by Kaylea Cross
She tapped a foot. “I don’t get why you’re even interviewing me.”
“Because you spent time with—”
“I get that.” She raised her voice. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
His brows crunched together.
“I was kidnapped and you guys sent in a freakin’ airplane’s worth of bombs to blow us both to smithereens. The only reason I’m alive is a soldier saved my ass and found us a way out of the mountain.”
His face remained impassive. “What did you talk about with the Russian? Did he tell you what he wanted?”
She felt trapped and wanted to pace up and down like some caged animal. She sank her fingers into her hair, trying to remember everything so they’d let her go. She had nothing to hide. “He told me my family owed him. That it was a blood debt and it didn’t matter if I died because my family deserved it. Something like that anyway.”
The man in the green jacket wrote it all down. “What else did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“What about the soldier? Sergeant Dempsey? What did you talk to him about?”
Axelle stilled. Inside everything stopped rattling. “What do you mean?”
“What did you tell the soldier? What did you and Sergeant Dempsey talk about when you were escaping the mountain?”
She could hear her blood rushing through her ears. She didn’t want Dempsey in trouble. She didn’t want her time with him dissected. “We were too busy trying to survive to talk much. We didn’t exactly have a lot in common.” She stood and walked to the one-way mirror. Tapped the glass. “I’m done here. Unless you’re planning on breaking out the cling film and buckets of water, I suggest you get my father on the phone.”
Her interrogator shrugged one shoulder as if to say “I’m just doing my job.”
But she knew better. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Who do you work for?”
His smile stopped. “You can go. It must be nice to have contacts in high places.”
If her family flipped burgers for a living she had a feeling that she wouldn’t be sitting here being grilled like a piece of meat. Axelle snatched up her bags—which had been thoroughly searched—and left. Before he changed his mind.
* * *
Dempsey refused to let Dmitri Volkov out of his sight. He even showered with the guy, with Taz and Baxter guarding the door. Not his finest moment but if the old man escaped in this country and killed anyone, he’d never forgive himself. Now Volkov lay on an uncomfortable couch in a small coffee room in a building they used for lectures and debriefs. The News at Ten was on. Taz stood at the door, Baxter and Cullen slept in a side room. They had perimeter guards too. On base in Credenhill they were secure. If anyone attacked the SAS on their home ground, they’d not live to regret it.
But Dempsey felt unsettled. Nervous. He had a laptop out and was trying to track down Axelle.
Pointless.
They’d hooked up, that was all. Parted ways. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
Because he was worried. Because he had that horrible feeling he’d done something stupid like fallen in love with her. All these years trying to prove himself to the army and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about a woman.
He’d emailed the address on her MSU website and received no reply. Yet his senses were tingling. He’d tracked down her cell number and left her a message there too. He felt foolish. He also felt like he’d missed something. Again.
“Why did you kidnap Axelle, Dmitri?” Keep working the hearts and minds angle and don’t beat the old bugger to a pulp.
Volkov turned his head. They’d found him some old jeans, olive green socks and a West Ham United T-shirt no one dared claim. He was cuffed, secured to the base of the couch. With his straggly hair and long beard he looked like a lot of former soldiers—a panhandler.
Dempsey didn’t like staring into this man’s eyes because the more he saw him, the more he became aware of the similarities between them. They’d both betrayed their roots for a seemingly better cause that hadn’t turned out exactly as they’d expected. He’d dedicated his life to saving innocents, but people had died too. People always died and it wasn’t always the bad guys.
Shit happened.
The Russian shrugged. “I wanted to get someone’s attention.”
“Well, it worked.” Dempsey narrowed his gaze. Maybe they weren’t so similar. He’d never have done that to an innocent woman.
“Who is that?” The Russian pointed at an image of the new PM on the telly.
“David Allworth, the new British PM. Why?” Dempsey sat straighter. Volkov had gone whiter than a June bride. “What?”
“He looks like a man I captured in the Wakhan many years ago.”
“Captured?”
Dmitri clammed up but Dempsey could see the cogs turning. He googled information on the Allworth family. He turned the computer screen toward the man who was now leaning toward him with bright alert eyes.
“It says here Allworth’s father died in a plane crash in Kashmir in 1979.” He showed him a picture of Sebastian Allworth.
Dmitri nodded. “He died in ‘79, but it was not in a plane crash.” A crafty grin spread over his face but his eyes hardened to stone. “Get my grandson a new liver and I’ll tell the prime minister exactly how his father died.”
“The Americans have your grandson and will only get him treatment once we hand you over.”
“Then hand me over.” The man’s tone got imperious and he shifted against his bonds. “What are you waiting for?”
“They’re waiting for me.” David Allworth, the British PM, walked into the room flanked by the CO of the regiment and his own personal bodyguards. Dempsey recognized then because he’d trained them. He climbed to his feet.
“Sergeant Tyrone Dempsey.” Allworth looked him over, then held out his hand. Dempsey was aware of his less than stellar pedigree when shaking the hand of the leader of his country. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Sir.” He nodded to the PM but didn’t shift his defensive position in front of Volkov. The Russian had hurt a woman he was halfway in love with. More than halfway. The old goat had helped extremists murder thousands of innocent people over the years. Why the hell did he care what happened to Volkov?
