something over Mischa’s shoulder.
The book cases.
“Very well, then,” Ilari said, his tone rougher than even the disgusting cigarettes made it. “I would have made that mistake, only he wouldn’t let me. He was smarter than me.”
Mischa didn’t move. He didn’t turn to scan the shelves. He didn’t let Ilari know he’d tracked his eye movements. It would embarrass the man. It wasn’t the first time Ilari had hinted of a great love in his life. Like many old people, he spent a lot of time inside his memories, reliving old times. Whenever he let slip a detail or inference, he grew defensive and prickly.
Then Ilari made an impatient movement and lit a fresh cigarette with the butt of the old one. “That’s why I know love can fuck over men like us. Be smarter than me, hmm?”
“I always listen to you,” Mischa assured him. He got to his feet and picked the jacket up from the back of the chair. “Do you have chemo this afternoon?”
“Tomorrow I get to puke my guts up.” Ilari’s smile was mirthless. “And you?”
“I’m helping Piá track down her uncle. He left Ukraine decades ago. Now she’s tracing him back.”
“Piá, huh? That’s not even Russian.”
Heart Strike (Project Kobra Book 3) Page 5
