Fox Hunter

by Zoe Sharp

  Gregor Venko and I had few things in common, and I was willing to bet that a warped sense of humor did not make the list.

  I was shocked by the sight of him. The man I remembered was a force of nature. Even sitting still, there had been something restless about him, something both calculated and calculating, like a coiled snake waiting for the most advantageous moment to strike. Not someone to turn your back on, even for a moment.

  Now, his stillness had an air of malaise about it. There was no suppressed dominance, no more restless imagination.

  The way he was dressed didn’t help. Gone were the immaculately cut suit, the silk tie, the equally magnificent overcoat. The uniform of a powerful man.

  Instead, he wore well-washed moleskin trousers that were too wide for his skinny legs, so his knees protruded at sharp angles in the sagging cloth.

  The old Gregor had been a bull of a man, squat, wide, muscular. The type who would once have appeared, with striped bathing costume and curling mustache, bending iron bars in a circus sideshow.

  The new Gregor looked simply . . . old.

  He regarded me with no recognition in his eyes, which drifted back to the crackle of logs in the grate. Someone had let air out of him so his fleshy features were slightly deflated, glistening with a film of sweat. His wardrobe had yet to catch up with his frame. The open collar of his shirt gaped beneath a yellow sweater that might have been made of cashmere but which fit so poorly that it looked no better than a street-market special.

  I glanced behind me, at Ushakov. He met my eyes, but his face told me that I had to cross this psychological minefield on my own. Physically was another matter, and when I moved forward, he was at my shoulder. At first I was grateful for the apparent solidarity, until I remembered he was there to keep me from harming Gregor, not for my benefit.

  It seemed a long way across the Persian rugs, but only when I halted a respectful distance in front of him did the old man at last look slowly in my direction.

  I waited, unsure how to break the silence. A man like Gregor had to be treated carefully at best. Here, in his domain, he wielded ultimate power. He could reward or punish on little more than a whim.

  Eventually, he swallowed painfully and said, “Miss Fox. It has been a long time, I think.”

  “Indeed it has, sir.”

  His lips had been full but now they had thinned, so that when he pulled them back into a smile, it was more of a snarl. “What has brought you to my . . . home?” he asked, not quite fierce enough to be a demand, but close. “What do you want?”

  “I’m here because a man died—badly—in Iraq.”

  “It is Iraq. Many men die badly in Iraq,” Venko dismissed. “What makes this man any different?”

  “He worked for you—in Basra.”

  Venko went very still. A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his face, although the room was not overly warm, despite the open fire. Nerves, or something more? He leaned back and fumbled awkwardly in his trouser pocket, his hand emerging with a crumpled handkerchief, which he used to mop his face. While his features remained impassive, there was a minute tremor in the tips of his fingers.

  “Michael Clay,” he said, so softly I barely heard him.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, no longer than a slow blink, and he let the hand drop back to his lap.

  His gaze rose to my face, then past me to the man standing at my shoulder. I followed his sight line to Ushakov, then moved sideways slightly so he remained in my peripheral vision and was not directly behind me.

  “Why did you send your man to gently warn me off asking questions,” I asked Gregor, nodding in Ushakov’s direction, “unless you knew Clay was dead?”

  “I . . . did not know,” Gregor said, eyes still boring into the Russian with something of their old intensity. “I was led to believe he had . . . absconded.”

  An interesting choice of word. It had connections with embezzlement in my mind. So-and-so absconded with the payroll. I wondered if that was why Gregor had selected it.

  He’d thought Clay was on the take, and maybe he was. But if Sean didn’t kill him, and Gregor hadn’t had the Russians do it, who did?

  Gregor finally dragged his attention back to me and swallowed again. Both actions took effort, but he was not a man short on willpower.

  “What is he to you, this Clay?”

  “He’s nothing to me,” I said truthfully. “Less than nothing. But the man on whom suspicion has fallen, he is something to me. And because of that I need to find out the truth.”

