Limbo Man

by Blair Bancroft

  Surreptitiously, Vee studied the room. She’d been so busy trying to stay in character as Sergei Tokarev’s bride and business associate that she’d caught only a flicker of a red flag before she’d been forced back to juggling cultures and exchanging cautious smiles. How did she sneak another look at the little boys playing in the corner without anyone noticing? Nodding and smiling to show her appreciation of the women’s hospitality, Vee reached for a pastry rather larger than others. With her mouth full, no one would expect her to talk for a moment or two.

  Very carefully, she raised her eyes just high enough to peer at the floor where the boys were playing. Their toys appeared to be hand-carved. Three airplanes and two separate groups of small wooden buildings. The boys were happily dive-bombing the buildings with their miniature air force. Occasionally, Vee could catch typical boy noises as they blew up the miniature wooden cities, scattering the finely detailed pieces.

  Typical kids. The red flag, Vee realized, was the cities themselves. Even from across the room she could recognize the shape of the Pentagon, the dome of the capital building, the exquisitely rendered rectangle of the White House. And—dear God!—the other city, the one that had first caught her attention, featured a castle surrounded by tiny figures.

  Vee blinked, straining to clear her eyes. Were those mouse ears? The flowing gowns of Disney princesses? Swiftly, she brought the now cooling tea bowl to her lips, hoping to cover her expression. She was leaping to conclusions. What she was seeing was merely some adult’s version of famous American symbols—government and indulgence. Nonsense to read significance into it.

  The door swung open. The women’s chatter abruptly ceased. Sergei, from his position behind the stalwart Heydar, barked to Vee, “Get dressed. We go now.”

  In thirty seconds Vee’s burqa and veil, reappearing as mysteriously as they had vanished, were back in place. Taking care not to look toward the boys’ play area, she made her farewells. And then they were in the corridor, descending the stairs, feeling the target on their backs every step of the way.

  They needed to talk, and their hotel room wouldn’t do. Stopping only long enough to pick up their suitcases and pack away their guns, they headed for Iman Khomeini International Airport. A very long twenty miles. Vee could only hope the taxi driver didn’t notice how many times Sergei peered out the rear window. She still had no idea what happened at the meeting, but Sergei was too grim for it to be anything good. Yet they were still alive, definitely a major accomplishment.

  Staying in character, Sergei booked an early morning flight to Moscow. Then, attempting to look as inconspicuous as a Russian businessman and a burqa-clad female could, they found an out-of-the-way corner in the sparkling new terminal and sat down to wait out the night.

  “Well?” Vee hissed the moment they were settled. “What happened?”

  “I am live.”

  “I can see that!” she hissed from beneath her veil. “And, believe me, I am glad. Infinitely so. But this is not the time for stoic calm. Tell me!”

  Sergei stared past the seats in the waiting area, past the airplanes parked on the other side of the plate glass windows, their loading corridors attached like giant umbilical cords. Slowly, he shook his head, making no effort to suppress the anguish he’d hidden for the last two hours. “They played games with me. Cat and mouse. Only when I thought I had won did they admit I had come too late. The bombs have been shipped.”

  Vee’s fingers closed around his arm. She didn’t care who was looking. Seryozha needed comfort. “Did they say where?”

  He snorted in derision. His voice, usually so confident and alive, had taken on a bitterness Vee had never heard before. “I was informed I am still alive only because, in the end, they believed me. But since the bombs are in play, I must settle my differences with Leonov so the attacks may go ahead as planned. In short, I must cooperate with Leonov or eliminate him. Then, and only then, will I receive instructions about where to arm the bombs.”

  It was Vee’s turn to use Sergei’s favorite expletive, which she did with a heartfelt, “Govnó!” They still didn’t know the target cities, and Sergei was being forced to go head to head with the man who had nearly killed him. “Time to call home?” she breathed just loud enough to pass through the veil of black cotton.

  “In Moscow. Not from here.”

  “Did they indicate when the bombs were shipped?”

  “No. But it can’t be long.”

  “It’s a little over three weeks since you were found in the East River.”

