“Can you regionalize it?”
“It was more or less flat, but that’s all.”
Into her mind swam a bit of the conversation she’d had with him:
“Who are these people who want me so badly?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. One thing’s for sure though, they’re gonna have you killed in a very unpleasant way. A terribly slow and painful way.”
“What do they know about me?”
“Every-fucking-thing.”
When she repeated this to Ben he stiffened visibly. “If they know everything about you—I mean, we’ve by definition got to take whatever he said with a couple grains of salt. But even so, it’s urgent we find out who this guy was working for.”
“I don’t give a shit who he was, or who he was working for.”
“Well, you’ll have to because that’s our priority now. We’re both in danger. Aristides warned me there are going to be repercussions to our dismantling Nemesis. Looks like the ringleader of the cabal of conservative billionaires who were funding them was Sam Wells. And possibly his third and current wife, Lucinda, is involved.”
This was all it took for her to become well and truly pissed off. Her anger manifested like a demon in the night. “Don’t care. All I’m concerned with is what happened to my niece and nephew.”
“‘They’re gonna have you killed in a very unpleasant way. A terribly slow and painful way.’ Was that or was that not what your assailant told you?”
She glared at him. “What we need to concentrate on is finding Wendy and Michael. Bobbi isn’t here to protect them. Their father is MIA. Their welfare is my responsibility.”
“I understand. We’re on the same page, Evan.”
She nodded, but there was more to tell him. “Listen, my trip to Sumatra wasn’t all fun and games.”
He frowned deeply. “I remember you saying you had news when I cut you off to tell you about the kids.”
She took a deep shuddering breath, then let it out. “Bobbi was a sleeper for the SVR.”
“What?” Only Ben’s eyes moved, widening in stunned reaction, while his body tensed, as if preparing to combat an immediate threat. “No. It can’t be true. Whatever you found must be Russian disinformation.”
“I wish it were, Ben. But it’s the truth.” She sat up, rubbed the heels of her hand into her eye sockets. “I saw the dossier, I know the markings and frankings.” Now she looked him straight in the eye, there was no other way to go on.
He let out a long breath that was almost a whistle. “I’m trying to get my head around this, so I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s like a nettle that’s digging into my insides, something I can’t reach—something I’ll never reach because Bobbi’s dead.”
“It’s a real sucker punch.” Ben leaned in. “My condolences. Again.”
She nodded, not wanting for the moment to meet his eyes. Nevertheless, she was grateful he hadn’t said he was sorry. She didn’t want anyone’s pity, least of all his.
Ben understood this, for he hurried on. “We can speculate that for some reason her new masters found her wanting.”
Evan nodded. “Maybe she realized she’d made a mistake, wanted out.” A tiny hint of longing in her voice.
“Wishful thinking. It’s far more likely she made a beginner spy mistake. Maybe Paul found out.”
“No.” She couldn’t imagine such a thing. “Bobbi was meticulous about everything she did and said.”
“But think about it, Evan, if Bobbi had a change of heart don’t you think she would’ve come to you? You’re the one person who would have given her protection, no questions asked.”
Ben was right. Constant emotional clashing or no, Bobbi was the epitome of practicality. She would have come straight to Evan. But she hadn’t.
Ben’s expression mirrored the bleakness on her face. “And you’re absolutely sure the dossier is genuine.”
“Yes. Plus, it came from an unimpeachable source.”
“And who might that be?”
“Sorry.”
He reared back. “Seriously?”
“Ben, please, trust me.”
The look in her eyes clearly swayed him. Plus, he did trust her. He’d trusted her with his life many times when they were in the field together.
“You know I do.” He sighed. “It’s just not like you to withhold something so vital.”
“It’s personal. Too many people would be put in danger if I said any more.”
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. What else was in this SVR dossier?”
“Here’s the curious part. Bobbi belonged to Directorate 52123.”
“Well, there you go. There’s no such thing as Directorate 52123.”
“That we know of,” Evan said. “But there are so many things we don’t know about the FSB, the SVR, spetsnaz. Or Zaslon. Does it even exist or not? What’s its remit? I could go on, and so could you. Anyway, my contact assures me that this Directorate might not even be SVR, but part of some mysterious entity, perhaps Zaslon, again, if it even exists.”
That’s when the shock wave hit her full force, and she collapsed back onto her pillow, hands over her face. “My own sister. I mean, my God, Ben, we grew up together. I took care of her after Mom and Dad were killed. I was sister and mother to her. How could she … I mean, this duplicity … it’s unspeakable, unfathomable.” She stared at him. “I mean, why in the world would she … What could they have offered her?”
“Evan,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “you know as well as I do there are only three reasons for what Bobbi did: money, sex, or ideology.”
She nodded morosely, winced at the resulting pain. “I still can’t get my head around it.”
“Listen to me, Evan, the reason we’ve got to find out who ordered your death is that if my sneaking suspicion that it was Samuel Wainwright Wells, as retribution, is correct, then we have to consider also that Wells may have had Wendy and Michael abducted.”
“What? Why?”
“To keep me—or me and you if the attempt on your life failed—running around in circles while they get on with whatever they’re planning next without interference.”
