Great. Twist the knife. Remind me your people are diving at Deep Springs and ours aren’t!
“We’re doing Weeki Wachi, Deep Springs, then on down to the Keys for coral reefs and a shipwreck. Nice package, going to be popular.” As usual with Arlan, I found myself gritting my teeth. “Okay, okay, here’s the problem . . .” His voice trailed away; his broad butt did another shimmy. “Um . . . this is probably absolutely nothing. I’m wasting your time, but . . . do you happen to have a wedding in Three Rivers this weekend?”
I’d been sprawled in my chair, trying to look infinitely disinterested in anything Arlan Trevellyan might have to say, but he’d stuck it to me good this time. I sat up, leaned in. “As a matter of fact, we do.” We went eye to eye, and, surprisingly, I saw something close to concern shining there.
“I guess you don’t know my grandmother was Polish,” Arlan said, “but I grew up with a basic vocabulary that lets me pick up things here and there.”
And charm people with names like Jankowski, the owner of Deep Springs.
“Anyway, I’m not into diving myself, so I’m waiting around at the Springs this afternoon while my dive chief takes our tour group down to the cave.”
I winced. I’d wanted permission to do that so badly, I could feel the warm water closing round me, smell the hydrogen sulfide . . .
“And I overhear some old ladies talking. Something about a grand wedding at some club. Except instead of being excited—you know, the way women get about weddings—they sounded scared. They kept looking around to see if anyone was listening. I was sort of sitting in the shadows—I guess they didn’t see me.”
Sneaky Arlan, always lurking. Spying even when he had no reason.
“Well, anyway, this one woman was warning the others not to go shopping on Saturday afternoon, not to go anywhere near ‘the club,’ wherever that is. She said she’d—oh, hell, Laine, this sounds so third-hand when I say it out loud. Maybe I should just shut up and go.”
“Keep talking.” I snapped it like a drill sergeant.
Arlan gave me the fisheye, nodded, and the words came tumbling out. “She said she’d heard her grandson on the phone, rounding up a bunch of friends. That some mob boss named Grigori Rufikov would be coming to the wedding, and extra security, above and beyond his personal guard, would be needed. The kid tossed off a number of other names she didn’t know. Names that meant nothing, but she recognized trouble when she heard it. Best to stay away from downtown on Saturday.”
I got up, rounded my desk, bent to place a kiss on Arlan’s high forehead. “You are forgiven, even for the bolas,” I told him. “I’d prefer you went and sinned no more, but at the moment you are golden, friend. The only problem, I need you to tell your story to a number of people. Like Interpol, the FBI, and the Sheriff’s Department.”
Arlan’s eyes went wide. “You mean, this is important?”
“Way important. Before this, it’s all been speculation. Hang on.” I picked up my phone.
Trouble was, later that night, when Arlan finished telling his story for the umpteenth time, we only knew our wildest theories had been right. There were some really shady characters in Three Rivers, with a whole slew more arriving on Saturday. But a legal reason for an arrest warrant, the slightest concrete evidence that would force cancellation of the wedding? Non-existent. Like all mob bosses and their captains, Grigori Rufikov and his top minions were so well insulated from the daily activities of the organizatziya that they couldn’t be touched. They were here to attend Viktor’s wedding. Period. Effing, frustrating period. Something called the laws of Florida and the Constitution of the United States made any intervention without good cause, impossible.
The only real change since Arlan’s news was in me. I was forced to acknowledge that my big brown bear was not just Aleksei Tatarkin, reformed and retired to Three Rivers, but a genuine Bad Guy, still very much an active part of the mob.
Oh, shit. Tomorrow I was driving him to Tampa International to pick up his bride. On Thursday and Friday I would help her find a wedding gown and all the accessories down to the last little detail of something borrowed, something blue. On Saturday I would provide moral support, help her dress, wait with her in one of the club’s reception rooms until she took her place inside the eggs. Was it all a big show, a bit of grandiose flag-waving? Viktor showing the world that he was a classic bridegroom, a good guy, who was even providing an impeccable escort for his bride? See, see, I am not hiding her away. It’s all for real. I am getting married. That’s all. That’s it. Karasho! No need for worry.
