His Kind Of Trouble

by Vivian Leiber

  She angrily swiped away the tears that dampened her cheeks.

  “Your sentiments of love are so damn touching,” Karinolov growled, all pretense of civility erased. “Just get in the box.”

  A bodyguard entered the foyer.

  “Ambassador, a few of the protesters have broken through the gate and are now on the grounds.”

  Tarini brightened. Maybe…?

  “Shoot them,” Karinolov barked.

  “You can’t do that!” Tarini exclaimed.

  “We can,” Karinolov said tersely. “Diplomatic immunity is such a versatile thing. Other countries have done precisely the same in similar circumstances. And do you know what the police will do?”

  “They’ll arrest you.”

  “They’ll do absolutely nothing,” Karinolov corrected triumphantly. “Oh, sure, there might be a protest. A few denunciations from the United States government. But you’ll be dead by then. Now, get in the crate. We could have had something special—however briefly—but you’d rather go to your death quickly.”

  She hesitated. After all, Austin was dead. She had loved him and had never had the chance to let him know.

  We’re survivors, she heard his words. That’s what I admire about you. A survivor hangs on until the very end.

  And if she loved him, if she truly loved him, she would use her last breath, her last moment of life, to save their child and to reach Vlad. The chances were slim, the possibility of any success small—but she had to try.

  She took a deep, final breath of freedom. She glanced at her mother, saw the love, the memory of which would have to sustain her. Fighting her terror, she crouched into the box. Karinolov tightened the leather restraints.

  “Just so that you know that I’m not without the quality of mercy,” Karinolov said at her ear, as he pulled a hypodermic needle from inside his jacket pocket. “I’m giving you a little something.”

  She shook her head fiercely. No drugs! She fought against Karinolov’s touch, thinking of her baby, frantic that whatever was in that needle could harm him. But what would it matter now that her death was a certainty?

  A quick jab of a needle in her forearm, a full sensation in her muscles. And then Karinolov’s loathsome kiss on her cheek.

  Tarini struggled against the sudden heaviness of her limbs. She wanted to stay alert. She heard her mother’s protest, cut short by an order barked by Karinolov.

  She heard the bodyguards hammer the last nails of the lid, knew they were affixing the seals of the official diplomatic courier of the Byleukrainian mission. Tarini let her tears come in the darkness of her tiny prison. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of her sobs.

  She thought of Austin, of the brief pleasures she’d shared with him. After all, so many people are given no happiness. At least she’d had happiness in his arms.

  And then the drug Karinolov had given her kicked in. She felt the last of her fight go out of her. She was floating, her muscles limp, her eyes drooping shut.

  A final image: she thought of the guest bedroom in the Smiths’ Connecticut farmhouse. She was lying on the chintz bed, a beautiful baby boy kicking in her arms, Austin at their side, looking on with joy, with pride, with love.

  All gone.

  It could have been that way.

  She knew that fantasy would have to last her forever.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Couldn’t you at least have washed the car before you brought it back?”

  Bob shoved his hand up on the dashboard and reflexively kicked his feet in front of him in a useless attempt to control the speeding vehicle.

  But Austin was in the driver’s seat. That meant two-wheel turns and a decided lack of interest in using the brakes. Down Park Avenue and spinning around the corner of Madison Avenue and East Fifty-third Street as if on a dime.

  “Just be grateful I put a full tank of gas in this thing,” Austin said tightly.

  Austin’s concentration was focused entirely on the traffic, and the odds of reaching the mission in time. It had taken him nearly a half hour to find the keys to the cuffs, and his wrists still hurt.

  Austin decided if he found Tarini in time, he’d use something besides cuffs to hang on to her.

  That woman was trouble!

  Bob checked in on the mike attached to his uniform’s jacket.

  “Uh, Austin, I got some bad news,” he said. “Looks like the mission is surrounded. Maybe we better swing into Paley Park and ditch the car.”

