by Ronie Kendig
“Steel, diamonds, drugs, gold, skin,” Iliescu explained. “You name it, ol’ Hristoff is involved, and the control he wields in eastern and southeastern Europe is phenomenal.”
“Ghastly, is more like it,” Braun said. “This is not a man to mess around with. And we are very concerned that Viorica now has the scroll. If she has it, then we must assume Hristoff has it.”
“I’m missing something.” Leif angled in to the conversation and a better view of the live feed. “Why are they interested in some ancient text? And why do we care?”
“We’ve already told you—”
“Right—you told me you can’t tell me much.” It wouldn’t help to get angry, but Leif was already there. “But the stakes are upping, and the intel needs to match that progression. We aren’t dealing with everyday treasure hunters. That woman is not a run-of-the-mill assassin or thief. She is resourceful and determined.” The look in her eyes as he held her by the cuff, her frantic desperation, warned him to tread carefully.
“Someone put a hang glider on the roof for her,” Saito said. “Can we look into that?”
“We’d just be chasing our butts and wasting time. She probably paid some low-level employee to plant it there, along with that satchel,” Leif said.
Culver scowled. “She had a satchel?”
“That’s what I asked myself when she stood on the ledge with it across her body,” Saito said.
Leif shrugged. “The only explanation is another plant. She had enough resources, enough time in the area, to scout it and figure out who to buy off. It’d take days, if not weeks, to track that intel, and that’s time we don’t have if we’re going to chase down the book.”
“Are we?” Lawe sounded excited.
“You mean chase her down,” Saito corrected, looking at Leif again for direction.
“We are.” The thump in Leif’s chest surprised him. “First we need sat footage from the area surrounding that facility. Where’d she land with that glider? Did she have someone waiting? Was she working alone?”
“We’ll get that unlocked for you,” Iliescu said. “I’m also trying to reach an asset on the ground to keep tabs on Peychinovich, see if he goes to Viorica or she to him.”
Cell and Mercy both burrowed into their systems, working through various feeds.
“Lawe, call and get some birds scrambled,” Leif ordered. “I want to be out of here and en route within minutes of finding where she landed or is headed.”
“Roger that.” Lawe stood and left the room.
“Klein, Saito, and I will get the gear prepped and ready,” Culver said.
“Light and fast,” Leif said.
That left Baddar and Devine. He turned to the latter, recalling that she was a cultural support team member and spoke several languages. “You know Russian?”
“Ya nemnogo govoryu po russki,” Devine said with a rueful smile. “Emphasis on ‘little.’”
“Just as long as you know it.” Leif nodded. “You might have to take point when we find her.”
Lips parted, Devine hesitated.
“Don’t worry.” He offered a smile. “You won’t be alone.”
“Guess I need to earn my keep somehow.”
Leif smirked. “You more than do, but annoying Lawe is the cherry on the top.”
“Well.” Devine had a smile that could level most guys. “In that case, I will always accommodate.”
Yet everyone who met the two knew they were hot for each other. And for the same reason, guys veered away from Devine. It wasn’t a territorial thing, though some wanted to say that. It was about respect. Leif had seen enough trouble in that regard to not even approach that incendiary line. Besides, there were too many holes in the black box of his life. He wasn’t sure what was hiding there, but there’d always been this vague foreboding that haunted the gaps. No need to unwittingly place a woman in the crosshairs.
His thoughts snapped back to the facility. To Viorica. Iskra Todorova.
“You’ll kill us all.”
Fear. He’d seen fear in her eyes when she noticed the charge. Not anger, which he’d expected. She didn’t want to die. Most people didn’t, but there was a desperation there. He couldn’t explain it, but it hung in the back of his mind like an annoying itch he couldn’t reach. What was it?
Why did he even care?
Know your enemy. It was the only way to catch her. Get the book back.
The way she’d looked at him on that ledge when he had a bead on her, wind shredding her, slapping dark strands in her face . . .
Why hadn’t he taken that shot? It would have solved everything. They’d have the book. She’d be dead.
Screwed that one up.
