He must have been putting in some long hours lately, too.
“I didn’t expect to see you, Sloan. I thought you’d send someone to fetch us.” In Miranda’s experience with the man, Sloan liked to throw his weight around.
He scowled at her. “Good to see you again, too, Ms. Steele.”
“Agent Sloan,” Parker said ignoring the tension, “this is my father, Wade Russell Parker, Junior and his wife, Tatiana.”
Sloan shook hands, lingering on Tatiana’s. “I’m so sorry to meet under these circumstances, ma’am, but I hope you can be of some help to us.”
“I will try my best.”
“You won’t need to talk to him. We’ve got him in interrogation. You can watch through the two-way. He won’t see you.”
She nodded.
Sloan turned to Parker. “You’ve explained everything?”
Parker nodded and handed Sloan the copy of the flash drive he’d retrieved from his pocket.
Sloan took it with a reverent look atypical of him. “I hope we can get some good data from this.”
“Is that where you found my brother’s name?” Tatiana stared at the drive, sounding a bit hysterical. “He cannot be involved in this criminal organization. He was always such a good boy.”
As Sloan pocketed the flash drive, Miranda put an arm around her. “That’s what we need you to verify, Tatiana. Whatever the truth is, I know you’re strong enough to face it.”
That seemed to help.
Tatiana smoothed the skirt of her dress and straightened her shoulders. “Very well.”
Sloan eyed everyone in the group, then gestured toward the door. “Follow me.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Sloan led them through a set of twisty corridors typical of a penal institution. They turned this way and that, until they reached a green metal door with a red light over it.
Sloan opened it with a keycard and ushered them into a small dark room with semi-cozy chairs, a table and a big window across one wall.
Some sort of electronic curtain blocked the view.
“Would anyone care for anything to drink?” Sloan asked, playing the polite FBI host.
“Let’s just get on with it,” Parker said.
“All right.” Sloan laid a hand on Tatiana’s arm. “Are you ready, Mrs. Parker?”
It sounded odd to hear Tatiana called by that name, but Miranda was more worried about the woman’s mental condition.
Tatiana dug in her pocket for a tissue, then took a deep breath and stepped to the window. “Yes, Mr. Sloan. I am ready.”
Sloan flipped a switch and a large well-lit interrogation room appeared. They were several feet up from the room, and the window gave them a sort of overhead view.
A large man in the standard orange prison uniform slouched in a metal chair across the table from another FBI agent.
O’Cleary. Miranda recognized him from her previous dealings with Sloan. She also recognized his Irish accent.
“How long has this organization you belong to been in existence?” he said. “At least you can give us that.”
The prisoner’s hands and feet were shackled, but he had some leeway for movement. He didn’t budge. Miranda had a feeling this line of questioning had been going on for a while.
And getting zero results.
Miranda eyed the big man’s knobby face, his leathery skin, his bald head and the black spiral-and-spike running over it and down the side of his neck.
She’d seen a lot of large bald Ukrainian men with tattoos like that lately, but the sight of this man set her nerves on edge.
This one was Anatoly Tamarkin. The man who’d nearly killed Parker five months ago. But was he also Sasha Pavlovych? It was hard to fathom.
Turning away from the window, Tatiana shook her head. “I am sorry. I cannot tell. He looks so different.”
She hadn’t seen him since he was eighteen. The man down there certainly looked different from the picture of young Sasha in Miranda’s cell phone.
She caught the frustration on Sloan’s face and put an arm around Tatiana. “Do you think you could talk to him? Are you up for that?”
Mr. P stomped over to his wife’s side. “No, she isn’t. You don’t have to do it, Tatty. Don’t let them make you.”
But Tatiana laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “I want to, my darling. I will do anything to stop the sort of criminal network they are saying my brother is involved in. And if he is, I must know that, too. I must face the truth.”
She picked up her pocketbook from her chair and turned to Sloan. “I am ready. I can talk to him now.”
Sloan eyed the purse. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I need to know what’s in there. It’s protocol.”
Sloan always went by protocol.
Without blinking, Tatiana opened it and held it out to him. “It is pictures I brought from our childhood.”
The old fashioned kind on photo paper.
Sloan took a cursory look at the purse’s contents and nodded. “All right. Come with me.”
Chapter Fifty
As they left the viewing room, Mr. P spun around to Parker. “You can’t let her do this, Russell.”
Parker was unmoved. “Are you hiding something, Father?”
“Of course not. How can you say such a thing?”
“Let’s just see what happens,” Miranda told them, feeling like a referee.
O’Cleary’s chair creaked across the interrogation room floor. “Well, guess what, Tamarkin? We just happen to have another visitor for you.”
Miranda peered through the two-way glass and saw the door open as Tatiana and Sloan stepped inside.
Sloan closed the door and both of them stood in front of it, waiting.
Miranda watched the big man’s face. His eyes widened, and his chest moved up and down as if he was suddenly having trouble breathing.
Did he recognize her?
After another moment, Sloan ushered Tatiana to the chair O’Cleary had vacated.
Tatiana sat, her gaze never moving from the man across the table from her.