  “Who?”

  “Sean Meyer.”

  I didn’t elaborate. I was willing to bet Gregor rarely forgot a name, and certainly not the name of a man like Sean, who’d done at least as much as I had—if not more—to return Ivan to him alive.

  So it surprised me when his expression hardened, tightening the jowls into a reasonably accurate facsimile of the man I’d met before.

  “Michael Clay stole from me . . . something of great value. Something unique and irreplaceable which was certainly worth killing him for. If Sean Meyer killed him, as he is suspected, perhaps he has . . . stolen from me, also?”

  Before I could deny the accusation, or work out quite where it sprang from, the double doors nearest to our end of the room burst open and a young man strode in.

  I had not seen Ivan since bundling him into the back of an up-armored stretch limo in Germany, under fire, several years previously. And if the intervening time had been cruel to Gregor Venko, they had been overly generous to his son. A likeness of Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray came unbidden and unwelcome to my mind, with Gregor playing the suppurating portrait, and Ivan the gilded flower of permanent youth.

  Before, Ivan had been handsome to the point of pretty, with those stunning pale green eyes, blond hair, and exaggerated Slavic cheekbones. He could have been a male model rather than a gangster-in-waiting. The intervening years had filled out his body from slightly gawky to physically mature. He obviously hit the gym on a regular basis, too.

  There was no getting away from it, if you looked no deeper than his skin, he really was quite beautiful.

  “Papa, what the FUCK?” he yelled, voice ending on a high-pitched squawk that took the shine off his attractiveness somewhat. He jabbed a finger in my direction. “What is this BITCH doing here?”

  Gregor ignored the outburst, just sat patiently and waited until Ivan reached him, glared down, chest heaving beneath the open collar of a silk shirt. I caught a glimpse of a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck.

  “She is here because of Michael Clay,” Gregor said at last. “Why did you not tell me he was dead?”

  Ivan stiffened as if insulted. “Because I did not know this, Papa. I left him alive, as I told you, begging for your forgiveness and promising to prove his loyalty by returning what he had taken. I should not have trusted that his fear of you would be strong enough . . .” Shrugging, he let the words trail away as his eyes speared mine with pure venom in them.

  And I realized then, with a sudden, startling clarity, that Michael Clay had not been alive when Ivan left him. My mind went winging back to that dirty building in Basra, to the blood and the flies. I saw again the ruined body lying on the mortuary table. The wanton mutilation that even those sterile conditions could not disguise.

  I remembered the underlying viciousness that had always marred Ivan’s perfect exterior, the brutality of his actions in Germany. Of being told that Ivan had been unbalanced right from the start. That Gregor had been cleaning up after him since the boy was seven.

  And I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Ivan Venko was the one who murdered Clay.

  The problem was going to be proving it.

  SIXTY-ONE

  MY PROBLEM WAS GOING TO BE NOT JUST PROVING IVAN’S GUILT, I considered a few minutes later, but proving it to his father. The Gregor I’d known was only too aware of his son’s faults. Now, as he patted Ivan’s cheek, he seemed n
ot only willing but determined to ignore them.

  Maybe the state of his health had much to do with that.

  Clearly, Gregor was not well. If I had to guess, I’d say early Parkinson’s disease—something neurological, at any rate. The weight loss, the slowed movements, the difficulty swallowing, the tremor in his hand that was caused by more than emotion. Indicative, rather than conclusive.

  I wondered if he knew.

  He must. How can he not have realized something is seriously wrong?

  But otherwise-intelligent men of a certain age could procrastinate stupidly when it came to the matter of their own health. And seeing the devious expression on Ivan’s face as he gazed down at his father, I guessed Ivan had not encouraged him to consult a doctor.

  Not until he was sure it was too late for anything to be done.