The PM vibrated with tension as he peered at Volkov. “You murdered my father.”
Volkov’s smile was neither bitter nor surprised. He looked resigned to whatever treatment they decided to dish out. “I will not talk to you until my grandson is in surgery, getting the new liver he needs. Then I will tell you everything.”
“You shot my father in the back.” A pulse throbbed in Allworth’s temple.
“If I did, it was standard practice for both our countries.” Dmitri’s eyes burned with bitterness. “He was a spy, spreading anti-Soviet propaganda.” He eyed each of the weapon-carrying men in the room. No one said a word but they all knew the truth of his words. “Why would I lie? What difference would one more crime make to a man like me?”
Allworth stepped forward and raised his hand as if to strike. “My father wasn’t a spy.”
“Sir.” Dempsey shifted a half step and the PM’s guards closed in exactly the way they were supposed to. Dempsey didn’t back down. “You need to hear him out,” he said quietly. “After that, you can make your decision on what to do with him. But if we can get him talking and help save a child’s life, even his grandson’s”—brown eyes rose to meet his—“don’t you think that’s something your dad would have been proud of?”
Allworth’s jaw flexed as he tried to rein in his fury. “My father worked as an interpreter for the Foreign Office. His best friend told my mother exactly what happened, and he said this animal tortured my father, and then shot him in the back.”
“That is not what happened.” A pained smile touched the edge of the Volkov’s lips. “Give me to the Americans and I will give you the name of the man who shot your father.”
Allworth clenched and unclenched his fi
sts. “Tell me the name or I’ll send you somewhere no one will ever find you.”
“I have nothing left to lose except my grandson.” The eyes were ancient and as emotionless as stone. “If you want the information about who killed your father, hand me over to the Americans. I won’t tell you otherwise.” The Russian turned and looked Dempsey straight in the eye. The hair on the nape of Dempsey’s neck stood erect. “If you really love someone you need to protect them.”
* * *
In the back of the limo on their way back to London, Jonathon hid a fake yawn behind his half-finished Times crossword. His heart hadn’t stopped doing a jig for the past eight hours.
“Damned exciting goings-on. I’d assumed it would be more of the same over-engineered, overpriced rubbish we’ve had for years, but this time they actually look like they’re on to something.” Rear Admiral Jenkins puffed out his barrel chest.
They did indeed. Moscow would be both terrified and thrilled.
“We can’t discuss it off the base,” Jonathon admonished the naval officer, who looked a little startled to be chastised. Jonathon rolled his eyes. Seriously, how the Brits ever won any war when they were led by such imbeciles was beyond him. “Top Secret. Eyes and ears and all that.” He tapped his nose.
“Of course, of course.” The admiral crossed his arms.
Not a weapon per se. But something that would give the Brits a new dominion of power nonetheless. He had to get this information to Moscow, and he had to leave ASAP to return to a hero’s welcome finally acknowledging the brilliance of his long and illustrious career. The perfect spy. The most successful spy in history. There would be books written about him—he might even write his memoirs. He tried hard not to grin like an idiot.
The car pulled to a stop outside his Fulham home.
“Good night.” He climbed out without the driver having to get the door for him. He stood and gave them a wave, sauntered to the big front door and slowly went into the house he’d lived in for almost fifty years. Volkov’s spawn had turned up at the American Embassy—Jonathon had seen it on the news in the limo. Even though his sources told him the man was dead, he couldn’t risk that he’d left some sort of evidence to be sent to the media in the event of his death. Hell, the Volkovs could be selling him out right now as he climbed his creaking stairs. But he couldn’t rush this. He had to act as though this was an ordinary day, especially after what he’d seen earlier. It was imperative for him to get this information to Moscow.
In this day and age it was all about satellite communication.
The Brits had sent a device into space that could control and disable any satellite of their choosing. It was a way of blinding and deafening the opposition. Simple, yet brilliant. Moscow needed to find a way to neutralize this threat if they were to stay in the game.
His feet paused on the stairs. The cotton he’d left on his doorknob was gone. Of course it was a crude and flawed early-warning system, but he also had other monitoring systems in place inside his apartment, and state-of-the-art locks and electronics defenses on his windows even though he was on the top floor. No alarm had been tripped.
He eased down a step when he heard a voice coming from within his apartment and his heart beat faster. No…
The door was flung open and there was his granddaughter on the telephone. The only person in the world who had the code to his alarm system. “Oh, there you are. I just left a message on your cell.”
Shocked to his core he touched his pocket. He’d thought she was dead. He’d mourned her loss deeply as a necessary sacrifice. His voice was gruff. “I had to leave my phone in the car when I had a meeting, and forgot to turn it back on again.”
He opened his arms. Was his cover blown? “I won’t ask what you are doing here. I’ll simply enjoy my precious girl and thank God you finally came to visit. It has been too long.”
