The Gemini Deception

by Kim Baldwin

Manhattan Beach, New York

  The GPS on Montgomery Pierce’s rental car accurately pointed him to Yuri Dratshev’s red-brick mansion in an upscale neighborhood, though he could have picked out the Russian mob boss’s home on sight. The exterior was a mishmash of garish excesses—a gold cupola topped the structure, six gold Roman columns flanked the front door, and the lawn was full of statues, mostly Italian nudes. Security was also well evident. A forbidding metal fence surrounded the estate, and cameras covered every angle of possible intrusion.

  Monty pulled into the driveway and announced himself over the intercom. Half a minute later, the gate opened and he drove in to find a guard with a machine gun waiting to admit him at the front door.

  The goon led him to Dratshev’s study, where more kitschy accoutrements awaited: red velvet curtains and animal-skin rugs, mounted trophy heads and a cherry desk inlaid with a massive, colorful, Orthodox mosaic of the Virgin Mary.

  He was taking off his coat as Dratshev appeared in the doorway.

  “How have you been?” the Russian asked. So many years had passed since they had seen each other that Monty scarcely recognized him. He’d gone completely bald or was shaving his head now, and his neatly trimmed mustache and trademark narrow beard, which ran along his jawline to the bottom of his ears, were more gray than black. Even his demeanor was different. He’d always been the picture of arrogant braggadocio, but today he looked worried. Although he smiled when he shook Monty’s hand, his dark eyes spoke another truth.

  “Not relevant, nor do I think you care. I’m here about Jack.” Normally, Monty only referred to her as Jaclyn, but it was no business of Dratshev’s to know Jack’s birth name.

  “Jack who?”

  Monty suppressed a cringe. “The one you occasionally hire for hits.”

  “Have a seat.” Dratshev gestured toward the corner that held a couch, coffee table, and two armchairs, as he shut the door. “Vodka?”

  “I don’t drink.” Monty threw his coat over the back of one of the armchairs and took a seat.

  “That’s not what I remember.” Dratshev laughed. “I remember you and me putting a whole bottle away, just the two of us.” He poured himself a glass from a bottle on his desk and took the armchair across from Monty.

  “I don’t drink anymore.”

  “Pity. Life is clearer through the thick bottom of a tumbler.”

  “I have glasses for that now.” Monty patted his breast pocket.

  “Age, she is a heartless bitch.”

  Monty tapped his fingers on the armrest when Dratshev went quiet. He stared at the Russian, waiting for the man’s reaction to his visit and inquiry about Jaclyn.

  “So.” Dratshev finally spoke and leaned forward. “I don’t work for you anymore.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So, why do you come to me looking for help?”

  “Because I can.”

  “I don’t owe you any answers.”

  “Just because you’re not my CI anymore doesn’t mean I can’t destroy you.”

  “You said you would release me after I gave you that fucking crazy arms dealer in Israel,” Dratshev said. “I delivered.”

  Monty had pulled any and all strings ten years ago to track down the Israeli bastard who had taken and hurt Jaclyn, and when he found him, he personally buried him alive. “Because you wanted him out of the way. He was taking your clients.”

  “But I gave him to you when you said it was personal.”

  “And then you gave me another one, and then another one, and then—”

  “So, who cares?” Dratshev’s tone was matter-of-fact, but he took a long swig of his drink.

  “I let you live twenty years ago in exchange for intel and cartels.”

  “We smoked, had vodka together,” Dratshev said. “I bring you girls. We became friends.”

  “We were associates.”

  “And now you are a middle-aged, boring fuck.”

  “Maybe, but I can take you down.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I can call all those dealers you helped me put away. I’m curious as to how fast they can get to you from behind bars. My guess is between two to three hours.”

  Dratshev’s eyes widened so much he looked like a cartoon. “That’s not our deal.”

  “So?” Monty shrugged. “Who cares?” he repeated with Dratshev’s flippancy.

  The Russian seemed to consider his alternatives for several seconds before he spoke again. “Why do you want Jack?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “None of your business.”

  Dratshev stared down at the vodka in his hand. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Dratshev took another long swig. “I tried to find her for a job.”

  “What job?” Monty asked.

  “I don’t know. A business associate asked me to find her.”

  “And?”

  “I left a message. Jack called me back. I gave her the number of my associate, told her it was big money. Jack always works for big money. I didn’t hear from her again.” He seemed to be telling the truth.

  “Let’s start with you giving me the contact number you gave Jack.”

  “It’s no good now, for sure. Only for Jack,” the Russian replied.

  “Who’s your associate?”

  Dratshev shook his head. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “No. I mean I can’t.” The Russian sounded nervous. “Listen, I don’t know if you ever met Jack. I don’t know if you want to kill her or make hits for you, but I like her. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

  “You like her,” Monty repeated dubiously.

  “Da.” Dratshev met his eyes. “She is a cold executioner, but there is something good in her heart.”

  “I think she’s in trouble,” Monty said.

