by N. J. Croft
“She told me she wished it was me who had died. Not Ben.”
Her eyes widened. “Bloody hell, she did not say that.”
She’d regretted the words, he knew that, because she’d told him, numerous times, but it didn’t help. Time to change the subject. “I have a younger brother and sister, though. Both born after Ben died. But the age difference is big, and we were never close.”
“Are you close to anyone?”
Eve had probably told her that he was a complete commitment-phobe. And he supposed it was true. Maybe because his mom had let him down so badly, or maybe he’d just been born that way. Probably a little of both. Nature then nurture. “I’m close to my Uncle Peter. I went a little crazy after Ben died. Misbehaved a lot. My parents didn’t know how to cope with me, and Peter came along and sort of took me off their hands. He got me into the military school he’d been to, and I loved it. He’s a general now, though he’d just joined the army back then.”
“Is that why you joined the army?”
“I guess so. I always wanted to be a superhero and fight the bad guys. It was the closest I could get.”
He couldn’t believe he was telling her all of this crap. He hadn’t even told Eve about what his mom had said.
“And you get to shoot things and blow shit up.”
“Not anymore.”
Her eyes widened in mock alarm. “God, what are you going to do to let off steam?”
He looked at her speculatively. Was she flirting? Again, he wouldn’t have put her down as a flirty type. He guessed she was just changing the subject, and he liked her all the more for it. “I’ll think about that and let you know when I have an answer.”
The waiter brought their food. And they ate in silence.
Afterward, they walked back to their own hotel. It took half an hour but was pleasant in the sunshine. She had long legs, and her stride easily matched his as they walked together. He glanced at her sideways, and she turned her head and caught him looking.
“Are you trying to decide whether or not it’s a good idea to sleep with me?” she asked in a conversational tone.
He snorted. “Actually, I’d already decided that we’re going to sleep together. It’s whether we do anything else together that’s still up for debate.”
“You know, I’m guessing I’m not exactly your usual type.”
“It’s been so long, I don’t remember what my type is anymore.”
She smiled at that. “Really? So this is just a proximity thing brought on through sheer frustration.”
“Maybe. Time will no doubt tell.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was near eleven that night, and they were outside a nightclub in downtown Irkutsk not far from the Marriott. Stefan had informed them that he knew someone who knew someone who could get him a gun. They would meet them here at eleven and hand over one thousand American dollars. It sounded like a lot to Noah, but then he was hardly in a position to bargain.
The line wound down the street, disappearing into the alley off to the left. Stefan led them straight to the front and spoke quietly to the huge bouncer who had a shaved head and a lot of ink. He would have fit right in with the Brothers of Jesus. After a brief glance at Noah, then Star, he waved them through and into some sort of reception area. To the right was a set of double doors through which he could hear the thump of dance music, and directly opposite them was a second, smaller door.
“We have to wait here,” Stefan said.
He didn’t look happy—a tic twitched in his cheek, and his gaze kept darting to the door to the street as though he wanted to make a run for it.
A minute later, the door opposite opened, and a man appeared. Small, middle-aged, and wearing a suit, he looked more like an accountant than a gangster. “Mr. Buryakov will see you now. You have the money?”
“I do,” Noah said.
“Good.”
Obviously the man spoke English, so Noah turned to Stefan. “You can go if you like. We’ll see you in the morning as arranged.”
Stefan’s shoulders sagged. Probably relieved he didn’t have to go any further.
The man led them through the door and down a narrow corridor before ushering them into an office. A second man sat in a large leather chair behind a desk. He was big, but solid with muscle rather than fat. Blond hair in a ponytail and dressed in a black T-shirt.
“Mr. Buryakov?” Noah asked.
He nodded then waved them to the seats opposite. “Vodka?” Without waiting for an answer, he poured out three glasses, lifted one, and tossed the contents back in one go. He raised an eyebrow, and Noah picked up his own glass and swallowed, the neat vodka burning his throat.
“So you want to buy a gun?”
Noah nodded.
“You have my money?”
“I do.”
“Let me see.”
Noah placed the envelope on the desk between them.
Buryakov flicked through the contents then grinned at Noah. “Of course, I could just take the money, shoot you with the gun, and have some fun with your pretty girlfriend.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” Star said, taking a gulp of vodka without even a wince. “I’m his bodyguard.”
He laughed. “Would you like to come and work for me?”
“No.”
He laughed again then reached into the same drawer and pulled out a holster and a pistol. “I’ll throw in the holster for free because your girlfriend amuses me.”
The pistol was a 9mm Makarov, a Russian-made gun Noah had never used before. It was clean and loaded. Noah pulled out the magazine, checked the chamber was empty, then pulled the trigger a couple of times. It felt smooth. He returned the magazine. “More bullets?”
Buryakov handed him a box, and Noah shoved it in his pocket then stood up and slipped off his jacket. He fastened the holster around his waist with the gun in the small of his back. With his jacket over the top, it was unlikely to be noticed unless someone was looking for it.
