“There is another party tomorrow night.” Adriana rolled over on her stomach and undid her top so her bare back would tan evenly. Her breasts pressed into the sand and proved distracting to Joachim.
“Who is having this one?”
“Sapphira Quinn.”
“Who’s she?”
Adriana folded her arms under her chin, deliberately flashing the side of her breast at him, and smiled. “Sapphira Quinn is the only daughter of Vasilios Quinn.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Vasilios Quinn,” Adriana said, “is a very rich man. He lives on his own private island.”
“How do you know Sapphira Quinn?”
“I don’t.” Adriana pouted. “But I have a friend who does.”
“Will it be a big party?”
“One of the biggest.” Adriana paused. “Of course, if you’re busy—”
“Never too busy for a party.” Joachim smiled.
An elegant yacht sailed into view, coming into the harbor. It was a trim motor sailer, capable of navigating the sea by sail or by diesel engines.
Joachim’s attention riveted onto the man piloting the big craft. Though Arnaud Beck hadn’t been in sight during the attack in Amsterdam, Joachim had gotten familiar with the man’s features from the files Günter had provided.
Beck was a tall man, six feet three inches, only an inch shorter than Joachim. But the man outweighed him by at least forty pounds, all of it dense, hard muscle from bodybuilding. He wore his dark brown hair long, hanging in a ponytail just past his shoulders. Mirrored sunglasses masked his eyes. Dressed only in swim trunks, his deep tan shone in the sun. His head swiveled as he called out orders to his crew.
The boat, Dionysius, came to sharply. The crew furled the sails as Beck effortlessly changed to diesel engines. Several of the crew were young women dressed in bikinis, all of them hard bodies.
“Do you know him?” Adriana asked.
“He looks like someone I should recognize,” Joachim replied cautiously. “A rock star, perhaps. Or an actor. Some kind of celebrity.”
“He’s neither.” Adriana’s tone was heavy with disapproval. “He’s just rich.”
A couple men dressed in swimwear jumped to the dock. The bikini-clad women threw mooring ropes that were quickly tied to the cleats. Dionysius came to a gentle stop. Beck kissed the women, stepped into a white windsuit and Top-Siders, then stepped onto the dock. Three men wearing fanny packs and hard ways about them followed Beck.
Joachim knew the fanny packs carried weapons from the way the men moved.
“His name is Ross Andros,” Adriana said. “He’s a party animal here in Mykonos Town. And the emphasis is on animal. He likes picking fights, and he likes hitting on women in the company of their husbands.”
“Which leads to hitting the men,” Joachim said.
“You see how it works, then.”
Joachim knew how it worked. While Beck had been with the East German Stasi, he’d had a reputation as a womanizer. Several rape charges had been brought against him as well. In no few instances, the women who had brought those charges mysteriously disappeared.
Beck walked across the sand talking on a cell phone. As Joachim watched, the man started hitting the tavernas, calling out to people he knew. For a mercenary with an international reputation, Beck didn’t keep a low profile. Of course, no one had ever before found his base of operations.
Joachim stood.
“Where are you going?” Adriana reached up hurriedly and fastened her bikini top.
“For a walk.”
“Want company?”
“Not at the moment.” Joachim felt guilty about the hurt look in her face. “Adriana—” Words failed him. This was truly one of the times he could have used his sister’s advice. Usually the women he knew wanted something from him. Walking away from them was no problem.
Adriana held up a hand. “It’s all right. I promise. You’re a nice guy. You never once led me on.” She smiled, but it took effort. “Catch up with me later. I still enjoy the company.”
“I will.” Joachim turned, feeling like a heel, and tried to catch up with Beck without being obvious.
Novokuznetskaya Metro Station
Moscow, Russia
All Elle knew about the man she was to meet was one name: Ashimov. She didn’t believe it was his real name.
Ashimov was thin and nervous, in his late forties or early fifties. Gray streaked his black hair. His beard was neatly trimmed. He wore a business suit and coat that allowed him to blend into Novokuznetskaya Metro Station’s bustling evening crowd, but she had seen him in jeans and an American conceit T-shirt on occasion. Today he wore wire-rimmed glasses.
He smiled a little when he saw her, but his eyes darted to the left and right, checking for anyone who might be lurking in the shadows.
The metro station’s green interior and baroque style, with its many edges and hallways, left plenty of lurking room. The place was one of Elle’s favorites.
When she’d been a little girl, she’d accompanied her father here several times. She’d always believed it was for the nearby ice-cream vendor. It hadn’t been until years later when her father was training her that she’d realized Fyodor Petrenko went there to meet associates.
“Ah, Miss Petrenko,” he greeted.
“Mr. Ashimov,” Elle responded.
“I do not see your illustrious father.” Ashimov stopped in front of her. A small notebook computer case dangled at the end of his right arm. A fiber-optic cord ran from a box on his belt to the computer.
Over the years, people had tried to take Ashimov’s computers. No one ever had successfully captured one. All of them were booby-trapped to self-destruct once out of his possession. Later, Elle had learned that Ashimov kept nothing on the computers he carried with him once wireless Internet had become available.