I was wrong—there was another change. The FBI dusted off its creaky response, grudgingly offering more substantial back-up. Too bad the Patriot Act couldn’t help, but, well, it wasn’t their operation, and our problem was pretty ho-hum compared to the threat of terrorism.
I snarled when Dad gave me that bit of feedback. Trafficking wasn’t ho-hum to the women and children who were being bought and sold. Or to the weak fools who bought Rufikov’s drugs or the innocent victims killed by the military-grade weapons he sold.
In the end, the only certainty was that Viktor Kirichenko’s wedding, guarded by his own goons and nearly every law enforcement agency in Florida, was going to be as secure as Fort Knox.
Maybe.
If we were lucky, the bride wouldn’t show up. Fantascapes would swallow the cost of the eggs, get the investment back on future weddings . . .
That night, as I turned to Rhys for comfort, for the first time I admitted I might be in over my head. There was no way Viktor’s men were going to allow anyone from the outside near the Slavic American Club. Except me. I would be alone. Fraternizing with the enemy. Would I be patted down? I wondered. Forced to enter the lion’s den without a weapon?
I fought one last contentious battle with the part of me that still insisted this was only a wedding. Viktor was getting married. As planned. Just because every last VIP in the southern branch of the Russian mafia was going to be there . . .
Oh, hell. Rhys had been nibbling his way around my anatomy and had reached a spot that absolutely demanded my attention. Yes, oh yes, oh yes! Who cared about Viktor Kirichenko? Fabergé eggs? Interpol . . . the FBI ? If this was one of my last few nights in this world, I was going to make the most of it.
Morituri, te salutamus! Those old gladiators had the right attitude. Go down with elan, and, just before you bite the dust, salute the slimy bastards who put you there. Well, hey, run out the banner. We who are about to die salute you.
Chapter Eighteen
Viktor and I were smack in the middle of the eleven-mile crossing of Tampa Bay, cruising at sixty alongside the towering golden cables that kept the Skyway bridge from plunging into Tampa Bay (as its predecessor had done), when it occurred to me that when I went anywhere with Viktor, I always drove. And Mr. Macho Hitman never objected. Maybe he liked having a chauffeur. More likely, he couldn’t read the signs. Let’s face it, if the signs on the octopus-tentacled arms of I-275 were in the Cyrillic alphabet, by the time I’d puzzled it out, we’d be in Tallahassee instead of Tampa International. As for me . . . it had never occurred to me not to drive. I like control. Keeping my hands on the wheel, my foot on the gas. No cruise control, sitting back, taking it easy, for Laine Halliday. Letting Rhys drive the Lexus to Three Rivers had been a compromise—my need to keep my hands free for my weapons outweighing my need to keep my hands on the wheel.
When Viktor arrived at the office today, Mom and Candy had played their roles well, working hard to keep things casual. But they were anxious, I felt it. Seemingly, Viktor didn’t notice. He’d wrapped me in a bear hug and treated me like a queen ever since. Things could not have been more normal. Maybe things would make more sense when I saw the bride.
According to Viktor, Marina Galikova had flown from Odessa to London, where she’d taken a non-stop flight to Tampa. While we waited for her (and possible companion) to clear customs, I kept my determined cool. The oddest part was, so did Viktor. He was about to gre
et an unknown young woman with whom he was expected to spend the rest of his life, and he sat on a seat beside me watching the crowd, singling out all the pretty girls for more careful ogling, from giggling teenagers to perfectly turned-out professionals obviously traveling on business. One more bit of weirdness. But when had I ever seen him show any other emotion? He was like a mountain, permanently carved into two faces—one genial, the other leering, but only in a friendly dancing bear fashion.
Aleksei Tatarkin, hitman? At this moment, the idea seemed so far-fetched, it was ludicrous.
Oh. My. God. Viktor lumbered to his feet as two young women came through the door from the customs hall. Marina Galikova’s Internet photo had not done her justice. She was the classic, small-town girl-next-door. Blonde, exquisitely beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and delicate bones. Innocence touched by shy eagerness shown from enormous heavily lashed blue eyes, completing the picture of the ideal Russian bride, the kind men hoped for and seldom got. This was for Viktor? On their wedding night I pictured the poor girl squashed flat as a bug. Ripped to pieces.
