Deadly Dossier

by Josie Brown

  Any hope Jack may have had that knowledge of a spouse would dampen her enthusiasm disappeared once and for all when she brushed past him while descending the boarding ramp. Even if her frock hadn’t been made of sheer silk, he’d have felt her hardened nipples against his jacket.

  Great, thought Jack, the last thing I need is my very own shadow. So that she takes the hint, I’ll give her the cold shoulder the moment we get inside so that she realizes I’m not up for any fun and games.

  The sooner he met with Leonid, the better.

  Jack’s introduction to his host happened too late in the evening—almost at the party’s conclusion.

  Worse yet, it was too short and not so sweet. Leonid’s breath smelled of vodka, he barely smiled, and his eyes roamed to the other guests even as Jack assured him that he was eager to talk about the sequel’s financing. A very broad hint that serious face time wasn’t going to happen came with a slap on the back and a promise to “discuss the project in a more conducive setting. Let’s say lunch, tomorrow on the terrace at Lineadombra?”

  Jack nodded and smiled benignly. Holding up Arnie’s iPhone, he said, “Do you mind? The wife will kill me if I don’t get a picture of me with her favorite producer.”

  Leonid shrugged, but Jack knew he was flattered by the smirk he gave when the cell phone’s camera clicked. Afterward Tanner hustled Leonid in the direction of an aging American action star.

  Good riddance, Jack thought.

  He shifted his gaze to the mezzanine. Which room was the office, he wondered. Oh yes, it was the second of two double doors located directly across from the large staircase that connected the two lower floors.

  As his eyes moved across the second story’s open hall, they rested on a solitary figure: Irina Romanov.

  She was leaning over the ornate wrought-iron railing that circled the mezzanine, frowning down at the crowd below.

  Unlike the other ladies in attendance, she was not adept at the sleight of hand that allowed more determined women to feign fleeting youth. Neither was she as stylish as her female guests. Her widow’s peak was already graying. A few stray tendrils had escaped her chignon. Her black cocktail dress hugged her solid frame in all the wrong places.

  There were tears in her eyes.

  In fact, her eyeliner was smudged to the point where black streaks darkened the webs of fine lines attached to the corners of her eyes.

  Had Tatyana Zakharov shown up anyway?

  The only picture Acme had of the Russian agent was at least two years old. It had been taken off a street security webcam feed in Istanbul. Jack cursed himself for not having scrutinized it better, not that it would have mattered. She’d worn oversized sunglasses, and the picture was in black and white. She wore a scarf over her head, but from what he could see of her hair peeking out over her forehead, she was a platinum blonde. Then again, as with all agents, male or female, she may have been wearing a wig.

  He scanned the faces of the two hundred guests milling below them in the grand ballroom. All night long, Ross and Leonid had been shaking hands with the film’s fans and well-wishers. At this very moment, beside the nervous little man from the boat, at least four comely beauties were hanging on Leonid’s every word. The women were not shy in their attempts to provoke the producer, and he was not at all bashful in returning their admiration with a wink, or for that matter a forthright proposition.

  And Jack wasn’t at all surprised to see that Rebecca was one of Leonid’s ardent acolytes. Tatyana didn’t have to be here for Irina Romanov to see her husband in action. She was a producer’s wife. Thanks to his movies and the prizes they’d garnered for him, he was a celebrity.

  The groupies followed. Temptation was inevitable.

  So was a wife’s heartache.

  Especially that of a wife as humble and homely as Irina Romanov.

  As sorry as he felt for her, he knew there was nothing he could do about it. In fact, Leonid’s vanity worked to his favor.

  He watched as she made her way toward the staircase. But instead of joining the party, she walked up to the third story.

  Smart woman, he thought.

  Now that the second story was clear, he slipped up the back stairwell.

  The attaché case wasn’t anywhere in the office.