“Leif.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Baddar, whose accent shaded the name more like layf than the typical pronunciation of leaf. The Afghan hunched close to Mercy, who had a screen lit. “See this.”
Leif rounded the table and shouldered in. “What am—”
“We couldn’t find anything on government satellites,” Cell muttered from the side.
“While he was using legit channels,” Mercy said quietly, “I decided to Bruce Wayne it and tap into cameras around the city to spy on the local populace.”
“Wait, Ms. Marvel, did you just use a DC reference?” Leif teased.
“While I’m no Carol Danvers—”
Leif grunted his disgust. “Forgot about her.”
“—you’ll notice I made the reference in regard to a theft of private security, what most would call invasion of privacy and a criminal act. Which fits Wayne and his superpower-less self.”
“His superpower is that he’s rich.” He smirked. “What’d you find?”
“I found your girl.” Mercy’s mouse pointer grabbed a map and swiveled it around, tilting the topography as she zoomed. “And here we see . . .” Her shoulders moved as if she were physically adjusting the cameras. “Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom.” She folded her arms and sat back, giving Baddar a coy look. “Mercy saves the day. Again.”
Leif frowned, eyeing the image. The water and the sky. “I’m not—” Then he did. “Yacht.” His heart thumped against his ribs. “Could be any yacht . . .”
Mercy swiped her touchpad, and the image zoomed in more. “Look what’s on the rear deck.”
A smile filtered into Leif’s mood. “Hang glider.” He tapped the screen. “I need the name of that yacht.”
“Wait wait wait,” Cell muttered, working frenetically on his system. “That . . .” Bent over his computer, he was murmuring and shaking his head. Scowling. Trying one thing. Then another. “What in the conspiracy theory is going on?”
“What’s eating your lunch?” Saito asked as he rejoined them.
“Look.” Cell clicked and sent his image onto the big screen. “The yacht is in the feed, but zoom in, and that glider is not there.” He fast-framed the feed. “Not ever.”
Mercy pointed at her system. “But it’s right there.”
“The images are exactly the same, except the glider,” Cell said.
They watched it over and over. Same result. Yacht. No glider. But on Mercy’s laptop, it was clear as day.
“What’s this mean?” Devine asked quietly.
“Means someone high up doesn’t want us tracking down this book.” Leif’s thoughts rampaged through the revelation.
“Or Viorica,” Mercy countered.
“Same thing,” he said. “Find her, find the book. Bugs me, though, that someone was informed and aware enough to already alter that image, which means they could’ve saved us some trouble at Aperióristos.”
“Maybe the same people who know why this book needs to be found but won’t tell us or our supes?” Lawe stood behind Devine, shoulders squared. “Birds are winding up now.”
“Maybe,” Leif said. “Whoever altered the sat feeds wants to bury the path of that book. Doesn’t make sense that our side is doing it.”
But then who? Someone didn’t want him to find it. Which ma
de him want to nail it down even more. Like the Sahara Nine. He’d get answers. Eventually.
Leif grunted. “Their fault for putting us up against this.”
Culver grinned. “Hooah.”
“Okay,” Cell announced, pulling their attention back to him. “It’s a super yacht, the Taissia, once owned by a Saudi prince.”
“Pretty sure most super yachts are owned by Saudi princes,” Klein added.
“It was sold to”—Cell clicked through a few more links, then barked a laugh—“Vasily Kuznetsov, owner of Black Tides, a Russian company responsible for recovery of oceanic artifacts.”
“He tied to Peych?” Leif asked.
“Peych?” Cell repeated with a nod. “I like it.”
“Brings the guy down to size,” Leif muttered.
“Yep,” Cell said, eyes on the data again. “Valery Kuznetsov is listed as—”
“Vasily,” Leif corrected.
“What?”
“You said Vasily Kuznetsov owns the boat. Not Valery.”
“I . . .” Hesitating, glancing between the information tabs he had open, Cell harrumphed. “Sure enough. But . . .”
“So is the intel wrong?”
