Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes)

by Blair Bancroft

  “Pale blue,” I said at last. “Strangely washed out for such a dynamic man. Slavic accent—I assumed he was Russian or Ukrainian, I didn’t ask. His bride, allegedly, is from Odessa.”

  “You told Inspector Peiper that even if Viktor is Russian mob, you don’t think he’s a boss?”

  “More like a bodyguard.”

  “Or a hitman?”

  Hitman? Viktor, my big brown teddy bear?

  Okay, Laine, what about the dead man who washed up at the doggie park? Our diligent Calusa County Sheriff’s Department hadn’t been able to discover a thing. Had nothing, in fact, beyond the possible coincidence of Viktor’s altercation with someone on the fishing pier.

  “All right,” Rhys said, “I’ve entered the criteria you gave me, let’s see what pops up.” He clicked the mouse, the computer whirred, and a face popped onto the screen. Scooting his chair back, Rhys waved me into his place directly in front of the computer. “Just click the mouse for the next,” he said. “There’s a place to bookmark the possibles. I’ll leave you to it, while I find out if there’s anything new on the lorry.”

  Lorry. Brit for truck. Long gone, I imagined. Tucked in a warehouse, driven off a pier. A lost cause—even for Interpol and the Lyon police.

  I fingered the small bandage on my forehead, scowled at the mug shot on the screen, and settled down to finding a needle in a haystack.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time Rhys came back—admitting they’d found no sign of the truck—I’d ruled out all the men with beards. He did a bit more magic with his fingers, but I wasn’t hopeful. Recognizing a clean-shaven Viktor was going to be close to impossible. But for three solid hours I tried, bookmarking an occasional face. Late in the afternoon, now adept with the system, I went back over the bookmarked photos while Rhys looked over my shoulder, carefully keeping silent, letting me concentrate. But I could feel him holding his breath, as if he believed I was close to something important.

  “This one,” I said at last. “This could be Viktor, but it’s really just the eyes.” The eyes I’d assiduously avoided. “I can’t be certain.”

  Rhys let out a long slow sigh, as if to say, Thank you, Lord. “You’ve just fingered one of the bodyguards and alleged prime hitman for the Rufikov mob. Based in Miami. Grigori Rufikov is currently in a power struggle with the New York boss, Dmitri Chazov, for control of all Russian trafficking in the U. S.”

  I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and fought to be objective. This was wrong, it had to be wrong. And yet . . . when Viktor had been so casual about the cost of the wedding, hadn’t I immediately wondered if he was a drug smuggler or arms dealer? And now Interpol seemed to be suggesting he might be a pimp on an international scale.

  Stop fighting, Laine. You’re playing with the big boys now. They’re the professional crime fighters, you’re not. And yet . . . admitting Weddings Extraordinaire might be involved in a mob war was more than I was ready to acknowledge. “I have to point out,” I said firmly, “that my ID is ephemeral at best. “I’m only saying this man’s eyes, his general description, seem most like Viktor’s. It’s guesswork, nothing but guesswork.”

  “And yet it all fits. I work trafficking, you’re doing a Russian-bride wedding. And for some obscure reason Rufikov didn’t want us to meet—”

  “But how could he possibly know—”

  “He knew because Viktor knew,” Rhys returned, looking a bit pained at my naivety. “As for me, Peru is enough out of my territory that signal flags went up when I took a flight to Lima. You have to realize, Laine,” he added kindly, “they keep eyes on Interpol like we keep eyes on them.”

  “That’s stretching it, Tarrant.”

  “How else do you explain Russian assassins on the Inca trail and the train to Cuzco?”

  I couldn’t, and he knew it. While swallowing my grumbles, I peered at the name on the screen. “Have you ever met this Aleksei Tatarkin?”

  “No, but I heard his name mentioned a couple of months ago in Paris. There’s a left bank club I enjoy for its human scenery, as well as its ambiance. You never know what interesting faces might turn up. I caught snatches of a conversation at a booth near my table. Three men, probably careless because they assumed no one there understood Russian. They mentioned Rufikov, Tatarkin, and Florida. Of that I’m certain. Otherwise . . .” Rhys shrugged. “My Russian is only adequate, and the club was loud, so no alarm bells rang. I can only suppose they mentioned something they shouldn’t have, one of them recognized me, and got worried. But nothing happened until I headed for Peru to see you.”