  “Time enough for Leonov to consolidate his power, but not enough to find replacement U-236 or a tech expert. At least it took me a lot longer, and I’m a damn sight better than Leonov.”

  Vee couldn’t help but smile. Sergei Zhukov was coming back, with a strong dash of Sergei Tokarev for spice. “So we’re headed back to New York?”

  “Brighton Beach. And, yes, I remember how I felt that night in the subway when you wanted to head for Coney Island, right next door.”

  Vee shut her eyes, willing away the image of the man called Nick, his face distorted with horror, though he had no idea why. “Will Uncle Arkadi have your back?”

  Sergei took his time, obviously considering his reply with care. “Probably. If nothing else, Arkadi will know that my mother will kill him if he fails to help. And I mean that literally. My mother was a highly successful field operative for the KGB for many years before she ‘retired’ to management in the GRU.”

  Diverted, Vee had to ask. “Your mother works for the government, yet her brother is a mobster. How is that possible?”

  Sergei shrugged. “In Russia, we are flexible. Is the only way we survive. Uncle Arkadi moved to America. You could say he, too, was a government operative. Undermining American high principles, creating havoc, spreading wealth among the criminal classes—”

  “Enough! I get the point.”

  Sergei retreated behind the glum mask he’d worn since his meeting with Heydar the Lion. Vee clutched the enveloping folds of her burqa and wondered if she should confide what had been nagging at her for the last few hours. Would he laugh at her? Dismiss her suggestion as the maunderings of overactive female imagination? He was the big-time arms merchant, after all, she nothing more than his lowly burqa-clad shadow.

  He was going to think she was nuts.

  “Seryozha?” No answer. “Seryozha . . . I saw something odd tonight. When I was with the women and children.”

  “Shto?” He sounded about as interested as he was in the view outside the broad windows.

  “There were three little boys playing war in the corner of the room. Their toys were hand-carved, with fine detail. The work of a skilled carver. They were dive-bombing two cities. One had a pentagon-shaped building and a domed building that could have been the Capitol. The other had small figures centered around a castle. Two of the figures had mouse ears. The others looked like Disney princesses. I know it’s a stretch, but . . .” Vee’s voice trailed away as she felt Sergei go on alert, like a hunting dog on point.

  “Valentina, my love, if we were not sitting in the midst of Khomeini International Airport, I would kiss you!”

  “The Embassy.” Vee firmed her chin, crossed her arms over her chest.

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “The flight to New York leaves in one hour.”

  “Embassy. Now.”

  Sergei waved his satellite phone under Vee’s nose. “If you do not like my phone, use yours, but we cannot waste time on a detour to your embassy.”

  Vee glared. “You know perfectly well my cell doesn’t have global access, and if you think I’m going to call Homeland Security on a phone provided by the GRU, you really are crazy.”

  Sergei straightened, looking scornfully down past his now only slightly crooked nose. “Fine. You go to Embassy. I go to New York.”

  Damn! He had her. Same old, same old. Bodyguards couldn’t let their clients out of their sight. And in Sergei Zhukov’s case the matte
r was a lot more personal than that. Vee held her hand out for the supposedly secure Russian satellite phone, which undoubtedly had a direct connection back to Misha. No need to make a separate call to let him know what was going on. He was about to find out. Vee longed to swat the flickers of humor that flitted across Seryozha’s rugged features. Miserable man. His way or the highway.

  An hour later, Mr. and Mrs. Mark Wilson were airborne—again—the hours to JFK stretching endlessly before them. Sergei told the flight attendant to wake them only if their plane was in imminent danger of crashing. They slept away the long flight to the Golden Apple.

  Chapter 22

  Vee did her best to ignore the enhanced security as they exited the Aeroflot jet at JFK. She had made it clear that Mr. and Mrs. Wilson wanted to keep a low profile, no muss, no fuss, but traveling off the radar with the man who held the key to several hundred thousand lives and billions of dollars of American real estate in his hands was no longer possible. They were surrounded, if unobtrusively, from the moment they exited the gate and began their walk toward Customs.

