Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE RUSSIAN TEMPTATION
by
NIKKI NAVARRE
AFFLUENT PRESS
SPOKANE, WASHINGTON
Published by Affluent Press, a subsidy of River Valley Publishing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Cover design by Scott Carpenter Manufactured in the United States of America
Copyright © 2013 by Laura Navarre
First Ebook Edition
Dedication
This one’s for four guys I couldn’t have finished the book without: suspense author and mentor extraordinaire Mike Kimball for reading an early draft and loving it, alpha reader and husband extraordinaire Steven for keeping me going while I finished it, and two guys who asked not to be named for expertise I won’t go into. You guys rock!
CHAPTER ONE
Hanging Pawns: Two chess pawns abreast without friendly pawns nearby. Considered a strength because they can advance—and a weakness because they can’t be defended.
When the Trans-Siberian train chugged into the secret city of Khimgorod, Skylar Rossi was ready. Despite the uncivilized hour—five a.m., and the landscape still shrouded in ink-black Arctic night—she’d gotten up early to review her talking points one last time. On this tricky, first-ever mission to a city that didn’t exist on any map, a city whose very existence the Russian Ministry of Defense continued to deny, she needed to be prepared for a rocky reception.
Still muddled from her sleepless night, she stood swaying in the dimly lit corridor of her second-class carriage, beside the row of closed doors that secured the tiny passenger cabins. Gamely she battled the urge to scurry back to her own narrow bunk, bolt the little door behind her, and pull the scratchy blanket over her head.
Instead, she stood and shivered as the sharp winter wind knifed through the ill-fitting windows and whistled down the corridor. The cold sliced through the ivory wool of her knee-length coat, slid cruel fingers beneath her conservative pantsuit, and raised sheets of goose bumps on her skin. Inside fur-lined boots, her feet were chunks of ice, already numb and aching.
Beyond the grimy windows, the white blaze of artificial light flashed into view like a holocaust, exposing the barren stretch of platform that marked her destination. As the train jerked and slowed, she gripped the attaché case that held her instructions from Washington.
Thankfully, neither the precious documents nor her diplomatic passport had been in her purse, snatched yesterday at the train station in Novosibirsk.
Once more, the seething tension of the past twenty-four hours constricted her lungs and threatened to trigger her asthma.
“Merda,” she whispered, falling back on a curse from her long-dead Italian father—the only legacy of his she’d kept.
Seemed she’d been fighting for air since she left her Moscow apartment yesterday, when all the careful arrangements she’d made for this dangerous trip began to unravel. Grimly she fought to release the pressure in her chest. Producing her inhaler would only signal weakness to the Russians.
From the rattling platform between the cars, the broad-chested provodnitsa shouldered into the carriage. Her blocky frame filled the corridor, fuzzy overhead light glinting on the epaulets of her military-style uniform.
Beneath them, the train clattered and rocked to a halt.
“City of Chernov,” the attendant muttered. Unfriendly eyes darted over Skylar, probably checking for contraband, before she unbolted the door.
You mean city of Khimgorod, Skylar thought. One of the best-kept secrets of the old Soviet Union, a closed city hidden in the hostile northern tundra, hundreds of kilometers from anywhere. If not for the satellite photos and that lone defector, her government would never have known it was there.
Even for a senior official like Skylar, the place was only accessible from the isolated provincial capital of Novosibirsk where she’d boarded this train last night. And Novosibirsk itself, with its thin pretensions to civilization, was a terrifying half-day flight in an aging Tupolev from Moscow.
Even now, she could hardly believe she was here, preparing to enter the complex where the Soviets had once conducted their secret research on highly lethal chemical compounds like sarin, soman, and VX—the most toxic nerve agent ever synthesized.
So toxic, in fact, that a miniscule dose would kill 50% of the population exposed to it within five minutes.
Khimgorod was also the complex whose massive factories still belched out metric tons of chemical weapons, in blatant violation of international law. The isolated citadel where the Chemical Munitions Agency was, even now, continuing its illegal and deadly efforts.
“Remember,” the provodnitsa grunted, unlatching the ugly steel doors. “No photographs.”
“Thank you,” Skylar said in polite Russian. “I’ve been briefed on the security protocols.”
Hoping to project the necessary resolve, she glanced at her blurred image. From the window, her pale blue eyes stared back, wide and anxious. Unfortunately, she looked like hell after that sleepless night, and her cosmetics had vanished along with her stolen purse. Uneasy, she swept a few tendrils of chin-length black hair behind her ear and straightened her faux white leopard hat.
Mannaggia, Skylar! You have exactly one chance to get this right, so settle down and focus.
It had taken Washington two decades to pry open this Pandora’s box, plus six months of her own relentless effort to convince the Russians she was the one to deal with. If the deal went wrong, it would probably take another twenty years before Moscow let anyone else sniff around.