As Viktor made the introductions, I moved in to shake hands with both girls. Marina’s outfit added to her projection of naivety—a simple dark skirt and a rather prim long-sleeved white blouse. Her companion was another matter entirely. Dariya Makieva immediately made it clear she wished to be called Dasha. As I felt her hand grip mine in what was almost a challenge, I recognized her for what she was. Not another hopeful girl in search of a husband, but Marina’s keeper. Dasha, slightly taller than I, positively towered over Marina. Dark hair, sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. Muscles that rippled beneath a tight cotton knit top over a skirt that barely covered the essentials. Viktor had to have known Marina would be escorted, but in his typical cagey fashion he had chosen to leave it vague. No let’s-spell-it-out-in-black-and-white for Viktor Kirichenko. Keep ’em guessing, every time. At the moment he was radiating warmth, enjoying his little scenario to the hilt.
Stupid. All he is, is the perfect portrait of a happy bridegroom.
Yet Dasha was a lethal weapon, possibly as well trained as I. Unarmed at the airport, of course, but I was willing to bet she’d be carrying by the time we started our shopping trip in the morning. How could I tell Dasha was a touch chick? It takes one to know one.
Which was what I reported to everyone that night at yet another meeting at Halliday House.
“The bride has a bodyguard,” Flint exploded.
“Believe me, she’s too young and naive to make the trip on her own.”
“So the bride’s not part of the plot?” Rhys asked.
“Not unless she’s the best actress I’ve ever seen. From the moment she walked out of customs until I got both girls settled at The Beach Inn, she never slipped out of any mode but young, innocent, and breathlessly enchanted with everything she saw. You should have seen her face when she discovered she was staying across the street from the Gulf of Mexico.”
My little speech was rewarded with a non-committal grunt from Rhys and something close to a snort from Flint. If they’d actually met Marina, I was sure they’d understand. As it was, they were going to have to take my word for it.
“This Dasha,” Dad said, “you’re sure she’s more than a bridesmaid?”
I dropped my chin into my right hand, scowled at Gramma Blaine’s prized Limoges teapot in a display case on the far side of the room. “My hair bristled,” I told Dad. “We were like two cats, taking each other’s measure. Sort of like meeting your ex’s new girlfriend. Only worse.”
“Can you take her?” Flint demanded.
I had to think about it. Five humiliating seconds before I said, “Yes.” Truthfully, I was thinking it was time I went through survivalist training again. Which is about the only way a civilian can get really tough combat training. There was a good course only an hour from Golden Beach. Of course, if I went with Interpol, they could probably pull a few strings and get me into . . .
But I couldn’t. I already had a full-time obligation right here. Interpol was not part of my future. But that wasn’t going to keep me from looking good in front of Rhys. Or from being ready for anything at any moment. I was the youngest Halliday. I was female, and damn proud of it. And on Saturday, come what may, I was gonna shine.
When helping my friend Marybeth shop for a wedding gown, we’d gone to Sarasota, Tampa, and Orlando. We’d even taken a jaunt to the foreign country of Miami. And ended up buying a gown on the South Trail in Golden Beach. So that’s where I’d made prior arrangements for Marina and possible bridesmaid. Frankly, I tend to be pretty laid back about wedding gowns. I can admire the dresses, the overall look, but I don’t get all starry-eyed, picturing myself dolled up in one of those elaborate creations of silk, pearls, and glass beads. I don’t see myself clutching a bunch of flowers, floating down the aisle, my vision obscured by a veil. Who thought that one up anyway? Are veils some holdover from medieval days when the groom didn’t see his arranged bride until the veil was lifted at the altar? And the bride couldn’t get a good look at him until ditto? Now wasn’t that a happy thought?
Oddly enough, as we embarked on our wedding gown expedition on Thursday morning, the language barrier wasn’t much of a problem. Probably because weddings and shopping were a universal language needing no translation. Yes, no, da, nyet. Smiles, nods, shrugs, waving hands. Marina, Dasha, and I spoke the international language of women.