Evan made a little sound in the back of her throat. “There’s a hole in your theory big enough to drive a semi through.”
Ben stiffened. “And what would that be?”
“Paul. My brother-in-law. He’s missing, too. Wells’s Super PAC is one of his main clients. Why would he cripple his best lobbyist by taking Paul out of the picture?”
“Who knows, but—” Ben stared at her, because she had thrown off the bedcovers and was swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
“What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”
“What does it look like?”
He reached to stop her as she got unsteadily to her feet, and again she batted his hand away.
“Listen, Evan, Dr. Braun said you need to take it easy. Sleep. Rest.”
“Stop treating me like a child.”
“I’ve not been treating you like a child.” It was an automatic response, a reflex meaning nothing, which he regretted the moment he said it.
She glared at him. “I took care of myself when my Charger was hijacked, I can take care of myself now.”
“Really? You almost got yourself killed.”
“Fuck you. I did what I had to do.”
“Whatever.” His hand cut through the air. “The reality is you’re hurt.”
“I’m just fine.”
“You were shot.”
“A scratch. You said so yourself.” But she swayed a little even as she said this.
“Please just sit down for a minute at least. Give your body and brain time to process and get back in sync.”
Swamped by a wave of vertigo, she knew it was a good idea, but she was goddamned if she’d admit that to him. She took a breath, perched on the edge of the bed as if at any moment she’d
rocket off it.
“I know what you’re feeling.”
Her rage grew white-hot. “You haven’t a clue what I’m feeling.” The terror of being held at gunpoint, of almost dying, had ripped open the psychic wound she had so carefully bandaged when Lyudmila had shown her the SVR dossier on Bobbi. From that moment to this her anger had been festering beneath that bandage. The shocks she had been through had burst the wound open and now all the bile was spilling out.
She leapt off the bed, grabbed Ben by the shoulders, shaking him, “Don’t you understand. Not only is Bobbi dead, but she never existed. She wasn’t Bobbi at all—the girl I took care of, nurtured, tended to, cared for, and loved. She was a sham, a shell, a fucking legend!”
“You can’t know that for certain,” Ben said, his mouth working before his brain could catch up.
Evan struck him across the face. “Idiot! The reason I need to find Wendy and Michael is because they’re the only family I have left, and I will not allow what was done to Bobbi to be done to them. I will not allow them to be turned.”
Ben was so shocked by her behavior he didn’t even think to raise a hand to his reddened cheek. “Turned? What the hell are you talking about?”
“My suspicion, Ben, is that they’ve been taken by the Russians. By the FSB. Which is why I’m not going to rely on the FBI to find them.”
“What?” Ben looked like she’d struck him again. “Where does this theory come from?”
“Bobbi was one of theirs, indoctrinated to Mother Russia. She’s gone now. Why not indoctrinate her children?”
Ben’s eyes opened wide. “My God, Evan, they’re only children!”
She let go of him before she did something she would surely regret. “Better to get them early, Ben. The indoctrination’s all the easier.”
He shook his head. “This is crazy talk. You’re in shock. You’re overwrought.”
“This now?” Her rage had turned from black to red. “From you, of all people?” She wanted to tear someone’s eyes out and he was closest to hand. Her fingers curled into claws.
“Evan,” he said, trying to keep his voice mild and level, “I’m still your boss.” It was a sign of how desperate he’d become with her, how he kept crossing the line Aristides had warned him about. When it came to Evan, he was no longer objective. He was trying to keep order in a situation which the chaos of his own emotions had cracked open.
“Really? Then I quit.”
“Come on. You don’t mean that.” He recognized a losing battle.
She took a step closer to him, and he backed away. His instincts warned him that he was facing an enraged tiger. “Don’t you ever tell me what I mean and what I don’t mean.”
To his dismay, he realized in trying to maintain order he was saying all the wrong things. “You know I didn’t—”
Her eyes flashed more warning signals. “I don’t want you to help me find Wendy and Michael. I work alone, you know that well enough.”
Ben looked lost at sea, an orphan clinging to a spar amid a storm he hadn’t seen coming. “We worked together in the field.”
“That was forever ago. I’m quits with rules and regs, anyway.”
“That’s a dangerous path to go down.”
“So what else is new.” She turned away. “I’m going to do what I’m going to do. Period.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Evan.” His eyes were pleading even as his voice remained calm. “I know you can do this by yourself. You’re the most resourceful agent I’ve ever known. But I’m the only one you can count on now.”
“Really.”
He nodded. “I’ve always had your back, Evan. That’s never going to change.”
Her lips pursed. “Prove it. In or out, Ben? Which is it?”
Ben took a breath, let it out. “Well, I mean, what about Paul? How does he fit into your theory?”
“He doesn’t.” She was moving away toward the chair where, by some miracle a new outfit was folded and waiting for her. “Whose house is this, anyway?” She looked around. “Something familiar about it.”
He needed to get her back on track. “So Paul doesn’t fit into your SVR theory?”
She gave him a brief querying look. “Whoever it is I owe them a huge thank-you.”
“I’ve already passed that on.” He gestured. “What about Paul?”
“If I’m right,” she told him, “Paul is dead.”
