“Let’s go back to the Lenin,” she said harshly, and didn’t recognize her own voice. Grimly she retrained the PPK on the admiral. “What were you saying about the missile?”
“I wasn’t saying anything about the missile, Alexis Castle Chase,” the senior officer said precisely. “I was speaking about you and Captain Kostenko—who, judging from the progress reports he’s submitted to my agency, has enjoyed engineering your seduction quite a bit.”
Pain twisted through her heart, as this confirmation of Victor’s betrayal grasped her in both hands and squeezed. But the spark of fury ignited her and sizzled like a bomb fuse, firing her with welcome strength.
“From my perspective,” she said through gritted teeth, “the captain’s performance in bed was barely interesting. I tolerated his crude efforts to woo me in order to get close to you, admiral. But I’m far more interested in that cruise missile. What was its target?”
She saw Victor’s hands clench on the wingchair, but couldn’t bear to meet his gaze and see written on his face the lies he’d kept hidden for so long. And she’d be damned if she gave up without getting the goods now, after he’d stomped her heart and her self-esteem and her trust into a gummy mess.
Deliberately, she angled a look at her watch. “My backup is scheduled to check up on our situation in precisely one minute thirty seconds. Then you’ll have two more pissed-off agents with guns to deal with, and they’re not likely to be as civil as I am. So I’d advise you to start talking.”
Ivashov took another ten seconds to think about it, one foot tapping thoughtfully on the Turkmen carpet.
“Very well,” he said brusquely. “Your people have already pieced together the pertinent details, or you wouldn’t be positioned here now, pointing a pistol at my chest. Nor would the American navy be poking its arrogant interventionist nose into Russian business in the Black Sea. As your government has undoubtedly surmised, that missile was intended as a warning shot across the bow of the USS George Washington, whose carrier battle group was thrusting itself literally in the Lenin’s face as she undertook her classified maneuvers.”
Alexis stared into his cold gray eyes, trying to read the guy. Still pretty damn inscrutable, though she could see his situation was chafing him, since an American chick in designer duds had managed to get the drop on him.
Earlier today, the U.S. Defense Attaché had told her the George Washington was stationed in the neighborhood during that fateful exercise two years ago. She already knew the Russian military was famous for beating its chest like a damn gorilla at every opportunity. Still, she wasn’t ready to drop the theory of their intervention in that pivotal Ukrainian election.
Hell, maybe they’d been trying to kill two birds with one missile. And, given the potential benefits for the Motherland, they wouldn’t be averse to a repeat performance.
She snuck a glance at Victor and saw his eyes trained like lasers on the admiral.
“How did my father react to that command?”
Ivashov’s nostrils flared in disdain. “Captain Kostenko questioned his orders. He singularly failed in his duty to the Motherland. Entirely contrary to established procedure, he demanded that the order be confirmed at the highest level in Moscow—which, of course, our civilian leadership was in no position to undertake.”
“According to your explanation, he’d just been ordered to fire a missile that could easily have started a war,” Victor pointed out. “It’s hardly surprising that he would have wished to confirm the order before he fired.”
“Nonetheless, those were not his instructions.” Ivashov clenched his patrician jaw. “Fortunately, starpom Mishkin understood his duty far more clearly. He received contingency orders before sailing, and subsequent events illustrate that he undertook to execute them. I had already ensured that the Lenin received a clean bill of health to operate following its rather hurried refurbishment. The only detail I failed to anticipate was that the faulty seawater valves would choose that particular moment for their catastrophic failure—a failure so enormous that the submarine’s emergency pumps were utterly overwhelmed.”
“In that case, Comrade Admiral,” Victor gritted, “you were personally responsible for the death of one hundred and fifteen loyal sailors, and the loss of a valuable ballistic missile submarine. Moreover, by manufacturing a false report that my father disobeyed orders and his crew mutinied, you sullied an honorable man’s reputation to conceal your own failure from Moscow.”
