“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 16
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.
“Or…come with me. There’s a railway station in the village if you need to come back and face your father.” He smiled, knowing her weakness where her father was concerned.
Still she hesitated. She wanted to talk to Dempsey but she hadn’t been to her grandfather’s cottage since she was a teenager, and the hankering to see it again, to revisit some of the photographs of her mother as a child, was strong. Generally, she tried not to remember her mother because it hurt too much, but now… Now she wanted to honor her memory.
“You can sleep in the car on the drive down.”
“Okay.”
He grinned. “Grab your stuff. I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”
***
Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan, July 1979
Dmitri’s steps dragged as he walked back to where the men lay bleeding on the ground. “Cut his bonds.”
The blond cherub’s lips curled in a show of bloody condescension. Dmitri knew he’d made a dangerous enemy.
“What’s going on, Jonathon?” the brown-haired man asked. He twisted onto his side and stared into Dmitri’s eyes. “You realized you made a mistake, didn’t you? You checked our permits?” The brown eyes were earnest. Dmitri went with the easy explanation.
“Yes, comrade. I need to apologize for my attack on your caravan. My country has reprimanded me for the death of your guide and his family will be compensated.”
“And I’ll personally make sure you pay.” The blond man was brushing himself down with short sharp swipes that spelled fury. He bent to pick his belongings.
Dmitri understood the need for spies, but he didn’t respect them. They dealt in lies, betrayal, double-crossings and deception. They lived shady, underhand lives with no real honor.
The starshiná dragged the larger man to his feet and undid the ropes that tied his wrists and ankles.
“Well then.” The big man, Sebastian, looked nervously around. “Do we just walk back the way we came?”
Dmitri almost pitied his naivety. “There is a village five miles east. Or you might try to catch your guides on the Pakistani border.” Dmitri pointed south.
Sebastian took two steps in that direction. “Right then. Are you coming, Jonathon?”
“Yes. Of course.” Laser blue eyes narrowed as the dark-haired man nodded with relief and began walking away. Dmitri flinched even th
ough he’d expected the gunshot.
The blond spy turned to him and Dmitri read the threat in his malefic gaze. If the Englishman could have gotten away with it, he too, would be wearing a bullet in his back.
“Do svidaniya, comrade,” Dmitri said bitterly.
They both served Mother Russia but this man felt like his enemy. The spy touched his revolver to his forehead and marched away, not even glancing at the body of his dead friend. “Until we meet again, comrade.”
***
What did that mean?
Dempsey turned the words over and over. Volkov had seemed to have been speaking directly to him. If you really love someone you need to protect them.
What the hell did that mean?
He shifted and turned to face the tired, wrinkled face of the most wanted man on the planet. They were sitting in a Land Rover trundling toward Brize Norton, the PM’s crew creating the sort of motorcade that usually screamed “presidential visit to hostile nation.” It was the early hours of the morning. Traffic was almost nonexistent. And he was on a razor’s edge of tension.
“What did you mean?” He held the man’s gaze and saw the first flicker of uncertainty. “If you’ve got something to say about Axelle, you need to spill it before the Yanks whisk you away to Guantanamo.”
Dmitri flicked his eyes to the side, licked his lips. “The reason I chose Dr. Dehn…”
“Because her father is the American ambassador to Britain.”
“But who was her mother?” Ancient eyes drilled him.
Jesus. “If anything happens to her, I’ll…” Dempsey dialed Cullen, who’d been assigned to sorting kit after their recent adventures in Afghanistan. “Get on the Internet.”
He told the guy what to look for, who to search for. They were about to enter the gates of the base. Thirty seconds later, Cullen said, “Iris Boyle. Daughter of Jonathon Boyle, who’s a veteran of the Foreign Office. He has Top Secret security clearance. There’s a photo. I’m sending it to your phone now.”
He looked Dmitri in the eye and said, “Jonathon Boyle.” The man’s eyes flared.
Cullen kept talking in his ear. “Iris died in the bombing of the British Embassy in Rabat.”
“It was you who killed Axelle’s mother and trapped a little girl in the rubble—because you were after that guy, Boyle?”
Dmitri shook his head. “No. No. I didn’t plant that bomb. I was blamed, of course. I’m always blamed, but that one wasn’t me.” Dmitri swallowed and for the first time Dempsey saw real emotion cross the man’s features. “I did try to bomb Boyle in Yemen but the device failed.”
“The trouble with bombs is they don’t discriminate.” Dread scraped along Dempsey’s nerves. “Why were you after him?”
“I want my grandson to have a chance to live his life. Is that too much to ask?” Tears glittered in the man’s eyes.
“What about all the kids you’ve been responsible for killing over the years?” Dempsey sneered. “Did you give a fuck about them?”
Dmitri’s skin bleached whiter than bone.
Dempsey’s phone beeped and he opened the image. The guy, this Jonathon Boyle, looked vaguely familiar and he had no idea why. He squinted, then pulled the photographs he’d taken from that elder’s hut in the Wakhan Corridor out of his top pocket, and bingo. There was their man looking bright and shiny, standing next to a man who he now knew to be Sebastian Allworth. “Jonathon Boyle shot the PM’s dad,” he said with sudden intuition. It was the only thing that made sense and brought every piece of the puzzle together.
“I’m saying nothing.” Dmitri turned away from him. “But…” He hesitated. “If that were true, the GRU won’t let Axelle Dehn live. They won’t risk that I told her the name of their most beloved spy.”
Cold flooded Dempsey. He grabbed the man by the throat and squeezed. “Are you telling me Axelle’s grandfather is a Russian spy?”
