Ian remained silent, his face unreadable in the soft blue glow of the dashboard lights.
“I know who you are,” she finally said.
“Oh yeah? Humor me.”
“You’re ISIS.”
The lane had widened from a one-lane track through sheep-dotted fields to a two-lane route through cow-dotted pastures, and traffic had picked up accordingly—which was to say there was barely anyone on the road. Because of the quiet solitude of the night, Leah’s heart jumped into her throat when Ian jerked the truck onto the shoulder of the road. Pebbles pinged against the undercarriage as the vehicle came to a jarring halt. Ian threw the truck in park and turned his full attention on her. In the backwash of the headlights his gaze was intense. “What did you say?”
Leah swallowed and tightened her fingers around the pen in a hand that had gone slick with sweat. “Listen, I’m not going to tell anyone,” she said. “It’s none of my business. Well, I mean it kind of is if you come to my country and attack innocent people, but you haven’t done that yet and you can still change your mind.”
He held up a palm. “Stop, and start over. Why did Vincente bring you here?”
“He needed my help.”
“He needed you to help kill me?”
“No! He was assigned to pick you up after you returned from Syria, that’s all.”
He digested this. “He told you I was an ISIS militant and that I’d been training in Syria.”
She nodded.
“Who assigned him to pick me up?”
Her cheeks flushed as she realized her error. He wouldn’t like the answer. “Russia.” Before he could ask another question she said, “How do you know Vincente?”
“I don’t know Vincente,” he said calmly. “I know Sokolov.”
“How?”
He didn’t reply. Instead he looked forward through the windshield. The headlights illuminated bobbing stalks of grass and crystal stars glittered on the purpling horizon. “Let me get this straight: Vincente admitted to you that he was a Russian agent and you had no problem with the fact that he was spying on your country. In fact, you went so far as to help him abduct an ISIS militant in a European country.”
Well when he put it that way it sounded ridiculous.
He turned back to her, his face impassive. “Strike two.”
Shit! Was the man a human lie detector? She had no choice but to tell him everything, not if she wanted to survive. Besides, why was she trying so hard to protect Vincente when he was the reason she was in this predicament? “He’s not Russian!”
Ian lifted a brow.
“You have it all wrong. Vincente is a double agent. He was recruited by the CIA and embedded in the GRU, who then unwittingly sent him to the U.S. as a spy. Apparently I started out as part of his cover, although I didn’t know that. A few days ago I saw him in an FBI Wanted poster and started asking questions, and that’s when he revealed the truth. He told me he’d been assigned to take you in, and he asked me to come along and act as a distraction. He told me you were planning a lone wolf terror attack on American soil.” She knew she should stop there, but her tongue was faster than her common sense. “Yes, I know about that! Russia and the U.S. have eyes on you, buddy. And you know what? You won’t get away with it. Even if you kill me now, you can’t take back the fact that they’re already tracking you and they’ll do anything to stop you.”
Anger had transformed her rational explanation into an impassioned speech and she was nearly shouting by the time she finished. She sat back, breathing hard, her eyes snapping with challenge.
For a full minute Ian’s eyes bored into her, then he slowly shook his head. “Lady, you’ve been thoroughly had.”
Chapter 10
Ian couldn’t tell if the disheveled woman in his truck looked more disbelieving or offended. She narrowed her eyes and stared him down as if he were the one spinning the web of deceit. With her explanation it had all become clear: her role in Sokolov’s attempt to murder him and why she’d risked drowning rather than end up where she was right now. The bastard had told her some whopping lies. If Ian had to guess, he’d say Leah probably hadn’t ever been aware of Sokolov’s true intentions.
He’d thought Sokolov was dead all these years, but apparently the fucker had only been hiding in America. Sokolov had had extensive plastic surgery on his face, but Ian had recognized him the moment he’d laid eyes on him. He’d never forgot the eyes of the man responsible for his best friend’s death.
The truth was that Ian was relieved Leah wasn’t in on Sokolov’s plan. If she’d been Sokolov’s associate he wouldn’t have been able to let her go, which meant it would have gotten messy—fast. Instead, she’d been a pawn to advance Sokolov’s personal vendetta. She was a victim, as most people who met Sokolov tended to be.
There was another reason he was relieved she wasn’t involved, and it had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with those indignant eyes of hers. When he’d pulled over to help her change her tire, she’d been like a breath of fresh air. She’d stood there in her clunky rain boots talking to the sheep and had charmed him stupid. He usually went for the leggy blondes representative of the greater Scandinavian population, so Leah’s freckles, blunt bangs, and slender build wouldn’t normally have turned his head.
But there was something about her that made his belly tighten every time he looked her way. Maybe it was her dry sense of humor, or the way she’d made a calculated escape attempt but then cut her losses when she realized it wasn’t going to happen. She hadn’t given up the idea, he knew, as evidenced by the pen she was gripping in her hand, but she was smart about it. He liked that.
He wasn’t going to do anything about his attraction to her, but it made him feel better to know that someone as determined and quirky as Leah was innocent. He’d seen the opposite far too often in his lifetime.
