The Russians would certainly increase their efforts to find and buy the ambassador’s daughter, even if purely for spite. It was a now or never time for this ransom payment.
“Where is the money now?” Max asked.
“In the Diplomatic Security Service offices,” Iain Bartlett said.
“I suggest for Irene’s and Kristen’s sake you do not place any additional trackers on that money. I realize how tempting it is.”
Iain nodded, although Max could tell he was reluctant in his agreement.
He was about to ask Quinn to play the tape when the phone rang. He, Quinn, and Jennifer picked up headsets.
“Quiet everyone. Not a word.” Max answered the call. “Hi. This is Max.”
The electronic voice sounded more menacing than usual. “You have thirty minutes to get to the corner of Charcas and Laprida. One lone female in the car. One million dollars in unmarked bills. Take this phone and wait for the next set of instructions.”
“We need a little more time.”
“Time has run out, Max. Do it or both girls die.” El jefe hung up.
“I’ll deliver the money,” Jennifer said easily.
Max shook his head reluctantly. “You don’t know the area.”
“I’ll do it,” Miranda said quietly.
Everyone looked surprised.
She looked around. “I speak the language. I know my way around the city. It doesn’t sound like a difficult or dangerous job, providing I do what I’m told, correct?”
Max would be lying if he wasn’t relived when the ambassador didn’t veto that plan. He didn’t want them sending Lucy out there because they considered her more expendable. He certainly did not.
“They’ll probably send you on a wild goose chase around the city to make sure you’re alone and not being followed. All you have to do is follow their instructions and drop the money where they tell you. Then come straight back here immediately afterward.”
Miranda pressed her clenched fists together in front of her. “I can do that.”
Max stood. “Bartlett, get your people to bring all the cash down to the parking lot, ASAP.”
Jennifer already had a cell phone ready, programmed with the kidnapper’s number.
She handed it to Max who handed it to Miranda. “Remember. The kidnappers might plant spies along the route to report in on your activity. Don’t fuck it up. Let’s go. The clock is ticking.”
They hurried out of the room and all raced down to the parking lot.
They reached Miranda’s BMW. She climbed in and one of the DS agents jogged toward them and put the bags on the passenger seat.
Max checked his watch. Miranda turned the key, and everyone’s heart caught when the engine didn’t turn over.
Miranda tried again. “What…?”
“Take my car,” Lucy offered.
Miranda looked startled. “Your car?” She blinked, but Lucy was already in the driver’s seat of her Mini which was parked next to Miranda’s. The engine purred to life.
Lucy got out and Miranda climbed in. The bags were transferred. Max checked his watch again.
A cry of frustration came from inside the vehicle. “It’s a stick shift. I can’t drive a manual,” Miranda exclaimed.
Max breathed out impatiently.
Miranda climbed out, looking around for another car.
“We’re running out of time,” said Max, mentally running through options.
“I’ll do it.” Lucy climbed into the passenger seat and started programming her Sat Nav.
“But—” Phillip started, clearly unconvinced by Lucy’s competence.
“No time for buts.” Lucy stated. “I need to go. Now.”
She was right. Even though Max hated this, they had no choice. He nodded to Miranda. “Give Lucy the phone.”
Miranda thrust the cell at Lucy and stepped back to the ambassador’s side. Max tapped on the glass of the passenger window, and Lucy rolled it down.
“Do as they tell you but don’t enter into any situation that looks dangerous. Don’t let anyone else get in the car and don’t get out unless you are obviously alone. The last thing we need is them taking another hostage. They probably won’t have eyes on you the entire time, but they might not be the only interested party you need to worry about.” He leaned inside and opened the glove compartment, surreptitiously palming the small tracker TacOps had found on the car earlier that evening. It felt like a million years ago. He didn’t want the Russians able to track Lucy or the money while she was driving alone around the city streets at night.
He was being cryptic. The Russian involvement in this case and the bug in Lucy’s Mini was now a separate counterintelligence investigation, and Max had been told not to inform anyone of its existence.
The FBI could track her via the cell phone and the money bags. It would have to be enough.
Lucy held his gaze. “I’ve got this, Max. See you in a few hours.”
He nodded and stepped back, all sorts of emotions battling inside him. He wanted to hug her and kiss her. Wanted to tell her to be careful, that he’d drive the car, but rationally he knew this was normally a low-risk part of the operation. The danger generally associated with the money drop was the bagman running off with or skimming a cut of the cash. Lucy wouldn’t do that. He’d trust her with his life, let alone a million dollars.
She put her car in reverse and pulled out of the space and then sped away.
Phillip put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “What do we do now?”
Max looked from one person to the next. “Now we wait.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Max went back to the FBI offices on the second floor. When the others tried to follow, he insisted they head back to the ambassador’s office or the Dickersons’ apartment and that he would inform them immediately there was any news. There simply wasn’t enough space for seven tense adults to occupy the former broom closet. The negotiators needed a distraction-free workspace.