  As they finally rolled their minimal luggage toward the rank of waiting taxis, Sergei hissed, “To your right.”

  Vee’s eyes moistened as she caught sight of Cade Doucette, wearing a chauffeur’s uniform and standing ramrod stiff beside a sleek, black limo. Score one for Daddy. He’d solved the problem of who-do-you-trust quite neatly.

  He would be their liaison with Homeland Security, Cade told them. Chauffeur, extra bodyguard, emergency lifeline. “So what’s first on your agenda?” he tossed at Sergei as soon as they eased out of JFK’s congestion.

  “Arkadi Petrovski. My sources tell me Boris Leonov went to ground after the meeting in New York. I need Petrovski’s help to locate him.”

  “Bye-bye, Boris,” Cade tossed over his shoulder.

  “If necessary.” Sergei paused. “Unfortunately, he did a good job of convincing Massoud and Navid, Heydar’s prime operatives on this end, that he’s Allah’s number one gift to terrorism. Boris Leonov, facilitator extraordinaire. Even though he doesn’t know jackshit about the details,” Sergei added bitterly.

  “Sounds like you should have gotten rid of him a lot sooner,” Cade drawled.

  “Behave yourself!” Vee hissed.

  “Sorry.” Cade whipped a smart, two-finger salute to the brim of his chauffeur’s cap.

  “Some lifeline you are,” Vee grumbled.

  “Hey, if lover boy thinks he needs to use an aging mob boss to help him do what he should have done months ago, who am I to quibble?”

  “Fine.” Vee moved her head so she could glower into Cade’s rearview mirror. “Remember that remark.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Mark Wilson had come up in the world. A uniformed doorman let them into the spacious locked foyer of a condominium, where an armed guard, who looked about twenty steps up the ladder from the usual rent-a-cop, stood with his back to the wall in a position where he could survey front door, elevator, and corridor that led to the rear of the building.

  “Oh, my,” Vee breathed as they entered their new home on the twenty-third floor. “I wonder what favor Daddy called in for all this?”

  “Is not bad,” Sergei Tokarev agreed loftily, scanning the spectacular view out over Central Park. “But mine is better.”

  “Your apartment? Better than this?”

  “Da. I am very rich man.”

  Hands on her hips, Vee scowled at him. “Just because you’re back in New York doesn’t mean you revert to Tokarev.”

  “But of course I am Tokarev. Who else? It is Tokarev who holds the reins, no? Tokarev who is important. Sergei Zhukov is nothing. A chimera who lingers in the shadows, waiting to pounce on phantoms.” His voice lowered to a sepulcher whisper. “A shadow no one can see but Valentina Frost, who has the Sight.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Vee groaned. “You’re impossible. How can you win this war if you don’t take it seriously?”

  “You think I do not take Leonov seriously? The man who nearly killed me? And, yes, I know it was he who gave the orders. No one else would dare.”

  “So why must you make jokes?”

  Sergei shrugged. “How else can I survive? Without humor I would go mad.” He held out his hand. “A kiss for good luck, dushenka, then if you would be so good as to park our luggage in the bedroom while I call Uncle Arkadi . . .”

  Not exactly a tough command to follow. Meekly, Vee did as she was told. The sudden flare of heat was enough to curl her toes. Hopefully, they would be able to finish the promise in that kiss in the not-too-distant future. If they could eliminate the threat from Leonov and get on with the business of finding the bombs. With a sigh, Vee grabbed the handles of both suitcases and went in search of a bedroom.

  Seryozha arranged a meeting with his uncle at a restaurant only half a mile away, one with a private room on the second floor. It was too soon for Leonov to learn that his Nemesis was back in town, so it should be safe enough, even if Tokarev had used the room as a meeting place before.

  He looked up to find Vee watching him, chin firmed to its most stubborn tilt. “No,” he told her, “I go alone. Your people will want to debrief you. Now is a good time. Call them.”

  “Busy work?” Vee mocked. “While men decide the fate of the world.”

  “I cannot take you. I am sorry—”

  “You’re my job! Your uncle will have bodyguards, we know that, so why not you too?”

