Donovan remained calm, relieved that she’d just confirmed that she knew Kristof. “My name wasn’t Donovan Nash back then. Kristof used to call me Bobbie.”
“Bobbie?”
“Yes, we were best friends.”
“Bullshit!” the woman snapped. “The man you’re talking about is dead, just like you’re about to be.”
“Kristof will remember,” Donovan replied evenly.
She looked at him hard, as if trying to determine if there was an element of truth to what she was hearing. “I know a great deal about Bobbie—and you’re not him. I’ll ask you one more time. Who in the hell are you?”
“You have Kristof’s eyes.” Donovan was past the point he’d feared most, having to reveal his identity to a stranger.
“Take them up to the house,” the woman told her men as she released the hammer and lowered the gun.
Donovan had never been to the house during the summer. The trees seemed bigger, though as all memories from childhood, the house seemed smaller now. Montero joined him and together they were escorted up the driveway to the front door, which opened before they made it to the first step.
A forty-something man with short gray stubble for hair stood in the doorway. He wore a black suit, and Donovan spotted the bulge at his hip, announcing he was armed. The armed man motioned them into the foyer, and as soon as the main door closed behind them, the woman ordered them to stop.
“Eric.” The woman spoke to the man in black as she leveled her pistol at Donovan. “Bring me the framed picture on the piano, the one with my father and his old friend. Ms. Montero, if you don’t behave, my first bullet kills Bobbie here.”
Eric left the room and returned moments later with a picture in a polished wooden frame and handed it to the woman.
“Thank you, Eric. Now keep an eye on Ms. Montero. She’s extremely dangerous.”
Eric flexed his fingers and stared at Montero.
When Donovan caught a brief glimpse of the photograph, he was jolted by memories. The flashbacks came flooding back as he remembered the day like it was yesterday. Taken by Kristof’s mother, not far from where he stood now, only months before he lost his parents. Donovan had been fourteen at the time. He and Kristof had just raced down the mountain for the last run of the day. They were all pink skin and smiles, ski googles pushed up on their foreheads, each with an arm over the other’s shoulders. Donovan was caught off guard by the emotion a simple photo evoked.
The woman held the picture up, her eyes darting from the photograph to Donovan’s face, and she moved until she duplicated the exact angle in the image.
“In your wallet, there’s a picture. You have a daughter? How old is she?”
“She’s five.”
The woman stepped forward as she continued to closely examine Donovan’s face. “Let’s pretend for a moment that I believe you. Kristof used to tell me stories, the expensive cars, the money, you and your airplanes. You were at Cambridge, right?”
“Oxford,” Donovan knew he was being tested.
“Oh, that’s right.”
“What’s Kristof’s middle name?”
Donovan smiled at the thought. “He made me swear I’d never repeat it, but under the circumstances I can tell you his middle name is Dewitt.”
“God, he hates that name. I’m told you had a fight once. Where were the two of you when this occurred?”
“Corfu, Greece.”
“The fight left him with a permanent reminder, what was it?”
“A missing tooth. Upper left side.”
“He left you something as well?”
“Inside lower lip, an inch-long scar.”
“Who won the fight?” she asked.
“When friends fight, nobody wins, everyone loses,” Donovan said as he looked directly into her eyes. “Kristof said that, and he was right.”
“He still says that.” She lowered her weapon and looked Donovan up and down one final time. “My name is Marta. I’m Kristof’s daughter.”
“Your mother, did she live in Warsaw?” Donovan asked as the spark of an ancient memory flickered.
“Yes, her name was Natalia.”
“I met her when she was traveling with Kristof. I liked her. You look like her.”
“She was very sweet, but she’s gone now,” Marta said, and then abruptly changed the subject. “I have to tell you, this is a little surreal. I mean, for God’s sake, you’ve fooled the entire world for nearly twenty-five years, and now you’re standing in my foyer. I warn you, the second I learn that you’re not him, that you’ve lied, and this is some sort of elaborate scheme, you’re a dead man.”