The Legat’s office was still buzzing, and he tried to ignore the frenzy of activity going on. He spoke to Brian Powell about what was happening in what was technically his case. The man looked fraught, so Max told him he’d keep him updated and left the guy to it.
Powell’s career would either soar or crash-and-burn tonight. Max didn’t envy him.
Max checked his watch. Lucy had less than five minutes to get to the first rendezvous. He stepped into the Negotiation Center. Agents at the Strategic Information and Operation Center at headquarters would be tracking the calls and the money bags.
Quinn and Jennifer looked at him. The atmosphere was strained. Nothing unusual about that. K&R was a fine line between success and failure, and this was one of the most dangerous periods.
“Any updates?” he asked.
They both shook their heads.
“Let me know when they make the next call.”
He stepped out of the room, leaving the door ajar, and called Andy. Despite the hour, the guy picked up on the first ring.
“Money’s on its way,” Max told him.
“Shit.”
That wasn’t the expected response. “What’s up?”
“I reached out to some old friends of mine like you suggested and, a few minutes ago, I got a call back from a guy who works in Vauxhall Cross.” Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. “He says there’s growing evidence of a Russian asset working in the US embassy in Buenos Aires which muddies the waters a little.”
“What the fuck?” When Max had suggested Andy reach out to his sources, he’d expected rumors of Yahontov’s imminent arrest to reach his ears, not a spy scandal.
“Yeah. Pretty intense.”
“What makes them think that?” Max was very aware of all the other people around him. This might be why the counterintelligence division had jumped all over the Russians trying to set him up in a honeytrap. They already suspected a problem.
“Earlier this year, an encrypted message was captured coming out of the
Russian embassy, and the Brits happened to have a cypher for that stretch of time. The message referenced plans for a dam in Africa. The Brits warned Langley. Later that same month, the Americans thwarted a terror attack on the facility. Guess who designed that dam?”
“No clue.”
“Phillip Dickerson.”
Shit.
“He couldn’t have been the only one with access to the plans?”
“No, I doubt it, but I don’t have any more details.”
“Do the Brits have someone inside the Russian embassy?”
Andy laughed. “That’s well above my buddy’s pay grade and mine, for that matter.”
“Do the Americans know about this?” It was one thing to warn a foreign country about a possible impending threat. Another entirely to compromise sources.
“I’m not sure, but other sensitive intel has surfaced around the world that could be linked back to either the Dickersons or someone at the embassy in Buenos Aires.”
So, the US intelligence services must be aware of the potential leak from someone at this embassy. “Do they have any ideas as to the identity of the spy?”
“Nothing confirmed, but my buddy sent me a photograph snapped a couple of days ago of someone from the embassy taking a meet with a major league SVR player. I’m going to text it to you even though I shouldn’t.”
The image loaded slowly. It was grainy and dark, but Max recognized the sharp profile of the Russian Lucy had pointed out to him at the hotel. And he was intimately familiar with the curve of the woman’s cheek. The shell of her ear.
Lucy Aston kissing Anotoly Agapov in the middle of the night. Cold and cruel, the image drilled into his temples. His lungs seized. His vision tunneled.
The image gutted him.
He reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall. No wonder she recognized the guy.
“When was this taken?” He sounded as if he’d inhaled a demon.
“Christmas night. About eleven PM local time.”
After she’d left him in the bar.
After she’d left him in the bar—Lucy had changed and rendezvoused with a Russian spymaster.
Ice flooded his system. What the ever-loving fuck?
“Recognize her?”
“No.” Max had no idea why he lied. Maybe so Andy didn’t freak out and alert the Lomakins. Maybe because he wasn’t ready to admit what a damn fool he’d been. Or maybe because his heart wasn’t ready to believe it yet.
It wasn’t because of any desire to protect a traitor.
He felt as if he’d been pummeled by a heavyweight boxer.
The phone inside the Negotiation Center rang.
“I have to go, Andy. I’ll keep you updated.” Max stepped back inside and closed the door.
It was the same electronic voice from before. The voice told Lucy to go to the next location.
“Okay,” Lucy replied. Her voice was steady, betraying no hint of nerves. Betraying no hint of duplicity.
Could she be a traitor? Would she betray the girls?
“Who is this?” the kidnapper asked sharply.
“My name is Lucy. Lucy Aston.”
There was a long pause. “Don’t be late, Lucy Aston.”
The kidnapper hung up. Quinn marked the new location on a paper map pinned to the wall. So far, Lucy was following instructions to the letter.
A buzzing sound started inside Max’s head. Anger or hurt? Or trepidation? He wasn’t sure. How could he have been so foolish? She’d raised his internal alarm bells the moment he’d met her. He’d known something about her wasn’t right, and he’d ignored his instincts.
Fool.
He tried to figure out what this all meant for the hostages. He didn’t know. A short while ago, he’d have bet his life Lucy was straight up and honest. Now his belief in her and in himself had been shattered.
