The Moscow Deception--An International Spy Thriller

by Karen Robards

  He was close, bearing down on them with a male friend. There was no time to avoid him, no place to go.

  “It’s okay. Just stand your ground,” Bianca said for Evie’s ears alone.

  Evie nodded. Bianca could feel her nails digging in through the thin fabric of her sleeve. Her understanding of Evie’s distress was such that she didn’t even try to free herself.

  Fourth was the reason Evie was hiding out, as she put it, on the third floor. She’d retreated to join Bianca there as soon as she’d come in out of the huge tent where supper had been served and discovered that Fourth was following her with the intent, presumably, of launching yet another attempt to persuade her to call off the divorce. Bianca was on the third floor because the mansion’s wide front veranda was serving as an ad hoc red carpet. Klieg lights blazed bright among the classic Doric columns as the local print reporters vied with their sister TV stations to grab footage of folks attending the gala. The late-evening newscasts and presumably the morning talk shows and papers would be full of pictures of Savannah’s elite looking ridiculous in hoop skirts and morning coats as they partied to raise money to preserve the city’s treasured landmarks.

  At least, Bianca felt like she looked ridiculous. She’d put in a last-minute call to the costume shop that had supplied her and Evie’s dresses and requested a change. Instead of the blue-sprigged white gown she’d planned to wear, she was going with the full-blown widow’s costume she’d seen on a mannequin when she and Evie had visited the store.

  “Of course. The black will look lovely with your coloring,” the proprietress had said, clearly not understanding Bianca’s desire to wear widow’s weeds to a gala but not wishing to argue with a customer.

  Bianca could have explained that her change of costume was largely due to the hat with the gossamer veil that was the outfit’s crowning—ha-ha; see what she’d done there? at least possible imminent death hadn’t robbed her of her sense of humor—glory. But she didn’t.

  The veil was helping her get through the evening. It didn’t completely cover her face, but the netting dipped low enough in front to mask the vital nose bridge area, and it also covered part of her cheekbones and the entirety of her ears besides obscuring the shape of her face.

  Right now the game was all about defeating any facial recognition software.

  The good news was that the chances of a contract killer being found among the costumed partygoers was practically zero, which meant that at least she probably wasn’t going to die in a hoop skirt. Security was tight, no one was admitted without a ticket and everybody pretty much knew everybody else. The bad news was that everybody also had a camera with them in the form of their cell phones. Pictures were being taken by friends of friends, and Bianca had no doubt that Facebook and Snapchat and a whole host of other internet sites were already filling up with images of the gala.

  She could avoid the cameras as long as she saw them coming. Her worst fear was that she would accidentally photobomb a Scarlett O’Hara wannabe’s selfie.

  All those cameras made the gala as hazardous for her as waltzing through a minefield.

  Which was why she was playing defense to the max. Besides the veiled hat, and her garter belt, which would require some maneuvering to reach since her bell-shaped skirt was approximately as big around as a circus tent, she was carrying a tessen, also known as a Japanese war fan, that dangled from an antique-looking gold bracelet around her wrist. Disguised as an ordinary folding fan, it was made from paper-thin steel that was strong enough to deflect knives, blow-darts and arrows. It had a razor-sharp edge that made it ideal for use as a knife substitute or a throwing weapon. She was proficient in tessenjutsu, which was the use of the war fan in close combat.

  And, unfurled and strategically positioned, it hid her features from errant cameras.

  As a bonus, it was black with a delicate gold scroll design and made a beautiful accessory for her gown. She’d spent much of the evening fluttering it delicately in front of her face.

  Kind of added a whole new dimension to that steel magnolia thing.

  “There you are.” Fourth and his friend were upon them. Fourth was looking at Evie, whose nails dug into Bianca’s arm.

  “Did you want something?” Evie responded. Bianca was proud of how composed she sounded. Evie’s chin was up. Her eyes met Fourth’s unflinchingly.

