by Ronie Kendig
That was what everyone had thought of Tox Russell for four years. Turned out he wasn’t dead. She was now very close to proving her father wasn’t either.
“Fool’s hope,” Ram growled.
Then I will be a fool! Because she could not give up on this, not when Omar relinquished the secret of this city’s name in his sleep. Even as a girl, she hadn’t believed her father was dead. There was no proof, just the ardent—albeit naïve—hope of a daughter to see her father again. Over the years, that hope had bloomed into stubborn determination that he was alive.
The tower grew as she closed the distance, until finally the glittering white cathedral glared at her. The cobbled footbridge summoned her across the Moscow River and into the sanctuary.
With relief, she started forward, aware of her surroundings. Cars and trams added to the noise of the city scampering around the luxurious site. By this time most tourists were gone. Crossing the footbridge with its evenly spaced lamps made Tzivia feel exposed. Surely they wouldn’t attack here on the cathedral steps.
Illumination grew, as did her hopes that he still waited. She eyed the two men in long black trench coats waiting just inside the wrought-iron fence—more confirmation that her contact was still here.
It wasn’t a sanctuary, not for her. This was where she’d sell her soul to Nur Abidaoud.
Bolstering her courage, she crossed the open courtyard filled with people who’d come for the midnight mass. The guards chatted quietly, each drag of their cigarettes lighting their faces. Fierce. Discerning. Both straightened, locking onto her and dropping their cigarettes. Weapons bulged at their sides, but they didn’t reach for them. Or stop her.
Tzivia swallowed as she climbed the steps, the wet squish of her pants seeming to echo in the strangely quiet area.
Too quiet. Quickly, she stepped inside. She wobbled, taken aback by the enormity of the cathedral and its lavish, brightly colored stained glass. She might not understand religious fervor, but she could appreciate the beauty of cathedrals. Just as she had reveled in the beauty of archaeological finds. Like the one she’d hidden before this fateful errand.
The ominous drone of voices filtered from the main altar, where—like cultists chanting in unison—the churchgoers offered prayers to the white arches, gilt ceilings, and massive murals.
She walked the corridor to the cordoned-off area where worshipers peered over their shoulders at her, brows knotting. What were they looking at?
A fresh squish of her pants made her check the wound. She was relieved to find the black tactical pants concealed the blood sliding down her leg, but she was probably leaving a trail. Smart, Tzi. So smart.
Curling her elbow over the stab wound, she kept her gaze low, searching for Nur. There, on the far right. Moving toward her target, she continued down the next aisle, then shimmied to his side, gaze on the priest directing young men in robes. With a breath, she clasped her hands.
“You are late.”
Teeth clenched, she kept her face impassive. “I’m here.”
“You have it?” he asked as the believers chanted in Latin.
“Would I be here if I didn’t?” she hissed, cringing as she thought of the man she toyed with.
“Where is it?”
“You will not get it until I get what I want—my father. Alive.”
2
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
Needle in the proverbial haystack.
With a huff, Ram Khalon slumped back and stared at the papers littering his desk. His gaze tracked the makeshift data wall, notes, and pages to an oversized map of the Tverskoy District. Blurry images of possible sightings, intel reports, HUMINT provided by assets on the ground.
Moscow was home to over twelve million people all trying to eke out an existence, trying to survive. And he had to find one person. One who didn’t want to be found. One who had as much training as he did in evasive tactics.
Where are you, Tzi?
A beep from the smaller computer yanked him forward. The system culled images from local surveillance cameras he’d piggybacked, then processed them through facial recognition software to narrow the possibilities. When a potential match for Tzivia registered, the system sent him a copy while analyzing build, weight, and height to determine the probability it was her. He stared at the blinking icon, awaiting the result.
A telltale thump at this temples made him aware of the time. He glanced at his watch. Not yet. Another hour. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ram wished to rid himself of the headache. Both the one stemming from finding his sister and the one that had encompassed his life since she went rogue.