  “Thin, very thin. You’re grabbing at straws.”

  “Fine.” Rhys leaned over, shut down the screen. The photo of a clean-shaven Aleksei Tatarkin and his stats went to black. Picking up his phone, Rhys reported my discovery to Inspector Peiper. Word spread. Everyone was jubilant . . . but me. I knew just how iffy my identification was. Ten percent eyesight, ninety percent intuition. With an end result I did not like one little bit.

  While the Human Trafficking section was congratulating itself, I put in a call to Dad, explaining that I’d be one more day in France. What I actually meant, of course, was one more night in Lyon. But not a word about the little episode this morning. “Tell Mom I’ll be back in plenty of time for the Kirichenko wedding,” I added. “Are the eggs almost done?” Dad assured me Candy was breathing down the students’ necks, the eggs would be ready. Under his crisp professionalism I could hear amused tolerance. The whole family knew why I’d gone to Lyon.

  But facing down Interpol’s Secretary General, the chief of Human Trafficking, and assorted lesser Interpol officers had not exactly been what I was thinking of when I boarded the train in Bern, only yesterday morning. But tonight . . . tonight Rhys and I would sweep all our problems away on a fireworks-strewn cloud of great sex.

  “Miss Halliday?” I have to give Inspector Peiper credit—he gave the axe in person. He proffered an avuncular smile. “You will be happy to know there will be an air marshal on a morning flight, non-stop from Paris to Miami. A private plane will take you to the airport tonight.”

  I gaped, I know I did. The miserable rotten bastard. I was being chucked out as fast as Interpol could manage it.

  “May I see you outside, sir?” Rhys Tarrant regarded his chief of section with eyes as icy as the Rhone. The two men stepped into the corridor, shutting the door behind them.

  Grimly, Rhys confronted his boss. “Only hours ago Miss Halliday was knocked about in a car crash and half-drowned. She saved my life. Again. Then, like the disciplined professional she is, she spent long hours fingering Aleksei Tatarkin. She’s exhausted. You can’t put her on an all-day trip back to Florida that ends with her piloting herself home from Miami. Give her break!”

  “So the two of you can continue to play assassin magnet?” Klaus Peiper retorted. “So you can spend another sleepless night at the Meridien?”

  “Sir!” Rhys choked. “That’s not—”

  “Yes, it is, and do not think I blame you. Miss Halliday would tempt an Archbishop, if not the Pope himself. But bad things happen when the two of you are together. Therefore, she goes, you stay.”

  “Sir, I have to go to Florida. There’s something about this Russian wedding—I have no idea what, but it’s connected to trafficking, I know it, I feel it. Let me go with Laine, any flight will do. I can play bodyguard—”

  “You!” Peiper snorted. “That blow in Peru damaged your brain, Tarrant. It’s suicidal. Absolutely not.”

  Rhys straight-armed the wall, looking as if he’d like to do the same to his boss’s face. “Sir . . . I beg you, let me go. Laine doesn’t understand. She won’t believe there’s a problem.”

  “We’ll send an alert to Interpol Washington, have them contact the police in Florida. I have no wish to see harm come to your young lady,” Peiper added in a softer tone. “You realize,” he said as Rhys glowered at him, “we may be—what is the expression?—blowing smoke. You are operating on a very slim h
unch, Tarrant. It is possible Miss Halliday is entirely correct, and these assassination attempts having nothing to do with her. She has become collateral damage simply because the two of you have spent so much time together. So it can only be a kindness to let her go, n’est-ce pas?”

  Rhys straightened to attention, his face shutting down to cop remote. “I fear the accident this morning was more debilitating than I thought, sir. I’ll need two weeks for R & R.”

  “Sorry, Tarrant, your request is not convenient at this time. Now go back and explain to the lady that her luggage is already packed and waiting at the airport. She will travel there without you, by the way.” The inspector glanced at his watch. “I give you fifteen minutes to make your farewells. Good day, Mr. Tarrant.”