* * *
Axelle sat back on the couch while her grandfather puttered about the kitchen. After clearing customs at Heathrow she’d dithered about going to see her father. She couldn’t get over the coincidence of his position and everything that had happened to her over the years. The more she thought about it, the more she’d started to wonder if her father couldn’t have been behind the bombing in Rabat as a way of getting rid of his wife and child.
That was too twisted, right?
Twisted or not, she’d decided to stall dealing with her father by visiting her grandfather instead. She needed to see them both anyway.
“So, I thought you’d retired?” She had a key her grandfather had given her years ago. When she’d arrived to find no one home, she’d changed out of the clothes that had offered to walk back to the States on their own, showered, and caught an hour’s sleep on the couch.
“I was about to hang up my boots when the new PM decided I was the man to do him a favor.” Her grandfather’s eyes twinkled when he came into the room carrying a tray of pasta and a glass of white wine. “Excuse the lack of dining facilities. I usually dine out or on my lap while watching the telly.” He handed her the tray.
“After the week I’ve had, this is luxury,” she assured him.
He fetched his own tray through.
“What have you been up to, and why aren’t you staying with your father?” His lips pinched perceptively. There was no love lost between Franklin Dehn and Jonathon Boyle. The only thing they’d ever had in common had been her mother, and now her.
She waved her fork. “Oh, I almost forgot. A lady called Lucinda left a message earlier. I thought it might be you calling me back so I picked up. Sorry.”
Her grandfather tried to look innocent but she wasn’t fooled.
“She said she needed to talk to you about the other night.” Axelle kept her face straight.
“Right.” Her grandfather pulled a face and grinned. “Well, I’m old darling, not dead.”
“Obviously.” She raised a glass to him and he shook his head and gave her a smile.
“If you must know she’s a dear friend I’ve known for many years. And it isn’t any of your business, madam. I repeat, why aren’t you staying with your father? Have you had another fight?”
Axelle scooped another forkful of delicious pasta into her mouth and shook her head. “Is it a crime to visit my grandpa? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“No.” He ate delicately, dabbing his lips with his napkin between bites. “But I’m pretty sure your father has something to say about you being here and not there…”
“If he knew.”
He raised one silver brow. “He doesn’t know you’re in the country?”
Axelle took a slug of wine, hoping to drown a rash of bad memories and one really good one. “I haven’t told him.” He might have been keeping tabs on her, which was what she was afraid of. She was wrecked, her body so strung out from the kidnapping, jetlag and trauma, she’d decided to take another day before she confronted the man. Their relationship was already rocky. She didn’t want to burn all her bridges by accusing him of trying to blow her up, then having her interrogated. Not without thinking everything through anyway.
They ate the rest of their meal as she told him about some of her recent adventures with her snow leopards and the poacher.
“And those bastards in the Trust dismissed you? Bloody cheek after all you’ve done for them.”
Axelle nodded although she was hoping she could talk the board of directors around when things calmed down. “I know. I should sue them.” She smiled because she knew what he’d say to that.
He rolled his eyes. “Bloody litigious society you Americans live in. Can’t sneeze without someone suing someone for damages.”
“We’re not stiff-upper-lip, like you, Gramps. We like to hit back where it hurts—in the wallet.”
He smiled and shook his head at her Yankee nickname for him. “I supposed you’ll want to stay here tonight?”
“I can sleep on the couch, assuming I’m not cramping your style with lucky Lucinda.”
“There�
�s a spare room, wench. Get in there and get to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She was going to argue when a massive yawn almost dislocated her jaw. She nodded as she covered her mouth. “Sorry.” She leaned down to kiss his brow. “Don’t forget to call Lucinda.”
He patted her hand. “You’re a good girl, Axelle. Just like your mother.”
Chapter Sixteen
A couple of hours later, Axelle was propped up in bed, checking her email. A ridiculous thrill zipped along her nerves when she saw Dempsey had contacted her through her web account. There was an unfamiliar stirring of excitement; she missed him so much it was crazy. She didn’t remember feeling like this before—not even with Gideon.
She generally held people at arm’s length.
Not Gideon though.
Not Dempsey either.
Seemed some people had a way of forcing themselves into your life. And ripping you apart when they left, she reminded herself as she started to write back. She closed her email instead.
There was a noise out in the hallway—probably her grandfather. He’d aged significantly since she’d last come for a visit. There was a web of lines around his eyes, and his hair seemed almost pure white now. Still he was charming and handsome. It was no surprise the ladies still found him attractive.
She yawned but couldn’t sleep. Her body clock was out of whack and she’d been on edge since her “interview” at Heathrow. Couldn’t shake the idea she’d become entangled in something complicated and messy, when all she wanted to do was be left alone to help wildlife. She stood and went to the door. Edged it open and saw someone going out the front door. Her grandfather?
It was no business of hers where he went, but she pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and shoved her bare feet into trainers. She was in the hallway when the door opened again.
“Oh, excellent, you’re awake. I was putting my suitcase in the car. I have a meeting with the builders at the cottage in the morning. Can’t delay else the roof will fall in before they actually start work. I’ll be back tomorrow night? We’ll go out to dinner?”
She paused.