Anger started to seep through and outcompete the softer emotions like hurt and betrayal. Anger that she’d used him.
Was she the ultimate honeytrap? Did she think he’d forgive this kind of treachery, or did she never intend to see him again?
That was a distinct possibility.
He stepped out of the room and called Jon Regan from TacOps. “Did you remove all the bugs you found on Lucy’s car?”
“Yup.”
Max swore.
“Why?”
Max had no idea who he was allowed to reveal this information to. If Lucy worked for the Russians, she’d have already warned them that the FBI were about to move on their warrant requests and Yahontov would likely be in the wind. The ransom money at this point would be a bonus.
Judging from the relative quiet in the office now, Operation Soapbox had launched. It was out of his hands now.
His hands shook at the fact he’d let the hostages down. These two girls would pay the price for his ineptitude, but he wasn’t willing to give up on them yet.
When the money wasn’t delivered, the kidnappers might kill the hostages…or maybe Lucy would make them a better offer to turn the victims over to the Russians.
He didn’t want to believe it, but how could he ignore the evidence he’d seen with his own eyes?
“Lucy just left on a money drop. I took the tracker out of her car because I didn’t want the Russians following her.”
Why would they put a tracker on her car if she worked for them?
Maybe they didn’t trust her either?
“You can track her phone, right?” Regan sounded as if he were getting up and dressed.
“Sure, but the kidnappers might tell her to dump that cell and leave another for her to use somewhere.” Or the Russians might.
“What about the wires in the bags?”
It made sense that Regan knew about them. Hell, his team had probably made them. But Lucy knew about the trackers too and, if she planned to double-cross them, then she’d dump the bags first chance she got.
The silence on the end of the line sounded deafening.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Regan snapped.
The guy was perceptive as hell even when he wasn’t in the same room. Time to fess up. “A few minutes ago, I was sent an image of Lucy secretly meeting with Anotoly Agapov on Christmas night. And there’s a rumor there’s a spy working at the embassy.”
Regan swore. “And Lucy’s the one doing the drop? How the hell did that happen?”
Max explained about Miranda’s car not working.
“She disabled the PA’s car?”
Max pulled a face. “When? She hasn’t been out of my sight except when she went to grab the ransom money last evening.”
“I guess you didn’t use the spare room then.” Regan sounded commiserating rather than accusing. Max felt like shit regardless. “We’re on our way. We’ll park in the usual place. I have a couple of ideas we might be able to use to track her.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Max hung up and scraped his fingers over his scalp. Lucy’s grief over the old woman’s death—was that an act? The way she’d made love to him…
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He needed to get ahead of this mess. He needed to talk to his colleagues at CNU and, unfortunately, he needed to inform the ambassador because, one way or another, Lucy had met up with a Russian spymaster the day after the top diplomat’s daughter had been kidnapped. And, considering Operation Soapbox had just launched, this could not be good.
* * *
The kidnappers still hadn’t fed her today, and she figured they weren’t planning to. Kristen had heard some kind of scuffle about an hour ago, but since then it had gone silent. She sat inside the wardrobe. She felt stronger for not having drunk the water but was so parched, her tongue had welded itself to the roof of her mouth.
She kicked out at the wardrobe but froze at the noise it made. It was solid wood, but her legs were strong. She kicked again, and the sound seemed to resonate around her wooden box. She hesitated.
What if she was about to make a massive mistake?
Had they released Irene? Was that what the commotion had been about earlier?
Or were they patiently waiting for the money. Was the suggestion they had found another buyer for her simply a bluff? They might have mutilated Irene to avoid the full-blown wrath of the United States.
She didn’t know.
A shiver radiated from her chest. What if she was sitting here like a lamb to the slaughter, simply waiting her turn?
She kicked again but stopped when she heard the heavy tread of footsteps coming into the room. She held her breath, panicked when she realized she didn’t have her hood on. She scrambled around and found it. Her heart hammering as she dragged it over her matted hair, her breath loud and hoarse.
“Have you forgotten the rules, mi hija?”
Don’t make a sound else I will cut out your tongue.
Fear pounded like a living thing inside her. She’d already seen them inflict that sort of damage to Irene. He wasn’t bluffing.
“No, sir.”
“Good. Keep quiet, and it will all be over soon. Your parents have sent the money. In a few short hours, you’ll be released.”
A wave of relief swept over her, so strong she sagged against the floor.
“But if you make a noise or try to escape, I will be forced to punish you and I might change my mind about releasing you.”
The words hung heavy in the air like the threat they were.
“Be a good girl and keep quiet.” The footsteps moved farther away as Kristen lay terrified in her prison.
* * *
Max strode to Ambassador Dickerson’s office. Knocked on the door and Phillip opened it.
Cold Cruel Kiss: A heart-stopping and addictive romantic thriller Page 30
