She picked up the knife. It was heavy, wickedly sharp, and she was going to keep it. She would use it, too, on the next asshole who came at her from out of the dark.
She looked from the knife in her hand back up to Ry. He still knelt in front of her, a blood-soaked pillow in one hand, his Walther in the other, but she noticed now that it had a silencer attached, which explained how the ponytailed man had suddenly keeled over dead on top of her and she hadn’t heard the shot.
The weird thing, though, was that Ry had been right—she’d screamed her head off. So where was everybody?
“I thought you’d left me,” she said to Ry. “When I came out of the bathroom and saw that my stuff was gone and you were gone. But then I found the note you scribbled on that napkin, so you’re forgiven. Sort of. I mean, ‘Gone to see a guy about a thing’? Way to overwhelm me with the details, O’Malley.”
“I had to call a couple of guys, see if they could give me a lead on a Russian-icon expert. Then I arranged to meet another guy who can make us some fake passports, since we can’t go on hiding in here forever. It ended up taking a lot longer than I thought it would. I took your stuff because it didn’t seem smart to leave it unguarded while you were in the bathroom.”
“No, it wasn’t very smart.” She dropped the knife in her lap and lowered her head in her hands, feeling suddenly exhausted, and way, way, way out of her depth. Ambitious DAs, prickly judges, deadbeat dads, abusive husbands, stalkers—all those she could handle. But not this.
She pushed her hands through her hair and felt something sticky. What the …? She thought she’d washed out all the wedding-cake frosting, and then she realized it was the ponytailed man’s blood, and maybe some of his brains, too, and she shuddered.
“He wanted me to give him the altar of bones, but he was going to torture me first just for the hell of it.” She looked back up at Ry’s face, into his eyes. He looked serious and tough, but a tenderness was there, too, and she wasn’t sure what she ought to be making of it. “You had my back, Ry. I should’ve thanked you sooner.”
He brushed back the hair that was stuck to her forehead with the ponytailed man’s blood. “Most people who went through what you have would be curled up in the corner in a fetal position by now, so cut yourself some slack. And in the world where I come from, when a guy tells you he’s got your back, he’s also saying he knows you’ve got his.”
Zoe felt tears well in her eyes and she looked away, embarrassed. But she also felt full up to bursting inside with a mess of feelings she couldn’t name. Pride, she supposed, but also something strangely like faith, a deep, lasting faith in the man kneeling in front of her, and also faith in herself.
“Really?” she asked. “You really trust me to have your back?”
“All the way.”
She cleared her throat. “Okay, then. Good.” She poked at the body again with her toe. “I guess we won’t find out now if was working for Popov’s son or not.”
Ry got to his feet. “What I’m wondering is how, out of all the gin joints in all the world, this guy knew he’d find us here.”
“How do you think he knew, Rylushka?”
Madame Blotski stood in the open doorway. She had a gun in her hand.
34
YOU ARE to bend over slowly and set your gun onto the floor, please,” Anya Blotski said. “With the barrel pointing towards yourself…. Yes, yes. Very good. Now you will push it over to me.”
Ry did as she asked. The Walther didn’t slide well on the thick Turkey carpet, but it went far enough that it was now out of his reach.
He straightened, his hands hanging empty now at his sides. “Since when are you working for the bad guys, Anya?”
“There are no good and bad guys, only the living and the dead. Was it not you who once told me that, lapushka?” She pointed with her gun toward the table with the samovar. “Now, you will be so kind as to move over there…. No, that is far enough. I want you separate from your little friend, yes? Yet not so separate that I cannot watch the both of you at once.”
But the Russian woman’s eyes, her whole being, Zoe saw, were really focused all on Ry. So she stole the chance to pull one of the pillows from the chaise up onto her lap to hide the ponytailed man’s knife.
She looked from the barrel of the woman’s little Ruger back to Ry’s face. He didn’t seem surprised, rather disappointed, and Zoe realized he had figured right off that the only way for the ponytailed man to have found them here at the Casbah was through Madame Blotski.