  “Maybe. She is not exactly a libra.” Dratshev snorted. “But why do you care?”

  “A what?”

  “You know, woman who works with books.”

  “Librarian.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Monty willed himself not to roll his eyes. “Did she take the job for your associate?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out.”

  “If she did, you don’t want to get involved.” That meant a lot coming from the Russian, since he was aware of what Monty was capable of and what power he had. Monty had told him years ago that he worked for the Agency.

  “That’s for me to determine,” Monty replied.

  “If Jack is with her, you can’t do anything about it,” Dratshev said. “She will have to stay there, probably forever.”

  “So your associate is a woman.”

  He looked away and didn’t answer.

  “Arms dealers, drugs, prostitution, organs, terrorism. I’ve handled them all,” Monty said. “Which one is it?”

  Dratshev looked at him and simply nodded.

  “I see.” The woman he was referring to apparently liked to dabble in a bit of everything.

  “What would Jack have to do for her?”

  “What she does best, I think. Find and kill.” Dratshev laughed. “Why do you care? It was her decision to take the job. Find someone else.” He took a big gulp of vodka and gargled with it.

  Monty slammed his hand on his armrest. “I don’t think it was her decision.”

  Dratshev choked on the liquid and broke out in a horrendous cough.

  “Who is she?” Monty yelled. “Who is Jack working for?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Are you afraid of her?”

  “Also.”

  “Also, what? Do you work for her?”

  “With her, for her.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to tell.”

  “Arms?”

  Dratshev glanced quickly left, then right, almost unconsciously. “This is a big deal, Pierce. No one ca
n know.”

  “Big money?”

  “Big stakes. What I did this time can put me away for the next ten lives.”

  “That’s your business. I’m not here about that.” Monty sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Remember how you and I used to work together? You would give me a name and I’d make sure no one ever found out. I got what I wanted, and you got to stay on top and keep the buyers to yourself. If this person is involved in the arms trade, which is your main financial source and occupation, you get to keep her clients.”

  Dratshev coughed again, placed his tumbler on the coffee table, and leaned forward. “I can’t do it. The suka will find out I told you. I know she will. And when she does, my whole family will go down the shitter, liter…literary…”

  “Literally,” Monty finished for him.

  “She will cut us up in pieces and flush us down the shitter.”

  “I got that.”

  Monty had seen the Russian hesitant, scared, and uncooperative before, but he’d never seen him petrified at the mere thought of giving a name. Who had that kind of power over a kingpin like Dratshev? He wasn’t the brightest light on the tree, but he was good at what he did, and everyone feared him in the arms business. Dratshev didn’t need more than a simple dirty look to put a bullet in someone’s head.

  Maybe this woman—who wasn’t exclusively in the same line of work—had the upper hand in some other business. But how many women headed multiple, dubious enterprises? Monty tapped his fingers again on the armrest, a nervous habit. He could only come up with two names: one had been imprisoned last year on racketeering charges, and the other…

  He stopped tapping. “I’m going to mention a name.” Monty wanted more than anything, more than any other time in his life, to be wrong.

  Dratshev nodded once.

  “Is the woman Jack is working for called TQ…the Broker?”

  Dratshev stared at him intently, the prominent vein in his forehead throbbing to the beat of his heart. Suddenly, without a word, he got up and left the room.

  Monty’s hand went numb. He sat back and stared at Dratshev’s empty chair for a long time. “I told you she’d come after you, Jaclyn.” He rubbed his face. With unsteady hands, he grabbed Dratshev’s expensive notepad and pen off the coffee table and wrote: Your cat is safe. Come home. 19 8 1 4 5. He folded the paper, wrote For Jack on it, and left it on Dratshev’s desk, hoping the mob boss would pass it on if possible. “Please, be alive. I’ll find you, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The White House

  Next day, March 6

  Shield entered the White House Press Room and surveyed the throng of reporters assembled for the impromptu press conference. Many were speculating on the reason for the gathering, and she herself was curious about what event might have transpired to prompt this last-minute addition to Thomas’s schedule. Something was brewing—the president had taken breakfast in her bedroom that morning and seemed even more preoccupied than usual during their silent journey from the residential quarters to the main floor.

  They hadn’t talked at all since yesterday, when Thomas had told her to leave, and Shield honestly didn’t know what to make of her plea. Was she being asked to leave because Thomas was angry with her and didn’t want her prying in White House business? Or was it a warning? She had a feeling it was the latter.

  But if the president was trying to warn her off, then why was Thomas so adamant about keeping dangerous secrets? And why was she so upset with Shield wanting to protect her?

  Under other circumstances, when confronted with an attitude or lack of cooperation from some overinflated diva, Shield would have asked for a replacement. She had done it once before. But she couldn’t let go of Thomas. Something about this enigmatic president made Shield want to protect her out of personal concern, not duty. If only Thomas would let her.

  White House aides admitted a few stragglers into the room and then closed the doors, indicating the press conference was about to begin.