The computer dinged again, and a grainy image appeared. He groaned at the poor quality, annoyed that Russia could be so advanced in covert operations but so desperately lacking in many other respects, including the safety of its citizens. He traced the outline of the face—maybe. A little narrower than Tzivia’s oval shape. Nose seemed right, though.
A grid appeared over the image, measuring as the computer cleaned up the pixels. Lines flashed red. Words appeared: Match improbable. Subject height off by 3.5 inches.
Ram cursed. Ripped off his beanie and pitched it across the flat. He shoved up from the table and paced before the floor-to-ceiling window. She’d always trusted him—until he’d joined Tox’s team more than two years ago. Trouble was, she’d been smitten with Tox, and perhaps his friend’s disregard for her and subsequent falling in love with Haven Cortes had pushed Tzivia over the edge.
No. Ram wouldn’t lay that blame at Tox’s feet. The war, the storm within Tzivia, had been brewing longer than that. Much longer. And Tox was one of the truest, most loyal friends he’d ever had. Ram trusted him with this mission. A risk that put Tox in danger. A problem Ram hated himself for.
But Tzivia had never gone completely dark like this before. No word. Not even on their encrypted chat room she’d set up nearly a decade past, when her journey into paranoia grew to a fevered pitch. She’d abandoned it years later but never took it down. Now Ram monitored it closely. Anything—a word, a hint.
It was too familiar. Too painful. So much like the day his father walked out the door and never returned. The whispered words of a phone call. “It was worth the cost. They don’t need to know.” The conviction that had, over the years, festered into a deep-rooted belief that his father was not dead, though his mother had him declared as such. That his father had left them. Abandoned his family. Children. Why? Ram couldn’t fathom. But the belief felt more like fact than theory to him now. And he hated his father for it.
Ram refused to go down that path with his sister. He’d find her. Stop her.
He stalked to the kitchenette and poured a glass of water. Glanced back at the litter across his desk. Sipped water as he skimmed the data wall again. She was in there. Somewhere. He slammed the glass down and went to the window, skin crawling with the futility of this hunt.
Where the devil are you?
Russia’s largest cities afforded plenty of anonymity for her to move about undetected, and this residential building provided him the best view, though he wasn’t fooling himself. No flat had a big enough view.
His phone rang. Ram picked it up and checked the screen, then tensed. Tightening his thin hold on his temper, he answered. “What?”
“Is that how you greet—”
“I’m late, Kastan. What do you want?”
“You are not late,” the intelligence agent spat. “And you would do well to remember who your superiors are, Ram.”
“I’ll remember that, sir, along with the reason my sister is missing and who is responsible.” Ram’s pulse thumped angrily through his veins. “As well as a certain man’s inability to protect government secrets when he shares a woman’s bed.”
“I have something you need to see,” Omar Kastan said, ignoring the chastisement. “After the meeting with your asset.”
The call ended just as Ram was ready to crawl through the connection and punch Omar. He fisted a hand. It was O
mar who’d slipped the name Moscow to Tzivia. The intelligence director had taken advantage of her vulnerability, her desperation to learn more about their father’s death, and turned it against her, thinking he had it under control.
Any man who thought he had Tzivia under control deserved whatever happened.
Ram grabbed his coat and beanie, then left after programming the exit protocols. The twenty-minute drive put enough distance between him and the flat for protection. Today it served to calm him down.
It wasn’t like him to be this angry, this quick. That was more like Tox. But knowing Tzivia was out there, tangling with the wrong people . . . Every day felt too late to save her.
He pulled into a parking spot and climbed out. Ram set a brisk pace through the plaza, taking in the fountain, the shops. The flower vendor. A family of tourists taking selfies by the dancing water. He shook his head and entered the coffee shop.
“The usual?” the male barista asked as Ram approached the counter.
