She chose the part of his question she could safely answer. It was high time she said it, though she knew he wouldn’t like hearing it.
“I’m not boarding the overnight train,” she stated. “According to my approved itinerary, I’m meeting tomorrow with the chair of Khimgorod State University’s chemistry department and the local branch of the Academy of Sciences. They’re important collaborators for the chemical plant, the incubator for cutting edge research into new chemical compounds.”
A new generation of chemical weapons, a funnel for novel agents that make VX look benign as baby’s milk.
“These are meetings I can’t afford to miss,” she finished.
He inhaled sharply, the only hint he let slip that she’d surprised him. She wouldn’t even have known that much if her hand wasn’t spread across the hard plane of his chest. She was losing herself in his eyes, black pupils dilating until they swallowed his gaze.
His eyes were impenetrable, black as a bad intention. Fingers of ice slid along her skin and raised goose bumps along her forearms.
“Do you really think that’s wise, Dr. Rossi?” he whispered. “I can’t keep you safe from your enemies forever.”
At least now you admit I have enemies.
He’d abandoned the fiction of the botched car theft. She felt a certain grim triumph to have won that much, though it didn’t make her feel any easier.
“I’m sure the riskiest part of this visit is behind me,” she lied, recalling the note she’d found in her coat pocket and shredded in the toilet. She hoped its mysterious author would show soon, before Nikolai got too suspicious and herded her back to that wretched hotel. She was doing her best to be visible, out here on the dance floor with this dangerous Russian.
It was the sole reason she’d asked him to dance, wasn’t it?
“An interesting hypothesis,” he countered. “Why would you say that?”
She pulled her thoughts together.
“Universities tend to have fewer security sensitivities. They’re usually wide open to collaboration. And the Academy of Sciences has always been an ally for ICSI.”
His eyes narrowed, as if zeroing in on her deception. Strictly speaking, everything she’d said was true, but Russian universities also studied “closed subjects” like military technologies. Which was precisely why she was so interested in this one.
She kept her tone level and reasonable.
“When will I have another chance? After today’s misadventures, it’s unlikely either your government or mine will ever let me return here. This is the best opportunity Khimgorod’s scientists may ever have to pursue legitimate, peaceful research with western governments. Given the unfortunate state of the Russian science budget, some of these scientists have been reduced to driving a bus!”
Beneath the expensive blazer, he shrugged off the grim truth, though she wondered if he were truly as indifferent to his country’s financial woes as he claimed.
“Sadly, they’ve grown accustomed to it,” he said. “They’re not exactly dropping like flies in the street. At least not yet.”
Faced with her stubborn silence, his butter-smooth voice hardened.
“Are you so indifferent to your own safety, Skylar? Tell me, is it arrogance or blind faith in the moral high ground of your crusade that makes you so damned—?”
He stopped abruptly. For a heartbeat he stared over her shoulder. A ripple of invisible awareness vibrated through his slender frame. Infinitesimally, his fingers tightened around hers.
Then a mask dropped over his features. The crease of annoyance that had furrowed his brow went smooth, making him impossible to read.
For no logical reason, Skylar’s heart fluttered in her chest. Swallowing to ease the sudden tightness in her throat, she turned her head casually to scan the crowded floor. Although the somber ballad continued to throb from the speakers, and the bar’s hard-bitten denizens drank and smoked and danced as before, the low hum of conversation was petering out.
A new tension had invaded the overheated, smoke-laced air of Stolovaya No. 14.
And the reasons for that tension were filling the doorway, two of them, stone-faced men wearing the sturdy khaki uniforms and insignia of the MVD—the internal police. Their sidearms were holstered, the newcomers temporarily occupied by the inescapable Russian ritual of surrendering their heavy overcoats to the steel-faced matron who commanded the coat check.
Under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t give the police a second glance, just two more cold-eyed military men in a country whose government was as obsessed with projecting military might as they’d been in Soviet times.
But the locals clearly recognized them, and didn’t welcome their presence.
Swiftly the policemen extricated themselves from the coat check and strode into the bar. Side by side, they shouldered onto the crowded dance floor. To her heightened senses, they seemed to be making a beeline straight for her.
The instant before she would have made eye contact, Skylar pivoted away with her heart pounding. She found herself looking straight into Nikolai’s hardened gaze, only inches away.
He looked the way he had in the Volga that morning, pistol gleaming in his grip, firing cold and remorseless into the night while bullets and shattered glass flew around him.
“Keep dancing,” he said curtly.
Automatically she lurched into motion, swaying to the music, her fingers laced with his, palm resting against the steady beat of his heart.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she managed, through the fear that squeezed her throat. “We’ve done nothing wrong by coming here. You’re my approved escort, aren’t you?”
Cavolo! Anxiety was triggering her asthma. In a minute she’d need her inhaler. But she’d have to cross the bar to retrieve it from her coat. Moving closer to the hard-eyed internal police wasn’t something she was eager to do.
“In every way.” Nikolai’s hooded gaze glittered. “But you’ve had a few problems in Khimgorod. Perhaps you’d prefer to keep a low profile.”