“Twins,” Mercy interrupted, swiveling her screen around, displaying a picture of two men in front of a yacht, their visages identical. “Vasily and Valery Kuznetsov are twins. Intel has Valery as Peychinovich’s chief of staff three years ago, but then his body washed up in the Moscow River—a retaliatory strike by one of Peychinovich’s enemies. The twin ran one of Peychinovich’s companies as CFO until two years ago, then retired and started Black Tides.”
“Retired. Yet he’s on that boat with Viorica.” Leif didn’t care about the twins. He looked to Cell. “Where’s the Taissia now?” All he cared about was finding enemy number one: Viorica.
“The global ship tracking on the Taissia isn’t working,” Cell said.
“Convenient.”
“But we can find her via satellite, now that we know what we’re looking for. And it seems like we’re heading up the Aegean to . . .” He craned his neck. Another scowl. Then he sat back. “I can’t find her now.”
“Me either. They know,” Mercy breathed.
“Of course they do,” Leif said. “I practically ran her off the roof. She’d know we’d come hunting for her.”
“They also know how to stay out of sight,” Mercy continued. “Maybe they have mirroring tech that makes them look like more of the same water.”
“That exists?” Saito asked.
Mercy shrugged. “Why not? Russians are working with reactive armor.”
“Really starting to feel outgunned,” Klein mumbled.
“There!” Cell barked. “Sea of Marmara, heading . . . looks like . . .”
Mercy twisted up her face. “Istanbul.”
How did that make sense? “She’s Bulgarian. Peych’s Russian.”
“Wait,” Saito asked, swatting Leif’s arm. “How do you know she’s Bulgarian?”
“It’s in the dossier we were given.” He shifted to the screens, not surprised to find Braun still listening. “What’s there? Why would she go to Istanbul?”
Annoyance pinched the admiral’s weathered face. “We aren’t sure, but we’re looking into it. Iliescu has an asset on the ground.”
“I want to know what kind of trouble we’ll be walking into.”
“Walking into?” Braun scoffed. “I didn’t say you’d be going, Mr. Metcalfe.”
Leif pivoted to the others and jutted his jaw. Culver, Saito, and Lawe took the signal and cued the others in. They started toward the doors. “Sorry, Admiral. You’re breaking up.”
“Mr. Metcalfe!”
Leif eyed Cell. “Did we lose them?” he asked, knowing full well they hadn’t.
“Uh . . .”
“Screen’s hazy,” Leif lied, motioning to the wall monitor, where Braun was shouting that her connection was fine, then asking those around her if they’d lost communication and to find out what was wrong. It was hard not to smile. “No sense in you wasting your efforts here.” He waved at Cell, who killed the feed. “Let’s find an assassin!”
Hustling, Cell muttered, “That’s really not as enticing as you might think.”
ELEVEN
GOLDEN HORN, ISTANBUL, TURKEY
There was a glory to her father’s homeland that stirred something deep in Iskra as the yacht made its way up Haliç, the Golden Horn. Vasily guided them past Galata Bridge and docked parallel to the stretch of green grass and paths that hugged Abdülezelpaşa Caddesi. Cars packed the busy street.
“Think about it.”
Iskra turned to him, wary. “You did notify Veratti, yes?”
“I did. But I”—he shook his head—“I think the Americans are your best chance for what you seek.”
“No. Veratti wants the book. I give it to him, he can take care of Hristoff for me.” It sounded so coldhearted. But she must be that way if things were to change.
“Please. Veratti is too dangerous.” Vasily sagged. “Use the Americans. At least think about it. Promise me.”
“I did!” For two seconds. Using the Americans might speed things up, but it would bring about her end faster, too. Freedom would never come. “I can’t. I can’t risk it. There are too many unknowns—”
“And there’s not with Veratti? With the very organization that could do severe damage to you and this world with that book?”
“They want the book, and I have it. So they’ll help me.” At least, that was what she told herself. “Now, enough of this. I’ve made my decision.” She shrugged into the satchel that held her laptop, phone, and the book.
Vasily sighed. “You know what to do, da?”