  Ryden’s nerves escalated as she stood outside the Press Room and heard the clamor from reporters inside. She was already on edge because this was to be her first full press conference. She’d managed to avoid having to answer questions during her only other appearance in this room—when she’d delivered the brief “I’m all right” statement scripted by Kenneth Moore after the assassination attempt. This time, she would have to face questions from the global press. Ratman had prepared her the best he could, with answers to every anticipated query, but unforeseen questions always popped up during these rare opportunities with the president that could catch even the real chief executive off guard.

  Her makeup artist gave her a final once-over, then stepped back and nodded.

  “Are you ready, Madam President?” the White House press secretary asked. He was a distinguished former journalist known for his coverage of conflicts in the Middle East.

  Ryden nodded. “Go ahead, George.”

  He went into the room ahead of her and told the assembled press to take their seats. Once the din had quieted, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States will be reading from a prepared statement and will then take your questions.”

  Her cue. Ryden took a deep breath and straightened her posture as an aide opened the door for her. Flashes from cameras went off as she stepped to the podium. Surveying the room in a quick glance, she saw countless video cameras set up in the back of the crowded room, televising the event live around the world.

  She deliberately avoided looking at Kennedy, who stood off to one side, her back against the wall.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she began. The statement was typed out for her on the podium, but she had it memorized. “I’m here today with an announcement regarding one of the major cornerstones of my political agenda—my plan to curtail and eventually eliminate the illegal-arms trade in the United States. It had been my hope that a concerted approach involving funding, legislation, manpower, and cabinet-level oversight would reduce this insidious threat within our borders and impact the black-market selling of guns abroad as well.”

  As Ratman had instructed, she maintained a serious and resigned expression as she continued. “One of the plan’s key backers until now—Senate Majority Leader Andrew Schuster—recently met with me to discuss his concerns about the plan as drafted and to announce that he was withdrawing his support. Without his leadership on this issue, it stands no chance of gaining the required congressional votes for approval.”

  Shocked murmurs circulated through the crowed, and more flashes went off.

  “Therefore, I am here today to announce that I am abandoning the plan as drafted. While it remains a goal of my administration to reduce the illegal-arms trade—which deals in billions of dollars in black-market weapons annually and is responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent people—I must be content to participate in the efforts spearheaded by global organizations on this issue, such as the United Nations.” She paused for a few seconds. “I’m ready to take your questions.”

  Nearly every reporter in the room raised their hand. Ryden had the protocol of who to favor first well memorized. Wire services came first, then the broadcast networks, national newspapers, newsmagazines, video, and, lastly, regional newspapers. How many actually were called upon was entirely up to her. She pointed to the reporter for UPI—United Press International. “Yes, Alex?”

  “What were Senator Schuster’s reasons for the abrupt about-face in his position?”

  Ratman had guessed that would be among the first questions.

  “I’ll leave that to the senator to explain. As many of you know, he’s holding his own press conference on the Hill in an hour,” she replied. “I will tell you that our exchange was cordial, that I respect his position although I don’t agree with it, and that this in no way will affect our future working relationship on other issues of national importance. Senator Schuster has been, and will continue to be,
a respected leading voice in the Democratic Party.”

  She then pointed to the Associated Press reporter. “Next. Barry?”

  The rest of the questions were all ones that had been anticipated, so she was able to deliver quick, eloquent responses without ever appearing flustered. No reporter delved into unrelated matters, because the content of her announcement had been so unexpected and of such great importance. After ten minutes, in keeping with Ratman’s instructions, she begged off further inquiries with a polite, “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but that’s all I have time for today,” and hastily made her exit.

  Shield stayed on the president’s heels when she abruptly departed the briefing room, as surprised and mystified by the announcement as the media seemed to be. Thomas had been adamant and passionate about her feelings on the illegal-weapons issue and guns in general, a view that Shield shared and respected.

  She knew the president’s arms agenda was highly controversial, but as a professional, Shield was well aware that too many people took the ownership of weapons lightly. They figured it was normal to point one in someone’s face and shoot and call it their constitutional right. Like Thomas, she believed that only the police and military—not thugs, yahoos, and civilians with a few rounds at the shooting range—should own guns. Never mind those small-penis idiots who considered shooting animals a sport.

  They escaped the noisy chaos of the Press Room, and Shield followed Thomas across the hall into the deserted Cabinet Room, where the president paused and let out a deep breath.

  “I didn’t see that coming,” Shield said. “I was frankly pleased with where you stood on weapons.”

  “Yes, well, Schuster pulled back.” Thomas started to continue toward the Oval Office.

  “Why?”

  The president stopped but didn’t turn around. “You sound like a reporter and I’m done answering questions. Also, I don’t remember asking for your opinion on the subject, so please refrain from offering one. See me to my office and I’ll let you know when I will need your services again.”

  Shield’s job was going to become very unpleasant, to say the least, if the president insisted on dismissing and ignoring her. “Elizabeth.”