Alexis didn’t know the admiral or the technical specifications of the Lenin well enough to know if Ivashov’s story checked out. But she knew Victor…or thought she did. Judging by the icy glitter in his gaze, if the captain had been standing on the bridge of his submarine, he’d have torpedoed the bastard without a shred of remorse.
“Victor.” Damn, her voice sounded too compassionate, considering she was trying to make him look to Ivashov like another victim of her machinations. Despite his betrayal, she didn’t want to see him court-martialed for conspiring with the enemy.
“Captain Kostenko.” Deliberately, she hardened her voice. “Do you have any other questions for the admiral that are relevant to the Lenin’s accident and therefore of interest to my government?”
“I would hardly volunteer to interrogate my own countryman for the benefit of a foreign power.” He shot her a narrowed look, and spoke with equal coldness. “I would advise you, Counselor, to lower that pistol you can barely manage and allow both the admiral and myself to resume our evening, before someone winds up injured—or worse.”
Alexis didn’t need decryption equipment to read that coded message. They’d been closeted with the admiral far too long. Now she needed to confront another minor flaw in her impromptu strategy. How was she supposed to make a clean getaway before Ivashov ordered her detained?
“Thanks for the advice, captain.” Though her hands were burning with tension and fatigue, she kept the PPK trained on the admiral. “This is how we’re going to handle things. I’m going to vacate the premises via the emergency exit next to you. When I’m clear, I’ll transmit that fact to my colleagues stationed outside, at which point they’ll depart unhindered through the main exit.”
Though she could only pray that the Consulate’s technician had indeed managed to follow Victor’s breakneck driving, and was waiting for her outside. If not, her little adventure was going to die a painful death on the street outside this nightclub. In the gown she was wearing, she’d freeze to death in the arctic night.
Concealing her reservations, she hoped, Alexis divided her gaze between the two men. “As for the two of you, you’re going to wait quietly right here for the next five minutes. Then you can send your security goons charging after me.”
She didn’t wait for their permission, but headed briskly for the emergency exit. From the corner of her eye, she saw Victor dividing his wary attention between her and the admiral. She could only hope he’d cover her back while she got out of there. Still, she kept the PPK prudently pointed at Ivashov as long as possible, until the vacant wingchair with its high back reared up between them and blocked her line of sight.
The second that happened, Victor uncoiled from the opposite chair like a striking cobra. Ivashov rose into view between them—with the cold black muzzle of a pistol in his grip.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have disarmed him first. Recognition of her fatal oversight arrowed through her brain—far too late.
Dimly she registered the ominous click as Ivashov released the safety. Showing none of her clumsy weapon-handling, he swung the gun toward her.
Knowing she’d never be able to target him and fire before he did, Alexis dove toward cover. But her dojo-honed instincts shrieked that she’d never get clear. Her blood froze to ice as the pistol fixed her—
Behind the admiral, she glimpsed a blur of motion too fast to track as Victor’s roundhouse kick lashed out. With black-belt-perfect precision, his foot connected with Ivashov’s head. Groaning, the admiral reeled forward, the
gun flying from his grip—miraculously, without firing.
Then Victor closed in, landing a vicious chop to the target’s neck. Ivashov sprawled on the floor and lay without moving.
Her heart racing, terror spurting through her and adrenaline flooding her system, Alexis gripped the wingchair with a shaking hand to hold herself up. Numbly, she watched as Victor checked the guy’s pulse, the PPK sagging in her grip.
“He’s out cold,” the captain muttered, straightening his tux with a crisp tug. “Though he may never recall what struck him, he appears likely to recover—unfortunately. I wish I’d killed the bastard.”
Trembling violently, Alexis used both hands to reengage the PPK’s safety, and deposited the thing carefully on the wingchair. If she never saw another gun in her life, she wouldn’t miss it. Though she figured the bitter taste flooding her mouth was comprised in equal parts of residual fear and heartbreak.