“Please feel free to enjoy my club.”
“Thanks,” Noah said drily. He wasn’t a club person.
The corridor was empty as they left the office.
Star paused as they passed the double doors leading to the nightclub. She glanced up at him. “I’m too wired to sleep.” She nodded to the doors. “You want to dance?”
Hell no. “I don’t dance.”
“I should have guessed that.” She studied him, her head cocked to one side. “You want to buy me a drink, then? Something other than warm vodka? I could murder for a cold beer right now.”
Why not? There was nothing else they could do for the night, and a cold beer would be good. He gestured toward the door, and she grinned.
The music was loud, though not painfully so, and the dance floor was full of gyrating bodies, the air rank with perfume and sweat. They found a table in the corner of the room as far away from the dance floor as they could get. A waitress appeared immediately, and he ordered a couple of beers.
They drank without talking, but it was a comfortable silence. Noah leaned back and let some of the tension drain from him. They’d made some progress. Tomorrow, they would visit the accident site and talk to the detective who had headed up the investigation, but for now they could relax.
He watched her drink, the flick of her pointed tongue over her lips, the smooth line of her throat. Finally, when their glasses were empty, he stood up, slid his hand into hers, and pulled her to her feet. Cupping her face in his palm, his thumb stroked the tattoo on her neck. Then he lowered his head and kissed her, slowly. She tasted of vodka and beer.
After a moment, she pulled away and studied him in the dim light, her expression blank. “Let’s go.”
He nodded, and she led the way out of the building. As they stepped out onto the street, his phone rang. He glanced at the caller
ID.
“I’ve got to take this,” he said.
Star gave a quick nod and stepped away. He had the idea she was regretting the kiss and was trying to distance herself physically and mentally. She was probably right.
He lifted the phone. “Tom? What do you have for me?”
“Background checks on the two names you gave me.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll send you the reports, but briefly: John Chen was a translator employed by the company funding your ex-wife’s research. He seems legitimate, and I couldn’t find anything to suggest he was other than that.”
One down. He’d been hoping for something more. Something that might help him work out what was going on. “And the other?”
“The other is far more interesting. Zachary Painter was a journalist supposedly doing an article on your ex-wife’s last expedition. But Painter was a pseudonym for a Zachary Martin.”
“That name sounds familiar.”
“It would. You worked with him for a while a couple of years ago. He’s MI6. Or was MI6.”
He remembered Zach Martin now. And his partner. Zach had seemed like a good guy. He’d had many of the same beliefs as Noah—that there was some sort of central figure who was orchestrating things, weaving a web, putting things and people in place. But in place for what?
“Was?”
“At the time he was in Mongolia, he was taking a leave of absence. Involuntary. He was relieved of duty when he returned to the U.K. His people apparently believe he was passing on information to terrorist groups and that he was directly responsible for his own partner’s death—when she started suspecting him—in a suicide bomb attack in Paris just over four months ago.”
Noah frowned. When they’d worked together, there had been no indication that Zach had been anything other than a dedicated agent. When had he gone over to the dark side? Or had he always been there and was just a good actor?
“What’s his connection to Eve?”
“I’m still looking into that. It might be he has links with the terrorists involved in her kidnapping twelve years ago. Maybe she somehow became a threat and they wanted her taken out. I’ll have more information soon.”
“You know where he is now?”
“He dropped out of sight. However, we have reason to believe that he was in Russia at the time of Eve’s death.”
Jesus. Could it be that simple? Something to do with the kidnapping and nothing to do with him at all? Then who had tried to kill him? Who had been following him back in London? And who had killed them?
“Thanks, Tom. You’ve been very helpful. Let me know if you find out anything else.”
“Of course. Senator Clayton has instructed me to help you in any way I can.”
Noah ended the call and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
The more he learned, the less he understood.
Chapter Sixteen
Noah wasn’t sure what he was expecting to achieve out of this trip to the wreckage.
The plane had gone down, crashed, burned. He’d seen the picture. What would they be able to tell from seeing it?
Before they’d left the hotel that morning, he’d checked in with the children via video chat. He’d told them he was visiting the place their mother died. For closure. He wasn’t sure Harper believed him. She’d asked him if everything was all right. She was worried; he could see it in her eyes. What the hell could he say?
Nothing was right.
But maybe the visit would trigger some ideas as to what had happened. Often the smallest of clues could lead to a breakthrough, and Christ, he could do with one of those.
After they’d gotten back to the hotel last night, he’d made a few calls, managed to talk to a contact in MI6, and confirmed the information Tom had given him regarding Zachary Martin. Apparently, it was true—he’d gone rogue and disappeared.
The report had come in from Tom including a list of possible contacts, but it was small. The man had no close family, was divorced. He’d call the ex-wife anyway but maybe not in the middle of the night.