  “Two blocks! It’s just two more blocks!” Austin screamed. “We’re almost there!”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, buddy.”

  “Oh, God.” Austin whistled as he brought the car to a screeching halt.

  The block around the mission was in chaos. The shots fired from inside had injured a young woman on the grounds and had provoked blood rage in the crowd. The ornate iron gates had been toppled and the flag of the military regime burned on the courtyard. Hundreds of protesters screamed, cried, sang the Royalist national anthem until they were hoarse. They pounded on the leaded-glass door of the mission until, with a heaving cry, it gave way.

  Then, with police desperately trying to restore order, the mob stormed the marble-floored foyer and spilled into the ballrooms and studies and offices of the diplomatic mission.

  The angry mob paused only for moment of awe for the meager artifacts that Karinolov had not stripped from the ballroom. One woman ripped apart the poster from the days of Communist rule.

  Police had cordoned off the block with bright yellow sawhorses, but news had leaked of the riot and the people could not be held back.

  Immigrants angered by events in their homeland saw the taking of the mission as an opportunity to assert their love for the Byleukrainia of long ago and they swarmed over the sawhorses and the strategically parked squad cars.

  Local news crews spilled from vans with station affiliates emblazoned on their sides. A matched set of ambulances and fire trucks parked up on the sidewalk of East Fifty-fourth Street.

  A policeman paced with a bullhorn, powerlessly urging the crowd to disperse. But there was no calm.

  In uniform, Bob was given no trouble by the police as he escorted Austin onto the mission grounds. While the police might be gaining tentative control of the perimeter, the mission itself belonged to the people.

  Austin shoved Bob ahead of him through the crowd of protesters and up the back stairs that no one had discovered yet.

  The penthouse-floor personal diplomatic apartment was undisturbed, though the noise from below was deafening. The crowd would soon find the channel of narrow stairs that led to the private chambers.

  Austin had to work fast. He didn’t have a moment to waste. He ripped open the desk drawers and flipped through files and documents.

  “What are you looking for?” Bob asked as Austin rifled through papers on the desk.

  “Anything that tells me where the hell they’ve taken Tarini,” Austin replied. “She’s not here. They’ve gotten ahead of us—otherwise they would have mowed down every man, woman and child that’s downstairs now.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  Austin stared at Bob. “Yes,” he answered carefully.

  Bob looked down at the ground.

  “Where did they take Tarini?” Austin asked.

  The two friends looked at each other.

  “We can’t stop them,” Bob moaned. “That monster is still the ambassador. We can’t do anything.”

  The fax blurted a reply. A couple of high-pitched squawks and then a chattering that went on and on as the men stared. Austin leaned over and smiled as he read the communiqué. “Bob, you might not be able to stop them, but I can.”

  “I don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

  “Would you die for your kids?” he asked his friend.

  “Of course.”

  “Would you die for your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t talk to me about stupi
d.”

  His buddy shook his head despairingly.

  “If you don’t trust my driving your car, get me a squad car,” Austin said. “And an escort while you’re at it.”

  “No, Austin, don’t!”

  Austin was already pushing through the milling crowd on the stairs. “In fact, a squad car is an excellent idea,” he called back to Bob. “We don’t have a second to spare. If Karinolov gets wind of this fax, he’s just crazy enough to shoot her dead on the spot.”

  AT THE BOTTOM of the marble staircase, in the midst of the chaos, stood an older woman. On one arm was crooked an ornate tiger-maple cane. On her other arm, a young woman with coal-black hair and red-rimmed eyes.

  Austin’s eyes met those of the older woman and he realized he was staring into Tarini’s eyes. Like emeralds, but with a weariness that Tarini didn’t possess.

  “Mrs. Schaskylavitch,” he said.

  She grabbed his arm with surprising strength.

  “You must be Austin Smith.” she said, her voice lightly accented. “You are more than a friend to my daughter. A mother knows these things.”