  “I did,” he said. “But it’s something we should talk about in private. Bianca—” Fourth’s eyes were cold with dislike as he directed his attention to her “—I don’t think you know Chip Bridgewater. He’s been pestering me to introduce you two, and he loves to dance.”

  Bridgewater was about Fourth’s height and age, maybe a little more muscle, a good-looking guy with short dark hair and a nice smile. Like Fourth, he wore his old-fashioned costume like he was born to it. Which, like Fourth, he was. Bianca wasn’t familiar with Chip, but she was familiar with the family name: they owned a shipping company that was worth a quarter of a billion.

  “That wasn’t exactly the lead-in I had in mind, but—” Bridgewater smiled at Bianca “—would you like to—”

  Before he could finish, Hay joined them. He had Grace Cappy, who was looking flushed and radiant, on his arm.

  “—such a good dancer.” Grace finished what she’d been saying to Hay with a beaming smile. She looked around at the others. “Oh, hi.”

  “You all know Grace,” Hay said. His eyes brushed Bianca’s. From that brief glance, Bianca knew that Hay had spotted Fourth with her and Evie and had hurried over to lend his support.

  “This will only take a few minutes,” Fourth said to Evie, and nodded at a nearby alcove. “If you want to move over there out of the way—”

  Grace had big hazel eyes, Bianca discovered as they fastened on Evie’s face and sharpened with interest. Bianca could almost feel her storing away every word to be repeated later.

  “I don’t,” Evie said. “Whatever it is, this isn’t the place to talk about it.”

  Fourth’s eyes narrowed. “It’s time sensitive,” he snapped. “And you won’t return my calls.”

  With Fourth’s arrival Evie had moved infinitesimally closer to Bianca. Bianca could feel the fine tremors coursing through her. Between her pregnancy and the divorce, Evie was currently hyperemotional. Bianca knew that right at the moment her greatest fear was that she would burst into tears in public and cause talk. Everybody was aware of the divorce and all the unsavory circumstances surrounding it, and Bianca could already see curious glances being cast their way. She could also see Grace soaking it all in and feel Evie’s building distress.

  “This feels like a good time to finish what I was saying earlier,” Bridgewater said, smiling at Bianca. “Would you like to dance?”

  Evie’s nails dug into Bianca’s arm like sharp little knives. Silent message: don’t you dare leave me.

  “I’d love to, but as you can see I’m wearing mourning.” It was the best excuse she could come up with given the short notice. Bianca used the fan to gesture at her dress and underline her point. “Back in the day ladies were forbidden to dance while they were wearing mourning, and I wouldn’t want to break any rules.” She smiled at Bridgewater, then looked at Grace. “Why don’t you ask Grace instead?”

  Only a quick flicker of his eyes revealed Bridgewater’s lack of enthusiasm. But he was trapped, he knew it, and like any self-respecting Southern gentleman he gave in to the battering ram of good manners without a struggle.

  He smiled at Grace. “I think they want to be rid of us. Would you like to dance?”

  Grace shot a glance at Hay, who, as it happened, was looking at Bianca.

  “Yes, thank you, I would,” Grace said. Bridgewater offered his arm, and the two headed toward the floor.

  “I’ve had an offer on the house,” Fourth said to Evie. “It’s a good one. I want to accept it.”

  “What?” Evie’s eye
s flew to his face. “It’s not even for sale.”

  “You’re not living there. You don’t want us to be a family, to raise our baby there. You want a divorce. If that’s really the way you feel, it’s time to sell the house.”

  Evie’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t—I can’t—”

  She broke off. Bianca knew that it was because she was too choked up to continue.

  Fourth pressed on. “Or you can sign your share of the house over to me, and at least half the time our baby will have a home.”

  Evie’s response was a strangled croak.

  “You son of a bitch,” Hay said, his voice too soft to be heard beyond their little group. “To come here and upset her—”

  “She’s my wife, so you can just back off,” Fourth growled.

