Though the apparatchik said all the right words, Skylar had distrusted him on sight. Since then, he’d done nothing to alter her first impression.
Novikov was a bland, objectively attractive man in his mid-forties, pale blond hair swept coldly back from an expressionless face. Intelligence gleamed in the chilly blue eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. Educated at the prestigious Moscow State University, well known in scientific circles, a Corresponding Member of the elite Russian Academy of Sciences—a background carefully engineered to convince the international community of his bona fides.
Too bad Skylar knew about his classified research, his work to boost the persistence and lethality of the organophosphorus nerve agents whose use the Soviet Union had perfected. Anatoly Novikov was hardly a model citizen of the world community.
Replacing her cup in its saucer, she locked gazes with the man. “I was so sorry to hear about Dr. Belov’s accident. What happened to him, exactly?”
From his discreet placement near the door, Nikolai Markov stirred. The movement was so slight she would have missed it if she weren’t already so hyperaware of his silent presence. Although she was accustomed to surveillance at the sensitive sites she visited, something about this particular security minder definitely differed from the faceless drones who usually escorted her.
For reasons she couldn’t seem to pin down, he vibrated with a contained intensity that kept her restless, off-balance, edgy and distracted when she could least afford it.
Now, as her gaze flickered toward him—drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence—she found his black, inscrutable eyes fixed upon her. An eddy of dark heat flooded through her.
Behind the desk, Novikov cleared his throat.
“Dr. Belov slipped on the ice. He suffered a broken arm and a concussion, as well as a host of lesser injuries. In a man of his age, you’ll understand, those injuries can be daunting.”
“That must have been some fall. I hope for his complete recovery.” Concern knotted her insides for the kindly old man who’d befriended her. “It must be difficult for his family as well. I understand Dr. Belov’s son is a synthetic chemist in this facility. In his father’s absence, may I speak with him?”
“Unfortunately, Andrei Belov is unavailable—in Novosibirsk, you understand, monitoring his father’s condition. Would you care for more coffee before we wrap up, Ambassador? Or you, Mr. Markov?”
Skylar’s fingers tapped out a restless tattoo on the table. Mannaggia, this hard-won visit was proving all but useless! Despite her careful planning, despite the fact that she’d literally put her life on the line, she’d been denied any connection with the ex-weapons scientists who interested her the most.
And she was certain Anatoly Novikov had shown her only those facilities that were no longer used for offensive work.
“Tell me.” She smiled and shifted tactics. “What kind of collaboration are you currently undertaking with Asian partners?”
Behind the desk, the Deputy Director stilled.
“Why, Ambassador Rossi, we have no engagement at all with Asian partners. Why do you ask?”
Because I’m betting the Asian businessmen I saw at the hotel this morning were North Koreans, Dr. Novikov. Khimgorod is a one-trick pony, and the Chemical Combine is the only game in town.
With a diplomat’s instinct for reading the faces across the negotiating table, she knew her host was lying. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist—or even an organic chemist—to figure out why.
“ICSI is facilitating a number of civilian research projects between Russian and Japanese partners,” she said blandly. “I’d be happy to provide your prospectus to those Japanese corporations, including a major pharmaceutical company seeking toxicologists in Russia. Unless your institute is performing so well financially that you’re entirely indifferent to these opportunities?”
Not even a world-class liar could claim that was the case—not after the leaky ceilings, rusted ductwork, and standing puddles she’d observed. Outside the locked doors to the chemistry labs, the facility’s cavernous common areas weren’t even heated in the subzero Siberian chill. This oversized dinosaur rusting slowly in the middle of nowhere couldn’t afford to pay the heating bill.
Anatoly Novikov studied her, his cold eyes narrowed. At the edge of her vision, she sensed Nikolai Markov’s heightened alertness—a tiger with lashing tail, tensed to spring. She felt a dangerous impulse to trust him, to rely on his vigilance.