  Gregor raised his head and looked into his son’s face, into his eyes. At one time, such a direct gaze might have made Ivan quail, I thought, but while he produced a creditable impression of regret, spreading his palms, his reaction was little more than a facsimile.

  “You do not believe me, Papa. Perhaps then you will believe the word of another.” He glanced at the guard over by the door and said, “Fetch him.” As though it had all been prearranged.

  The man turned and went out without a word.

  Ivan sat next to his father, leaning in, confidential. “I always knew she would be back one day, with her hand out,” he said, sliding his eyes in my direction. “Didn’t I warn you? Just like all the other greedy bitches.”

  “I want nothing more than the truth,” I said without heat. “If something so valuable is missing, you should want that, too.” I wasn’t sure Gregor heard me. Ivan continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “We should have dealt with her in Iraq.” He snapped his fingers to demonstrate how easily I could have been snuffed out. “Just like that—gone.”

  “As I recall, you tried,” I said. I met Ushakov’s impassive gaze. “I’m sorry about Kuznetsov, by the way, but I think it’s fair to say you started it.”

  Ushakov shrugged. “He knew what he was doing. It is unfortunate that so did the mercenaries accompanying you.”

  From that remark I gathered he did not know I was the one who killed his comrade. I didn’t think it healthy for me to enlighten him.

  “You told me she had gone home—that she had run away,” Ivan accused him. Ushakov shifted his weight in reflex, and I realized those were not quite the words the Russian would have used. Ivan was trying to divide and conquer, dripping a little poison into everyone’s ear. No outright lies, just exaggerations and omissions. Enough to spin a web of distrust, with him at the center as the spider. How very Shakespearean. I couldn’t suppress a smile at his lack of subtlety. A mistake. His eyes narrowed.

  “I wonder now how you came to make such a mistake, when you claim to be the best money can buy,” Ivan said to Ushakov. “Are you sure that it was simply a mistake?”

  Ushakov folded his arms across a muscular chest and regarded him blandly.

  Whatever jibe Ivan might have been about to make next was curtailed by the doors at the far end of the room opening again. Two men entered. One was the guard, who resumed his sentry position. The second was a man I had not seen for a long time, and had not missed.

  Colonel John Parris, my old commanding officer in Special Forces. I had to compel myself not to snap to attention at the sight of him. I reminded myself we were both civilians now. In fact, if it came to a direct comparison between our employers, I could even claim to outrank him.

  Time had not altered him much. A few more lines on his lean, craggy face. A touch more gray at the temples of his sandy hair. A touch less hair. I wonder if all men who spent a lifetime wearing headgear of one description or another suffered from hair loss.

  “Ah, Charlie, isn’t it?” he said, managing to sound both familiar and patronizing at the same time. “It’s been a while.”

  “It has, John,” I returned with a deliberate drawl. There were plenty of other comments I could have added, but I had no wish to cut my own throat with sharp words, when there were others in that room who would fight me for the chance.

  Parris blinked but didn’t rise to the insubordination. He angled his body away from me, as if I no longer held any interest for him, and glanced between Venko father and son. Another careful snub—polite to the lady present, and then on to the real business with the men.

  “How may I be of assistance, gentlemen?”

  “My father has just informed me that Michael Clay is dead,” Ivan said. He made a doleful face that he must have practiced in front of a mirror. “He doubts my word that we left him in good health.”

  “Not quite,” Parris said, and just for a second I thought he was going to tell the truth, until he added smoothly, “naturally, we impressed upon him your displeasure with his conduct. That took a little beating home, as it were, but I think Ivan put your position across . . . admirably.”

  “By mutilating him?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Parris responded. “Clay was a damned fine soldier. He expected any breach of regulations to result in punishment. One can’t maintain discipline in the ranks otherwise.”

  He spoke easily, taking the sofa opposite Gregor’s without invitation and draping an arm along the back, crossing his legs. His face was a study in relaxation, but the foot of his free leg flapped at the ankle, betraying a nervous tension. He was, I considered, lying through his nicotine-stained teeth. Gregor nodded vaguely.