“I understand,” Donovan nodded. “Family is everything, which is why I’m here after all these years. I know my showing up comes as a shock. Obviously I’ve had some work done, and I would have never come asking Kristof for anything for myself. It’s my wife. She’s missing and needs help—Kristof’s help.”
“Eric, where’s my father?” Marta said. “We’ll see if he remembers you, but I have to warn you. He’s not well.”
“He’s in the sunroom,” Eric said.
“Eric, these people are our guests. We’ll need some privacy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eric turned and vanished into the house.
“If you are Robert Huntington, the irony is remarkable,” Marta said as she slid her pistol beneath the elastic of her pants in the small of her back, the grip readily accessible. “Two boyhood friends, both heirs to vast fortunes in the oil business, both who turned their backs on their destiny and vanished.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Donovan replied. Clearly, Kristof had talked to his daughter about his friend Robert Huntington. He wondered what version she knew.
“Do you remember my grandfather?” Marta asked. “Dad’s father?”
“Of course, our families were close.”
“Then you remember how my grandfather died?”
“Oh, no,” Donovan whispered as he remembered the rapid decline of Kristof’s father from cancer.
“My father has prostate cancer, and it’s metastasized to the bones in his legs. He’s recovering from surgery and in a great deal of pain. He takes a mountain of pain medication, and he also drinks heavily. He’s been quiet this morning, so I’m not sure what his state of mind is right now. He oscillates between sedate and calm, and very angry and agitated. I can’t remember the last time he left the house to go anywhere except to see the doctor. He’s depressed, volatile, and I have no way to predict how he’s going to react.”
Donovan felt the air leave his chest. “I’m glad he has you to care for him,” he said, unprepared for the emotional upheaval at hearing the condition of his old friend. Through a doorway he spotted a gaunt man seated in a recliner, reading a newspaper. All of the furniture he’d seen inside the house had been updated, but Donovan remembered the room. The dramatic view of the mountains had always been one of Kristof’s favorites. The room was warm, but Kristof wore khaki slacks and a sweater. Donovan was shocked to see that Kristof was nearly forty pounds lighter than Donovan remembered. His old friend had gray whiskers on his face, but his head was shaved clean.
As they approached Kristof, he lowered the paper, and without a flicker of recognition, studied his visitors. A wave of regret and sorrow descended over Donovan. In his mind, he and Kristof were both young and vital, the world at their beck and call.
“Dad,” Marta said, waiting until her father looked at her. “Someone is here to see you. It’s Bobbie.”
“The hell it is! What’s going on here?” Kristof threw down the newspaper and with an expression of pain on his face, a vein pulsing in his neck and sweat popping out on his forehead, he struggled to his feet and balled up his fists.
“Kristof, it’s me, Bobbie.” Donovan locked eyes with the clearly confused Kristof. “I’m sorry to barge in like this. Please, sit down. Let’s talk.”
Kristof hit Donovan in the jaw. “You can go back to hell.”
Don
ovan could have avoided the punch, but didn’t. Kristof needed to lash out, inflict pain. Donovan winced, but found the swing was without energy, the blow benign.
“Why?” Kristof asked.
“It’s complicated. Please, let’s sit and talk.”
“It’s always complicated with you, isn’t it?” Kristof said as he began to sway. Marta reached out and steadied him, guided him back into his chair. “Just go, Bobbie. I don’t want to hear it anymore. That you faked your death speaks volumes. After that night in Corfu, all of your talk to me about integrity—complete bull-shit! The only reason to run and hide would be the reality that you actually did kill Meredith Barnes. Now get out. You were dead to me when I woke up this morning, and you’re still dead to me.”
Kristof’s final blow stung the most. In all of the scenarios Donovan had run in his head, outright rejection hadn’t entered his mind. He imagined anger, disbelief, but not being thrown out of the house.
“I said, go.” Kristof growled. “Don’t make me send for Eric.”
