by Cap Daniels
Anya nodded. “Yes, I was there. My friend, Gwynn—”
“Oh, so now you’re making new friends, huh?”
“Yes, she was not friend at first, but she saved my life on yacht in Miami. She and I put ourselves inside—I cannot remember word for this—Russian mafia in Miami and killed a man named Leo.”
“Infiltrated is the world you’re looking for.”
“Yes, this is word. We infiltrated, killed Leonid Petrovitch, and captured Antonio Alvarez, a man who calls himself new Pablo Escobar.”
Skipper widened her eyes. “That was you?”
Anya slowly nodded. “Yes, me and my friend Special Agent Gwynn Davis.”
A thousand questions churned in Skipper’s mind. “But if you’re working with the DOJ, why are they chasing you?”
Anya put on a mischievous smile. “This is part you will love. Person in charge is Supervisory Special Agent Ray White. He told me to break any law and kill anyone I wanted to get job done.”
Skipper couldn’t contain her laughter. “He had no idea, did he?”
“He did not, but this is why I am here. I stole shotgun from his Suburban, shot out two of his tires, hit driver of car in face with stock of shotgun, and stole car. You now know everything. Oh, except one thing. I have now beautiful dress made by Alexander McQueen.”
Skipper shook off the randomness of the dress comment. “But if you killed Leo and captured Alvarez, why are you still working with the Feds?”
Leo and Alvarez were only one job. There are many more. I am now working in New York City to catch jewelry thief . . . sort of.”
“You’re trying to sort of catch a jewelry thief?”
“No, I said this wrong. I am sorry. There is man named Viktor Volkov. He is not really jewel thief, but he does steal diamonds.”
“That’s pretty much the textbook definition of a jewel thief, isn’t it?”
“It is difficult to explain, but it doesn’t matter now. I am working to catch him, but he has niece with same name as me, and she is dancer in second Bolshoi company in Moscow.”
Skipper held up one finger. “Hang on. It’s starting to come together for me. This Agent White guy. He called me and wanted my help finding Volkov’s brother’s murderer in Russia.”
“Yes, he did this because I told him you were only person who could find missing pieces. And with these pieces, we can bring to America Anya the dancer and her mother.”
“So, you’re saying this Volkov guy in New York is connected, right?”
“Yes, he is Russian mafia, and he has partner named Sascha, but I do not know his last name.”
Skipper silently processed everything Anya had told her before asking, “What do you want from me?”
Anya didn’t hesitate. “I want you to tell Chase—and of course Marvin—I am okay, and I am sorry for making worries for them.”
“They’ll be relieved, but you could’ve done that by telephone. You didn’t have to shoot up a Fed’s SUV, steal a car, and have me perform a tactical exfiltration.”
“Yes, I did have to do all of those things. I have to make Agent White know I am getting job done, just like he ordered. This is only way I will be free to come back and also bring Anya and her mother to America.”
Skipper pressed her eyelids closed several times, trying to ward off the confusion-induced migraine. “That’s not all you want, though, is it?”
Anya offered a genuine smile. “I want also your help to find murderer of Volkov’s brother in Moscow.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Anya scowled. “Yes, you can. You are maybe only person who can.”
Skipper laid her hand on Anya’s. “Let me finish. I was going to say you know I can’t do that without talking with Chase first. He’s the boss . . . or so I sometimes let him believe.”
“Yes, I understand this. So, you will help, yes?”
“I will help if Chase approves it.”
The Russian’s smoky blue eyes lit up, and she leaned across the console to embrace Skipper.
They shared a long hug before Skipper said, “I’m really glad you’re okay. You had all of us worried, and Mongo—I mean, Marvin—is still out looking for you.”
“My heart does not like to hurt him. He is good man.”
“Yes, he is,” Skipper said. “And he misses you more with every breath he takes.”
“I will talk to him,” Anya whispered. “It is only thing that is fair.”
“What else?” Skipper asked.
“There is one more thing I need. I have to be at work tomorrow morning in New York. I have to catch train.”
“Screw the train,” Skipper said. “I’ll take you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the Big Apple, and I could use a beer and a good slice of authentic pizza pie.”
Remembering the southbound train trip, Anya said, “I like this idea. It will be my treat.”
“It’s a deal,” Skipper said. “Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you a gift. It’s in the glove box.”
Anya pressed the button, and the box opened, revealing a pair of Glock pistols, two passports, and a cell phone. She pulled one of the passports from the box and opened the cover. “This is no good for me. It has picture of you.”
Skipper glanced over. “Yeah, that’s not for you. Put that back. The phone is for you since I had you turn yours into a puddle of molten plastic on the engine of a stolen car.”
Anya lifted the phone and programmed two dozen numbers from memory. “Thank you. Is nice working with team who is not government. They will give to me new phone, but it will take five days and will have inside tracking device.”
As they accelerated on Interstate 95 north of Baltimore, Skipper turned to Anya. “It’s really good to have you back.”
Anya couldn’t return the gaze. “I am sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You explained why you couldn’t reach out. It wasn’t your fault. It’s just nice knowing you’re okay.”