Behind her, she sensed the militsia bearing down on her, impossible to avoid in the crowd even if they weren’t gunning for her. The back of her neck tightened, nerves making her scalp crawl.
Beneath the throbbing music, she whispered, “Why do I feel like I have a target painted between my shoulders?”
His hand slid smoothly up her spine, barely sheathed in the sleek cashmere of her sweater. Utterly unexpected, the caress sent a cascade of chills scudding across her sensitized skin. A gasp spilled from her lips.
“Mr. Markov—”
“Easy,” he murmured, warm breath brushing her temple. “For this, you’d better call me Nikolai.”
Before she could collect herself to respond to that, his fingers glided over her bare nape. A jolt of raw sexual energy uncoiled low in her belly and stole her breath.
Momentarily speechless, she could think of absolutely nothing to say as his hand twined into her hair and cradled her head. The subtle pressure turned her face into his shoulder, hiding her as a flash of olive uniform entered her peripheral vision.
Fear and arousal swirled together like a top-shelf cocktail in her belly. In some distant, still logical corner of her brain, she understood what he was doing—not hitting on her, for God’s sake, but hiding her in plain sight.
Breath snaring in her throat, she closed her eyes and slid both arms around his waist. The dark aroma of amber and cedar filled her head.
Diesel, maybe, she thought inconsequentially. She’d gotten a whiff at the fragrance counter at the Central Univermag in Moscow, thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Beneath his immaculately tailored Armani, his slim frame hummed with leashed tension. The lean muscles of his back rippled beneath her palms.
Madonna mia, the man was lethal, in superb physical condition under all that restrained and expensive tailoring. But this was hardly the time for—
Intimately his hands slid down her back and curled around her hips, eased her up against all that suppl
e strength. Making it impossible to ignore what was happening between them as he hardened against her belly.
She dragged breath into her lungs.
“Nikolai—”
“Skylar,” he whispered against her hair, intimate as though he’d just taken her to bed. A sizzle of awareness arced through her. “Keep dancing. I think they’re moving on.”
Relief flowered in her chest. She leaned into him, the asthma easing its death grip on her throat, and counted her heartbeats. When she reached twenty, she cautiously raised her head.
The militsia were gone, vanished somewhere in the smoke-wreathed crowd. Nikolai Markov stood inches away, tendrils of silky hair falling over his brow, his warm chocolate gaze heavy-lidded and gleaming with tawny gold.
“Had enough?” he said huskily. “Or do you want more?”
He’s talking about the militsia, and tweaking the authorities’ nose. She struggled to pull herself together. Not about having his hands all over my ass. He’s saying it’s time to go. And he’s so right.
The only problem with that strategy was that she’d come here for a reason, and getting intimate with Nikolai Markov definitely wasn’t it. As long as she stayed wrapped around his dangerously capable body, she’d give no opening whatsoever to the contact who’d left her that anonymous note. No dissident would approach her under the very nose of her security escort.
Clarity returned in a rush, clearing her head and dispelling the fog of passion. She glanced toward the bar and glimpsed the two militsia, absorbed in the all-important business of getting a drink. A reckless courage surged through her.
With sudden resolve, she stepped clear of Nikolai.
“I need a bathroom break,” she said crisply, and pivoted away before he could respond. She figured he wouldn’t risk attracting attention with an altercation on the dance floor, and took full advantage.
Yet she felt his eyes burning into her as she threaded her way through the crowd toward the narrow corridor that led to the toilets.
The unisex cubbyhole was unheated, cold enough to see her breath. Any thought of actually squatting over the noisome porcelain gutter with treads that passed for a toilet was repellant. Nor could she bear the notion of running her hands under the breathtakingly cold trickle of water that the rusty sink would inevitably produce.
But she didn’t need to linger in these uncomfortable environs. A minute had barely ticked past on her wristwatch before a thin manila envelope slid beneath the locked door.
A tingle of excitement sizzled through her.
She forced herself to wait a few cautious seconds, in case anything else appeared. The hurried sound of receding footfalls set her heart racing, but she didn’t feel ready to open the door just yet—not until she knew what she had.
With unsteady fingers, she fumbled on her spectacles and swept up the envelope.
It was blank, sealed tight, anonymous, but she never doubted the contents were meant for her. It contained a single poorly Xeroxed sheet of paper in Russian she was still learning to read, but chemical formulas were the same in any language. In the dim light of the overhead bulb she managed to decipher a purchase order for an impressive quantity of ethyl phosphinate—an extremely toxic chemical she recognized immediately.
Also known as VX.
Her eyes flew over the document—blazoned with secret stamps, not much else to read, nearly all contact information for the buyer missing except the name: a well-known general in the Korean People’s Army.
Talk about a smoking gun. Dizzy with alternating spurts of exhilaration and terror, she gripped the precious document with shaking fingers.
This is it. Something concrete, real, a starting point. Whether the government’s in on it or we’re dealing with a lone wolf, someone in Khimgorod is selling chemical weapons to North Korea.