He’d dropped a line to Tom and asked him for a list of all the cases Zach Martin had been working on from the time prior to Eve’s kidnapping, twelve years ago, to his disappearance. Maybe there was a connection there.
Tom hadn’t even balked.
It was a scary thought that a private company could acquire information on a government agency, but he was beginning to believe there were few limits to the extent of Clayton Industry’s reach.
They’d rented a car to make the journey to the crash site half an hour from the city. Stefan was driving, Noah sat next to him in the front, while Star was behind him in the back.
Last night, they’d both pulled back after the kiss.
The kiss hadn’t been one of his best ideas. He needed to keep focused. So while they’d slept in the same room last night, sleeping was all they had done, and by unspoken mutual consent, the kiss had not been repeated.
The copy of Eve’s death certificate had arrived, and they planned to return to the Marriott that evening when they returned from the trip. Would they find what they were looking for? And if the image was there—he’d use it to draw out Eve’s killers.
If that was even what they’d been after.
The roads had quieted as soon as they left the city—at least they could be sure no one was following—and they made good time. They were driving over flat open plains, but in the distance, shrouded in haze, he could see the mountains where the plane had gone down ten minutes into the flight. Stefan had already arranged for a local guide, the same person who had gone in and discovered the plane crash.
A battered gray car was waiting by the side of the road as they pulled up. A big man in jeans and a checkered flannel shirt leaned against the vehicle, a rucksack and coil of rope at his feet. He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties, with overlong black hair and dark eyes, almost black, beneath thick brows. He straightened as Stefan got out of the car, and they spoke in Russian.
Star had climbed out of the back, and Noah went to stand beside her as the two men approached.
“This is Dimitri,” Stefan said. “He’s going to take us to the site of the crash. And he says sorry for your loss.”
Noah nodded and held out his hand. They shook. “Thank you.”
Star held out hers next, and it was enveloped in Dimitri’s really big palm. “Привет,” she murmured, and Noah’s eyes narrowed on her. Was she flirting? He’d already decided she wasn’t the flirty type, but maybe she was pissed at him for the kiss.
The Russian grinned and spoke something in fast Russian.
She glanced at Stefan one eyebrow raised.
“He says you speak Russian.”
“Obviously not. Just greetings and stuff.” She shrugged. “I picked up a phrase book from the hotel on the way out.”
They had to walk for the last couple of miles, and the day was warm. He let the others go ahead and walked at the back, his gaze drifting to Star’s ass. As though sensing his focus, she glanced over her shoulder and smirked. He grinned back, his mood lifting slightly. Maybe the fresh air and the countryside? It was beautiful and the sky overhead a deep cloudless blue.
The walk took thirty minutes, the last mile up a steep incline. Dimitri halted at the top and spoke to Stefan.
“The plane is in the ravine,” Stefan told them. “We can’t actually see it from here, but we can climb down. It’s an easy climb.”
Noah peered down where he was pointing. The land fell away steeply, and somewhere not far below, he could hear water running.
Dimitri was already tying one end of the rope to a sturdy tree trunk and throwing the other over the edge.
“You okay with this?” Noah asked, glancing at Star.
“Of course. I learned to rappel when I was in college.”
&nb
sp; The drop was only about fifty feet, and she went first, lowering herself hand over hand into the ravine. Stefan went next, then Dimitri, and finally Noah. Pain shot through his shoulder as he lowered himself. Shit. He’d almost forgotten about the bullet wound. He shifted his weight to the other arm and hoped he hadn’t reopened the wound. Star was assessing him through narrowed eyes as he reached the bottom.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You’re such a tough guy.” She didn’t sound as though it was a compliment.
Dimitri led the way through the heavy growth. The sound of running water was louder here, and they were heading toward it. Finally they came to a narrow, fast-flowing stream. The water looked deep, but Dimitri jumped it, and so they followed. They rounded a last bend in the gorge, and there it was.
The skeleton of the plane was clearly visible amongst the blackened and burned vegetation. The plane lay on its back, one wing broken off, the front nose snapped. Maybe it had hit the ground nose first then catapulted over onto its back. Exploded in a fireball. They would have had full tanks of fuel at that point and no chance of survival. At least it would have been over quickly. Likely Eve would have been killed on impact.
Why the hell had she been on that goddamn plane? The kidnapping had left her terrified of closed spaces—among other things. What the hell was she doing in a small plane? She was heading back to Ulaanbaatar, which wasn’t that far. Why didn’t she use the train? Though if she’d been taken from the hotel, then likely she’d had no choice. Maybe she’d been dead before she even got on the plane and this was all a set up to hide the fact that she’d been murdered.
He moved toward the wreck, leaving the others behind. The plane was bigger than he’d expected. About twenty feet long. It was hard to visualize what it would have looked like. The color was burned away, now black. He ran his hand along the metal, warm from the sun.
“How many people were on the plane?” Star asked, coming up behind him.
“Just Eve and the pilot,” Noah said. “So at least no one else died. She would have hated that.”