“So who did you sell us out to?” Ry asked, and Zoe wondered if he was as relaxed as he sounded. Because with his gun now halfway across the room, she couldn’t see where he had a plan to get them out of this mess once he got what information he could out of the woman.
“I only ask,” he went on, “because maybe I can top their offer.”
Madame Blotski shook her head, and Zoe was surprised to see the gleam of tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. The gun in her hand trembled a little. “There is no amount of money to buy what he can give me.”
“He?”
“This afternoon a telephone call comes to me from a man, a stranger to me. He says only one thing at first—a name. Oksana.”
She shook her head again, crying more openly now and not caring if they saw it. “Oksana. It is the name of my niece, Ry, and she is only five. She lives in St. Petersburg, and she loves dinosaurs and your silly SpongeBob SquarePants, and she wants to be an Olympic ice-skater when she grows up. This man, he gives me a cell phone number and he tells me I must call it if you come here, and I knew even as he was telling me this, even as he was telling me how I must betray you, I knew I would do it, because of the way he said her name.”
She choked on a sob, squeezed her eyes shut. “Then he says to me, ‘Life can be cruel, madame. Little girls, especially the lovely ones like your Oksana, are disappearing from the streets of St. Petersburg every day. Where do they go? Who knows? But I have heard that in Bangkok there are brothels where one can buy, for a price, a child of either sex and any age.’ “
Ry drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Anya.”
She gave him a wry, sad smile. “This man—he must know a lot about you, if he knows who are the few in this world you would trust with your life. Is he mafiya?”
“We think so.”
She nodded slowly. “They are like vampires, these mafiya. They live in the dark, they suck your blood dry, and they cannot die.”
The word die echoed in the empty nightclub. Zoe slid her hand under the pillow, wrapping it around the hilt of the knife.
Madame Blotski’s gaze flickered over to Zoe, then back to Ry. “I am so sorry, lapushka, but it is the girl he wants. Not you. If I thought you would give her up without a fight … but, no. I know you too well.”
She raised the gun higher, pointing the barrel at the middle of Ry’s chest.
And Zoe threw the knife at her head.
MADAME BLOTSKI DROPPED the gun and threw her hands up in front of her face as she tried to duck the flying knife. Zoe dove for Ry’s Walther at the same time that he did. They bumped heads so hard she was knocked back onto her butt, nearly senseless.
By the time the world stopped spinning, and she’d blinked the tears from her eyes, Zoe saw that Ry’s gun was trained on the Russian woman and he was picking up her little Ruger.
“Zoe?” he said. “Are you all right?”
Her ears were ringing and she thought she might be sick. “Your head’s as hard as concrete, O’Malley. I feel like I’ve just been kicked by a—”
“I know, I know. Get your stuff now, okay? Fast. We need to get out of here.”
She looked wildly around the room for her satchel, which only made the world spin again. Then she spotted it, leaning up against one end of the chaise. She tried to stand up, but that wasn’t working so well quite yet, so she ended up crawling to it on her hands and knees.
“Okay. Got it,” she said. Only now her words were coming out all woozy
, too.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“In a minute. I just …” She drew in a deep breath and that seemed to settle her stomach down, although it did nothing for the ringing in her ears.
She took another breath and stood up slowly, slowly. The world spun, settled, spun again, then settled again and stayed settled. She took a careful step, then another, and when the world stayed put, she decided she was going to live after all.
She saw the ponytailed man’s knife—her knife now—lying on the floor in front of Madame Blotski. In the end it had fallen short, but it had come close enough to do the trick.
Zoe picked it up and started to shove it into her waist as she’d seen them do in the movies, but that didn’t seem like such a good idea after all, so she stuffed it into the bulging satchel instead.
“Okay, I’m ready now,” she said, and looked up at Ry. He had a stunned look on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. But that wasn’t surprising if his head was feeling the way hers was.
“Right,” he said after a moment. “Let’s go.”