“Pozhaluysta,” Ram said with a nod. The Russian variant of please expressed both the request and gratitude. He grabbed his wallet and handed over some colorful notes. “Spasibo.” After his thanks, he took a table at the back of the café and waited for his drink.
His thoughts rammed each other, still angry over Kastan’s call. The way that man ordered Ram around without an ounce of penitence or apology. Did he have no care or concern for Tzivia? For what his mistake could cost her?
Once his coffee and sandwich arrived, Ram checked his watch. Scanned the café. The crowded location accommodated a covert meeting. Couples occupied window tables, peering out at the fountain. Other patrons were oblivious to anything but their smartphones. Business professionals huddled in the middle with terse conversations and laptops. A woman sat hugging herself, watching children splash in the fountain. She seemed sad, contemplative. At the table ahead, a man in a trench coat sipped black coffee. His crooked nose hooked the cup as he read a book. Beyond him, an American family had pulled together two tables, the parents replete with dark circles under their eyes and frazzled hair.
Ram scanned the newspaper, then gave his watch one final glance. With an annoyed huff, he picked up the paper and made his way across the café. The man in the trench coat was on his phone now, arguing with someone. His deep voice thickened the Russian spewing out of his mouth.
Stopping by the table, Ram offered the paper. “A waste if I toss it,” he said, his Russian perfect.
The man scowled. His gaze snapped back to the table as he stabbed a finger against its surface, growling, “Nyet, nyet! Poslushay menya—”
Ram shook the paper. “Want it?”
Attention divided, the man snatched the newspaper as he shoved to his feet. “Poslushay menya,” he repeated, towering several inches over Ram. He swept around him without a word. “Vy pozhaleyete ob etom,” he growled, promising whomever he was talking to that they would regret something.
With a smirk, Ram shook his head. “Proschay,” he muttered in farewell, watching the man stalk across the courtyard, narrowly avoiding a collision with a toddler. He snapped open the paper, still barking into the phone. He straightened at something the person on the other end of the call said, then flung the paper in a trash bin.
“Some people are so ungrateful,” the lone woman said to Ram.
“Indeed.” He shrugged and left the café.
Kazimir Rybakov stalked into Mattin Worldwide, annoyed. He provided his badge for the security station, emptied his pockets, and passed through the scanner.
“Welcome back, Mr. Rybakov,” the security officer said. “Feeling better?”
“Da,” Kazimir grunted as he lifted his things from the small tray.
“That accident,” the officer said with a shake of his head. “We thought you were dead.”
“Ty ne yedinstvennyy.” In fact, the officer wasn’t the only one—even the doctors had given up on Kazimir Rybakov, declared him dead.
“Miraculous recovery,” the guard said.
“Except the scars.”
Though the officer grimaced at the telltale pink ridges marring Kazimir’s face and neck, he shrugged. “You are alive.”
“So I am,” Kazimir agreed. “But now if I am late, perhaps I will not be.”
The officer nodded. “True.”
“Spasibo.” After taking back his badge, Kazimir entered the private elevator and rode to the fifteenth floor. There, he hurried to the door at the end of the hall. One more swipe of his badge ushered him into the security center.
“You’re late,” Yefim Popov groused, twisting his chair around. He had never been a fan of Kazimir.
“I had fifteen minutes left—”
“You have nothing when Mr. Abidaoud demands you.”
Demands? There had been no demands. Slowing, Kazimir let his gaze drift to Yefim. “Mr.—”
“Da.” Yefim gave a long sigh. “Why he would want you, I do not know. Do not be thinking they are moving you to the twenty-seventh floor. You are mine, Rybakov.”
Gaze rising to the ceiling, Kazimir imagined the penthouse level that held both the founder’s office and his private residence. The infamous twenty-seventh floor housed the board of directors and the upper echelon of security officers, including their boss, Igor.
Not good. “Why? Is he angry over the time I have missed in recovery? I have not missed a day since I returned.” Kazimir touched the scars. “Do you think it is because . . .”