  Why indeed? How to explain the inner structure of the Brotherhood to a female raised on U. S. law enforcement, heavily overlaid with political correctness. Vee was just going to have to lump it—an American idiom Sergei found particularly amusing. “Fine,” he agreed. “Call Doucette back, he can drive me.”

  Fists clenched, Vee glared.

  “You would shame me before my uncle? Jeopardize our mission? I need his help to find Leonov, to have my back when we settle this thing. Accept the things you cannot change, Valentina. The world does not always dance to the American tune. I go. You stay.” Sergei folded his arms across his chest. “Call Doucette.”

  Her whole body quivered, but she did as she was told. Poor Valentina. She was about as good at taking orders as he was.

  While they waited for Doucette’s return, Vee sat stiffly on the couch, doing a good imitation of a seething volcano, while Sergei stared out the window at the panoramic view of Central Park. He should go to her, admit she had breached his defenses., but laying bare his emotions was against every tenet of his personal code of conduct. And, besides, this was no time for sentiment. It was a miracle they’d managed any personal time at all in the maelstrom that had them in its grip.

  Miracle? He was the guy who didn’t believe in them. Had never believed . . .

  No one who didn’t believe in miracles ever set out to find ten missing nukes.

  Well, hell. What a strange time to discover the ultimate pragmatist was actually a man of faith.

  Sergei’s phone rang. Doucette was pulling up to the building.

  He should at least kiss Vee goodbye, make an effort to erase the anger still blazing from those beautiful blue eyes. Instead, without a word, Sergei walked out the door, gently closing it behind him, so caught up in the protocols of the Organizatsiya and the complexities of the bomb hunt that he was totally oblivious to making one of the more serious mistakes of his life.

  She was never going to see him again. Sergei would be swallowed by the Brotherhood, tucked away in some hidden location until the terror was past. Or until it escalated into World War III, and personal relationships had ceased to matter. Or . . . if Petrovski had gone over to Leonov, Sergei would simply be dead, a casualty of Brotherhood politics, just another mob capo gone to the fishes. The Organizatsiya would go on, business as usual.

  At least until mushroom clouds rose above American soil.

  The condo’s landline rang. Two Homeland Security agents were on their way up. Daddy? Doubtful. Jack Frost had his hands full at the moment, overseeing a check of every cont
ainer shipment into the country, as well as any other viable means of transport for a very heavy, but not super big bomb. Who would he trust with knowledge of this safe house? Vee wondered. Not Wade Tingley. Not some local office types who had no idea what was going on. Bill Grimes and Stan Kessel maybe. Rick, Steve . . . someone from the resort in Wyoming.

  If any of them had lived through the firefight and the raging blaze that followed.

  When the doorbell rang, Vee peered out the peephole, hoping to find familiar faces. Disappointment. She had never seen either one of the men before. Each was holding up a badge where she could see it. Stifling a sigh, she opened the door.

  Sergei allowed himself a moment of optimism. His meeting with Uncle Arkadi and his perpetual shadows, Vanya, Ilya, and Oleg, was going well. Yes, his uncle could locate Boris Leonov, arrange a meet. Would it come to a hit? Very likely. And Petrovski’s men would back him up with all the firepower that might be needed. Uncle Arkadi, who had walked a fine line between exercising his power as mob boss and stringing Leonov and his terrorist buddies along for the sake of his nephew’s pet obsession, was only too eager to rid himself of his rival.

  And Doucette wasn’t doing too badly, his bland poker face concealing the fact that he hadn’t understood a word since Sergei’s meeting with his uncle began. As much as he hated to admit it, Doucette’s stoic calm was almost worthy of a Russian.

  The Cajun’s impenetrable features slipped a bit as his cell phone rang. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting any contact during the meeting. As he listened, he closed his eyes, as if trying to shut out what he was hearing. “Vee’s gone,” he relayed. “When Homeland Security came to debrief her, she was gone. Building security admits they allowed two men with what looked like authentic badges through twenty minutes earlier.”

  “Impossible!” Sergei breathed. “There’s no way Leonov could know where she was.”