by Judith Leon
Jeremy considered again his nervous reaction to Sylvia Platt. Beautiful. Lusciously so. But cold. What was it about her confident speech or demeanor that had set off alarm bells? He’d probed her, asked her questions ostensibly about her work, but he didn’t buy it.
“I have a bad feeling about this Platt woman.”
Pietro waited, judiciously letting Jeremy further collect his thoughts.
“She’s about the same age as the agent in Colombia, that Katie Rush, who very nearly ruined this whole operation. And confident. Tough. Rush is an AthenaAcademy graduate. This woman gives me the same impression.”
Pietro cast him a surprised look. “How can that be?”
“I don’t know. But I have a gut feeling.”
Jeremy felt himself sweating. It wasn’t that the car was overheated. It was the goddamn woman, Platt. And A. In truth, A was really running this operation, and if Jeremy blew it, he had no doubt that A would make him pay dearly. Perhaps even have him killed.
When the first girl got away, someone had tried to kill him. He suspected A. Who else could know about his role in the kidnapping?
In the end, A had arranged for Colombians to do the job. Jeremy hadn’t needed Pietro. The kidnapping of the girls produced from Lab 33 had, in fact, been the sole idea of the mysterious A. Even the Colombian, Tulio, had admitted to Jeremy that A had blackmailed him into doing the kidnapping, and he swore he didn’t know who his blackmailer was, only that A had proven to have enough on Tulio’s drug operation to shut him down cold.
Since A was blackmailing Jeremy—able to turn him in to the American authorities at any time as the sole possessor of papers and data he’d taken with him about Lab 33’s genetic enhancement techniques—Jeremy had no choice but to execute A’s demand. Moreover, he’d repeatedly been given extremely knowledgeable assistance by A during the planning of the girls’ capture. His blackmailer with the spidery handwriting had sources of information that, on occasion, had left Jeremy dazzled.
But A didn’t know everything, and when Fertilizen finally paid off and went into production, Jeremy would at last become independently wealthy. Maybe he could find a way, then, to buy himself away from the bastard with the spidery script. Until then, however, there was a need to protect himself and find research money in this black-market backwater of the research world.
It was risky—even frightening sometimes—to think of double-dealing A, but it was necessary. Hadn’t A tried to kill him? He was fully justified cutting a slice off the bacon here and there. These sales would bring in fabulous sums.
“What if Platt isn’t from Athena?” Pietro asked. “She claimed to be from a pharmaceutical company. Pharmaceutical companies have big money.”
Pietro was obviously concerned about any potential loss of profit. And it was possible, just possible, that Jeremy might be overreacting.
They turned into the street housing the laboratory. Pietro braked, waiting until a horse-drawn cart, some hick from the sticks, moved out of the way. When they could move again, Pietro asked, “So what do you want me to do?”
“I can’t afford to take risks. I want her removed from the picture.”
“Permanently?”
“Yes. As soon as you can. I want it done before I go to sleep tonight. Make it look like a robbery gone bad.”
They stopped at the front of the laboratory, a fully renovated eighteenth-century building with a restored original facade. Pietro gave him that emotionless, cold stare. “Did you get a bug on her?”
“Yes.”
“Then consider it done.”
It was a shame, Jeremy thought. Sylvia Platt was intelligent and beautiful. He would rather make a mistress of such a woman, but if she was from Athena, or even from some official government or law enforcement agency, she had to be eliminated—and swiftly.
He stepped out of the car into welcome cool air but leaned back down, holding the door open. “Tomorrow is critical. Will the Arnett girl be…cooperative?”
“Don’t worry. By tomorrow night the little telepath will be dying to cooperate.” Apparently amused by his lame pun, Pietro offered a stiff smile that failed to reach his cold eyes.
In time I will eliminate Pietro.
Chapter 14
W hen Lindsey and her goateed contact left the hotel’s lounge and headed into the lobby, Marko laid cash on the bar to cover his drink, grabbed his coat and followed them. Without speaking again to the man, Lindsey took the elevator.