  12

  Evie’s face turned tomato red. Her lips clamped into a straight line. She was clutching Bianca so tightly that Bianca knew she would have marks on her arm later. She also knew that Evie couldn’t talk because she was barely holding in furious tears.

  “Stop, both of you,” Bianca hissed at the two men, then gave Fourth a look that made his eyes widen. “You. Go away. Right now, or first thing Monday she’s talking to her lawyer about getting a restraining order.” Fourth opened his mouth to say something. Conscious of the interested eyes that were turned their way, Bianca smiled and said, “I mean it.”

  The fact that she did must have shown in her eyes, because Fourth looked at Evie, said, “I’ll be in touch,” turned on his heel and walked away.

  Evie leaned a little more heavily against Bianca’s side. Her mouth was still clamped shut. She was breathing hard through her nose and blinking rapidly in an effort to hold back tears. Hay shifted position so that he blocked the sight of her from the rest of the room.

  “You know he’s just trying to get under your skin, right?” Bianca said to Evie. “Don’t let him do it.”

  Evie nodded. Before anybody could say or do anything else, Bianca spotted Randall Wallace, president of the Chamber of Commerce, and Mark Graham, a wealthy real-estate developer, coming toward them. Wallace was short, portly and balding, Graham was tall, thin and balding. Both were in their early to midsixties.

  What to do? Evie was in no shape to be seen by anybody outside their own little group.

  “So what’s up?” Doc appeared on Bianca’s other side without warning and immediately frowned questioningly at Evie. To her chagrin Bianca realized that she had been so focused on the approaching businessmen that she hadn’t even seen him skirting a cluster of would-be bidders crowding around a nearby table to join them.

  “Shit from a shithead,” Hay said. Doc looked confused, but there was no time to explain that ‘“shithead” was Hay’s current favorite nickname for Fourth: Wallace and Graham were closing in.

  “Here, take Evie and dance with her.” Bianca thrust Evie toward Hay, who looked surprised but slipped a supportive arm around her. “We’re about to have company, and nobody needs to see her like this. Keep her on the floor until she calms down. Then maybe we can all get out of here.”

  Evie made another strangled croak: words trying to force their way out.

  “The auction doesn’t end till twelve,” Doc said, interpreting her thought, and Evie nodded. Translation: they couldn’t leave before then.

  “To hell with the auction.” Hay was already turning away with Evie. Sheltering her from view as best he could with his body, he walked her onto the dance floor and pulled her against him so that her face was hidden in his shoulder.

  “Bianca,” Wallace greeted her. He and Graham stopped in front of her, blocking her view of Hay and Evie. She smiled at them, shook hands, introduced Doc.

  “We have some good news,” Wallace said, and Graham nodded. “It hasn’t been officially announced yet, but I wanted you to know you’ve just been selected as one of six nominees for Savannah Businesswoman of the Year.”

  “Why, how nice.” Bianca felt a warm little glow of pleasure. Until she remembered that there was a strong likelihood that she wouldn’t be around or maybe even alive when the nominations were announced, much less when the award ceremony itself took place. She struggled to keep her smile in place. “I’m honored. And so proud of everyone at Guardian Consulting. They’ve all worked incredibly hard to make the company a success.”

  “We’re just following your lead, boss,” Doc said. Bianca’s smile turned genuine as she glanced at him and reflected how far he’d come in the realm of putting a good corporate face on it.

  “That’s right—a good company results from a good leader,” Graham said. Marshall nodded.

  “Well, I wanted to give you a heads-up,” Marshall said. “The official announcements will be made next Wednesday. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” Bianca said. A few more pleasantries were exchanged, and they moved on.

  “The good news train just keeps on chugging along,” Doc said when they were gone. He cast a furtive glance around and held out his iPad to Bianca. “We got an answer. Here it is.”

  Bianca’s pulse sped up as she looked at it.

  She’d been right: Mason had figured out that he needed to reply through the “ask seller a question” link.