When it came to light, Moscow would claim the document was a forgery. They’d demand to know where it came from—not that she’d ever tell them. Even if its authenticity could be proven, they’d claim a lone agent had acted without official authorization to broker a back-channel deal. She had nothing to prove the Chemical Munitions Agency or any other official actor was behind it.
Russian solidarity would dissolve into a feeding frenzy, with ministries turning on ministries, old rivalries torn open as the sharks caught the political whiff of blood in the water.
Or it could be a trap.
She forced herself to slow down and consider that possibility. But it would take more time and resources than she had in Khimgorod to make that determination. What she needed to do was head straight back to Moscow and the protected citadel of the U.S. Embassy, where she’d turn it over to the experts.
She wondered what Geoffrey Chase, the conservative career diplomat who was running the show in the Ambassador’s absence, would make of it.
Carefully Skylar resealed the envelope. After a moment’s hesitation, she tugged up her sweater and tucked the incriminating document securely beneath the waistline of her trousers. At least Nikolai Markov would be pleased to learn she’d abandoned her dangerous plan to linger in Khimgorod.
At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to get on that train after all.
Nerves humming with excitement, she straightened her clothing, smoothed a hand over her chin-length bob, and pinned her game face back on. In the tiny mirror above the rusty sink, her face stared back at her, eyes dark with excitement, features cool with a scientist’s detachment.
Mentally crossing her fingers and toes, she unlocked the door and stepped into the empty corridor.
She hadn’t expected the mailman to linger. But she’d bet good money that Anton Belov’s son, the synthetic chemist, had been her mysterious correspondent.
Unless it’s a trap, she reminded herself. In which case, you’d better not let them find it on you. At the very least, you’ll be expelled from the country for espionage.
Or else they could simply choose to detain her. Or make her disappear.
Before her, the dim glow of a streetlight streamed through a high narrow window. Even the light looked cold. A sudden shiver brought goose bumps marching across her skin.
Turning away from that chilly light, she hurried down the darkened corridor toward the bar.
She stepped into the open, eyes sweeping the clutter of tables and huddled bodies, still hoping to intercept a meaningful look, some glimpse of her benefactor—
They closed on her from both sides at once, and not the man she was hoping for. A sense of sinking dread made her heart plummet to her belly. Apprehensively she stared at the two hard-faced men in their MVD uniforms as they hemmed her in.
Evidently her attempts to avoid their notice had failed.
“Skylar Rossi?”
Instinctively she stepped back. But a rough hand gripped her arm. She locked eyes with the officer who held her: a bullet-headed thug built like a spark plug, several inches shorter than she, and looking all the more belligerent for it. Her heart kicked into overdrive.
Diplomatic immunity normally protected her from this sort of intimidation. But if they thought she’d engaged in espionage, all bets were off. If they searched her, the North Korean purchase order tucked into her trousers would be more than enough to cook her cannoli.
Mannaggia, Skylar! Use your famous brain and think.
The first thing to do was establish her diplomatic credentials. Despite their notoriety, these militsia were government officials, unlike the roughnecks who’d tried to gun her down on the highway.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Ambassador Rossi,” she said coolly in her best Russian. “Would you like to see my diplomatic passport and credentials?”
“In due time, Ambassador.”
As she reached for the travel pouch around her neck beneath her sweater, the second man lumbered forward to grip her free arm. A mountain of a man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, he was definitely old enough to know he shouldn’t manhandle a diplomat.
Not that he seemed to care.
>
Brilliant. She was immobilized from both sides.
“Now you will come with us.”
Anxiety clamped down on her and closed her lungs. Had they seen the document drop, or had they walked into the nightclub looking for her? If the latter, their intentions were more sinister than mere interrogation.
With a pang of fear, she wondered what had happened to the person who’d given it to her.
She needed the inhaler in her coat pocket. And she needed Nikolai Markov almost as badly. But her limited view past the mountain and his bullet-headed sidekick revealed a sea of turned backs: the closed ranks of Russians minding their own business, pretending not to see the intimidation or abduction or whatever this was going down before them.
Where the hell was Nikolai? He should be all over this, shouldn’t he?
Desperately she played for time.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have a train to catch. Why don’t you tell me what the problem is, and I’ll try to help you. Are you trying to secure visas to visit the United States? I’m not a consular officer, but I have some connections—”
“These so-called diplomats. Always talking,” Bullet-head muttered, his grip tightening painfully on her elbow. “Get moving.”
Clearly it was time to take a stand. Hard to do, though, with her elbow throbbing and the span of open airway in her lungs squeezing smaller and smaller. Controlled breathing wasn’t going to get her out of this one.
“I’m not going anywhere, gentlemen,” she said quietly. “And I’m definitely not leaving without my security escort. Your own rules and regulations prohibit me from going anywhere in this closed city without him.”
The Mountain snorted. “If you’re referring to Comrade Markov, he won’t be coming. This matter is outside his jurisdiction.”
Not good.
Her gut knotted. “How could this be outside his jurisdiction? He’s with the security office, just like you.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Her qualms intensified, but she clung doggedly to her diplomatic prerogatives. “All the same, I must insist—”
“He’s turned you in,” Bullet-head said flatly. “You won’t be seeing him again.”
The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2) Page 9