Although, given the fact that a microgram particle of VX was lethal when touched or inhaled, she planned to do all her sniffing through a gas mask.
She was still struggling to ease the tightness in her lungs when the train doors clattered open. Freeze-dried oxygen from the Siberian night slapped her face and seared into her lungs like battery acid. Convulsively she coughed, releasing a cloud of frosted breath that froze instantly at minus forty Celsius.
So much for my gravitas.
Gripping her rolling suitcase, she muscled the luggage down to the ice-rimmed platform.
Warily her gaze swept the unfamiliar scene. Around her, a chain link fence topped with spirals of barbed wire enclosed the platform. Beneath the barricade, piles of grayish snow marked the impenetrable boundary of this no man’s land.
Under the train’s muted chug, still huffing behind her, the white hush of the tundra enveloped her, then the pure high whistle of the Siberian wind.
No one else appeared to be disembarking, and she struggled to master her uneas
e. She couldn’t help feeling a bit intimidated by the welcome committee that patrolled the platform: half a dozen stern-faced guards in combat fatigues, scowling beneath fur hats, the two-headed Russian eagle glaring against sable. Clearly, these watchdogs were there to ensure the other passengers stayed on the train and no curious tourist snapped a photo through the windows. If anyone felt tempted, those Kalashnikov machine guns, gripped in casual menace, sent a fairly clear message.
Directly before her, electric light blazed against the black Cyrillic letters that spelled out the official lie.
CHERNOV.
The exotic lettering seemed to scowl at her. Despite all her dogged efforts to become fluent, she was still learning the language. There loomed another problem that gnawed at her.
Behind her the train doors whooshed together, the metallic clatter sharp as broken glass.
“Ambassador Rossi?”
The quiet murmur sent her spinning around. Before her, close enough to touch, loomed a phalanx of three dark-suited figures. And she’d had so little warning of their arrival that they might have beamed down from the starship Enterprise, for all she knew.
Anxious, she searched the shuttered faces, inscrutable behind upturned collars and pulled-low hats, and looked hopefully for Anton Belov’s kindly round face. Unfortunately, her host was not among them.
“I’m Ambassador Rossi.” Thankfully her asthma was subsiding, and she offered a pleasant smile. “You must be the welcome committee.”
Silently a man stepped forward, graceful as a cat on the treacherous ice. The blaze of floodlights behind him shadowed his face in silhouette. She strained to make out his features: a tall knife-slim figure, impeccably clad in a black wool coat, dark cashmere scarf knotted neatly around his throat. Unmoved by the shocking cold, he stood hatless, artificial light glistening over silky dark hair.
“Welcome to Chernov.” The syllables unfurled in a cultured tenor—rapid Russian she could barely follow. “Or Khimgorod, if you’d prefer. Unfortunately, I fear your visit with us must be a short one.”
Skylar understood enough to frame a reply, but regretted the interpreter she’d left behind—the associate whose unexpected, last-minute illness had forced her to leave Moscow without him.
Just one of the many disasters that sprouted like mushrooms around this visit.
“It’s a pleasure to be here,” she said in her best Russian, and hoisted her attaché case. “You’ll see that I have all the necessary approvals from your government: authorization from the Chemical Munitions Agency and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and a valid Russian visa in my diplomatic passport. I also have an official invitation from Anton Belov, Director of the Khimgorod Chemical Combine. I’m scheduled for a two-day visit—and my meetings begin in three hours.”
“We understood you would be accompanied,” the man said coolly, “by your interpreter. Where is this man, Your Excellency?”
As a rule, Skylar disliked the formal address that was her due as Ambassador and Chief of Mission at the International Chemical Science Institute—an intergovernmental organization with diplomatic status. But this wasn’t the moment to indulge her personal preferences.
She had a feeling she’d need all the intimidation factor she could muster to deal with this situation.
Though the statement had been phrased as a question, she suspected her interrogator already knew the answer. Flanking him left and right, his sidekicks loomed in silent menace: two rough-looking men, solid as refrigerators, anonymous under bulky winter garb that could have hidden an AK-47—and probably did.
The pair kept one eye nailed to the leader who was clearly in command of this little welcome party—and one eye on the lone American woman who stood before them and tried not to shiver.
Skylar mustered the Russian phrases she’d worked out to explain her unusual situation.
“When we arranged this meeting, Dr. Belov volunteered to provide an interpreter with expertise in chemical munitions. Unfortunately that person fell ill, just before my departure. I wasn’t able to find a replacement on such short notice, but my Russian is sufficient for—”
“And your bodyguard?” Her interrogator kept the light behind him, so she still couldn’t see his face.
Arching her brows, she paused to convey surprise at the interruption. It took guts—or hubris—to interrupt someone of her rank. If she wanted this Russian’s respect, she couldn’t afford to let any discourtesy pass unchallenged.