  Not in or around the massive Baroque desk, or stuck in any of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

  And while he got into the safe with no problem at all, it was empty, except for a pair of platinum diamond-studded cufflinks.

  Jack couldn’t find anything resembling a thumb drive in any of the desk drawers, either.

  Where the hell was it?

  The master bedroom was next door.

  It couldn’t hurt to look there as well.

  By using the terrace, he made it out one set of double-paneled doors and into the other without anyone seeing him.

  Roused by the gentle breeze coming through the open balcony doors, the white gauze curtains rose and snapped like waking wraiths. What little light there was in the room came in from the lampposts lining the Grand Canal below.

  In fact, the room was so dark that Jack hadn’t noticed the woman lying on the high four-poster bed until she rose onto her elbows.

  It was Irina Romanov.

  Jack made sure that none of his dismay on her behalf was reflected in his eyes. “Ah, Mrs. Romanov! I—I guess I’m in the wrong room. I was summoned to your husband’s office.” He held out his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you. I’m Jack Craig, with Acme Industries’ Financial Securities division.”

  She stared down as she replied, “Yes, I know your name. You’re the banker interested in financing the sequel to Leonid’s latest and greatest.” Finally, she took his hand and shook it limply. “Let me guess. Leonid—how do you Americans say it? Oh yes—he blew you up.”

  Jack shrugged. “What you mean to say is that he blew me off.”

  As if confirming her supposition, Leonid’s laughter rose over the din of the crowd, now standing down by the dock at the water’s edge.

  The party was over and Jack had failed.

  Seeing the look of disgust on his face, Irina shrugged. “I hope I did not sound too rude. What I say is a reflection of my own experience with my husband. He has his priorities, sometimes to the detriment of those who can do him the most good.”

  “Have I wrongly presumed that the financing of his next film is his current focus?”

  “His priorities change with the wind. One day, his quest is an Oscar. Another day, it is notoriety, fame, and celebrity—even if it means funding pornography.” She shrugged as she rose from the bed. “As with most ambitious men, next on his list is another sexual conquest. My Leonid has no true loyalty, with principles or people.” Ashamed, she looked down at her feet. “He does not even have a love of country.”

  She knows about the Putin payoffs, Jack realized.

  He tilted her head up, so that she had to look him in the eye.

  Then, very gently, he kissed her lips.

  She didn’t recoil, or even blush, let alone back away.

  Instead, she savored it.

  She fell into the kiss, and into his arms.

  Afterward she whispered, “I cannot influence him, if that is what you want of me.”

  To dissuade her from this presumption, he placed his index finger on her cheek and let it roam diagonally to her lips.

  She sucked it in between her teeth—slowly, at first, but then she nipped it hungrily.

  He pushed her back down onto the bed.

  “No…” Her voice sounded so far away, but she didn’t fight him when he raised her arms, pinning them over her head with one hand while the other cupped her left breast. She closed her eyes and moaned softly when he squeezed her nipple gently between his index and third fingers.

  Then she looked down and noticed the ring on his wedding finger. He felt her stiffen. “So, you are married.” Her tone was listless.

  Damn it, he thought. Still, his cover was rock solid. He ha
d to go with it. “Yes.” At the very least, he sounded penitent.

  It wasn’t part of any act. What woman wants a man who won’t tell her where he goes at night, or for that matter weeks on end? What woman isn’t pained at the scent of another on the man she loves deeply?

  All women are, and this woman was no exception, he knew.

  Irina wrenched her hands from his grip—

  But only to unclasp his belt buckle.

  She did not stop him when he lifted her skirt and entered her.

  His thrusts were relentless. She closed her eyes and bit her lips, whispering her groans into his ear.

  He felt her climax, and he knew she felt his surge as well.

  They collapsed in each other’s arms.

  She started to sob.

  “Please don’t cry,” he murmured.

  “I always weep when I am happy,” she whispered back. She rose from the bed and turned to face the large ornate mirror over the dresser. She sighed at what she saw. Her hair had fallen out of the twist, and her eyes were black with mascara.