“This is not why I am sorry. I am sorry because I am not back. I cannot be back with you and the others. I made promise to Gwynn.”
Skipper frowned. “What kind of promise?”
“I promised to her I would work with government until we are finished fighting Russian mafia.”
The analyst reached for the Russian’s hand. “There’s no reason you can’t do both.”
“There are many reasons I cannot do both. When I am inside . . . what is word again?”
“Infiltrate.”
“Yes, infiltrate. When I infiltrate mafia with Gwynn, we are new people. You would say undercover. This means we must have large space between who we are pretending to be and people we love. It is too dangerous without this space.”
“I understand,” Skipper said, “but during the times you aren’t undercover—you know, like between missions or whatever—we can hang out, right?”
“I do not know, but I want this hanging out with you and others.”
“Speaking of the others, why haven’t you called Mongo yet? I gave you a phone, and you’ve been playing with it for an hour.”
“I do not know what to say to him.”
“Just tell him you’re okay. He’s worried sick.”
She dialed the number and let her finger hover over the key that would connect her with the man who worshipped the ground on which she walked.
Skipper eyed the phone and hovering finger, then quickly reached across the console and pushed the button. Anya watched the symbols on the screen indicating there was a phone ringing somewhere on Earth in the pocket of a gentle giant. She lifted the phone to her ear and heard the deep, kind voice of Marvin “Mongo” Malloy, former Airborne Ranger and current American covert operative.
“Hello.”
She closed her eyes and pictured his enormous hand encircling the phone. “Marvin, it is me, Anya.”
The giant froze in disbelief, too afraid to believe it was really her. “How do I know it’s you?”
Anya swallowed the lump
in her throat. “You once gave to me tiny purple flower for behind my ear on steps of Bonaventure Plantation.”
His relief exploded through the phone. “Anya, where are you? Are you hurt? Are you safe? Where are you?”
“I am safe, Marvin. I am now with Skipper near Baltimore, and I am not hurt. I phoned to say I am sorry for hurting you.”
“With Skipper? Why are you in Baltimore? Are you sure you’re safe?”
“Yes, I am safe, but I cannot tell you why I am near Baltimore just now. I will tell you everything. I promise this to you.”
“I’m coming to get you. I’ll be at Baltimore-Washington International as soon as I can call Disco. It won’t take long in the Citation.”
“Marvin, no,” she whispered. “You cannot do this. I cannot come back with you now. I am sorry. Please know that I am safe, and I will come . . .”
“Home,” Mongo said. “You’ll come home. Say it.”
“I will come when I can, and I will explain everything, but I must now go. Please stop looking for me.”
“Anya, I love you.”
She pulled the phone from her ear and softly pressed the button, ending the call.
The two women rode in silence for another hour.
When Anya lifted her new phone again, Skipper laid her hand on top of the device. “No, Anya, don’t call Chase. I’ll brief him. Nothing good can come of you calling him right now.”
“But there is something he must know. I cannot keep from him this secret any longer.”
Skipper shook her head. “No, not now.”
“But he is . . .”
Skipper turned stern. “Anya, listen to me. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter right now. He’s in the middle of a mission, and he can’t afford to lose his focus. Just don’t.”
Anya stared down at her phone for a long moment and then dialed the ten digits from memory. Skipper groaned in exasperation until Anya’s call was answered.
“White.”
“Agent White, she will do it. Skipper will find for us truth about Viktor Volkov’s brother in Moscow, and I will be at work on time tomorrow morning. Goodbye.”
23
SVYATOY BUBEN
(THE SAINT OF DIAMONDS)
As promised, Anya stepped into the waiting car at precisely eight thirty the following morning. After two hours of sorting and matching diamonds, she looked up to Volkov standing in the doorway to her office.
“Good morning, Viktor. I have for you eight more pairs of matching stones.”
Volkov ignored the progress report and crossed the room to within inches of Anya. “I have read stories of women working completely naked in drug processing operations, as well as counting rooms, where millions of dollars in cash flow through every day. Do you know why they do this?”
Anya spun in her seat and looked up. “Perhaps because boss is pig.”
Volkov gave a half-smile. “Perhaps, but more likely, it is to keep the drugs and money inside the room instead of inside the pockets of the women.”
Anya shrugged. “I believe boss is still pig.”
The man picked at a fingernail as he intentionally avoided eye contact. “Your little sleight-of-hand work yesterday was impressive. There were only forty-nine stones in each of those bags when you arrived yesterday. I personally counted them twice.”
Anya leaned close to inspect the fingernail that seemed to have Volkov’s full attention. “Does this mean you are also pig and I must take off clothes? I am not afraid to show you my body, but I would prefer to do so in your bedroom and not inside office.”
He dropped his hands, apparently no longer interested in the nail. “Show me.”
Anya stood, slid off her shoes, and crossed her arms to pull off her sweatshirt, but Volkov caught her left wrist. The grab wasn’t aggressive, and his grip was little more than light pressure, causing her to freeze in place.
He shook his head. “As much as I would love for you to continue removing your clothes, I meant, show me how you returned the diamonds to the bag.”