  Through slitted eyes, Rhys watched his boss disappear into his private office. Bloody, effing bastard. But of course he wasn’t. Peiper was doing his job as he saw it.

  Just as Rhys would have to do his.

  Too bad. He’d loved these past four years at Interpol. He’d planned his time here as a major stepping-stone to career advancement. Most police officers seconded to Interpol returned to their own countries after their three-year tours, but he had never seen himself moving out of the international loop. A tour with Interpol London . . . perhaps rising to bureau chief. Then one day, if all went well, the possibility of bringing the position of Secretary General back to a Brit.

  All moot now. Because he was about to screw up so badly even Scotland Yard might not take him back.

  Rhys returned to the Trafficking bullpen at a brisk pace, his lean body radiating determination. Decisions could be liberating, even if this was one he’d hoped never to make. He took Laine’s hand, holding tight as he guided her into the elevator and down to a private corner of Interpol’s serene interior courtyard. Not a great move, he realized, as he looked at the banks of windows on all sides. He should have found a broom closet somewhere.

  “A bit public. Sorry,” Rhys muttered as he settled her onto a bench. He ran a hand through his hair, scowled at a perfectly innocent planter full daffodils behind her back. “I can’t stop the ball rolling,” he admitted, heat welling up, breaking through the iron set of his face. “They’re taking you straight from here to the airport and on to Paris.” They won’t let me go with you.” His fingers clamped onto her shoulders. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Laine. I know you don’t think your Viktor’s a villain, but you’ve got to consider it. Peiper’s going to contact Interpol Washington and get them to alert your local sheriff—”

  “No need.” Laine’s sneer indicated what she thought of Interpol horning in on her turf. “The sheriff’s a friend of mine, my brother’s a deputy. I’ll pass along your concerns in person. I’m not a fool, Rhys,” she added more gently. “I’m not discounting your fears.”

  He shifted his hands up to cup her face. Bronze curls, now dry and springing, tumbled over his fingers. “I’m sorry, so sorry for all this, Laine. Because of me, you nearly died today.”

  “You came closer.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t be so blasé! We both nearly bought it this morning. Don’t think it’s going to stop just because you’re getting on a plane for home.”

  “Things were totally dead in Golden Beach these past few weeks. The usual Marriage-Go-Round, an aborted theatrical debut. Not a villain in sight.”

  “Laine, don’t be stupid! This morning, things changed. You became expendable. You’ve got to promise me you’ll consider worst-case.”

  He watched, fascinated, as she turned magnificently mutinous, green eyes sparking, her oval chin stiffening to belligerent beneath his fingertips. “I was raised on worst-case,” she informed him loftily. “And you’re mistaken about who’s keeping whom out of harm’s way. Last time I looked, the score was something like five to zero. In my favor.”

  Rhys dropped his hands, stood back, chagrined. Yet wasn’t this what he liked about her? Laine Halliday was tough, feisty, no one’s tool. No one’s pet. No man’s woman.

  He’d thought she was his, but he’d been wrong.

  It hurt.

  “I want to kiss you goodbye,” he said, “but at least seventy percent of Interpol probably have their noses pressed to the glass. You see,” he added apologetically, “romance seldom brightens our lives here at HQ.”

  Laine played with her purse strap. “You asked if you could come to Florida, didn’t you?”

  “And got an emphatic no. I’m going to keep working on it, but—”

  “Good. Stay safe.” Laine stood up, studying him, memorizing him. “You still want to kiss me, you can,” she offered. “I don’t care who’s watching.”

  Neither did he. Even though at least three pairs of the eyes peering out the windows around them belonged to women who had known him intimately. This was Laine, who was being torn out of his arms, sent away. Into almost certain danger.

  The watchers could go to bloody hell. Rhys gathered her in, felt her hands press hard against his back. His lips brushed hers, lingered, savored, his tongue probing, demanding, exploring the only intimacy available in full view of several hundred people.

  “This isn’t good-bye,” Rhys whispered against her lips. “Keep safe, Laine. I’ll get to Florida somehow.”

  “You can’t! You’ll lose your job.”

  “I doubt I’d enjoy being Mr. Big Shot Interpol Officer if you were dead.”