I sneaked a peek at Dasha when she came out of the dressing room in a third possible choice of bridesmaid gown—spring green with white embroidery—and for a fraction of a second, I almost felt sorry for her. She looked as bored as I felt. Actually, come to think of it, I was just the teensiest bit glad to see her suffer. I definitely didn’t care for Dasha. And then, when she looked in the shop’s three-way mirror, I saw her eyes light up. The gown’s asymmetrical hem was lettuce-edged, as were the short sleeves, with tiny white rosebuds scattered among the embroidered leaves. This was a gown far more chic and attractive than the two previous ones she’d tried on. Enough so that the tough-girl façade wavered, cracking just long enough for a real person to shine through. A few intriguing moments before her face shuttered and Dasha was once again the bored sophisticate, tolerating her fitting because it was her job.
Interesting. I was almost sorry I’d noticed. If we ended up in a worst-case scenario on Saturday, with me going hand to hand with Dasha, the most ruthless was going to win. I didn’t want to see her as human.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Viktor might be playing me, but I was certain he wasn’t interested in seeing me dead. Therefore, I didn’t need to worry about Dasha.
Probably.
Maybe . . .
A chorus of oos and ahs filled the shop—from other customers as well the sales clerks—as Marina appeared in yet another wedding gown. There was no question. This was it. We settled into the nitty gritty of fittings, underpinnings, shoes, stockings, garters, and on and on . . . but actually, it wasn’t so bad. Dressing Marina was rather like playing with a life-size doll. She smiled and chattered to Dasha in Russian. She turned, she preened, she chortled and clapped her hands. In short, she was so thrilled, it was impossible to be ogre-ish. Even Dasha gritted her teeth and kept smiling.
And—okay, I admit it—at one point I was almost suckered in. It was a long day, punctuated by nothing but a fifteen-minute sandwich and soda break from the 7/11 across the street, and my brain was beginning to wander. I pictured myself in a gorgeous gown like Marina’s, moving in stately procession up the aisle, my train spread out behind me. The organ playing, people smiling.
My veil concealing who was waiting at the altar.
To borrow from Rhys’s basic Brit, bloody, effing hell! How did people with weird jobs ever manage to get married?
The owner of the Golden Beach Bridal Shop had just said something to me, and I missed it. I came out of my fantasy fast. She was beaming, enthusiastic about the bride, proud of what her business had managed. She gave me a quick e
stimate of the bill she would be presenting tomorrow when we picked up our selections.
No problem, I told her. Viktor had given me a wad of cash that had prompted me to go wedding-gown shopping while carrying concealed. Not that I wouldn’t have done so anyway with Dasha around. Thirty nice crisp hundred dollar bills. Which also included the cost of a modest American wardrobe for his bride, a task we were expected to fit into one day. Friday. This wedding was costing Viktor a bundle.
Not that he wasn’t getting his money’s worth in Marina Galikova.
To give me a clue about what street clothes Marina would need, I’d asked Viktor where they were going for the honeymoon. He favored me with one of his lascivious winks and said, “Nichevo. Make American girl, yes? Not Ukraine bride.” Nichevo is a word that covers a lot of ground. In this case, I suspected Viktor was saying the kind of clothes I bought for Marina really didn’t matter. He just wanted her to look like an American.
O-kay, I could do that. But this additional touch of generosity, combined with the sordid facts of Viktor’s life as Aleksei Tatarkin, just added one more mystery to the bubbling stew of what was, or was not, going down in Calusa County, Florida, on Saturday.
Friday went by in a blur. No surprise. We cruised from Golden Beach’s stylish Main Street boutiques to discount stores on the South Trail, running the gamut from dresses, slacks, jeans, shorts and shirts to bras, panties, shoes, socks, a lightweight jacket, and a large rolling suitcase. The Lexus was piled high with plastic bags even before we stopped at the bridal shop on the way back from Target and Beall’s. I handed over a large amount of cash, fitted the enormous plastic bags with Marina’s and Dasha’s gowns on top of everything else, and dropped both girls and bundles at The Beach Inn. But not before I’d written down the time I would pick them up on Saturday to take them to Three Rivers, where they would don their gowns in one of the club’s private reception rooms.
Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) Page 22