“I’ll show you out,” Marta said.
Donovan turned to follow Montero out as Marta stayed, speaking quietly to her father. He had just failed Lauren, maybe even jeopardized her survival. Once they were in the foyer, they stopped, waiting for Marta. When she finally joined them, she was brushing away the tears in her eyes.
“Your car is being brought around front,” Marta said.
“Why did he bring up Meredith?” Donovan asked. “As far as I know, the two never met.”
“They did meet, once. He told me she was in Europe, shooting her documentary about overfishing in the Mediterranean. Like most of the world, he was smitten with her and contributed to her foundation for years. He told me how happy he’d been for the two of you. Did you know she reached out to him about reconciliation? It was shortly after your engagement. I think she wanted for the two of you to resolve your differences so my father could be at your wedding.”
“I didn’t know that.” Donovan lowered his head. “She was gone not long after.”
“I know, and Father was heartsick. He told me he called you . . . afterwards.”
“He did, but I’d already made up my mind.” Donovan felt the full crushing weight of his past press down on him. “Is there anything I can do for him, for you?”
“No, thank you, I’ll try and talk with him later, when he’s had some time to process everything that just happened. But I think I can help you. You came here to ask Archangel to help you find your wife.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Archangel now. I’ll help you, on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Be in our life, his life, don’t give up on him. Promise me you’ll come back and visit once he’s feeling better. I can tell he’s in a great deal of pain this morning. He has a nurse who tries to control him, but he does as he likes. He may just need some time to absorb all of this.”
“I’d like that.” Donovan gratefully nodded his acceptance.
“Is your wife the woman the authorities are looking for in Slovakia?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a spy, isn’t she? That’s the reason the CIA is involved?”
“She’s an analyst. She works for the Defense Intelligence Agency. She was on a mission for the CIA—it went sideways.”
“How many are there in this group of yours?” Marta asked.
“Two others,” Montero said. “Though we have contacts inside Interpol, as well as the State Department. Plus, we have a helicopter at our disposal in Budapest.”
“How did you get to Innsbruck?”
“We have a chartered Gulfstream at the airport,” Montero replied.
Marta slid a phone from her pocket and pressed a single button. “It’s me. I’m headed your way. I’ll be on the ground in an hour and a half. Pick me up at the private terminal. It’ll be me, plus two others. We have a job, highest priority. By the time I arrive, I’ll want everything you can find on—”
“Dr. Lauren McKenna,” Donovan said. “CIA code name, Pegasus.”
“There was also an assault in Liberty Park yesterday, near the President Hotel,” Montero added. “A man was killed, another escaped, but he may have been arrested. I have pictures.”
Marta repeated all the information and then hung up. “Let me throw a few things together. Once we’re on our way, we’ll send the pictures you have to my man in Budapest, and then you can give me the full briefing.”
“I’ll call the pilots and let them know we’re on our way,” Donovan said.
“I do need to confirm one detail,” Marta said. “Who told you we were here?”
“An interior designer, who has a taste for underage girls. He’s terrified of going to jail or facing his ex-wife,” Montero said with a shrug. “He was easy to squeeze.”
“Klaus, in Vienna,” Marta shook her head as if learning about an errant child. “You threatened him into telling you what he knew, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t difficult.” Montero replied.
Marta called for Eric who hurried into the room. “I’m leaving for a few days. Tell the others. Call me if anything changes with my father. Oh, and have our people in Vienna find Klaus Mikos, and make sure Klaus understands confidentiality. Remind him that despite his personal and legal problems, the person he needs to fear most is Archangel.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Donovan felt physically energized, but emotionally wrung out. Seeing Kristof brought back cherished, fleeting memories of the old days, setting off a wellspring of emotions. Not the least being that he and Montero had just enlisted the support of a woman who was one of the most powerful arms dealers in the world. In an instant Donovan felt as if everything had transformed into a far more complicated equation than he could immediately contemplate. Whatever rules of engagement had been in place when he and Montero had driven up to the house, had now been irrevocably altered. Maybe Kristof was right, everything he did was complicated.