He still had his gun pointed at Madame Blotski, but it didn’t seem necessary anymore. The woman stood in utter stillness, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist, as if she needed to hold herself together.
The eyes she turned onto Ry’s face were dark with fear and pain. “You must kill me for my Oksana’s sake. Otherwise how will he know that I did not just let you both go?”
Ry shook his head. “I can’t—”
“You must. You know you must.”
Ry put his hand in the small of Zoe’s back and pushed her gently forward. “Go on ahead.”
“What? No!”
He gave her another shove, hard enough this time to send Zoe reeling toward the door. Then he raised the Walther and pulled the trigger.
There was a spfitt sound, and Madame Blotski slumped to the floor.
Zoe whirled and started back into the room, but Ry gripped her arm and pulled her after him. She tried to wrench away from him, but he was too strong. She looked back to see that Madame Blotski was sitting up, holding a hand to her side, blood seeping out between her fingers.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” Ry said. “Let’s hope that’s enough.”
35
ZOE RUBBED the steam off the café window so that she could keep an eye on the antiques shop across the Rue des Saints-Pères. Its wooden facade was painted a classy hunter green. Its name, Air de la Russie, was painted in discreet gold script above the door. A mesh metal grill still covered its dark plate-glass windows, though, while the other shops around it glowed invitingly in the gray, rainy morning.
“‘M. Anthony Lovely, Propriétaire,’ “Zoe said, reading aloud the smaller and even more discreet lettering beneath the shop’s name. They’d scoped out the display in the windows before they’d come over to the café, and Zoe had been impressed. From what she could tell, the icons, Fabergé eggs, lacquer boxes, nesting dolls, and jewelry were all of the highest quality. Monsieur Anthony Lovely definitely knew his stuff.
“What an odd name. Anthony Lovely. I bet it was a kick and a half for little Tony, growing up with a name like that. It isn’t Russian, or French either, for that matter. Hopefully he speaks English, because I hate it when people are jabbering around me and I can’t understand a word. Not everybody speaks a gazillion languages like you do, Ry. At least I’m bilingual.”
She stopped to draw breath and check her watch. “It’s after ten already. What if he doesn’t show?”
Ry stuffed the last of his croissant into his mouth. “It so happens I only speak twelve languages fluently, but I am functional in three more.”
Zoe gaped at him; she couldn’t help it. “You’re shi—kidding me, right?”
“I kid you not. It’s just a gift I happened to’ve been born with. Like having perfect pitch, or being able to multiply 1,546 times 852 in your head. Before I became a DEA agent, I was in the Special Forces, and the army treated me to a lot of immersion courses. The rest I picked up along the way.
“As for Anthony Lovely, the guy who recommended him said he’s a British expat—from the Cotswolds, to be exact—so it’s a good bet he speaks English. He’s a lifelong bachelor, but straight, in his midseventies. Russian antiquities are his life, apparently, since he seems to have no other interests, and my guy says he hasn’t missed a day at his shop in over forty years. He’ll show.”
“Okay.” Zoe was still reeling over the fact that Ry spoke fifteen languages.
The waiter refilled their coffees in passing. Zoe rubbed the steam off the window again, then picked up her cup more to warm her hands than to drink from it. She was already wired to the max.
She looked up and caught Ry staring at her, an intense, almost fierce look on his face. “What is it? You’ve been looking at me weird ever since we sat down in here—”
A horrible thought suddenly occurred to her. She dropped her coffee cup back into its saucer and brushed her fingers over the front of her hair. “Please don’t tell me I still have his blood on me.”
He smiled. “No, you’re fine. All scrubbed up nice and shiny.”
After they’d left the Casbah, they hadn’t dared go to a hotel, where they would have had to show their passports, but they used the cool public shower facilities called Mc Clean that were in the basement of the Gare du Nord railway station. Zoe hadn’t realized how much of the ponytailed man’s head had ended up all over her until she saw all the blood and gore swirling around the drain. Now, she couldn’t think of it without feeling itchy all over.
“Well what, then?”