“Christ, Alexis,” Victor groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We should have discussed this before you acted. You’re supposed to be a bloody diplomat, for Christ’s sake. All talk but no action. Not to mention that seeing you in his line of fire just subtracted five years from my life. Come here.”
When she didn’t spring to obey, he started toward her, but she avoided him with a quick sidestep. He stopped sharp, comprehension firing his features as he met her gaze.
“You’ll have to keep your distance from now on, captain,” she said coldly, fuelled by her reservoir of rage at his betrayal. She could extract the splinters from her fractured heart later. “Besides, you’ve completed your ‘homework assignment’ for the SVR.”
“Goddamn it, Alexis. Obviously, he said whatever was necessary to distract you. Let me—”
“Don’t even try it.” She cut him short, knowing she needed to get out before she broke down sobbing, right there on Dracula’s couch. Before she begged Victor to say something that would make the whole mess right again, and swallowed whatever load of BS he shoveled out.
“I already knew you’d set me up,” she said tightly, hugging the clutch against her chest. Too bad for the CIA if they got a garbled transmission of her messy breakup. “Show me the identification card in your wallet, Captain Kostenko. Show me the magic talisman that got you through the metal detector with your sidearm tonight.”
God, the human heart was an amazingly stubborn organ. Until that moment, she’d actually nursed a tiny, pathetic hope that somehow he could explain it all away, though her gut told her otherwise. Now she saw the furrow deepen between his brows, the flicker of dismay in his eyes when he looked away. That was when she knew, finally, that they were finished.
“I notice you’re not rushing to vindicate yourself,” she said bitterly, gripping her purse until her fingers ached. Focusing fiercely on holding back the burning rush of tears, for just a little longer.
“Simply let me explain what happened, Alexis—”
“Your identification card, captain,” she repeated, her jaw clenched. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Goddamn it,” he gritted, fists knotting at his side. “You know as well as I do this is no place to linger. We’ll return to the hotel and talk things through—”
“Show me your fucking SVR identification, you bastard!” The ugly words tore her throat, and furiously she swiped a hand across her stinging eyes. “So we both know it’s over.”
On some level, she supposed she should be gratified that the unshakable captain fumbled while breaking out his wallet. One of those flat, brass-cornered passport cases the Russians used to hold their documents. When he flipped it open and extended it wordlessly, she could hardly read the card through her brimming tears.
But she could make out enough to confirm that yeah, it was an SVR identification card, with his name and a black-and-white photo of his stern features laminated onto it. Date of expiry about a year from now. Date of issue only a month ago, right before she’d met him.
“Alexis, listen to me.” He ground out the words with forced control as he shoved the thing back in his pocket. But he’d lapsed into Russian—a sure sign that he was disconcerted. “It’s true that they gave me the assignment, but I told them I refused to take it—”
“Nice try, captain. But your excuses are too little, too late.” Now it was her turn to fumble through her clutch, past her lipstick and the damn wire, to find the envelope she’d folded into it.
“Given your facility with languages,” she said, with an aching throat, “you’re undoubtedly familiar with the old maxim that a picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, it’s the literal truth.”
She shoved the incriminating photos of the two of them in the sack into his startled hand. “Goodbye, Captain Kostenko.”
While he frowned at the envelope, she got her ass out of there, through the emergency exit to the Consulate vehicle that was thankfully idling there—before all hell broke loose.
Before Victor could think up any more good lies to con her. Before she overrode all her instincts and years of experience with the Russians and convinced herself to believe him.
She could never override the sickening realization that she’d fallen in love with a lie, a legend the Russians had engineered solely for her seduction.
A man who didn’t exist—and never would.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Alexis, I wish you would allow yourself a bit more time to think this over.”
Standing in a sea of packing debris, Stuart Malvaux watched unhappily as Alexis transferred a pile of glossy art books from her living room bookshelf into a shipping crate. Behind him, the gas fire flickered cheerily, casting its glow over the cream pile carpet and bland beige walls of her Embassy townhouse.