  At least the lipstick was gone from her teeth.

  She slipped on a pair of plain black low-heeled pumps then she smoothed her dress back into place. She didn’t bother to tame the errant strands of hair that had escaped her French twist. Instead, she plucked the last of the pins that held it in place, so that the rest of her thick, curly mane fell in loose coils below her rounded shoulders.

  She didn’t look at him but into the mirror as she dabbed the smudges under her eyes with a tissue. “Mr. Craig, I meant what I said. I have absolutely no influence over Leonid.”

  “I didn’t make love to you because of him.”

  She paused, then shrugged. “It’s very kind of you to say so. But I’m a realist. And more importantly, I am grateful.” She turned to him—not to look him in the eye, but to touch the ring on his finger. “Your wife is a very lucky woman.”

  He started to speak again, but before he could get a word out, she put a finger against his lips to quiet him. “On the other hand, I am married to a monster. Not just I, but too many of my countrywomen have discovered this the hard way.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Pornography keeps my husband’s film company in the black.” She turned back to the mirror and patted away her tears. “So you see, meeting with him now is a waste of your time, and your company’s money. Once word gets out about my husband’s exploits—and eventually, it will—he will be, how do you say, an industry pariah.”

  Jack frowned. “Even if the public were to discover this shadow business, why would it turn against him?”

  “Because of the way in which his ‘stars’ are procured for his projects. Most are real actresses. Leonid promises them the stardom they seek at all costs. Instead, once they are on the locked set, they find out the truth about their new film role. If they scream or fight back, they are drugged before the filmed rapes begin.” Irina shivered. “This filth gets millions of downloads, but the girls are never seen or heard from again. I presume they’re sold into prostitution afterward—or worse. I’ve seen one of these films.” Irina’s lower lip trembled. “Today, he will have many women to choose from. No doubt his auditions have already begun. Later tonight, after the rest of the guests have left, his ‘chosen ones’ will be asked to stay behind.”

  “Would you like my help in stopping him?”

  She looked over at him. “Yes, of course!”

  “Then I’ll need your help, too.”

  She nodded. “Anything.”

  “Irina, Leonid carries an attaché case, given to him by his father.”

  She shrugged. “I know it, yes. He hates it! He says he’s not a businessman—that he is an artist, a creative genius. Ha! He may feel his father’s money makes him both, but neither is close to the truth.”

  “The case contains something that will implicate him in this and other crimes. It wasn’t in his office. Do you have any idea where is it now?”

  Irina stepped over to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The fourth shelf from the bottom held a leather-bound series of Charles Dickens novels. She tilted the one entitled Bleak House. Eight other books in the series slid to one side, revealing a safe. Irina tapped eight numbers on the digital keyboard.

  The door opened, revealing the attaché case.

  As she handed it to Jack, the books slipped back into place, as if they were never disturbed.

  “The clasp has a combination lock. To open it, try eight six zero eight zero two. Most of Leonid’s pass codes are the birth date of our son, Alexi.” Irina took Jack’s hand and stroked it lovingly. “Use all possible caution, Mr. Craig. I’ll do the same. Now if you’ll excuse me, our guests are outside, taking their leave. I’ll do what I can to make sure my husband stays out of your way.”

  She walked out, closing the door behind her.

  To play it safe, Jack watched out the window until she came into view. She’d done a good job in pulling herself together. In fact, now she held her head high, and her shoulders back as she crossed to her husband’s side.

  Leonid was in the middle of a discussion with some effusive British comedian who had just made his film debut at the festival. Irina inched through the crowd chatting by the water’s edge until she reached her husband’s side. When he finally noticed her there, he did a double take. Jack couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he saw Leonid pointing to her hair and laughing raucously.

  She recoiled, as if he’d slapped her across the face.

  He shrugged as she walked away, defeated.

  The others, chagrined, covered for him with nervous laughter.