  “I am, and you’re Tarini’s mother?” he said, sparing a glance at the younger woman who must be Tanya.

  “Yes. Find her. Find my daughter and my… grandchild. Tanya has told me everything.”

  “Where did Karinolov take her?”

  “He’s dragging her back to Byleukrainia.”

  “Won’t get much of a reception there,” Austin observed. “Vladimir’s escaped from prison and has led his supporters to the Parliament house,”

  The two women smiled through their tears. Austin remembered that Tarini’s father had died fighting for the Romanovs so many years before. The Schaskylavitch family had been linked with the Romanovs for generations before that. Would Tarini die for the Romanovs, too?

  “Do you love her?” Tarini’s mother asked him.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then Godspeed to you.”

  He felt Bob at his shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” Austin ordered.

  “Take me with you,” the young girl begged, adding, “I can shoot a gun. And I know Karinolov.”

  Austin narrowed his eyes. Was she trustworthy? He didn’t know. But at least she had the decency to blush when she mentioned Karinolov’s name.

  “Go,” Tarini’s mother urged. “I will only slow you down and you don’t have much time.”

  Austin nodded to Bob.

  “We’ll take Tanya,” he said, barely registering the odd look that passed between Bob and Tarini’s sister.

  THERE WASN’T a police officer in all of New York who could drive fast enough for Austin’s tastes, so he took the wheel of squad car 435.

  Bob’s partner threw up his hands in frustration, but relinquished the keys out of loyalty to Austin, who had done the blues at the department so many favors. He opened the rear door for Tanya.

  “This is definitely against department policy,” Bob said as he threw the keys to Austin. “Civilians are never, ever, ever supposed to drive.”

  Austin shrugged, jumping into the driver’s seat. “Make me your deputy,” he said.

  “Fine. You swear to uphold the law?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, you’re a deputy.”

  Austin squealed away from the curb as Bob struggled to slam his passenger-side door shut.

  As they wove through traffic on Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive, Bob clung to his dashboard.

  An escort of four squad cars struggled to keep up as Austin flew across midtown, taking a shortcut east and toward Kennedy Airport. He kept the siren and overhead cherries going, and after a while, didn’t even notice the lights, the ear-splintering sound, the cars and pedestrians diving this way and that to stay out of his way.

  Bob stayed on the radio, tracking down airport security, confirming what they already suspected: the Byleukrainian U.N. Mission was packing up and heading home. A gorgeous brunette wasn’t among the mission personnel gathering to leave.

  She must be in the crate, Austin thought with a tight shudder. That’s if she wasn’t already dead.

  “They’re loading at the international terminal,” Bob said. “And it looks like they’re trying to take the entire mission with them—all the personnel, every stick of furniture, even those beautiful paintings. But they haven’t filed a flight plan.”

  Austin grimaced. “They must have figured on heading for Byleukrainia, but if they find out that events at the capital have turned against them, Karinolov wants his options open.”

  “Argentina?”

  “Someplace similarly receptive to ex-soldiers with money. Someplace he can disappear. If that plane gets off the ground, it doesn’t matter who’s in charge of Byleukrainia, we’ll never see him again. Or Tarini.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Tanya moaned from the back seat.

  “You’re right, it is,” Austin agreed.

  “Buddy, I know you’re worried about Tarini—”

  “And if he’s not going to Byleukrainia,” Austin cut his friend off, “Tarini will just be in the way. Then we know what’ll happen to her.”

  Bob looked at Austin. “You really do love her, don’t you?”

  Austin pretended he hadn’t heard the question. It broke his heart to think of what might have slipped through his fingers. Because of his pride. His damnable male pride.

  He leaned on the horn until a moving van blocking his way was forced off the road.

  They flew up onto the median strip, sideswiping dogwood trees, and then flopping onto the blacktop, hubcap tottering off.

  Austin jerked to a halt in the middle lane of the parking area outside the Central Terminal Building, leaping out of the car and vaulting over awestruck porters, with Bob huffing to keep up.