Still, he now had to convince the poor woman that the man she’d once dated was actually a psychopathic criminal, and he, the man currently holding her captive, was the good guy.
Ian bit back a heavy sigh. His trip to Scotland was supposed to be simple: pick up his client’s wife, escort her to the airport, fly back to Oslo. How had it turned into such a clusterfuck in such a short amount of time?
Sokolov, he thought bitterly. It was practically the man’s signature.
“What do you mean, ‘I’ve been had?’” the woman across from him demanded. He could hear the strain threading through her voice. The day had taken its toll on her and her adrenal glands were overworked. She’d crash soon, and he needed the situation resolved before she did.
“Your boyfriend’s real name is Alexei Sokolov. Vincente is an alias, along with any other name he’s given you. Sokolov is in fact from Russia. He is not, nor has he ever been, CIA.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” she corrected him. “And you’re mistaken because I saw his CIA credentials.”
Ian shrugged. “It isn’t hard to get credentials, badges, passports—anything you want as long as you have the right contacts or skills. As a GRU agent, Sokolov would have the skill set to make his own ID.”
She didn’t look as if she believed a word he was saying, but at least she was listening. “He doesn’t have a Russian accent,” she pointed out.
“No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t have an accent when he speaks French, either.”
“How do you know him so well?”
“Alexei Sokolov was responsible for the murder of my best friend.”
Her mouth popped open. “What?”
Ian’s jaw clenched. He had two choices: he could force her to talk, or he could convince her to talk. He didn’t know a lot about her, but from what he’d seen so far she had more spirit than he had time to break. That left convincing her to talk.
Ian knew if he was going to gain her cooperation he’d have to tell her about his past with Sokolov, but it would take precious time away from hunting the Russian bastard. Not to mention the fact that every time he thought of what Sokolov had done
he burned with a cold rage that was likely to scare the hell out of her.
Yet there was a buzzing feeling in his bones, one that told him to tread lightly. He’d learned long ago to respect that humming intuition, so before he went after Sokolov, he needed to have more information.
Leah was his best source of that information. His only source.
“I met Sokolov in Afghanistan six years ago,” Ian said. “I was there as part of Forsvarets Spesialkommando, or the FSK for short—that’s Norway’s version of Armed Forces Special Command. Technically the FSK doesn’t exist, or at least Norway claims it doesn’t.” He smiled a little at this. “At the time, the West was on the same page as Russia when it came to toppling the Taliban. Their reasons were different, but the end result was the same: we all wanted the Taliban gone.
“I was in command of a small, six-man Special Forces team that had been deployed to Kabul. While there, several of my men were tapped to take part in a joint task force with the French and the Americans. Their mission was designed on intelligence that pointed to the location of one of the Taliban’s senior military commanders, Abdul Shazada.” Intelligence provided by his Afghani informant—a fact Ian would never forgive himself for. “Shazada was a lucrative arms dealer and the brains behind several operations that killed American and French soldiers, and they wanted him badly. We wanted him badly. The team was tasked with extracting Shazada, alive if possible, and transporting him to an interrogation facility.
“When the team broke into Shazada’s compound in the dead of night, they discovered the intelligence was spot-on. Shazada was indeed present. The only problem was that so was an entire squadron of Taliban fighters. Two of our men were killed during the fighting. One of them was an American, a general’s son. The other four men were taken prisoner and tortured for months before they were rescued.”
Leah had gone still in the darkness. “The other man killed in Shadaza’s compound was Norwegian,” she said, filling in the blanks. “He was your best friend.”
Ian’s jaw tightened. “Yes. And he died because Sokolov corrupted our informant.”
“Why did the Russians betray you? I thought they wanted the same thing.”
“The Russians didn’t betray us. They were having a hard enough time maintaining a relationship with the West as it was. It was Sokolov who betrayed the team that day. In fact, when Russia learned that one of their own agents had gone rogue and facilitated the high profile death of an American general’s son, they were displeased to say the least. They put a hit on him and it was reported they’d been successful. Obviously Sokolov escaped. Either that, or those two-timers helped him escape to save face.” Ian’s fists flexed. “It’s a shame, because if I’d known he was alive all this time I would have hunted him down and killed him myself.”
She shifted in the seat, but didn’t make any attempt to open the door and run. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would Vincente—Sokolov stab everyone in the back? Betray his own country?”
“I suspect he was colluding with the Taliban and the deal involved delivering Jonathan Whittier, the general’s son. I don’t know what else Sokolov took from the deal, but it was obviously enough that he was able to disappear and afford extensive surgery to his face.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“I have proof.”
“So did he.”
“I have more than a fake ID. I have the four surviving men of that team who will vouch for everything I’m saying.”
“How do they know it was Sokolov who betrayed them? It could have been anyone.”
He thought it was a good sign she’d referred to the rat as Sokolov instead of Vincente. “After we extracted them from the compound, they made it their mission to discover the identity of the man who’d betrayed them.”
“You were part of the team that freed the survivors.”
Ian nodded.