But she’d better not indulge that kind of self-delusion. The FSB had ordered him to guard Russia’s secrets, not her personal safety. She couldn’t afford to doubt his determination to do just that.
“At present,” Novikov said crisply, “this institute’s primary revenue derives from the development and production of pesticides for agricultural crops. The revenues from this business have proven adequate to keep us afloat.”
Smoothly the apparatchik rose to his feet. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you? I should check with my secretary regarding my next appointment.”
When her host slipped out, leaving her alone with Markov, Skylar removed her glasses and pressed her fingers to her temples in a vain effort to massage away the pounding tension.
“You have no idea how frustrating this is.” She sighed. “Speaking with those scientists was the primary reason for my visit. I have an entire list of experts Dr. Belov agreed I could meet.”
Nikolai Markov tilted his dark head to study her. Beneath that veneer of chilly reserve, a hint of curiosity flickered.
“Is the outcome of this particular mission so important? There are hundreds of aging weapons laboratories, are there not, scattered across the former Soviet Union? Surely, as they say, you have other fish to fry.”
Skylar slanted him a cautious glance—the same wary reserve she’d learned to raise like a shield between her and anyone who tried to slip past her boundaries. She’d learned that lesson well in her childhood, shunted by her father from one elite boarding school to another. The pain of losing people she’d grown to care about hurt more than the chronic ache of loneliness.
By the time her father died, she’d been hard-wired to keep everyone out.
“I have a great deal of sympathy for these scientists and their plight,” she said truthfully, though it wasn’t the entire truth. “These experts are world-class specialists, at the pinnacle of their field. Yet—through no fault of their own—since the Soviet Union collapsed, their cash-strapped government doesn’t even pay them enough to feed their families. You know most Russians these days are moonlighting, working second and third jobs. I’ve found former weapons scientists selling vegetables in the market!”
His dark eyes widened. “Your wealthy American countrymen would say it’s a natural consequence of capitalism, would they not? The weak are winnowed out. It’s natural selection, survival of the fittest—all quite Darwinian.”
Impatient, she shook her head. The familiar sense of urgency gnawed at her.
“These scientists have the expertise and wherewithal to kill thousands of innocent people, and every rogue regime and terrorist in the world knows it. We have to offer them a peaceful financial alternative, some way to earn a decent living, or—”
Hearing her voice rise with the frustration that goaded her, drove her day and night to work faster, try harder—the churning anxiety that kept her up at night confronting her demons—she struggled to rein in her wayward emotions. Her passion for this work was both a blessing and a curse.
“You’re a crusader,” he murmured, still watching her. “An idealist, though I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“I’m a pragmatist, that’s all. It’s my responsibility to help these scientists.”
I’ve made it my duty to save them, she thought starkly. To atone for what happened in Bangkok.
“You surprise me, Dr. Rossi.” In any other man, she would have said he sounded intrigued.
But this was Nikolai Markov. The man who appeared to experience no human emotion
whatsoever.
Feeling uncomfortably exposed, she slipped on her glasses like a protective mask.
“It’s the mission my organization was created to accomplish. I won’t allow that mission to fail.”
“So you’re merely doing your duty?” One brow arched skeptically. “Fulfilling your professional responsibilities? There are easier ways to earn a living. All that passion and drive must be motivated by something. Frankly speaking, any daughter of Dane Rossi can have no pressing need for the money.”
“Why does it matter?” she countered, her tone sharpening. He’d triggered all her defense mechanisms—calling her the daughter of Dane Rossi, a label she’d spent a lifetime running away from. “If you’re familiar with my resume, you’ll know my commitment to this mission is paramount. Anything else is irrelevant.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged gracefully, but his gaze was riveted to her. “Still, I must confess I’m curious. Is it some need for atonement…for the sins of your past?”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Fighting down a surge of panic, she swept tendrils of hair behind her ear with a shaking hand. “You’re just doing a job yourself, as you’ve stated so eloquently.”
