by Ronie Kendig
“Oh, I will. But, Barc?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he quirked his eyebrows in question.
“I need guarantees.”
Standing at the edge of the table, he studied her. “You mean promises.”
“Promises are broken.” Mr. Green Eyes invaded her thoughts again. “I need a guarantee that even if I don’t find what you want, I get paid.”
He hesitated before nodding. “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure you’ll find it.”
“A girl has to make a living, Barc.” She had to make sure he understood what she’d do to protect herself. “With my skills, you don’t want to betray me or let me down.”
17
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
Strange to be living someone else’s life, taking the furnishings and clothes that had belonged to the late Kazimir Rybakov. One might think becoming another person was a matter of simply donning clothes and appearance, but it was more. So very much more. Clothes did not a man make. It was the little things—the mannerisms. Choosing one creamer over another. One blend of coffee. Wearing certain clothes, notably without tags. Which had hinted to Tox that perhaps Rybakov had some sensory issues.
Tox wiped his hand over the fogged bathroom mirror and stared back at the reflection. It wasn’t him. Hadn’t been for months. He heaved a sigh. There were days he felt Cole Russell slipping further from his grasp, from his conscious mind.
But that had been key, pushing Cole to the back of his consciousness and fueling all things Russian, all things Kazimir Rybakov. He’d had this man’s identity and existence beaten into him during a grueling training by the Mossad.
You’re Cole Russell. Tox to your friends. Cole to Haven. You love her. She loves you. She’s the reason you’re fighting to get back. To finish this. Empty your life of the AFO so you can live in peace, maybe have a kid or two. Wake up next to her beautiful face. Taste those sweet lips again. Hear her gentle voice. That laugh . . .
He hung his head, gripping the edge of the sink as the water swirled away the grime. He ached for her. Ached to talk to her. To reassure himself that he was Cole. That he wasn’t Kazimir, loyal to the very enemy Cole sought to destroy.
He pressed his chin to his shoulder and clenched his eyes. Blotted out the way he’d fought to save Nur. Killed people who were—he snorted—trying to fulfill Wraith’s primary objective.
How would the guys feel, knowing he’d protected their enemy rather than killed him? How many times had the opportunity presented itself? And yet—again—Mossad had tied his hands.
Tzivia.
He wanted to curse her, but after seeing her father in that dungeon, smelling him, he understood why she fought. He’d do the same for his mom, for any of those he loved. Even Galen. The violence he’d do for Haven . . .
He balled a hand into a fist, shoving that ache deep down so Kazimir Rybakov surfaced again.
After his shave, he slipped into a stiff dress shirt, resenting the starched collar. What he wouldn’t give for a tactical shirt. He powered up the computer, checked email as any normal person would do, but then he bounced to the private email server. Logged in with the same information Haven would use. His heart rapid-fired at the words sitting in the unsent message.
Flowers only bloom with sunshine.
Though she left him messages that said she missed him, loved him, he always kept his response the same because he feared making a mistake and jeopardizing the mission or—worse—her life.
Weather is fine. Ready for some more beach time.
He didn’t hit enter nor send the message. Just left it there so that when she logged in, she’d find it. Delete it, then enter her own.
But as he stared at the words, he hated himself. Hated that this organization had to be dealt with. That he’d volunteered for it—desperate to end their reach, their control over his life and so many innocents. If he was going to have a future with Haven, the AFO could not exist, because he would be tracking artifacts for all time and continually putting his life on the line.
When he got back, he’d take a desk job.
He breathed a laugh and leaned against the sofa. Three years ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead taking a desk job. But now? It was all he wanted.
No. He wanted Haven. The job was a means to an end.
He’d given Uncle Sam fifteen years of his life. That was enough. Of course, that meant he’d have to put up with his brother more often. But maybe it was time to heal old wounds.
Another snort. What was happening to him?
The phone rang. “Privyet,” he answered, speaking in Russian as naturally as he’d done English back in the States.