“My father isn’t here,” Elle said. “This is my contract.”
“I see. Do you have the money?”
“Of course.” Shifting carefully, with the skill of a street pickpocket, Elle slipped him the envelope containing the agreed-upon amount
“Walk with me.” Ashimov started forward.
Elle fell into step beside him, but not too close.
Ashimov removed the envelope from his coat pocket and ran an experienced thumb along the edges of the bills. “American dollars.” He smiled at her as he put the envelope away. “I love American dollars. They spend so easily.”
“I know.”
“You said you wanted to know about an account at a Swiss bank.”
“Yes.” Elle knew they both deliberately did not use the bank’s name.
“As it happens, I do have a few back doors into some of those banks. The bank you’re interested in is just such a bank.”
“I want to see where the money went on an account twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years?” Ashimov shrugged. “It’s not impossible. The Swiss keep very good records, you know. They just try to keep them so…secret.“He grinned and his eyes flashed behind his lenses. “Of course, they can’t keep them secret from me. You have the account number?”
Elle handed him the slip of paper containing the number.
Ashimov walked forward again, coming to a stop in one of the hallways that led to Pyatnitskaya Ulitsa outside. Cars and buses passed in the street. He popped the computer open on one of the window ledges. Quickly, he opened an Internet connection through a wireless source.
The notebook computer was partnered to a satellite dish on a nearby vehicle. A couple of times, the Moscow police had caught Ashimov’s accomplice, but there was no crime against having a satellite dish on a vehicle.
Once he started, Ashimov concentrated solely on his efforts at the computer. Minutes ticked by as he tapped keys in rapid syncopation.
“Twenty years is a long time,” he said. “And the Swiss are very good.”
“If you can’t do it—” Elle suggested, knowing her mention of the possibility would
prick his pride.
“Nonsense.” Triumphantly, Ashimov turned and showed her the computer screen. “I only had to go a few layers deeper to get into the bank’s archived files. I should have charged you more, but—” He shrugged. “Having the account number instead of searching for a name was immensely helpful.” Pausing, he studied the information on the screen. “Twenty years ago, the money was transferred from this account to another.”
“At the same bank?”
“Yes. That fact makes it easier, but I still could have done it.”
Elle peered at the screen.
The documentation was in German.
“The other account was held in the name of Klaus Stryker.”
“So the money is still there?”
“No. That money was transferred within a few days to still another account. Again at the same bank.”
“Someone else was listed on Stryker’s account?”
Ashimov stared at the screen. “No. Stryker is the only depositor of record. He requested the transfer.”
“Over the phone?”
After a moment, the computer expert shook his head. “In person.”
“That’s impossible.”
Ashimov gestured to the screen. “There it is. Just as plain as the nose on your pretty little face.”
“Klaus Stryker was killed in East Germany by a man named Beck.”
Smiling, Ashimov said, “They also say that security at a Swiss bank in impenetrable. Getting information is difficult, true, but possible. Stealing funds? More difficult still. And in many cases impossible without being on-site. Twenty years ago, such a thing would have been even harder.” He tapped the screen. “I suggest to you that the reports of Klaus Stryker’s death are greatly exaggerated.”
Elle thought about that. If what Ashimov was suggesting were true—and now that made sense and would explain what had happened to Lenin’s Lullaby—then Stryker had double-crossed everyone.
The possibility that Beck had been in Amsterdam not to ferret out Marion Gracelyn’s blackmailer but to protect one of his own made more sense to Elle. What good would it have been to blackmail a dead woman? But to blackmail a living one? Or to protect one that he was in a partnership with? That definitely made more sense.
“Can you follow that money?” Elle asked.
“Not,” Ashimov said, “if the depositor employed someone more skilled than me to hide it.” Arrogantly, he chuckled at the suggestion of the possibility. “I’ve never found anyone that good.”
“Follow the money,” Elle said. “Let me know who ended up with it and where that person is now.”
Ashimov sighed. “Regrettably, such action was not covered by your initial payment.”
“Do you trust me for more?”
The computer expert closed his weapon of choice and spread his hands. “But of course. I love doing business with you and your father.”
“Get it done. Then get back in touch with me.” Elle thanked Ashimov, then strode off, thinking that her parents’ murderer might still be out there somewhere running free. The possibility made her queasy—and hopeful for vengeance.
Chapter 18
The Petrenko home
Moscow, Russia
“Elle.”
She woke instantly at her father’s quiet voice. Only after she had her eyes open did she realize her hand had snaked under her pillow where she kept her pistol. Feeling a little ashamed, she released the weapon.
Her father stood in the doorway of the bedroom where she’d slept as a little girl with her sisters. Only a few years ago, when her youngest sister had left, had the room been made over into guest quarters.
The room was dark. The sound of the radio, tuned to a station that played American jazz, sounded in the distance.
“How long have I been asleep?”
Her father shrugged. “Nine, ten hours.”
Elle got out of bed. She still wore the clothes she’d laid down in, when she was only going to rest her eyes. “I never sleep that long.”
“You do,” her father said, “when you are very tired.” He waved to her. “When you are ready, we can talk in the kitchen.”