  He flashed his expired Byleukrainian U.N. Mission security badge at the Marine Air Terminal security gate. A gate attendant waved him through.

  “Sir, sir, you can’t go in there, sir,” a perky ticket attendant called as Austin shoved through a crowd gathered at the counter and threw open the steel doors behind the Byleukrainan Airlines counter.

  Cold, brisk air smacked his face. He was inside an open loading hangar. A 727 with the Byleukrainian Aeroflot logo was refueling with its nose out tight on the yellow painted path to the runway. At its open luggage compartment, a conveyer belt loaded crate after crate emblazoned with colorful diplomatic-courier seals. Workers in neon orange jumpsuits carried suitcases and trunks into the front seating area.

  Austin felt, rather than heard, Bob come up behind him. Tanya slid to his side.

  “Bob, get the other officers in here and round these guys up,” Austin said and strode toward the plane. The workers scattered and he climbed into the plane.

  Outfitted for Karinolov’s needs, the seats had been stripped from the coach compartment. Instead, the tunnel-like section of the plane was filled with boxes, crates, stacks of expensive oil paintings and rolled-up Bukkhara rugs.

  Where was Tarini?

  He tore open one crate and dropped its contents in disgust—priceless china. He yanked the lid off another and, muttering a frustrated oath, threw a sterling-silver epergne to the floor.

  Then he caught sight of it. The box was larger than all the others and carefully concealed behind a stack of rugs. Austin toppled the rugs and scraped open the seal of the diplomatic crate.

  “Tarini!” he shouted, cracking the boards that held the crate together. He opened it and found her, crouched into her restraints, her eyes wide and fearful. “Oh, my darling!”

  He split the leather restraints with his fingers. She looked up at him, glassy-eyed and dazed, but otherwise all right. He marveled at the feel of her in the safety of his arms.

  “I’m never letting go of you,” he whispered in her ear. “I love you so much…”

  She relaxed into his embrace and he kissed her, moaning at the sweetness of her lips. He could never be apart from her again, he knew. But he had a job to do befo
re he could promise her a happy-ever-after. Reluctantly, he pulled away, leaving her mouth half-kissed.

  “Tarini, we’ve got to stop Karinolov.”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes clouded, and Austin guessed she was desperately fighting whatever narcotic Karinolov must have given her. The same thing he had given Austin…?

  He felt a sudden stab of anger—an anger on behalf of his child, who might be harmed by the drug.

  “Austin, I must tell you…”

  And then they heard the click of a gun. Austin felt the barrel against his neck.

  His mind raced ahead and he reluctantly accepted the truth he had not wanted to believe. He thought of the sensor placed on his friend’s car.

  “Hello, Bob,” he said without turning around.

  Chapter Seventeen

  This is going so much better than I planned, Karinolov thought, emerging from the cockpit. He looked at Austin kneeling with Bob’s gun at the back of his neck.

  A perfect end to Austin’s story, he mused, the hotshot hero almost, but not quite, got his woman.

  Even now, Austin held her hand, but he must certainly know he couldn’t protect Tarini, and how that knowledge must pain him!

  “Kill him,” Karinolov said.

  Bob shot him a miserable look. “I can’t murder a friend.”

  “I’m touched by your ethical qualms,” Karinolov replied. “But not enough to rescind my order. Shoot him. Now.”

  “I can’t do it! You never told me it would come to this.”

  “I own you,” Karinolov reminded him. “I purchased every I.O.U. you’ve left at the gambling casinos of the East Coast. You’ll do as I say or it’ll be your daughters who pay the price.”

  With lightning speed, Austin leaped. One long, muscular leg whipped out from under his body, kicking Bob’s gun into the air. Austin followed up with a block-and-punch combination that sent Bob sprawling. Karinolov had forgotten how skilled Austin was at karate.

  Bob sputtered and lunged at Austin. The two men tumbled down the stairs out of the plane.