He slanted her a sardonic glance.
“Take it easy, Dr. Rossi. You’re correct, of course. As long as you comply with our security protocols, your personal motives are immaterial to me. I was merely making a stab at polite conversation.”
Roast the man, anyway. Now Skylar felt guilty for responding so ungraciously. He had no way of knowing he was treading on dangerous terrain, that any personal overture risked triggering all her emotional landmines.
No way of knowing she’d spent a lifetime conditioning herself to keep everyone at arms’ length—even her infrequent and largely unsatisfying lovers.
This man had saved her life today. Surely he deserved better than a brusque dismissal.
Pensive, she fingered the tiny platinum charm that hung at her throat, the diamond-studded ballet slipper her mother had given for her eighth birthday—just before Sabrina Rossi’s fatal accident. Skylar had always known, though she’d never admitted it to anyone but her therapist, that the fiery plummet of her mother’s Lamborghini from a cliff near Carmel had been no accident. After all, she’d witnessed her parents’ final confrontation.
Indeed, she’d been the direct cause of it.
She hadn’t needed a therapist to tell her this intense commitment to peace and disarmament was fueled by a need for redemption. The need for absolution, as Nikolai Markov had observed so astutely, from the sins of her past. The need to repudiate the lifetime of wealth and privilege Dane Rossi’s illegal arms sales had financed.
The question was how Nikolai Markov had known this, since it definitely wasn’t something she advertised.
For now, it was time to change the subject.
“Please forgive my rudeness, Mr. Markov.” She forced a strained smile. “I never sleep well on the train. I’m afraid it’s made me rather testy.”
He inclined his dark head, acknowledging her words, his expression shuttered. She had the impression she wasn’t the only one at this table whose formidable defenses had been unexpectedly assaulted.
“No need to apologize, Dr. Rossi. If you’re fatigued, it’s certainly understandable. You’ll have several hours to rest at the hotel before you board the train.”
Skylar wasn’t certain where she intended to turn next, but resting in her hotel on her last night in Khimgorod wasn’t in the cards.
No point telling him that just yet.
Looking into that sin-black gaze, she felt the tug of curiosity. The man was such a cipher, even to someone with her skill at reading people. Maybe that was why he intrigued her, why she itched with the need to figure him out.
“Your job has its own unique demands as well, I’d imagine,” she said softly. “After all, you’ve risked your life twice today for a total stranger. Is that even an unusual occurrence for you, or merely par for the course?”
“Are you asking what motivates me?”
Abruptly he uncoiled to his feet, gaze sliding away to the ice-rimed windows that overlooked the barren concrete and steel expanse of the combine.
“It’s just a job, Dr. Rossi. I’m in this for the money, nothing more.”
“Are you?”
Somehow, she wasn’t buying it. But they were both holding each other at a distance.
Etched against the fading Arctic light, his profile drew the eye: an aristocrat’s elegant nose, the graceful curve of cheekbone, silky dark hair sweeping back from an intellectual’s high forehead. He was a beautiful man, she noticed—not for the first time. Beautiful, and frightening, and utterly untouchable.
His lids dropped over his hooded gaze.
“For a man of my abilities,” he said softly, “the money is very, very good.”
A chill like an icy finger slid down her spine. She cleared her throat.
“You’re still a bit of an enigma to me, Mr. Markov. I can’t help being curious about the man behind the mask.”
Shortly he laughed and pivoted toward the window, so she couldn’t see his face.
“Are you asking who I am? No one has a clue—least of all myself.”
Though he’d spoken lightly, a dark vein of intensity pulsed beneath his words. Skylar stared after him, a lone, stylish figure etched against the dying day—a shadow against the light. Restless as a caged panther, he paced.
Yes, a beautiful man, with that lithe prowling menace, his skein of dark hair gleaming like mahogany.