“Did Ashimov find Klaus Stryker?”
“He did. It is an interesting story. And one with certain…liabilities that were not foreseen.”
“Give me five minutes,” Elle said.
Nine minutes later, dressed in American jeans and a pullover she’d bought from a black market dealer, her hair damp from the shower and pulled back in a ponytail, Elle joined her father at the small kitchen table the Petrenko family had crowded around for meals for so many years.
“Sit,” he said, waving to a chair. “I have made toast. I have a few oranges. If you want something more substantial, there is a little cafe I frequent not far from here. The price is reasonable and the food is good.”
“But it isn’t Mother’s.” Elle sat.
“No.” Pain showed in her father’s eyes for just a moment.
“I’ve been so busy these past few years.” Elle glanced around the kitchen. “I didn’t think about how you have to get up every morning and face this.”
“What? Your mother’s absence?” Fyodor shook his head. “When I am here by myself, looking at this kitchen where she spent so much of her time, she is with me. Conversations we had while you children were still abed or after you had gone to bed, they are here with me.”
“But don’t you get—” Elle stopped, unable to go on.
“Lonely?” Her father smiled. “Of course. Some days I am even angry with her for leaving me. I know it wasn’t her choosing, but the anger is still there. But I truly loved your mother. A love like that—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t end.”
Reaching across the table, Elle took her father’s hand. “I want you to be happy.”
“I know. I am. Love always brings a quiet sadness with it. At least, that’s the way it is here in Russia.” He tapped the notebook computer in the center of the table. “Ashimov sent this for you.”
Elle opened the computer.
An icon blinked at her, demanding a password.
“You’ve seen the file?” Elle asked.
“When I met with Ashimov, he showed it to me. I’m famihar with it, but it needs to be studied. As soon as I got home, I woke you.”
“Does he know anything of Lenin’s Lullaby?”
Her father hesitated. “I think he does. Ashimov is a very crafty man. He has a back door into the SVR files as well. Were he not a true Russian, I would fear him. Maybe enough to have him eliminated.”
Elle typed in the password he gave her. The file opened immediately. An index of all the documents contained within appeared first, all neatly numbered and tagged with a note that said the numbers were suggestions of viewing order.
The first document was an overview of the information Ashimov had compiled.
“Have you read this?” Elle asked.
“Yes. Klaus Stryker faked his own death in East Germany. Then he showed up in Switzerland and transferred the money he’d stolen from Boris as well as the East German terrorists into another account. Ashimov was very tenacious, but even he admitted that if he hadn’t had the original account number and had a hint of what to look for, he might have lost the trail.”
“Stryker is still alive?” Elle asked. She sipped the tea her father had poured for her, then picked up a piece of toast.
Her father pushed a jar of orange marmalade at her. It was fresh, unopened. He’d remembered her favorite. “Yes. He’s now going by the name Vasilios Quinn, a wealthy Greek resident. Over the years, Quinn has done very well for himself. But lately, given all the disruption in the aggressive stocks he was trading in, he’s suffered a certain reversal of fortune.”
Elle flipped through the file. “He’s hurting for cash.”
“Yes. He’s also being blackmailed.”
Scanning the index, Elle found a document labeled Blackmail Possibility. She opened it and quickly read through the contents, l
ooking at the bank statements Ashimov’s investigation had unearthed.
Every month, for the last twenty years, no matter what account Stryker/Quinn had used, a steady drain on his assets had taken place. The sums were large, but not too large. For the last few months, though, since Quinn’s business losses, those payments had become devastating.
“Blackmailed by who?” Elle asked.
“A good question. I asked Ashimov. I even offered to pay him for the information. Do you know what his reply was?”
Elle waited.
“Ashimov insisted that no matter what he did, he couldn’t find the owner of the accounts Quinn paid his monthly payment to.”
“Do you believe him?”
Her father considered for a moment. “I believe Ashimov is afraid. I think he was reluctant to give me the information he did concerning Quinn. Maybe, if he had known at the onset that his investigations would have revealed the blackmailer, he wouldn’t have accepted your assignment.”
“Do you think Quinn’s blackmailer is Madame Web?”
“It’s possible. Something led Quinn to send Beck to Amsterdam. The man your sister was after, this Tuenis Meijer, was connected to Madame Web.”
And she could be the mysterious “A ” Sam and her friends are searching for, Elle thought.
“Is it possible Stryker or Quinn or whatever he calls himself still has Lenin’s Lullaby?” she asked.
“The bioweapon has never surfaced,” her father said softly. “It has to be somewhere. At one time, it did exist.”
Elle flipped through the files. “Quinn lives in Greece. In the Cyclades Islands.” Ashimov had even provided a map marking the island that the man owned.
“Yes.”
“How soon can we get a team together?”
Her father looked pained. “At present, Intelligence doesn’t want to send a team into the area. Too much possibility of…negative publicity remains.”
“Meaning they don’t want to get caught with an SVR team in the area in case something goes wrong.”
Nodding, her father said, “Also that they don’t wish to get caught strong-arming a Greek citizen.”
“He’s a killer.”
Look-Alike Page 16