He shrugged. “It’s just … You surprised the hell out of me back there at the Casbah. The way you saved our butts by going all ninja with a knife.”
Zoe grinned at him, more than a little pleased with herself. “To be honest, it didn’t happen like it was supposed to. I thought it would flip end over end like you see in movies, but it fell short and just kind of thudded.”
“That’s because the blade is curved. It ruins the balance.” Ry reached for the check. Zoe watched as he pulled a wad of euros out of his jacket pocket. He seemed to have an endless supply of cash—a good thing, she thought, since all she had were a couple of now useless credit cards. If she hadn’t hooked up with Ry O’Malley, she’d probably be in the hands of the French police by now, and then only if she was lucky. Otherwise she’d be in the morgue.
She said, “At least the ponytailed man is out of my life for good now, thanks to you. Madame Blotski said the man on the other end of the phone was a stranger to her, but she seemed pretty convinced he was mafayi, and what he said to her does sound like the sort of threat a pakhan would make.”
“Yeah, I think we can safely assume Mr. Ponytail worked for Popov’s son.”
“He isn’t going to stop coming after me, is he, Ry? Popov’s son. His dad told him about the altar of bones, and now he wants it for himself and he’s going to keep sending his vors after me until he gets it.”
She hadn’t realized she was clutching her coffee mug so tightly until Ry pried her fingers loose and wrapped them up in his big hand. “We’ve bought us some nice breathing room, though. It’ll take some time for Popov’s son to field another vor, and that guy’s going to have to track us down. In the meantime maybe we can get a good lead from this icon guy on what and where is the altar of bones.”
“And since Kennedy was killed because the KGB believed he drank from it,” Zoe said, “maybe solving the mystery of the altar will show us a way to get rid of Yasmine Poole and Company as well. I still think she works for that guy in the railroad uniform who showed up at the end of the film to take the rifle from your dad.”
“Yeah. I suppose it’s possible she really does work for the CIA, but like you, my bet is on railroad guy. Whoever he is, though, he must have some serious juice, to—”
“O’Malley, look.” Zoe grabbed his arm and pointed with her chin toward a man in a fedora and crisp gray su
it who stood in front of the Air de la Russie. He carried a newspaper tucked under one arm and a Starbucks cup in one hand, and he had to set his coffee down on the shop’s window ledge to pull a ring of keys out of his pockets.
“It’s him. The icon guy.”
THEY DECIDED ON a cover: She and Ry were here in Paris on their honeymoon, but also to visit her grandmother, an émigré who came over from Russia during the glasnost era, and who’d given them the icon as a wedding present. They wanted to get it appraised, and perhaps insured, before they went back to the States.
“I’ll act bored,” Ry said. “Like this is your thing and I’m just along for the ride, humoring you because I want to jump your bones later on. That way he’s less likely to feel threatened or intimidated by me. You be clueless, but eager to learn, which will get him to open up more. People like to show off their knowledge.”
Zoe felt self-conscious, though, once they were in the shop and she was rattling off their story, as if she were reading her lines off cue cards. But Anthony Lovely didn’t seem suspicious, only mildly curious as she took the icon from her satchel, unwrapped it from its protective sealskin pouch, and laid it on the counter.
The man caught his breath as the light from the shop’s crystal chandeliers glimmered in the jewels and gilt paint on the Virgin’s crown and robe.
“Why, it’s … exquisite,” he said, but Zoe thought he’d been about to say something else.
His hands hovered in the air over the icon, as if he yearned to touch it but didn’t dare. “Yes, it is really rather extraordinary. I would like to examine it under more direct light. May I?”
“Please do. My grandmother said it’s been in the family for generations. Didn’t she, honey?”
Zoe turned to look at Ry, and her mouth nearly fell open. He had morphed into a completely different person—his face looked softer, emptier, as if he’d dropped about fifty points off his IQ. And although he couldn’t make himself grow shorter or less buff, the way he slouched against the counter, his shoulders drooping, he didn’t look nearly so tough and threatening anymore.
Altar of Bones Page 28