She slid her feet back into the shoes she’d kicked off as she tried to decide how long to deny the accusation. “Maybe I let Sascha count forty-nine in first bag, then I moved two stones from first bag to pile from second bag, and I still have two stolen diamonds.”
“That would’ve been a good plan,” Volkov said. “But that would have left only forty-seven stones in the first bag, and we know that isn’t the case. All three of us know one stone from each bag was in your possession for two days and not inside my vault.”
Anya never changed expressions as Volkov continued.
“I’ve decided to believe you borrowed the stones for some reason and then returned them. I do not consider borrowing to be the same as stealing. Do you?”
“I do not.”
He scoffed. “I can see this is going nowhere, but now you know I knew all along, and I let you lie to Sascha.” He moved his finger beneath her chin, repositioning her face. “Look at me, Anya . . . if that is your name. I won’t allow that again. Lying to him is the same as lying to me. He and I are partners . . . albeit not equal partners. I am, of course, the majority shareholder because I am the primary investor. I have many businesses around the world, and sometimes I allow people with a particularly rare skill or collection of skills to earn a small portion of these companies by committing their talents exclusively to my businesses. Do you understand?”
Anya nodded. “I think this is what Americans call sweat equity, yes?”
He took a step back. “So, you do understand. That’s good. Now, on to the real reason I came in to interrupt your work . . .”
“So, accusing me of stealing your diamonds was not real reason?”
“I wasn’t accusing you,” he said. “I was simply making sure you knew that I knew . . . you know?”
She sighed. “English is ridiculous language.”
“Yes, it is. We can speak in the tongue of our fathers, if you prefer.”
“No, I must master the language. I have trouble with articles, but I am getting better. My friend, Gwynn, yells at me when I forget to say the.”
Volkov scanned the worktable. “How many more matches are in those bags?”
Anya turned back to the piles of diamonds worth well into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. “Perhaps one or two more, but I can’t be certain yet.”
He impatiently drummed his fingers on the table. “When you are certain you’ve found them all, come find me. I will be in the vault or in my office, which is directly opposite your office. I have something special for you to work on.”
Without another word, Anya moved her light back into place and returned to her task of matching stones.
Another half hour of peering through her magnifying loupe yielded three more matches. With the unmatched stones back in their velvet bags, she stretched, turned off her light, and rubbed her eyes.
The electric kettle had the distilled water hovering just below two hundred degrees when she spooned in the honey and dipped the teabag. As she turned to go in search of Volkov, she paused, turned back to the kettle, and poured another mug.
Viktor Volkov’s office was exactly where he’d said, but it most certainly was not a mirror image of Anya’s workspace. His desk looked like the deck of an aircraft carrier, and glass cases with some of the world’s rarest stones lined the walls.
He motioned for her to have a seat as he finished a phone call in German, then he laid the handset back into its cradle. “How many more did you find?”
She placed the second mug of tea on his desk. “Three, but there are other near matches that may be close enough for earrings that will never be seen close together.”
Volkov ignored the mug and turned away, apparently studying a Russian religious icon hanging where a window would’ve been if his office were atop one of Manhattan’s ubiquitous skyscrapers instead of nestled in the corner of a vacant warehouse on the Upper East Side. He stood and ran his finger along the edge of the clear glass case hou
sing the metal frame of the icon. “Have you ever heard of Andrei Rublev?”
Anya scoured her memory. “I have not.”
“I’m not surprised. His name is known only to historians of Russian art and the most pious of Russian Orthodox scholars. Rublev was born in thirteen sixty. The exact date of his death is unknown, but most scholars believe he died between fourteen twenty-seven and fourteen thirty. He is the most important painter of Russian icons who ever lived. Every other icon ever painted would be compared to his work, and all would pale in comparison. Do you know why I’m telling you this story?”
She took a drink to hopefully buy enough time to think of a reasonable answer. After a long swallow, she said, “I do not.”
Volkov held the pads of his fingers against his lips, kissed them, and then pressed them to the icon’s airtight enclosure. “Because no matter how many thousands of icon painters came after Rublev, none could match the perfection of his work. He was finally glorified in nineteen eighty-eight. Do you know what this means?”
“No, I am sorry. I do not.”
Volkov spent a long moment of silence staring at the priceless religious artifact. “It means the Moscow Patriarchate officially recognized him as a saint.” He turned from the painting and settled back into his luxurious chair. “Thank you for the tea.” Volkov touched the mug to his lips and let the smell of the aromatic tea fill his nostrils. Without tasting the steaming liquid, he said, “There is no such thing.”
A pained expression overtook Anya’s face. “There is no such thing as what, a saint?”
Finally, he let the warm liquid flow across his tongue and down his throat. “No, my angel, saints are quite real, and anyone who believes otherwise is a fool. What doesn’t exist is the concept of ‘close enough.’ You see, thousands, perhaps even millions, of icons have been painted since the fourteenth century, but none have been close enough to the work of Rublev to gain their creator’s glorification.”
Anya leaned back in her chair, studying Volkov’s cryptic words. “Is the same true of diamonds?”
Volkov raised his mug and smiled broadly. “You were paying attention. Forget about ‘close enough.’ Either stones match, or they do not.”
