That caused me to fret. Would they go after EG? She would be the only one of my siblings home. They’d have the devil of a time taking Graham. Would he even know I was gone?
By smashing my phone, they’d lost any chance to call anyone else who knew me. I kept the burner phone in my leather jacket, so I was out of luck there, as were they. So what in heck were they doing?
I tested the knob—locked. It’s unusual to add locks to the outside of a bedroom door. I kneeled down and decided the knob was just on backward, one assumes deliberately? To lock up unnecessary prisoners.
I pulled pins out of my braid and applied one to the little hole in the knob. These modern houses had crap locks. It only took a strong piece of metal to open the tumbler—handy for rescuing the ankle-biters when they locked themselves in.
Holding my breath and praying, I tested the door again. The knob turned, and the hollow panel eased open. I peered through the crack. No one seemed to be stationed outside. The hall floor was as thickly carpeted as the bedroom—really really stupid if you mean to kidnap people, or to hear a burglar coming.
I had no idea where I’d go if I made it to the front door. I still wore my fur coat and boots, so I wouldn’t completely freeze. But I had no money, no phone, no means of going anywhere unless I found the limo and the keys to it. I didn’t have a license, but I’d learned to drive jeeps in war zones.
It might be more fun to find an address and a phone and call Graham. On a good day, he could fly the helicopter over and drop tear gas or smoke bombs. That would be entertaining, but snowstorms made for a bad day. Still, calling Graham seemed a good idea. Maybe I could climb a wall and he could send someone to meet me. I liked that idea a lot better than stealing cars.
No lights illuminated this upper hallway. I cautiously opened doors, searching for phones or maybe old mail with an address. All the rooms were decorated in the same excruciatingly bad taste, as if some designer had been given a percentage kickback on everything she purchased, so she’d bought the warehouse. Massive beds, towering dressers covered in useless doo-dads—empty closets.
No magazines, no phones, no convenient office or study. Movies gave such a false sense of reality!
I found a staircase leading up. If there was nothing on this floor, I figured the upstairs was stuffed with empty servants quarters. But I could hear music below, and the scent of bacon cooking drifted from downstairs.
My stomach told me I hadn’t eaten in quite a while. I was even ready to eat that sugary treacle of a birthday cake, had I hung onto it. I hoped that taxi driver had done the honorable thing and carried the presents to Nick. Nick would know something was wrong.
I tiptoed down the edge of the carpeted stairs, avoiding any squeaks. They ended in a marble foyer covered in expensive Turkish carpets. I checked the huge double front doors, but they were bolted with key locks that would require more than a hairpin. That was a fire hazard if I ever saw one.
I bet there was a key somewhere close by, unless the occupants were suicidal, or exceptionally stupid. But I was in no hurry to escape into a snowstorm until I knew where the heck I was. I had hopes I might find some sort of office or study down here—if my growling stomach didn’t give me away.
I would find it hard to believe a place this size didn’t have a servant in sight, except all the furniture was coated in dust and the marble looked as if it hadn’t been mopped in a year. Who bought a gazillion-dollar house and left it empty?
Someone who went around kidnapping people, that’s who. For all I knew, the yard was fertilized with dead bodies.
I was trying very hard to concentrate on escape and not what would happen to me when I couldn’t provide whatever my kidnappers wanted—whoever they might be.
I poked around the enormous living room—not a magazine or phone in sight. Landlines were so antiquated apparently.
A corridor off the back of the foyer probably led to the kitchen and family rooms. Biting my bottom lip, I tiptoed across the marble and down a side hall instead.
I peered into a dusty dining room with a dozen chairs designed for a castle and utterly no artwork on the walls. Had the designer been fired before she made it down here?
More questionable yet—who installed rugs this thick in every room of the house? Wasn’t it fashionable to show expensive wood?
Well, maybe the designer owned a carpet company, along with a feather and cotton batting factory.
Or the owners liked to muffle the screams of their victims.