“Rybakov, come in now.”
Was he late? He glanced at his watch. He still had forty minutes. “On my way.”
“And bring a suitcase. Ten minutes.”
A suitcase? The line went dead, and unease settled into his gut. Where was Abidaoud headed that he wanted Kazimir to travel with him? Should he alert Ram? Not with only ten minutes to pack and get to HQ. Tox stalked down the hall and packed. He hurried to the living room, checked the laptop to verify the browser history had cleared. He’d set it to automatically do that, but he’d been trained to remove the litter from the hard drive that most people didn’t know how to access. He wouldn’t leave even a character for someone to find that would blow his cover or trace back to Haven.
En route, he navigated the streets like a kamikaze, constantly glancing at his watch, wondering how he could notify Ram that he’d be out of pocket. He whipped into the parking garage beneath HQ and sprinted for the private elevator. When he reached the penthouse, he slowed his breathing, smoothed his suit, and was able to draw an even breath by the time the doors slid open.
He strode to the grand foyer.
“Ah, about time,” Igor said, emerging from Abidaoud’s office. He swiped a card in the access panel that opened the door to the private residences where Nur and Igor slept, ate, and lounged.
Okay, this was weird.
But Tox followed dutifully down the classy hall with several doors branching off of it. Two waist-high tables sported elaborate floral arrangements beneath impressive six-foot chandeliers.
Igor handed Tox a card as he reached the second door on the left and opened it. He nodded Tox inside.
Shifting the bag to his left hand, Tox freed his ability to reach for his weapon as he stepped into the room, which turned out to be a suite—small kitchen, sofa, table, bathroom, and tucked against the right wall, a bed, desk, and dresser. Tox opened the closet to check it, then glanced back at Igor. “Someone coming to stay?”
“I have decided”—Nur’s voice preceded his entry to the room and the conversation—“after the most recent attempt on my life, that it is of great benefit and importance to have you here with me. All your needs are cared for. This apartment is yours.”
“Mine?” Panic spilled through Tox. How would he communicate with Ram? How would he sneak messages to Haven?
“Yes. You’ll live here so that you are able to be with me at all times, go where I go. We will not have to wait for you to drive across town.” Nur brightened. “It is a promotion. You are not pleased?”
“Stunned,” Tox said with a nod, glancing around. This was good. Better. He could snoop more easily. But . . . “I had not expected this.” He should appear grateful. “Thank you, sir.”
“No, it is I who should thank you. Because of you, I can live and breathe another day!”
“Just doing my job, sir.” Tox took in his new home. Not as big as the flat the real Kazimir Rybakov had, but much nicer. And probably no rodent problems either.
With a final nod, Nur left, and Igor got down to business. “Dinner is served each evening at seven. Breakfast and lunch, when you are here, will be delivered at six and one, respectively.”
Overwhelmed, scrambling for purchase in this new hiccup in the plan, Tox nodded. “Understood.”
“Food allergies?”
He had to find a w
ay to notify Ram. “No.”
Igor shifted. “I thought you were allergic to tree nuts?”
Tox blinked. “Right. Sorry.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m . . . this has thrown me. I wasn’t expecting it. It’s too generous, sir.”
Igor’s suspicious expression flicked away. “You earned it. At least, he thinks so.”
There. That was the old Igor.
He came forward and held out his hand. “Phones or laptops?”
Tox hesitated.
“They’ll be replaced.”
This felt a lot more like them controlling him and his movements, rather than a promotion. But since Kazimir had no legitimate reason for withholding his phone and computer, Tox turned them over. Igor left the room, and with him went any semblance of security Tox had in this operation. Which he’d been foolish to allow into his mind in the first place. The truth was painful—there existed no safety net.
But he should look on the bright side. This might provide the perfect opportunity for him to take out the AFO head. He could simply slip into Nur’s room and kill him in his sleep. But the greatest irony was the two-edged sword—they could more easily kill him.