  Marvelous acquisition can’t afford unfortunately; what’s your next number? Keep it low: M-A-C-A-U; W-Y-N-N? A question mark meant what followed were numbers: first letter in a word equaled the corresponding number—11-9-12.

  Translation: Mason wanted to meet at the Wynn Hotel in Macau on November 9 at midnight.

  Four days from now.

  Bianca felt her stomach twist.

  “That is your guy, right?” Doc sounded suddenly anxious.

  “Yes.”

  Doc was frowning at her. She supposed her face must reflect the dread that was rising inside her like thick, deeply cold sap. She rarely allowed herself to feel anything too strongly. Not to do so had been drummed into her from an early age.

  Keep emotion out of it: it was one of the rules.

  But right now she was finding that impossible to do.

  She could feel the life she had so painstakingly built for herself starting to evaporate around her. Her gaze slid from Doc to Evie, who no longer had her face buried in Hay’s shoulder but was looking up at him and nodding to Hay as they danced. They were more than friends. They were her family: Evie and Hay, and now Doc, as well. There was Evie’s baby: she didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. Would she be around for the birth, to watch the child grow? She looked over the crowded ballroom: for better or worse, she knew almost everyone there. She thought of her condo, and Guardian Consulting, and the fact that the local business community thought enough of her to select her as a nominee for Savannah Businesswoman of the Year.

  She thought of her clients, and the jobs Guardian Consulting currently had underway, and the prospects she still needed to pitch projects to and her plans to grow the business. She thought of the respect and the respectability she had worked hard to earn.

  She thought of the Packs and Francisca and her mother and even Nora-with-the-bicycle who delivered the paper. She thought of the Starbucks on the corner near her office and the private gym she’d set up for herself in the basement of the ballet school she owned and all the little things, like the routes she liked to run and the places she liked to shop and the fact that the star-shaped leaves on the sweet gum trees in front of her office building were just starting to turn red.

  It was a tapestry of people and places and things that meant something to her.

  It was a life. Her life.

  At the knowledge that she could lose it, her heart shivered and bled.

  It was possible that once she left this place for Macau, she could never come back.

  It was possible that she would die.

  The thought of dying, of being killed, pop, bang, you’re gone, scared her
.

  Duh, right? The thought of dying scared everyone.

  Only she was suddenly so afraid of it that she felt as if her insides had turned to stone.

  The reason? The reality that she was very likely to be killed within the next few weeks was beginning to hit home.

  Plus, it had just occurred to her to wonder, given the circumstances surrounding her creation, if she even had a soul.

  Heaven and hell, some kind of afterlife, had always been abstract concepts, fuzzy possible conclusions to one far distant, really bad day.

  But the thought that if they existed she might not have a ticket to ride made her go weak at the knees.

  To be blasted into nothingness—the idea made her mouth go dry. It made her want to pant with fear.

  Yeah, well, cry me a river.

  Time to cowboy up and deal with the situation as it stood.

  Whether she liked it or not, she was a walking, talking, genetically enhanced test-tube experiment: nothing in the world she could do about that.

  And there were a whole lot of people out there trying to kill her. Difference was, that she could possibly do something about.

  So right now she was going to deal with the hard practicalities of continuing to stay alive, and let the existential stuff go.

  Unless she was missing something, she had three choices:

  (1) stay in Savannah, go about her business, and hope never to be found; great choice, except—sooner or later, she would be found;

  (2) go public. Call the national newspapers, the TV stations, the media outlets. Tell the world about the Frank-N-Furter gang that had created her. Tell the world about the murders of the forty-seven other Nomads and their gestational mothers. Tell the world what she was. That might take away the incentive to kill her. It would also shine a blindingly bright spotlight on her, blow up every aspect of her life, and let any would-be killers who were not deincentivized by publicity know exactly who and where she was. If she was a betting person—she wasn’t; her not-father was the inveterate gambler—she would bet that she would be dead and disappeared before she could convince anybody that the fantastic story she was telling was the truth;