“You’ve made this decision terribly quickly,” the Ambassador pressed when she didn’t respond. “Ten years of hard work to make Minister-Counselor at one of our largest and highest-profile embassies. A position any Foreign Service Officer would kill for, and one you richly deserve. Do you really want to throw away your achievements and your ambitions with barely three weeks’ notice?”
Doggedly, Alexis stacked a box of political biographies—her father’s books, which she’d kept for sentimental reasons, but somehow never gotten around to reading. Another subtle sign that she’d been on the wrong career track.
“Those were my father’s ambitions, not mine,” she said firmly, keeping her eyes on her work. Because she also knew if she met her old friend’s sympathetic amber eyes, she’d never manage to keep it together. “I know this all seems rather sudden. But this decision has been in the works for a long time, even if I wasn’t prepared to acknowledge my unhappiness until now. I did stay on through the presidential visit, as promised.”
“Don’t understate your contribution, Alexis. This was a historical first-ever visit between President Cartwright and her hard-line Russian counterpart, on the brink of an international crisis. Ultimately, the summit was successful due largely to your efforts.
“The fact that she was able to confront the Russians,” he pointed out, “and that they knew we weren’t merely speculating about their intentions for Ukraine—these were arguably the critical factors in the Russian pullout. Without overstating the case, I’ve given Washington my assessment that it was your efforts most of all that preserved the fledgling democracy of a key U.S. ally under threat.”
“You’re very generous, sir. But you know as well as I do that we were extraordinarily lucky. I made one catastrophic error after another in my efforts to resolve the issue.”
Grimly, Alexis concentrated on taping her box closed. Anytime she let her thoughts stray to that disastrous night in St. Petersburg—the night she’d finally smartened up and dumped Victor Kostenko—she ended up an emotional wreck.
Damn it, she’d known he’d been lying to her about his work, his background, and most of all his reasons for pursuing her. But she still loved the guy she’d thought he was, the carefully crafted legend who didn’t even exist. And how stupid was t
hat?
She cleared her throat and swallowed past the aching lump. “You heard the Defense Attaché’s closeout briefing yesterday. Before they withdrew, the Russians towed what was left of the Lenin into 10,000 feet of water and let her sink. They most likely eased off the pressure on Ukraine simply because they know that, at that depth, we’ll never get to the boat or its nuclear payload.”
“I suppose that’s one possible interpretation,” Stu murmured, his voice so rich with sympathy that she almost started crying again. “Regardless of the Russians’ motives, you did one hell of a job, Alexis—and at considerable personal cost. You can rest assured that I’ve informed the Secretary personally of your substantial contribution. You should expect a letter of commendation from him for your efforts.”
“Thanks,” she said huskily, head bowed over the packing crate for an unnecessarily long moment. “And I truly do appreciate the Meritorious Honor Award. Even though some will always question…”
“Whether you received it because your name happens to be Castle?” he finished for her. “Do you honestly believe I’d have tolerated a mediocre officer in your pivotal post, at this Embassy and during this critical juncture in the U.S.-Russian relationship, solely for a dead man’s sake? I respected your father as one hell of a diplomat, Alexis. But I consider you his equal.”
She’d known the Ambassador a long time, and he could lie as smoothly as any other government figure when necessary. But she recognized the ring of sincerity in his voice. He really did value her contributions for her own sake, just as he claimed. And she damn well knew she deserved that recognition, despite her mistakes in handling this case. Just as she knew there were others in the old boys’ network at Stat Department whom she’d never convince.
She’d thought this through from every angle, during hour-long soaks in her tub with a bottle of Bordeaux and a sea of scented candles. The only way she’d ever get out from under Wayne Castle’s towering shadow, as she’d finally accepted, was to renounce the diplomatic career she’d never truly wanted. Once she’d made up her mind to accept the risk and make the jump, the decision had been surprisingly liberating. Moreover, it felt right.
The Russian Seduction Page 25