“That’s one theory.”
“So.” She was still breathing hard, still running with excess adrenaline as she picked up and inspected each item of clothing. “Okay, Boy Blunder, let’s find out.”
7
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Gauzy sunlight spread itself over the cobalt-and-umber Bosphorus, sending up dazzling scimitars in its wake. Heavily laden boats, wallowing ferries, and Bodrum-built gulets, their wooden hulls gleaming, passed back and forth from Asia to Europe and back again. In the distance vendors’ cries rose like mist from a morning field.
All this and more came to Anton Zherov and Karin Wagner as they sat beneath a gaily striped awning on a wide, sun-splashed terrace on a promontory overlooking the water. Behind them, the restaurant was bustling with the morning breakfast hustle. Waiters, trays held high over their heads, were busy picking their way to and from tables. The soft clink of glassware and cutlery combined with the drone of conversations to create a calming lullaby.
Zherov shifted in his seat. “For the hundredth time, what are we doing here?”
Kobalt, deep into her new legend. “We’re importing something or other and exporting something or other.”
He glared at her with one eyebrow raised. “Really, Karin!”
“Patience, my pet.”
“I’m not your pet!” A flush had bloomed on his cheeks, which he worked furiously to dissipate.
She was laughing silently. She wore black jeans, a white T-shirt over which she had donned a lightweight jacket of her own design that had more interior pockets than Batman’s utility belt. For his part, Zherov was overdressed in a gunmetal sports jacket and a striped tie in two shades of gray. The waiter set down before her a large bowl of yellow yogurt and fresh yellow figs, neatly quartered. She picked up a spoon and took a bite. “Mm,” she said, swallowing. “This is delicious. You really must try it.” She raised a hand to summon the waiter back, and when he reappeared at their table, she continued. “There is nothing like fresh Turkish yogurt and ripe figs.” She seemed to say this to no one in particular. Then she shifted her gaze to the waiter. “My partner will have the same.”
“Right away, madam.” The waiter gave a slight deferential nod before whisking himself away to the kitchen.
Zherov made a sound deep in his throat. “Cut the crap, will you.”
She took another spoonful of her breakfast, chewed thoughtfully, head cocked as though toward the mournful hoot of a tanker as it passaged the Golden Horn. Setting her spoon down, she looked at Zherov across the table. “Listen closely because I’m only going to say this once. I didn’t ask for you. I don’t need you. You don’t like my attitude, take a fucking hike; nothing would make me happier. Either stay and take whatever I dish out or be gone.” Her eyes held his for an electric moment. “Are we clear?”
His jaw clenched so tightly his mandibular muscles bulged. He turned his gaze away.
“Are. We. Clear. Zherov.”
His eyes swung back, smoldering with disgust and hate. “Clear.”
Seemingly satisfied, she once more dipped her spoon into her breakfast and resumed eating as if nothing untoward had occurred. Zherov’s breakfast came, along with a refill of her strong Turkish coffee. She pushed her cup over to him. “Drink up, Anton.”
“I won’t touch that muddy swill.”
“Not a real man, huh?” She was about to take the cup back, when he snatched it away, downed the coffee in one. He swallowed and grimaced terribly.
She laughed. H
er hand swept out to encompass their view. “Nearly four years ago, Istanbul was my first stop after I was exfiltrated from America. That’s when I had my first cup of real Turkish coffee, right here in this restaurant. It’s why I chose it now.” She bared her teeth and called for another coffee. “I fell in love with it from the get-go.” The problem with Zherov, she reflected, was that he was too clever for his own good. His successes in the field caused him to feel entitled. When he was home in Moscow he liked to be hailed as the conquering hero.
She looked him straight in the eye. “You resent strong women, don’t you, Anton?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I resent you.”
Another silence, taut as a drawn bow, the arrow aimed—but at whom?
“Because I was born and raised in America.”
“You’ve got America in your veins,” he said with a note of disgust. “You’re polluted, damaged beyond repair.”
She snorted. “Anton Antonovich, I am entirely uninterested in your personal animus toward me. Remain professional—this is all that’s required of you.”
Zherov stiffened. She’d hit a nerve. “I am nothing if not professional.” He snapped this off like a Red Army officer.
Her coffee came and she spooned in four cubes of sugar, stirred slowly and with precision, the spoon never scraping against the inside of the cup. She took a leisurely sip, then set the cup down, looked up at Zherov.
“I have your word?”
“I already gave it.”
“Say it,” she insisted, and he did, grudgingly, between gritted teeth.
At that moment, they both became aware of a portly individual wending his way toward them. He had a moon face, small, simian ears, and suspicious eyes the color of Kobalt’s coffee. He was nattily dressed in a cream suit with very wide lapels and legs, as if he had appeared from an earlier age. He wore a sand silk shirt and a dove-gray knitted silk tie with an enormous knot that helped cover his double chin.
He came up to the table, looked at Kobalt, and gave the slightest bow. “Dearest lady, good morning to you.” He had a deep foghorn sort of voice. He then turned his attention to Zherov. “You I don’t know. But whatever I see I don’t like.”
The Kobalt Dossier Page 6