Tamarkin stared at the woman as if she were from outer space.
At last, Tatiana spoke. “It is me, Sasha. Tatty.”
Miranda watched the big man’s face. He seemed confused. Was he surprised? He hid it well.
He scowled at Sloan. “Who is this woman? I do not know her.”
“Of course, you know me,” Tatiana said. “Do you not remember your big sister?”
Tamarkin’s shackles clanged as he tried to get up. “Take me back to my cell,” he growled at Sloan.
Sloan didn’t move.
Tatiana opened her purse and took out one of the pictures she’d brought. “Do you remember this day, Sasha? It was our last Easter together. I had come home from nursing school to be with our family. Katerina made us such pretty eggs.”
His chest heaving again, Tamarkin stared down at the photo as Tatiana laid it in front of him.
She took out another photo and put it beside the first one. “And this was our last Christmas. We had such a feast around the table. Do you remember Mama’s special bread? Her braided kolach?”
Miranda couldn’t see the picture, but she knew it was the same table where Tatiana’s family had fed her and Parker a big meal.
Tatiana pointed to someone in the picture. “Do you not remember little Lena? Our neighbor? She was in love with you. She pined so for you after you left.”
As he stared in wonder at the photo, Tamarkin’s cheek twitched.
Tatiana took out a third photo. “And this is when you were a baby. Your first birthday. Mama is holding you in her arms. This is me, this is Anastasia, and this is Katerina. We are all smiling and laughing. How happy we all were to have a little brother.”
Tamarkin’s cold hard eyes began to glisten with tears.
Tatiana had been careful to choose photos without their father in them.
But as Tamarkin continued to gape at the pictures, she hit him with her final salvo.
<
br /> Gently she placed her small hand over his big rough one. “Papa is so sorry he hurt you,” she said in a near whisper. “He was angry that day. He did not know what he was saying. I heard him say so many times, ‘If only I could have that day back,’ he would say. ‘If only I could see my son again’.”
Tamarkin’s head shot up, his eyes flashing. He pulled away from her. “I am not his son. I am Russian.”
Miranda reached for Parker’s hand to steady herself.
It was him. Anatoly Tamarkin was Sasha.
Tamarkin got to his feet and pushed the table away, scattering the photos on the floor. “What do you want from me?” he screamed. “I sent you money.”
Jumping up from her chair, Tatiana blinked at him. “Money? No one sent us money.”
“They sent it for me.”
“No one sent us money, Sasha,” she said again.
Miranda felt Parker go stiff beside her. “In Kennesaw, Tamarkin told me the people he worked for took care of his family. It was a lie. We need to leverage that.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Wait here.”
Mr. P followed him to the door. “Russell. Where are you going?”
“To get a confession.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Parker left the room, and Mr. P returned to Miranda’s side. Without taking his eyes off Tatiana he took in a heavy breath. “I knew she was strong, but I never realized how strong.”
This had been as much a trial for him as it had been for his wife.
Down below the interrogation room door buzzed, and Sloan went to open it. He didn’t look pleased when Parker stepped inside.
They were about to have words until a screech came from Tamarkin.
The big giant was suddenly reduced to a blubbering child. “You have come for me at last!” he shouted at Parker. “I knew you would. I have seen you in my dreams. You sent people to kill me. They failed. Are you here to do the job yourself?”
What in the world was the man talking about?
Ignoring the nonsensical words, Parker took Tatiana’s arm and stepped between her and her brother. “I’m here to ask you a simple question, Sasha. Are you going to remain loyal to people who left your family in poverty? Who lied about it?”
Tamarkin stared at Parker with as much shock as he had those pictures. He began to mutter to himself. “It is not him. He has not come for me.”
“Who are you working for, Tamarkin?” Parker demanded, now using his first alias.
Tamarkin straightened, took a step toward Parker. “It is not him. It is you. You are the enemy. I did not kill you in Kennesaw. I will kill you now.”
Raising his shackled wrists, he lunged at Parker.
Sloan and O’Cleary were on the big man in a flash, though Parker could certainly have taken care of himself.
“We’re done here,” Sloan grunted.
And he and O’Cleary muscled the big man through the door.
As Parker and Tatiana left the interrogation room, Miranda turned to Mr. P.
He looked pale and shaken.
A moment later Parker came through the door. “Tatiana is in the restroom. She said she needs a few minutes to herself.”
“She was very brave,” Miranda said.
“She was.” Parker’s tone told her he was disappointed in himself for not getting the information they needed.
“You did fine,” she said to him. “Sloan and O’Cleary will find out who the man in Boston is.”
“Man in Boston?” Mr. P said from the corner.
“We think he’s the head of the organization Tamarkin works for.” She couldn’t bring herself to call the hardened criminal Sasha.
“Boston?” Mr. P said again.
“Yes. Parker didn’t tell you that last night?”
“No.”
“I thought it best,” Parker said without further explanation.
Tatiana returned from the rest room, her eyes red from crying. And a few minutes later, Sloan stepped into the room. He thanked them for their help and led them out.
There was nothing more they could do, so they left the prison and went back to the hotel.