Marko followed Goatee outside and watched him stop twenty yards away where another man, slightly shorter and smoking, leaned against a car. By pretending to look into a display window, Marko could watch them in the glass reflection.
The smoker, he thought, had a familiar look. Growing up in la malavita di Venice among a family of thieves, Marko had encountered more than a few really bad types, even a man his father assured him was a contract killer. The FFL had been home to other rough men. The smoker gave off that same aura. Mean.
As they drove off, Marko entered the license plate number into his cell phone’s data bank. The smell of something meaty turned his head and his stomach growled. Across the street from the hotel, on the promenade, a vendor was peddling wurst. Marko sent the license number to K-bar with a message explaining that Lindsey had met this man. Marko would send more information later.
Excited to be able to tell Sam that she’d actually met Jeremy Loschetter, Lindsey hurried to her room. One of the big plusses of staying in a five-star hotel pretty much anywhere in the world was that they provided WiFi access to the Internet. Lindsey accessed AA.gov. Before calling Sam, she wanted a visual image of her contact and the site provided graduation photos of all the Athena girls.
While she waited for the site to load, she checked her purse and smiled when she discovered a tiny slit in the lining through which Jeremy had slipped a slim transmitter. Fortunately, the device didn’t include a microphone; she wouldn’t have to guard her every spoken word.
The face of a younger Samantha St. John appeared on Lindsey’s laptop screen. At once she placed Sam. Lindsey had met and talked briefly with her at the AthenaAcademy science building dedication. No question but that Sam had a beautiful face in a Slavic mold. Strong cheekbones and large, ice-blue eyes were framed by shoulder-length white-blond hair. She had worn just a touch of pink lipstick for the photo.
Lindsey also checked Sam out on the AA.gov section that profiled Athena graduates. She was a certified genius and computer whiz, a master of languages and a CIA linguist.
She dialed Sam’s line and when they connected Lindsey said, “I have my papers. I’ve made contact, and Jeremy Loschetter came in person. This is absolutely Lab 33 related and he’s at the heart of whatever is going down.”
“That’s huge progress. I’ll pass everything to Christine. Allison is also keeping tabs as best she can at the NSA. She has pretty highly placed friends there.”
Lindsey described their meeting and told Sam about the demonstration of the sale items that would take place tomorrow. “I gave him the chance to bug me, and he did. I spilled my drink, went to get a napkin and left my purse.”
“Perfect.”
“My guess is that he’s bugging the representatives of every potential buyer. He’s going to want to know where I go, and I’m sure he’ll be checking out everything I told him about Griffin Pharmaceutical.”
“Don’t fret. We have you totally covered at the pharmaceutical, your passport…everything.”
“I plan to kill time waiting the way any woman who has a fondness for art would do in Prague. And I need to get out of this room, make myself available to them.”
“I checked with Bendrich at the safe house. He says he can’t spare anyone to back you up. So you’re pretty much on your own.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Please be extra careful, Lindsey.”
Marko watched the hotel entrance. He’d taken his time consuming the hot spicy wurst on a stick. Delizioso. The lobby would be
warm, but he’d already spent a lot of time there. It might arouse suspicion. On the other hand, he was damn cold. He’d been outside for fifteen minutes, stomping his feet to keep them from freezing. The sky was dark gray. Maybe it would snow. If she didn’t come out soon, he’d have to go back inside.
After breaking off with Sam, Lindsey checked her e-mail, looking for anything from [email protected]. For three years Lindsey had been an Oracle agent, recruited by a mysterious person she knew only as Delphi. She had been contacted, she was told, because of the skills she had honed at Athena and because of her access to the black market. Her assignments would come only from Delphi. She would report only to Delphi. She would never know the identity of any other Oracle agent.
Every assignment so far had been as a courier. Today, there was no message.