Okay, not going there, Ana. Keep moving.
I checked the enormous buffet for silverware—nada. It was as if someone deliberately taunted their prisoners with freedom and no weapons. I didn’t think I was strong enough to break off a chair leg. They were pretty darned substantial chairs. But I knew where to find them if I needed them.
I crept down to the next door—finally, an office, with an enormous, ornate mahogany desk, no carpet, and no curtains. Dang. Light from a security lamp beamed through the uncovered window. I’d have to be cautious. I tiptoed across the wooden floor, avoiding breaking my toes on the furniture, which was miraculously leather and not over-stuffed upholstery. The shelves had a few rows of books with gilded covers. If I had a flashlight, I’d check to see which classics they’d chosen, but they were probably in Russian.
The desk had nothing more than a leather framed blotter, an old-fashioned brass desk lamp, and an ornate brass pen-and-pencil holder. This was getting ridiculous. Not even an envelope opener I might use as a weapon. I tested the heft of the desk lamp, but I’d have to take the brass top off of it before it would be useful as anything but a barbell.
I began pulling on the hundred and one drawer handles. I wasn’t certain I could read anything in the dark, but at this point I was so desperate I’d take any paper I found.
Finally! A folder of receipts. Or copies of receipts since they were all printed out on the same size paper. The printer ink was smudgy, making it impossible to read for addresses in this dim light.
I was desperate enough to dare a light switch. I found the one for the brass desk lamp and hit it. Nothing. I checked under the hood. It had no bulb.
This was just one giant dollhouse, wasn’t it?
I studied the ceiling, wondering if I could reach any overhead bulbs. Broken, they might make a fragile weapon. But these were modern sealed contraptions with which I wasn’t familiar. I needed to watch more home improvement shows.
I folded the papers and slid them into my coat pocket. I was glad for the fur. The house was downright chilly, and my fear already had me shivering.
Enormous storage closets and a powder room concluded my exploration of this wing. No lovely dangling lightbulbs anywhere. I hated modern houses.
That meant I either had to figure out how to pry open a window and run, or head for the back of the house and see what was cooking.
Since I still had no idea where I was, and I really disliked being cold, I opted for the kitchen.
I traipsed back to the foyer and took the corridor to the back of the house. I checked doors on my way but only found an enormous—empty—coat closet and a sunroom that might have been pleasant had the skylights not been covered in snow. I peered out the windows at snow-covered lumps inside a walled garden. How long had I been unconscious? The white stuff was thick. Maybe it started snowing earlier wherever it was we were? No matter, I decided one wall was the side of the garage and escape wasn’t likely from here.
Finding no addresses or weapons, I went back to the hall and checked the next door down. It had a normal lock. I turned it and peered into the hollow darkness of a garage with no car. Worse yet, no tools. Dang. It was pretty darned evident no one lived here except the furniture.
I could see the outline of a door leading into the walled garden—not much escape there. I could probably hit the lighted button beside this door and open the garage, but by the time I slipped out, I’d have guards all over me. And I’d still have nowhere to go. But it was an option I store
d for a moment of desperation.
So I strolled into the kitchen to see who was cooking—and nearly fell on my face.
Bill the Bartender.
By the time Graham’s men had stored Michelle Lee in a safe place, ostensibly for her own protection, Nick and Guy had shown up at the hospital.
Sending curt messages to position more men around Ivan’s Chevy Chase mansion while setting others to investigating the Popovs’ other long list of properties, Graham almost left without speaking to Nick. He wanted Ana back, and he wanted her now. He had incredible focus when it was necessary, and Nadia and friends were a distraction.
But Nick wasn’t the sort to be deterred. He tracked Graham down and confronted him before he could escape to the stairwell.
“We left Juliana with the kids. Will they be safe or do we need to move everyone to the mansion for the night?”