  Laine heaved a sigh. “I suppose it’s a comfort to know I’m not the only idiot.” Fisting a hand in his hair, she dragged his lips back down to hers.

  All too soon, Alain Bedard took her away, trailed by Bedard’s partner of yesterday, who managed to keep his face straight, even though his ears were pink.

  Rhys stood in the dimming light of the courtyard, trying to ignore what felt like a thousand eyes. He watched the door Laine exited long after she was out of sight. Was he really considering chucking his whole career for a girl with whom he’d had what amounted to a one-night stand?

  It was looking very much that way.

  He owed her.

  Yet that wasn’t at the heart of his sudden attack of madness. Was it love? This new raw emotion that hurt like hell? Or did he just feel responsible for plunging her into international intrigue way over her head? For thrusting himself into her life because he thought he could use her?

  Correction. Because after his conversation with Logan Halliday, he’d checked out the little sister, fallen for a picture, and conjured up a plot to meet her.

  All of the above, Rhys supposed. He’d set his sights on Laine Halliday and dropped them both into a murky brew that smelled of big time international conspiracy. And there was no way he could trust some county sheriff’s department, who were likely accustomed to dealing with little worse than tourist complaints, to sort it out. Which meant he was going to have to abandon his secure cop niche, his nicely laid out world of black and white, and take a walk on the wild side.

  I lay on my bed in a hotel at Charles de Gaulle Airport, with a guard posted outside my door, and tried to think, but it had been a long, nasty day and my brain had given out, given up. But not enough to let me sleep.

  If I’d thought this trip might result in some kind of job interview at Interpol, I’d blown it big time. My visions of Laine Halliday, international crime fighter, were sunk as deep as Rhys’s car.

  I’d fed my depression with a late supper from Room Service, called Dad to tell him I should be home tomorrow in time for supper (about midnight in my present time zone). That was an hour ago, and I still had my cell phone clutched in my hand. Call Rhys . . . don’t call Rhys . . . Without his immediate presence, the Halliday pride was sneaking back. He’d promised to come to Florida once before. It hadn’t happened. It was unlikely it was going to happen this time either. Rhys was too terribly British, too terribly cop. He would never be able to bend far enough to make a break with Interpol’s orders. Nor did I want him to. He was a perfect fit where he was. A European cop so far removed from my world he might as wel
l have been running an Interpol branch office on one of the rings of Saturn.

  The phone in my hand chirped out its little tune. Rhys! My bad mood burst on a swirl of anticipation. “Laine Halliday.”

  “Ah, Laine, I have found you. I am so pleased.”

  Viktor? He didn’t seem to notice my strangled gurgle.

  “My bride, she comes in only one week. You promised to be here, to help her, no? I am counting on you, Laine. When will you return?” Viktor added on a plaintive note.

  “I’m at the airport, Viktor. I’m leaving in the morning, but I won’t be in Golden Beach until late tomorrow. I’m told the eggs are nearly finished, and all arrangements are in order. I assure you everything will happen just as we planned.”

  “Da, da. Is good. So next day we see eggs?”

  “Sure. We’ll drive up to Sarasota Friday afternoon. How’s two o’clock?”

  “Is good. Laine . . . you will have safe trip home. Is important all goes well for the wedding. No problems, no problems at all. You understand?”

  Oh, shit! I was afraid I did. “Thanks, Viktor. I’ll see you Friday.” I hit the End button.

  It could have been Viktor’s English, but I doubted it. Viktor had just told me not to worry, I would have a safe trip home. He needed me.

  If so, someone had exceeded their mandate this morning at the river.

  And if I accepted my interpretation of what Viktor had just said, it meant that Rhys’s fears were valid. Viktor might well be involved in the Russian mob. In the trafficking of women and children for the purposes of slavery and prostitution. In the assassination attempts on Rhys.

  No, not Viktor Kirichenko. My Fabergé egg guy was very likely Aleksei Tatarkin.

  Oh, my God, I was running a wedding for the Russian mafia.

  So . . . even mob members got married. Technically, it was okay. Not to panic.

  Hallidays never panicked.

  When Rhys called me twenty minutes later, he agreed with my assessment of Viktor’s cryptic message. Generously, he didn’t crow over my disillusion.