Iskra flicked a frown at him. “I have been doing this longer than you’ve been helping.”
He hung his head. Nodded. “Da.” His gaze came back. “But it does not mean I worry less. I do this for Valery, but also because I care for you, Iskra.”
She managed a smile, but this felt too much like Hristoff’s smothering. “I learned long ago how to read a situation and be quick on my feet.”
“But that was before Bi—”
“Enough!” she snapped, not wanting to hear the name poised on his tongue. “I do not need you to remind me what I’m fighting for.”
“Nyet,” he said softly, “but perhaps to remind you of what you’re living for.”
Heart thudding, Iskra snatched up her worn leather jacket and limped off the boat without another word.
“Stay in the city, Iskra,” he called. “Around people. Call Bodhan.”
Her irritation burned as she strolled up through the park toward the busy street. She hustled, ignoring the honk of annoyed cars and the pedestrians heading to mosques. She made her way to Atatürk Köprüsü, the bridge spanning the same waters they had ridden into the city. She made quick work of getting off the main streets and let herself get lost in the crowds of the smaller streets.
Why? Why must men think she needed handling? Why did they tell her every step to take? She had been traveling the world, doing one dirty deed for Hristoff or another, for nearly a decade. All without babying or minding.
Yes, this was different because Hristoff didn’t know where she was or what she was doing, nor that she had the book already. She’d hidden her mission’s purpose until she’d been sure. Until Vasily verified it. Bogdashka had promised it would lead to Mitre. Iskra hadn’t believed her at first, but the ardency, the fervor in the old woman’s eyes had been unmistakable.
As she hiked up Yolcu Hamam Sokok, she coiled her fist around the USB drive that held a copy of the scroll. Because eventually the book would go to Veratti. She’d gladly give up the book and the questions in her mind about what Bogdashka knew as long as she found Mitre.
Being in the city where her father—curse the man and his other children—once lived and worked felt oddly like coming home. More so than Russia, where she’d spent most of her life. The smells, the sights. The call to
prayer, which stirred nothing in her. She respected them, appreciated that Muslims were so devout to their faith and practices, but she felt no desire to join them.
A brisk walk down Yanikkapi Sokok delivered her to Eski Banka, which then got her onto Galata Kulesi. The narrow street and its graffiti-streaked buildings hovered close as she climbed the steadily sloping street toward the infamous Galata Tower. Defiant trees shot up, scraggly and staked for protection from vehicles jockeying for the sliver of road. A compact sedan, parked on what served as a sidewalk, forced its way onto the anemic street. Iskra stepped around it and barely avoided a white van, its horn pealing a shrill objection to her intrusion.
Another three meters brought her to a junction where three roads converged. It felt kilometers wide, as if the streets could finally breathe. Flowering vines adorned a knee-high wall to her left, a bit of vegetation in this concrete jungle. Up ahead waited the hotel, where she could rest and sort things. And yet the sight of this hotel tugged on her heart. Her memories.
He used you. That’s all. It wasn’t special.
She ventured past it, up the incline of the hill, and turned down a narrow alley. Glancing around to make sure she was alone, Iskra tucked herself into a tiny space behind a shop. An exterior, long-forgotten storage room. She’d walked past it the last time she was here and noted it because an orange cat had been curled in the corner. She slipped inside the space and stuffed the box on a high ledge that formed the frame of the door. Whispering a prayer that probably went nowhere, she scanned the alley and exited.
As a taxi waited for someone near the valet parking of the restaurant with the flowering vines, Iskra seized the chance to dart across the street unencumbered. She swept past the soda machine and candy stands, eyeing the green sign dangling from the hotel building. The Misyon.
Breathing a sigh, she leaned into the door. It was a strange mixture of European and Turkish décor, but the lobby welcomed her with air conditioning that wafted spicy scents from the café. She strode to the desk and produced her passport and ID.
“Welcome to the Misyon,” the host said. “Room for one?”
“Two.” Though a lie, it kept her safe. Presented a front that she was not alone, which was important in this male-dominated environment. “One night. Please.”