Nick looked less like his affable self and more like an exhausted father. Graham wasn’t fond of slick Brits in bespoke suits, but he knew Ana doted on her younger siblings, so he scowled and didn’t shove away.
“I have no real evidence of anything except the Popovs are probably trying to kill Nadia. That means she knows more than we’ve given to the media—whether about Scion or something else has yet to be determined. My concern is Ana. She doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.”
Nick nodded agreement. “She’ll nail one of them to the wall and the other will take exception, got it. You need to see this. It verifies what we already suspected.” He took out his phone and opened his text messages, handing it to Graham.
FIND ANA! POPOV DANGEROUS! BUYS DRUGS WITH WEAPONS. NADIA HAS PROOF.
The message was from Magda. Graham wanted to fling the phone against the wall, but that wouldn’t hurt Magda or ease his apprehension. He’d learned anger management the hard way. “See if you can persuade your mother to send us evidence on Popov that we can take to the authorities. We need search warrants to access their accounts and properties. I’m holding one of his minions, but she won’t hold up in court.”
Graham didn’t tell a worried Nick that one of his men had found Ana’s phone smashed into the pavement in Arlington. He needed the Brit to keep his act together. Ana’s brother appeared on the brink of exhaustion and murder. Keeping Nick occupied and useful seemed the best solution.
Jaw muscles tense, Nick nodded. “The embassy keeps an eye on Magda when they can. I’ll check with them.” He glanced reluctantly at his phone. “I don’t suppose you can triangulate a text message and find her that way?”
“Unlikely.” Graham added a number to Nick’s phone. “Contact this man if she calls. If you can hold her on the phone long enough, he can trace the area the call is coming from.” He returned the phone to Nick, who stuck it in his suit coat pocket.
“Rose is holding an enormous gala and fundraiser downtown tonight,” Nick said, seemingly irrelevantly. “I haven’t heard that the event’s been called off yet.”
Graham understood. “Half the crowd will be staying at the hotel, so they won’t call it off. Magda could very possibly be there already. I don’t suppose you can persuade Patra or Sean to cover the event?”
“I doubt they can get tickets, but I’ll let them know and see what happens. I haven’t called them about Ana yet. I was hoping you were tracking her.” Without his usual smiling energy, Nick merely looked like any worried brother.
Graham had never known close family. He didn’t know how to hug any better than Ana’s family did. But he offered what consolation he could. “Ana would kill me if I placed a tracker on her. I respect her wishes because I respect her ability to get out of tight situations. Your sister is one tough lady. We just need to find her before she bombs the Russian embassy or something equally disastrous.”
Nick offered a brief smile. “Glad you get that.”
He walked off punching a number into his phone, presumably for his journalist sister.
Graham might trust Ana, but he didn’t trust Magda further than the next rock. And he didn’t want Nick knowing that he had men following the twisted genius full time now that she was back on his court. He called the one in charge. “Any news?”
“She just left the Hilton on the arm of Moriarity. They’re both dressed to the hilt. The limo we traced to Popov tried to pick them up, but they handed it over to Bill Smith and his wife and took a taxi.”
Graham recognized that as a classic Ana move—bypass villains by throwing others under the bus. Her mother had taught her well. He only wished Magda had taught her to stay out of trouble in the first place.
His man unnecessarily continued, “We figure something bad is going down at Rose’s fundraiser tonight.”
Yeah, that was a total probability.
“The cops tried to get them to call it off because of the snow, but they had too much money tied up in it,” his man continued.
Graham dragged his free hand through his hair and wished he could pound his head against a wall. This was the kind of work he did—prevent disasters, pass on intelligence, enable the good guys to do their jobs when they were understaffed. That fundraiser should be shut down now.
Rose had yet to call in the Secret Service for protection, which left Graham with no one to call except the cops, and they didn’t have enough authority in this case. Magda, Rose, and company would have to go to hell on their own. He was going after Ana.
“Give your info to the feds and keep monitoring Magda. I may be out of contact for a while.” He clicked off.