Another shrug. “Maybe this is a free ride down the Yauza.”
A chorus of dark laughter filtered through the security center. A ride down the Yauza was a reference to killings where bodies were dumped in the river. It hadn’t taken him long, immersed in this office and working security for one of the largest corporations in the world, to discover what that code meant.
“Here.” The burly man held out a secure-access card. The golden ticket to the penthouse. He flicked his fingers at Kazimir. “Now go. You are late. And he will be angry.”
Nervous, Kazimir clipped his badge to his lapel and accessed the private elevator. The mirrored doors slid closed, revealing a man even he barely recognized. Sandy-blond hair curled along his collar. He might need to see a barber. The scars were unsightly, but what could be expected when a car accident rearranged your face and left you for dead?
The elevator slowed, then hesitated.
Kazimir skated a look around the box. Numbers above. Camera in the corner. C’mon, Yefim. Don’t be a jerk. The security chief was no doubt monitoring his progress all the way to the private offices, where the feed would give way to seclusion. Seconds fell off the clock. Kazimir rejected the jitters demanding attention. This was it. This summons could decide his future.
The doors glided open. Marble gleamed its welcome as he stepped out and took in the area, which felt more like the grand entrance of a hotel than an office. Luxurious furnishings lined the ten-by-thirty foyer. Chandeliers glittered at ten-foot intervals. Four sets of heavy oak doors broke up Venetian plastered walls. An enormous painting hung over an ornate fireplace.
Rich, velvety curtains framed the dark painting, luring Kazimir closer to admire the piece. The terse brow of the central figure grabbed his attention, with its reddish-gold hair and large conflicted eyes. The near-black background forced the eye to the two soldiers flanking the young man at the front—and gradually allowed Kazimir’s focus to drift to the decapitated head on the table. Despite the conquistador garb the two soldiers wore, the scene could be none other than the biblical story of Goliath slain by David, who held a sword in his left hand. The gold plate mounted on the wall read: David with the Head of Goliath—Valentin de Boulogne. The world over knew that story, yet it seemed out of place here in a shipping conglomerate’s private offices. What a macabre—
Terse, frantic words drifted from the corner office.
“You are sure?” one man said in a thick German accent.
“Most certain,” said another.
“Then do we
confront her?”
Angling his ear that way, Kazimir drew closer, listening. Feigning interest in another art piece, this one smaller and less significant, if placement in the grand hall was any indication. His mind caught up with what he was looking at, and his gut tightened. Another painting of David with the head of the Philistine and the sword. And on a nearby pedestal, a bronze sculpture of David thrusting the sword into a cowering Goliath. Strange obsession.
Adjusting position slightly, Kazimir caught sight of his boss, Igor Polzin, facing a massive dark-wood desk as he conversed with someone. Though only his shoulder could be seen from the door, the other man must be Nur Abidaoud, CEO of Mattin. Who was the third person?
“No, we still need too much,” Abidaoud said. “Keep your eye on this. Make sure there are no more missteps. We can’t keep cleaning up dead bodies in alleys.”
“Of course,” Polzin said with a curt nod. His boss had never looked so disheveled or . . . submissive. Interesting.
“If you will trust us with this, we can resolve the problem.” The third voice again. One Kazimir did not recognize. “Come with me. A short trip, but I can give you the proof you seek.”
Needing a better view, Kazimir shifted his gaze—and struck intense eyes.
The penetrating gaze focused on Kaz. Nur Abidaoud had a powerful presence that commanded submission. “You are finally here.”
Snapping straight, Kazimir inclined his head. “Sir.”
Eyes dark and forbidding belied the smile on Nur’s weathered face. Black hair combed back from the brow and stabbed through with silver. With a flick of his hand, Abidaoud motioned Kazimir into the private office.
As Kazimir eased through the door, he spotted the third man standing to the side, hands threaded before him.
“This is Frans Stroebel,” Abidaoud informed Kaz.