She then brought up her own personal Web site, www.adiana.net. Here she had created several secure pages of information she found useful when traveling: great restaurants where she’d eaten or where she’d like to eat and similar lists for things like hotels, art museums and art dealers.
After taking down three addresses—one of the art dealers was apparently located right here on Wenceslas Plaza—she changed back into her slacks, sweater and warm boots, grabbed her coat, gloves, purse and woolen hat and headed out for some fun.
She spent forty minutes in the gallery shop of Ctirad Hruza. He carried several pieces by Nikola Savic, whose colorful acrylics—always an explosion of shapes and movement—Lindsey admired. Lindsey’s business dealt mostly with old art, but she painted modern and felt most joyful when losing herself in great modern works, Jackson Pollock and Georgia O’Keeffe being her favorites.
A taxi spirited her across the river to Malá Strana, or Little Town, a beautiful baroque sector where the gallery of Vavrinec Nejezchleb was located, not far from the famous CharlesBridge. Malá Strana nestled around the base of PragueCastle. What had once been homes of burghers had been converted into quaint shops, restaurants and pubs.
For a moment, before she stepped into the shop, Lindsey felt that sixth-sense itch of being followed. She whirled around. No more than a handful of people walked the snow-covered street. A figure disappeared into a shop. Could have been following her. Maybe not.
For half an hour Vavrinec Nejezchleb delighted in showing her his wares, including several of Jiri Borsky’s strong figurative works, like Picassos but with a gentler spirit. At one point the tinkle of a bell over the door preceded a slender man with slicked-down hair. He caught her attention because he didn’t wear a hat and didn’t stay long. Jeremy himself wouldn’t be following her, so maybe this was his man, checking her out. A chill moved down her spine. Jeremy’s looks were creepy, but not especially menacing. This man looked cruel.
Watch your back, Lindsey!
She’d already decided that if someone jumped her, she would not go into aikido mode. She was to be strictly a businessperson. If necessary, she’d have to take a beating to stay in character.
It was now nearly five o’clock. A travel brochure had said that the CharlesBridge was a must-see, and that sunset was a good time to visit because one could view the fully lighted Prague castle against the evening sky. She asked Vavrinec for the best place to have a cup of coffee until sunset.
His directions sent her down a narrow, cobbled side street. Converted burgher homes with red-tiled roofs, four and five stories high, created a canyon of city walls on either side. Pedestrian traffic was steady but light.
She’d nearly reached the coffee shop when a black sedan braked beside her. Two men wearing black ski masks leaped out from the passenger side.
Loschetter! She hunched, prepared to fight, but caught herself in time. Stay in cover! This was a move to test her.
She faked an ear-shattering shriek and swung her purse, spinning and slipping awkwardly, as though unable to get footing in the snow. The purse slid harmlessly off the bigger man.
The second man grabbed her from the rear around the neck and pulled her against his chest. She shrieked again and shouted, “Help!” as she resisted her trained response to bite his hand, whirl and kick his balls.
She pushed against him and they staggered backward a couple of steps. The taller creep was closing in when a man in black wearing dark sunglasses crashed into him.
The man holding her spun them both around and threw Lindsey against the building, into the front of a bookstore. She slid to the ground, striking a wooden book rack as she fell. She ignored a sudden, sharp burning sensation on her neck, scrambling to regain her footing.
Chapter 15
M arko made a flying tackle into the hooded goon with the knife, sunglasses falling off on impact. At the corner of his vision he saw Lindsey fall. How could Lindsey be so foolish as to be out alone on the lightly trafficked street? How could this woman, who was so extremely capable when dealing with criminals, be so clumsy in her own defense?
He and his opponent scrambled to their feet. The man had lost the knife in the snow. He took a swing and planted a solid right to Marko’s cheek. Marko returned the blow with one of his own to the man’s stomach.
The man doubled over, at the same time yelling something in strangled Czech and waving a hand toward the car. Lindsey stumbled into Marko’s arms. She grabbed him as though terrified, but when she spoke she whispered, “Let them go.”