Motorcycles made for lousy transportation in snow. The plows wouldn’t have completed the surface streets yet. He called Sam, gave him the Chevy Chase address and told him to meet him there if he could get through.
He’d have to find better transportation and pray he and Sam were converging on the right place.
Chapter 21
Friendly, flirty Bill the bartender was one of the bad guys? Did that make sense?
I was sure it would if I had time to piece the puzzle together, but I wanted out of this chilly refrigerator, and he was the only key I saw. Bill wasn’t big, but he was young and more muscular than fat Popov. I’d need weapons.
Kitchens normally came loaded with weapons, but this house was so miserably barren. . .
Hiding in the shadows of the hall, peering through the open doorway, I spotted the knife rack on the side of the granite-topped center island. I’m not a fan of blood, but if it had to spill, I’d rather it not be mine. The contents of the rack weren’t impressive—a paltry paring knife and a bread knife. I glanced over at the counter and saw a more substantial chopping knife on the counter beside Bill. Dang.
The kitchen was too big and empty to conceal me if I wanted to go for the rack. This was the only floor in the place not padded with half-a-foot-deep rugs. My rubber-soled boots might be silent to some extent, but I had nowhere to go even if I wanted to make a run for that back door.
So I sashayed straight into the painfully bright overhead lights, hugging my fur around me. “What are you doing here?” I demanded, aiming straight for the island and the knives.
Bill turned away from the stove, still holding a frying pan. “Ivan lets me stay here when the weather is too bad to drive.”
Ivan, right. The Popovs owned the bar. “Then what am I doing here?”
He didn’t seem surprised by my presence. Weird, and a little creepy. Did the Popovs often keep kidnap victims here?
Bill shrugged. “I will guess that he wishes to talk to your mother, and this is the only way he can do it. It’s not as if he confides in me. He’s been bitching about your mother and her anarchist organization for weeks now.”
“You know my mother?” I asked, utterly astounded by this little speech. How the crap would he know my mother? She’d lived out of the country for decades and had returned only a month or so ago. And what did he mean about anarchist organization? My mother could very possibly be an anarchist, but she was a loner, an obsessed one. People like Magda didn’t work well with others.
“Want a BLT? I added egg to mine.” He gestured at the toast waiting on a plate. “I don’t know your mother. I’m just extrapolating from Ivan’s curses.”
Was that the faintest hint of an accent? I could have been imagining it. “BLT with egg is good. Do you have tea?” If he meant to pretend kidnapping was a normal, everyday occurrence, I could too. I needed sustenance.
He gestured at a cabinet. “Mugs and bags up there. I think Ivan’s driver stocks them. I bring in supplies from the restaurant when I come here or there would be nothing.”
“Does anyone live here?” I opened the cabinet indicated, produced a colorfully decorated mug and a bag of Russian Earl Grey. Citrus and bergamot really needed steamed milk or some lemon. . . I checked the refrigerator but Bill was right, the fare was meager. No milk or lemon.
“How does anyone live with an empty kitchen?” I asked, playing along with this weirdness. I found the fancy hot water dispenser and aimed it at the mug. I wasn’t a tea gourmet or I’d probably have scorned the faucet and hunted a kettle to make real boiling water—but it was becoming obvious the kitchen was only furnished by Bill and the driver. Useful tools were in short supply.
“No one lives here. It’s been for sale forever.” He handed me his BLT and started on another.
I was predisposed to like anyone handing me food, but something major was off here—starting with rationality. “I had no idea my mother works with anyone, and anarchy doesn’t seem like her style. Why would. . . Ivan. . . curse her?”
“She and her gang are trying to destroy what makes this country great,” he said with almost a growl. “Senator Rose is a brilliant man who has the contacts to open the corridors of commerce, provide for every working man, make it possible for anyone to be rich again. Those who oppose him are undermining the fabric of democracy.”
Twisted Genius Page 18