“That still doesn’t explain how you personally know Sokolov.”
Ian deliberately loosened his fists in contrast to the rage that tightened his muscles. “I met him shortly before the raid on Shazada’s compound and discovered what kind of a sick animal he was, but it wasn’t enough time to warn the men before they went in.”
He didn’t say anything further on the topic—couldn’t say anything further without wanting to beat the shit out of someone. Fortunately Leah didn’t push. He watched her expressions closely as she digested his story, turned it over in her mind, probed it for weaknesses—clever girl. Even in the shadows he could see the battle waging in her mind. He knew she instinctively recognized the truth when she heard it, but rationally couldn’t understand how she could have dated a terrorist for six months without knowing. It was simple self-protection to doubt him.
So she surprised him when she dropped her head against the seat and closed her eyes, defeat written clearly across her features. “Take me back to my car, please. I want to go home.”
He felt a pang of sympathy for her. He’d seen utter resignation many times in his career, first as an operative for the FSK and then as co-owner of Northern Wolf Services, his specialty security firm. He’d seen that look when, as the firm’s “human seeker,” he’d had to inform siblings that their brother or sister had disappeared voluntarily, or a husband that his wife was with another man. Finding people was what he did, and he was damned good at it, but some people didn’t want to be found. Those were the people who left behind loved ones wearing the same look as Leah: abandonment, confusion, and betrayal.
“You can’t go home yet,” he said, gentling his voice. “I have questions, and you’re in the unique position as Sokolov’s girlfriend to give me the information I need.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” she corrected.
His lips twitched. “As his ex-girlfriend you know Sokolov and his habits better than anyone else on the planet. And now that I know he’s alive . . .”
She didn’t need to know how deep his hatred ran or how intense his desire was to hunt down Sokolov and make him pay for Finn’s death—slowly and torturously. There was nowhere Sokolov could hide from him now that he knew he still breathed the same air as decent human beings.
One thing that nagged at him was Sokolov’s motive in bringing Leah to Scotland; her role as a distraction was a flimsy excuse for dragging her halfway around the world, and he wasn’t buying that Sokolov couldn’t think of another way to ambush him. Before he went after the man, it was key that he had all the pieces of the puzzle, and he knew in his gut he was missing something important.
“I still don’t know that I can trust you,” Leah said. “Clearly I’m a shit judge of character.”
“I think you have better instincts than you give yourself credit for. Let’s make a deal: I’ll take you to the headquarters of Northern Wolf Services, the security company my partner and I run. I’ll call in one of the men from Kabul who lives nearby. Speak with him, and if you’re still not convinced I’m telling the truth, I’ll let you go.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’m a man of my word.”
She waved her hand around. “Words are like pie crusts, made to be broken.”
“Not mine.”
She didn’t really have a choice, and she was smart enough to know it. “Let’s say it turns out you’re telling the truth. What then?”
“Then you give me everything you know about Sokolov, from where he worked to what kind of toilet paper he uses. I want to know him better than he knows himself.”
“And then I go home.”
He nodded in agreement. “Then you go home.”
She took another swig from the water bottle and carefully screwed the plastic cap on. Then she looked him square in the eye and said, “Deal.”
Chapter 11
Ian thought Leah might lose her nerve at the Glasgow airport and start screaming that she was being kidnapped, but she surprised him again
by standing resolutely by his side, lips pressed tight, as he bought their tickets. Before they’d left the Highlands he’d grabbed her luggage from the Picanto and thrown it in the back of his truck, and she’d been delighted when he pulled the black carry-on from the bed.
At the boarding gate she found a bathroom and spent twenty minutes fixing her hair and doing whatever it was women did for so long in bathrooms. When she re-emerged he swallowed hard. Gone were the sweats, smudged mascara, and sea-tangled hair. She’d changed into tight, ass-hugging jeans and an olive green blouse that revealed a shadow of cleavage. She’d brushed her bangs into place, combed her dark hair into a low ponytail, and fixed her makeup. He didn’t know much about mascara and eyeliner and stuff like that, but he thought that whatever she wore was pretty basic. She’d added lip-gloss instead of lipstick, making her lips soft and bitable.
He silently reprimanded himself for the thought. Sokolov’s ex-girlfriend was the last person on the planet he would touch.
The makeover hadn’t seemed to do much for her attitude. She was tired and her emotions had been bruised and kicked down a stairwell or two. Shadows lurked beneath her eyes, and she continued to look askance at him as if she didn’t trust him not to suddenly reveal that he was wearing a bomb vest or carrying a test tube of anthrax.
“I need coffee,” she said. They’d snagged seats on the redeye to Oslo, but their flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for another half hour. She gestured to the Starbucks kiosk a hundred yards down the terminal.
Ian nodded and she started toward the kiosk. She took several steps before pausing, and after obvious internal debate, turned around and said stiffly, “Do you want anything?”
“No, thank you.”
She began walking again, her carry-on clacking behind her as the wheels bounced over the grooved tile. Ian watched her go, his eyes following the woman who’d trusted the wrong man.
Finding Lies Page 6