“I don’t require a bodyguard, since I only travel where invited,” she said pointedly, reminding him that his government had approved her visit. “Anton Belov assured me—”
“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”
Without warning, the man glided forward to grip her elbow. Although she stood at five foot eleven in her low-heeled leather boots, this inscrutable stranger still towered over her. “Your meetings in Khimgorod have been cancelled.”
A surge of alarm spiked through her. They couldn’t cancel her meetings, not when she’d worked so hard to secure them, and the welfare of so many rode on the outcome. Damn it, they’d had three security breaches at the VX production site in the last six months, if that defector was telling the truth. She needed to see the place, find out how porous it really was. And she might never get another chance.
Skylar pinned on her game face, courteous but resolved, and started dropping names.
“I spoke with Deputy Foreign Minister Velikov earlier this week at the French Ambassador’s residence. He affirmed the Ministry’s support for my visit.”
Of course, this would all be much easier if her interpreter were present. Madonna mia, she couldn’t postpone this visit! Her access to this site was authorized for the next two days only, they hovered on the brink of global crisis, and she was in this to her eyebrows.
“You must discuss the situation with the Deputy Minister when you return to Moscow,” her interrogator said, with equal politeness.
Clearly he didn’t give a damn whose name she dropped—although he might be bluffing.
Buying time while she thought, Skylar slipped away from his deft touch. Her maneuver drew him into the light. Harsh light spilled across his features, clean and spare: Slavic cheekbones and an elegant nose, an aristocrat’s high brow beneath the sweep of chocolate hair, fine lines etched around his eyes. Mid-forties probably, if she had to hazard a guess. No scars or other distinguishing features to draw attention. The type of face you passed on the street a hundred times a day and never remembered.
But his eyes swallowed her—opaque and unreadable, a flat black stare that observed and catalogued her every reaction. A stare that took what it wanted, and gave nothing back. A shiver rippled down her spine, raising a fresh crop of goose bumps.
The man was a predator, pure and simple. Being so close to him was enough to stand her hair on end.
“My meetings can’t be cancelled,” she said firmly. “Nine capitals are waiting for my debrief on this visit when I return to ICSI.”
She pronounced her institute’s acronym as “icksy”—a gambit to find out what he knew, maybe throw him a little curve ball. But the strange word didn’t seem to perturb him.
“I’d like to speak with Anton Belov immediately,” she finished.
“Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. I’m afraid Dr. Belov suffered an accident last night. He’s had to be airlifted by emergency helicopter to the hospital in Novosibirsk.”
“My God.” Worry and concern for the big-hearted scientist washed through her. The emotional response threatened to distract her from her strategy—which was to play pretty and polite until she learned what she’d come here to discover.
She’d really liked Anton when they met at that chemical weapons conference in the Netherlands. He’d been her chief ally to get this historic visit approved. Had Moscow changed its mind? She’d felt certain of the Foreign Ministry’s support, but the hardline general who headed the Munitions Agency was definitely reluctant to unzip Khimgorod’s
fly.
“I see.” Swiftly she collected her thoughts. “I hope Dr. Belov will make a full recovery?”
“Under normal circumstances, his injuries would be nothing fatal. At his age, of course, one must be concerned.” Her interrogator’s dark gaze scanned the train still chuffing behind her. “This train is scheduled to depart in three minutes, Ambassador, and will take you on to Krasnoyarsk. From there, you can fly back to Moscow. Ilya will help with your suitcase.”
“Just a minute, please.” She’d been around the diplomatic block enough times to know when she was being railroaded.
Time to put on the brakes, since she had no intention of getting back on that train without accomplishing the job she’d come to do.
Either there’d been a security breach at Khimgorod, and someone had walked away with enough VX to make the Tokyo sarin attacks look like amateur hour. Or else the Munitions Agency was using the break-ins as a cover-up for a little back door business with terrorists or rogue states—which the leadership in Moscow might or might not have sanctioned.
Either way, no local Russian bureaucrat with a pole up his derriere was going to keep her out.
“I’m sorry to say I didn’t catch your name?” She switched to English to see if he’d follow. She was developing a hunch about this guy.
When his eyes narrowed, she knew she’d been right.
His thugs loomed behind him, their ruddy faces blank. Clearly no clue what she’d just said, and no interest in talking either. She didn’t suppose their employer—whoever he was—kept them around for their dazzling wit.
Silently the stranger studied her with those frightening eyes, slender brows raised, as though perhaps she’d surprised him. But he replied in perfect English, his accent nearly undetectable. Far more fluent in English than she was in Russian, and he had to have known that when he’d addressed her in his native tongue.
A bit of a bastard, but he was also clever, and therefore dangerous.
“Unfortunately, we have very little time for social niceties, Your Excellency—”
The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2) Page 1