  “Leonid Romanov, you’re incorrigible!” Rebecca teased him.

  Jack fought the urge to shoot the bastard right then and there.

  Better payback would come with the accomplishment of his mission.

  He turned to the task at hand.

  Jack nudged the six tumblers to those numbers Irina suggested.

  The clasp flipped up, and Jack opened the case.

  Inside, there were several folders. Most of them contained documents written in Russian, although one was in German, and another in English.

  The top of the case had three pockets of varying sizes. All were empty.

  Where the hell was it?

  Jack pulled out the folders in order to feel around the bottom and the sides of the case. He was looking for any seam, indentation or lump that might indicate a hidden compartment.

  He found a catch on the lid of the case. When he pressed it, a small square hole revealed itself, just deep enough to hold a thin rectangular disk.

  The thumb drive.

  He grabbed it—

  Not a moment too soon. He heard a voice on the other side of the door. It belonged to Leonid.

  But he wasn’t alone. From the woman’s laugh, Jack knew his host was nowhere near the party’s hostess.

  Leonid was with the actress, Rebecca.

  There was nowhere to go but under the bed.

  “Really, Leonid, I don’t think we should do this now, and certainly not here—I mean, with your wife downstairs and all.” Rebecca’s words expressed wariness, but to Jack’s ear, her honeyed tone seemed ripe with anticipation.

  Leonid’s response was much as Jack’s would have been, had he been the one to coerce Rebecca into his bedroom.

  So, she was the one he’d chosen for his next rape film.

  As they fell onto the bed, the mattress sagged practically to Jack’s face. He could barely breathe, and he certainly couldn’t turn his head.

  “Leonid, please! I said—I said no!” The slap that followed brought a pause to the action above Jack’s head.

  But not for long. It was followed by another slap.

  And then a deep moan.

  Was Leonid hurting her?

  “I told you, Leonid—I’m not into the rough stuff.” Rebecca’s warning was serene, not angry or frightened. Jack presumed she was trying not to panic.

  “M
y dear Rebecca, you also said you’d make an exception in my case.” Leonid’s tone was firm. “Look what I have, just for you—the handcuffs you were admiring, just the other day.”

  “You’re mistaken. If anyone was admiring them, it was you.” This time, Rebecca’s tone was as cold as ice.

  “Indulge me,” Leonid insisted.

  The next sound—that of the sharp click of metal upon metal.

  “It’s…too tight,” Rebecca murmured.

  “You’ll see. You’ll like it that way.” Leonid laughed. “I know I will.”

  He didn’t waste any time proving this boast. With each thrust, the mattress groaned and dipped. Jack flattened his head against the floor.

  I hope this asshole comes quickly, Jack thought. Otherwise, I may suffocate.

  He took the gamble of tilting his head to one side, where he could see out the door to the balcony. While they’re preoccupied, he thought, maybe I could inch my way out from under here and crawl out onto the patio, then down onto the Grand Canal’s promenade.

  He was just about to make a move in that direction when he saw a pair of feet in the threshold of the balcony door:

  Low-heeled, plain black pumps.

  Irina.

  Jack could only imagine the look of horror on her face.

  What he couldn’t imagine was what she’d do next.

  The gun must have had a suppressor because Jack barely heard the whisking bullet leaving the chamber. On the other hand, its target gave a loud gasp. The thump that followed was proof that Irina’s shot had hit its mark.

  In no time, Jack was on his feet.

  Irina stood frozen, staring at the bed where the gun was aimed.

  Jack was not shocked to see that the victim was Leonid. The bullet caught him on the left side of his neck. There was so much blood that it was obvious she’d struck his carotid artery.

  What did surprise him was that it was Leonid who had been handcuffed to the bedposts.

  Rebecca was sitting on top of the dead man. Realizing the gun was pointed her way, her eyes narrowed warily. “Please, Mrs. Romanov, put down the gun.”