Yet there was something armed and lethal under all that refinement, lurking under that Armani suit like the semi-automatic pistol he’d drawn in her defense. As dangerous to her as to the man he’d shot so casually.
She’d better not forget it, no matter how strangely fascinating she found him.
“This storm’s growing worse, I’m afraid.” His impersonal tone restored the distance between them. Beyond his silhouette, gusts of snow scoured the frost-rimed glass. “You’ve come a long way from Moscow in more ways than one.”
“Don’t underestimate the danger of these places,” she murmured. “Chemical weapons are pesticides for people. Pesticides work on the same principles, involve the same chemical precursors and production processes—even the same distribution methods. They’re a poor man’s atomic bomb. You don’t need a cruise missile or anything high-tech. A one-man crop-duster works beautifully to disseminate nerve agent, and a microgram droplet can kill—”
The rapid tap of shoe-heels in the corridor cut her short. Skylar glanced toward the door as Anatoly Novikov bustled in, followed by the pallid, tight-lipped woman who was his secretary—both enveloped in a cloud of Russian tobacco.
The woman held Skylar’s ivory wool coat draped over one arm.
“I do apologize, Ambassador, but a minor emergency has arisen that requires my immediate attention.” The Deputy Director gave her a little bow. “You’ll understand, I’m certain, if we say our goodbyes here? My secretary will escort you and Mr. Markov to your vehicle.”
A surge of frustration rolled through her. She’d come so far for this meeting, overcome so many hurdles—yet learned so little. Her instincts were tingling, increasingly convinced the North Koreans had beaten her to the punch. And the Russians had been giving her the runaround since she’d arrived.
Yet she’d conducted enough of these visits to know she’d never force a confession from a man who was clearly determined to avoid one.
Hiding her disappointment, she voiced the appropriate courtesies and struggled into her coat. Courteous as always, Nikolai Markov assisted her into the garment with an impersonal hand. While the two men exchanged a perfunctory handshake, with a notable absence of warmth on either side, she slipped a hand into her coat pocket and fumbled for her gloves.
Her breath caught when she found a smooth square of folded paper she definitely hadn’t put there.
Heart racing, Skylar exerted all her willpower and lef
t the note where it was. With difficulty, she forced herself to direct a stream of inoffensive chit-chat at Novikov’s unresponsive secretary—another opportunity to practice her Russian—as they wound through a labyrinth of corridors and squeezed into the tiny lift.
Just before the guarded turnstile in the foyer, she drew the secretary aside and murmured an apologetic request for the bathroom. As she’d hoped, the maneuver won her a precious moment of privacy.
Skylar slipped into the water closet with its ancient toilet and mildewed tiles and carefully engaged the lock. Only then did she slip out the single sheet of lined paper—clearly torn from a laboratory notebook—and scan the scribbled message.
Stolovaya No. 14
2100 hours
Tonight
That was it, nothing more, no signature or identifying mark of any kind. Frowning, she studied the message and considered who could have left it and why. Her coat had been unattended in the garderobe—well inside the secure perimeter. So whoever left the note must be someone with unescorted access to the site—an insider. Yet, just as clearly, the author hadn’t been able to approach her openly.
A tingle of excitement swept through her. This could be the break she’d been looking for, maybe someone Anton Belov had delegated to speak with her in his absence. Possibly even his son Andrei, the synthetic chemist.
If she wanted to find out, she’d need to manufacture a credible excuse for going to the stolovaya—a Soviet-era café and nightspot—instead of the dingy hotel restaurant for dinner. And then, somehow, make herself available for whatever contact might follow, despite the watchful presence of her security escort.
Sounds like a piece of cake, she thought wryly, ripping the note into pieces and sprinkling them into the toilet. Briskly she pulled the chain to flush and watched the scraps go swirling down the drain.
Of course, she couldn’t discount the possibility this was an elaborate trap, some attempt to compromise her—or worse. Even in the twenty-first century, an American diplomat needed to stay on her toes in Russia.
The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2) Page 7