Chapter Fifty-Two
After a light dinner in their room, Miranda sat with Parker in their New York suite, her mind spinning from their visit to the prison.
It was just after nine, five in the morning Kiev time. She was jetlagged and exhausted. Not to mention depressed over what they had learned that afternoon.
Sasha Pavlovych was Anatoly Tamarkin. And the ominous sounding Yakiv Doroshenko, as well. Whoever he was, it was clear he would never betray the organization he worked for.
“What are we going to do, Parker?” Miranda moaned.
Parker sat at the end of the elegant sofa, nursing a glass of red wine.
He had gotten them an executive suite on the twentieth floor with a stunning view of Lower Manhattan. The ice blue and marble decor was ultra modern and ultra chic, with fine upholstery in suede and leather, and clean uncluttered lines. About a hundred and eighty degrees from the gaudy luxury of their hotel in Kiev.
“We’re going home,” Parker said. “I have a flight to Atlanta booked first thing in the morning.”
She stared up at him in disbelief. “What about Sloan? What about Group 141?”
Before he could answer there was a soft knock on the door.
Parker got up and went to see who it was.
As she rose and took the plate of her unfinished meal back to the room service table, she heard Mr. P’s voice. He sounded upset.
“What’s wrong, Father?” Parker asked after Mr. P had stepped inside the suite. “Is Tatiana all right?”
Mr. P was still dressed in his business suit, but he had a strange look in his eyes. “She’s asleep. She insists she’ll be fine.”
He paced over to the window, then back again.
Parker stood waiting for him to explain himself.
At last the older gentleman settled into one of the ice blue leather guest chairs.
He ran a hand over his pure white hair. “Something is troubling me, Russell.”
Parker resumed his seat on the sofa. “It was a troubling afternoon.”
Feeling worried about her father-in-law, Miranda sat down next to Parker.
Mr. P shook his head. “Something specific. In the prison you mentioned a man in Boston.”
Parker seemed surprised at the remark. “Yes. He’s supposed to be the leader of the organization Tamarkin works for.”
“Tamarkin.” Mr. P nodded, still wrestling with the idea that man was his wife’s brother. “How did he know you?”
“I battled him face to face during a case in Kennesaw we worked five months ago.”
“The Dylan Ward Hughes case.”
“Yes.”
Mr. P knew the family.
He rose again and paced over to the credenza. “But Tamarkin recognized you as soon as you came into the interrogation room. He said you had sent people to kill him.”
Miranda watched Parker study his father with an investigator’s eye. “Sloan hasn’t told us very much about Tamarkin’s incarceration, but I surmise there have been attempts on his life.”
“To keep him from talking to the authorities.”
“Yes.”
Mr. P rubbed his chin. “And it would be his boss who would have sent them. ‘The man in Boston,’ as you called him.”
“That is the information we have.”
Mr. P strode back to his chair. Instead of sitting, he stared down at the blue cushions. “Why did Tamarkin think you were the man in Boston?”
“I have no idea.”
Miranda was about to tell Mr. P he needed some rest after what he and Tatiana had been through, when suddenly a jolt went through her.
Her chest heaving, she grabbed onto Parker’s arm.
“Miranda. What is it?”
She took in air, tried to form the words. Her mind was back in Los Angeles, on that smoky movie set where Ostaf Savko had tried to kill them.
Parker frowned. “Of course, I do.”
It had been a sheer horror for both of them, as well as for her team. “It was dark. The air was filled with smoke from the fire. I was rummaging around in the rubble trying to find you. And I saw a man.”
“A man?”
Miranda nodded. “He was tall and well-dressed. Expensive, double-breasted topcoat, perfectly styled hair. Gray. He had a gun in his hand. He tried to shoot me, but the sirens sounded and he left. I think a limo took him away.”
Parker took her hand. “What are you saying, Miranda?”
She met his gaze. “He looked like he was in charge. Like a boss. Like maybe he was the one who had orchestrated that attack.”
Mr. P stepped toward her, staring at her as if she were a ghost. “Do you think he was the man in Boston?”
“Maybe, but—” she couldn’t get the words out.
“But what?” Mr. P insisted.
She turned to her husband. “He was a mean, soulless version, but Parker—he looked like you.”
“Oh, my God. My God.” Mr. P sank into his chair. Elbows on his knees, he covered his white head as he shook it back and forth. “It can’t be. It simply cannot be.”
Miranda felt a sharp stab in her heart. Beside her, Parker sat rock still. What was going on?
They waited.
Finally Mr. P calmed down. He eyed the bottle of Chianti on the coffee table they’d shared at supper. “Do you have anything stronger than that?”
“No.” Parker’s terse reply made Mr. P sit up.
“I have a confession to make, Russell.” He looked up at his son with pleading eyes. Then he turned to Miranda.
Neither of them said a word.
Mr. P rose and went to the window to stare out at the glorious view of New York at night. But he wasn’t taking it in. At his sides his hands opened and closed in agitation. He seemed lost, nervous. Mr. P was never lost or nervous.
Miranda knew he was about to say something terrible.
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