Dmitri was turning blue beneath his hands. The car had stopped. Someone was hauling him out and trying to force him to release the bastard, but he wouldn’t let go. “Tell me why she’s in danger.”
“Yes! Yes. He’s a spy. Jonathon Boyle is the man who shot Sebastian Allworth in the back and who ruined my life.” Tears filled the man’s eyes as Dempsey finally let himself be pried loose. “They won’t let her live. It’s too late.” The Russian lay there on the asphalt gasping for breath.
The British PM stood right beside him. His hands shook as if he wanted to finish the job Dempsey had started.
“That can’t be true.” Allworth’s eyes bounced off all the people standing there. “He’s lying, I’ve known Jonathon Boyle all my life. I just put him on a committee monitoring weapons development for British Forces.” There was a sudden air-sucking silence. He pulled out his phone, no doubt calling the Firm and the Met. Damage control.
Dempsey rolled his eyes. He almost felt sorry for the guy—except the idiot might have helped compromise British Forces for generations to come, which meant men and women like him might die. The old boy network should have been abolished years ago.
Dempsey pulled out his cell. “Cullen, get Signals to put a trace on Axelle Dehn’s cell phone and do it now. I need to know exactly where she is so we can get her into some sort of protective custody.”
Dmitri Volkov lay there with his face buried in his hands. A broken old man who’d caused more death and destruction than the entire regiment. Dempsey looked up as a Jeep full of soldiers in American BDUs screamed toward them.
Two tall men in a dark suits emerged from the mass of camo and heavy weapons. One had CIA written all over him, the other bore a remarkable resemblance to a woman he’d fallen in love with. Dempsey took a step forward, only to realize he was nothing to this guy. Nobody. Not his daughter’s lover. Not his future son-in-law.
He intercepted the ambassador while the spook went over to Dmitri.
“Do you know where your daughter is, Ambassador?”
“You are?” Eyes like winter questioned him.
Dempsey didn’t blink. “A friend.” More than a friend. “I met her in Afghanistan a few days ago.” A lifetime ago.
“She’s in Afghanistan?”
“You didn’t even know that?”
“Last time I spoke to her she wasn’t due to go back until summer.” The man shook his head, pressed his lips together, tense. “She’s all right?”
Dempsey watched him carefully. He wanted to know if this man would sacrifice his own daughter for some unknown political agenda. “Has no one informed you of her kidnapping, sir?”
“Kidnapping?” The ambassador stared at Dempsey as though he were seeing him for the first time. His voice sounded strained. “Volkov kidnapped her?”
“Yes, but she was unharmed when we left the Wakhan.”
The ambassador seemed to physically collect himself as he looked at the Russian lying on the tarmac. “I expected one of the most notorious men on the planet to look a little more threatening and a little less pathetic.”
The guy wasn’t listening to him and pathetic wasn’t how Dempsey would have described the person he’d chased through the Hindu Kush.
“I told her it wasn’t safe, but she never listens to me.” The American’s expression hardened.
Dempsey braced his feet even though he could see some of the Yanks wanting to physically sweep him out of the way. They could damn well try. “With all due respect, this isn’t about you, sir. It’s about her, living the life she was meant to live. She’s got more brains and balls than any person on this base, but I think she might still be in danger, sir.”
The ambassador went to push past him, so he got in the guy’s face. “I’m talking about your daughter, sir, you own flesh and blood. She could be in extreme danger. Dmitri Volkov named Jonathon Boyle as a Russian spy.”
“You can’t be serious.” The American soldiers stepped forward but Dehn waved them away. Anger narrowed his dark gaze and tightened the set of his jaw. He seemed to realize Dempsey was deadly serious and something eni
gmatic moved through his eyes. “I see, but I doubt Axelle is in any real danger if she’s still in Afghanistan. I saw Jonathon in London a couple of days ago. The man is too”—his lips twisted with distaste—“prissy to get his hands dirty, and he dotes on Axelle. However, I’ll make sure she gets a security detail assigned ASAP.” The ambassador nodded thoughtfully as if filtering information, then stared after the British PM, who ignored him as he climbed back into his limo to make more phone calls.
The CIA spook motioned two American soldiers over and they hauled Dmitri to his feet.
The Russian refused to meet Dempsey’s gaze as he was marched away.
“I never did like Iris’s father.” The ambassador nodded again to Dempsey, and turned to leave.
That’s it? Christ, he hated politicians. “Ambassador Dehn,” Dempsey snapped. The man whirled back toward him, obviously unused to being yelled at. “You are going to save the man’s grandchild, aren’t you?”
Dmitri raised his head and shot him a startled look.
It took a moment but the ambassador jerked his head in a firm nod. “We’ll get him a new liver, but I can’t promise how long he’ll survive. I’m not a doctor. I’m certainly not God.”
“Thank you.” Dmitri Volkov spoke over the heads of his guards, a broken, hunched figure.
Dempsey didn’t know if he was talking to him or the diplomat but he held the man’s gaze as he was bundled away.
There but for the grace of God…
Dempsey blew out a massive breath as the PM’s security detail and US ambassador’s mini-army headed in opposite directions, leaving him and his mates sitting on the tarmac like a bunch of delinquents. They looked at one another uncertainly.
The phone rang. It was Cullen. “Got a trace, Irish, but you’re not gonna like it. Brace yourself.” The uneasy turmoil in his stomach intensified. “She’s not in the Wakhan or the States. Her phone is headed south on the M20 in Kent.”
What the…?
Dempsey got back in the car. “Taz, put your foot down. Baxter, get on the blower to the CO and tell him what’s going on. But I’m not here.” He took off his watch which contained his GPS transmitter and left it on the seat. “You can’t contact me, right?” They nodded.
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