  “If you didn’t kill him, who did?”

  “Oh, I’m sure there were plenty with a reason to want him dead. He fought in a lot of places, many of which I’m not permitted to reveal, in covert actions that had far-reaching consequences. And since his military discharge, his contracting work was not always appreciated by those he tried hardest to assist in-country.”

  “So, what are you trying to say—that Iraqi insurgents were responsible?”

  He gave me a pained look. “Hardly, my dear. But by working with us to remove priceless artifacts out of harm’s way, so to speak, he was conspiring against the interests of certain parties who are infamous for their barbaric approach.”

  “You’re trying to claim Isis killed him,” I said flatly. It didn’t need to be a question.

  He shrugged. “It’s possible, or perhaps someone had a more personal reason for wanting him dead.” His pause was artful. “Someone like Sean Meyer, for instance.”

  He paused, one eyebrow raised. I said nothing. There was little I could offer that would not reveal I had already spoken with Sean—albeit briefly—about Clay’s death. My silence surprised him.

  “I’m sure you might try to argue that Sergeant Meyer would never do such a thing, but I understand that since he recovered from a serious gunshot wound to the head recently, his personality has been affected most profoundly. And with respect, Charlie, I question the neutrality of whatever opinion you might offer on the subject.”

  I took a breath while I willed calm onto my accelerating heartbeat, an adrenaline rush begging for violent release.

  Instead, I said with commendable restraint, “I wasn’t aware that Sean’s state of mind was such public knowledge.”

  Parris chuckled. “Oh, it isn’t, my dear.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to be discussed.” I inclined my head to Gregor, almost a bow. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, sir.”

  Parris let me step back, begin to turn away, before he said, “Did you really think it would be that easy?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you really expect to come into a man’s home—his castle, in this case—make serious accusations, and waltz out the door again without a care in the world?”

  He rose, stalked toward me, got in close, crowding me with height and muscle. My eyes were about on a level with his Adam’s apple. It made an appealing target.

  I glanced toward Gregor, curious about his reaction to all this, but the old man was s
itting in utter stillness, his eyes closed as if in meditation.

  So I lifted my chin to meet Parris’s challenge, refusing to back away from him, to back down. Instead, I ran through a mental checklist of ways to hurt him. It was reassuringly long.

  “I have, naturally, left word of my location with certain agencies,” I said calmly. “If they don’t receive a phone call in the next, oh, twenty minutes, I would say, to reassure them of my well-being, I will not be the only one waltzing into your man’s castle today.”

  Parris regarded me without apparent unease. “I assume you’re referring to the group you were with on the mountain this afternoon. I don’t think we need to worry too much about them.”

  I smiled as if that piece of information had not just shaken me. “You think they are all I have at my disposal?”

  “You will stay, Miss Fox,” Gregor said suddenly, opening his eyes as he broke his silence. “I have not forgotten what you did for me. Make whatever call you need to make, but you will stay—as my . . . guest. Twenty-four hours. Then we will see.”

  It might have been phrased and delivered graciously, but I did not mistake the order for a mere suggestion.

  SIXTY-TWO

  PARRIS RELIEVED ME OF MY CELL PHONE, REMOVED THE BATTERY, then casually told Ushakov to throw it off the mountain. I was glad I abandoned, back at the chalet, the far more expensive satellite phone I’d used in the Middle East.

  Parris stood over me while I made the call to Madeleine from a landline, presumably so they had a record of the number, and also so she could not trace my exact position, even if she’d had the equipment to do so.

  I reported without verbal expression that Gregor had cordially invited me to stay until the following evening. We had worked out a simple code beforehand. By use of the word “cordially” rather than kindly, generously, or hospitably, she knew I was not under duress, exactly, but not free to leave, either. House arrest rather than maximum security, and not to plan a rescue op just yet.