The two men jumped into the car, which squealed with the sound of tires burning rubber as they took off.
Still in Marko’s arms, Lindsey looked up at him. She had a cut on her neck, and her pulse pounded in the crook of her throat. She looked angry, but safe. A wild, crazed urge to kiss her welled up in him.
She pushed herself out of his arms as an elderly Czech couple and a pair of Anglo girls rushed up. “Are you all right?” one of the girls asked with an American accent. The bookstore owner stepped outside his door, taking in the scene.
Lindsey smiled and assured everyone, first in Italian and then English, that she was fine. The older woman pointed to Lindsey’s neck and handed her a handkerchief. After more reassuring gestures from Lindsey, the owner returned to the comfort of his store and the concerned citizens went their ways.
Her face flushed, pressing the handkerchief to the wound, Lindsey turned to Marko. He flashed on the arousing thought that the earlier fake hug of terror might be followed by a hug of gratitude.
“You idiot!” she said quietly, but with force. “What are you doing here?”
Idiot! Some gratitude!
Furious, he countered. “What are you doing here, Sylvia?”
Chapter 16
I f Marko had slapped her, Lindsey could not have been more stunned. “Sylvia?” she said, repeating him.
“Right. Sylvia Platt.”
“Damn it! You’ve been following me.”
“Since you—we—left Florence.”
“You have no right—”
“It wasn’t my choice. K-bar is worried about you.”
“My father sent you?”
“Sounds harsh when you put it that way. But true.”
So much anger was boiling inside that she couldn’t find words to express it. A young girl’s life was on the line, and her father’s meddling and Marko’s interference may have compromised her entire mission. She stared at him, wanting to scream, You may have killed her! But she choked it back.
She clenched a fist, fighting for control of whirling emotions. When he’d held her in his arms, she had looked up at him, furious, her heart racing. But she’d had the insane thought that he was going to kiss her, and more insane still, she wanted him to in spite of the fact that he’d ruined everything. “I’m here for a purpose. I know exactly what I’m doing. And you have probably messed up something very important.”
“Messed up? The guy was going to kill you.”
“It was a test, Marko. At worst they might have taken me with them, and that would have served my purpose fine. Now you’ve botched that.”
“He wasn’t taking you anywhere. What abo
ut the knife?”
“Knife?”
Marko snorted. “The knife he was going to stick into your guts.”
“There was no knife.”
Marko grabbed her gloved hand and tugged her toward snow piled beside the bookstore doorway. Bending down, he brushed a few inches of white fluff aside and then, saying nothing, held out a serrated knife with an open five-inch switchblade.
A shiver swept through her, head to toe. Had Loschetter sent the men to kill her? It was possible, and it would mean that he didn’t buy her cover story and suspected she was some sort of agent. On the other hand, maybe the knife was simply to be used to persuade her to come with them. There was no way to know. And she could certainly understand, now, why Marko had felt the need to barge in.
She looked around for her purse. Gone. That was a plus. She was free of the tracking device and her faked credentials would soon be in Loschetter’s hands. Maybe they would convince him of her authenticity.
“Okay.” She felt herself relaxing. “I’ll concede you may have thought they were going to harm me.”
“Well, that’s a crazy thing to say. Two hooded men leap at you. What else would I think? That they were going to ask if you wanted a tour? Even if he hadn’t had a knife.”
Again she felt a chill. “Let’s walk. I’m getting cold just standing here.” He retrieved his dark glasses, and then she led them toward the CharlesBridge where they could easily find taxis. “I have a room in a hotel.”
“I know. I also took a room there.”
“In my hotel! Unbelievable! I’m furious with myself that I didn’t spot you.”
“Your dad employs me because I’m good at what I do. So what’s going on, Lindsey?”
“I can’t say. And it’s a damn shame that K-bar has interfered.”
“He’s a father. He thinks you may be into something more dangerous than an art buyback.”