Montero, as if reading his thoughts, leaned in and whispered, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LAUREN COULD FINALLY touch the bottom of the river and she slogged through the mud toward shore. Her shoulders felt limp from the exertion of swimming. The sun was almost above the horizon, and if she stayed in the water any longer, she’d be easy to spot. The shore was lined with trees. In the distance, she could see several tall antennae, as well as a single smokestack, the only real clues about the area surrounding her.
She crouched, hidden among bushes, to rest and listen. Tiny gnats swarmed her and waving them away only seemed to invite more. The tenacious insects flew into her ears and nose, forcing her to move. Shaking her head against the onslaught, she stood, pushed through the underbrush, and stepped onto a narrow asphalt path. She spun when a voice cried out behind her and a bicyclist slammed on his brakes and skidded to the ground to avoid a collision. His hands shot to a bloodied knee, and he began yelling at her. Lauren didn’t answer, her English would only identify her as a foreigner. Instead, she picked up his bicycle, hopped on, and began to pedal. The injured rider hobbled to his feet, limping, gesturing, and yelling. When she took one last glimpse, she saw he was already on his mobile phone.
Moving fast, Lauren passed some other bicyclists going in the opposite direction. The riders were dressed in tights, gloves, and helmets. With matted hair and soaked street clothes, she was the antithesis of a recreational bicyclist. As she whizzed past, people turned and stared at her suspiciously. As she swerved around two joggers, she knew she had to get off the path. She squeezed the handbrakes, put down a foot for balance and made a hard right turn. What began as a quiet street turned busy. Tennis courts paralleled one side, a small park on the other. She realized she was gathering even more attention. People stopped and pointed. She heard a police siren and began pumping to build speed.
When she came to an intersection she leaned hard right, a bus blew its horn, and a car swerved to miss her,
honking savagely. Lauren felt trapped. The police siren seemed to be getting closer and traffic was increasing. On impulse, she turned back toward the river. The streets weren’t safe and the police could easily spot her. She made another turn, the rear tire skidding on sand. She lost speed, regained it quickly, and made another turn that took her back to the bike path. Free of street traffic, Lauren continued downriver. She passed numerous joggers, walkers, and other bicyclists. Several blocks to her right, the police siren wailed and then silence. She caught flashes of buildings through the trees to her right, the Danube to her left. Ahead of her stretched the bike path and she pedaled harder.
Lauren’s mind raced. She had to ditch the bike. From what she could see through the trees, a combination of residences and businesses filled the area. She could go back into the river, but the increased boat traffic around Budapest seemed to make that a poor choice. Lauren heard a roar behind her and turned to look. Closing fast was a police motorcycle, red-and-blue lights flashing. Lauren turned forward and found a gold-and-blue police car nosing onto the path.
Lauren squeezed both brakes and tried to slow and turn. She skidded, and the fragile front tire bent as it slammed into the bumper of the police vehicle. Lauren went over sideways, and ended up on her back, stunned as the two policemen surrounded her, yelling in Hungarian, their guns pointed at her chest. They rolled her over, face down, and handcuffed her, the steel biting into the skin of her already raw wrists.
She was pulled to her feet and bent over the hood of the car as a crowd gathered to watch. Lauren clenched her jaw as she was thoroughly frisked, then guided to the rear door of the police car, and placed into the back seat. That’s when she got her first look at the policeman who had searched her, a lean, square-jawed young man, with short hair beneath his hat. He glared at her, the expression on his face told her he didn’t consider her a petty bike thief. The door slammed closed and she remembered her mission briefing from the CIA. Don’t get caught. Now here she was a possible foreign agent captured in Hungary, wanted in Slovakia. The officer slid behind the wheel and pulled away from the stolen bike, siren blaring once again. Lauren hung her head as onlookers took in the excitement.
Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers) Page 13