18
— ODESSA, UKRAINE —
“Eccentricity has marked the life and home of Zoryana Skoryk for decades,” Dr. Cathey said as the hired cab navigated the winding streets to her home. “Her lavish lifestyle is well-known, but how she has funded it is another question. Metallurgy is not exactly a lucrative field. Unless one does like Zoryana and makes millions off the trade and procurement of ancient artifacts. Collectors and museums alike have paid her in whatever currency she demands, but her preference is usually gold bullion.”
The car pulled to a stop on a cobbled drive. They were quickly escorted through so much lush vegetation that the home was not visible until they cleared a set of double glass doors covered by exquisite ironwork.
“From a dig in Istanbul,” Dr. Cathey explained as they entered the sprawling villa, welcomed by a humble seventy-year-old butler who had a wary smile, crooked back, and shuffled across the black-and-white marble floor. With a reaffirming nod to Ram—they had paid extra to convince Zoryana to allow his presence—Dr. Cathey followed the butler. Haven walked confidently beside him. And from what the professor said, she would need that confidence with this woman.
Ram let out a low whistle as they passed marble columns. A massive balcony that hung over the Black Sea threw glittering sunlight across the foyer. In truth, the balcony was not directly over the water, but instead stretched over a hidden quarter-mile of property that led to the waves crashing against boulders below. All belonged to the metallurgist.
“Remember,” Dr. Cathey said as he relied more on Haven’s arm support, “let me do the talking.”
“You old fool,” a melodic voice called before a woman glided from a hallway whose plate-glass wall afforded a brilliant view of the ocean.
“Zoryana,” Dr. Cathey said, moving toward her.
Their host wore a vibrant dress that hugged her waist and billowed out like clouds. Jewels sparkled around her neck and on her ears and fingers. A silk turban wrapped her head, its coral fabric setting off her rich complexion and bright yellow-green eyes. “What are you doing in my country, Yusuf?” She held out her hands.
Dr. Cathey clasped her fingers, lifted them to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. He swung out her arms to appraise her. “You are as beautiful as ever.”
Haven didn’t need deception skills to know that was a lie.
“Of course, I am,” Zoryana said with a trifling laugh and then waved him off, her glittering eyes landing on Ram. A hungry gleam slid into her expression. “And who is this gorgeous specimen you’ve brought into my home, Yusuf?”
Ram shifted uneasily, a flush rising through his olive skin.
She extended a hand to him.
Dr. Cathey sighed. “He is my friend, Zoryana, not a flank steak. This is Ram.”
“I think he is much more than your friend, Yusuf.” Her eyes were globbed with makeup and meaning.
The other warning Dr. Cathey had given them—never underestimate Zoryana—hung in Haven’s mind at the way the woman seemed to be dissecting Ram. Alarm tremored through Haven, though she could not say why.
“And this lovely?” Zoryana asked, trailing manicured fingers along Haven’s cheek. The feeling of being inspected felt as pleasant as if those nails were scalpels. Haven braced herself against the woman’s glare, which had turned icy. “My, my.” Her eyes latched on to Ram again. “Is she your woman? Your pet?”
Heat shot through Haven, both indignation and outrage clamoring for a voice. She pushed away the woman’s hands.
Ram scowled. “Neither.”
“Zoryana.” Dr. Cathey moved in between them. “Our time is short—as you insisted.”
“Yes, yes, Yusuf. You can be so droll.” She huffed and started down a long hall lit with antique sconces from the Roman era. She waved a hand over her turbaned head for them to follow. “Come along, darlings.”
After a withering look from Ram, the professor took Haven’s arm for assistance, and they started after Zoryana. They followed her through one hall, into another, then down a flight of steps.
“You trust her?” Ram muttered as they hesitated.
“No,” Haven injected. “They don’t trust each other at all.”
“True,” Dr. Cathey whispered. “At best I would call it tolerating one another. She is too eccentric and rude. And for her, I am too conservative and old-fashioned.”
“Sounds a lot like you and Tzi,” Ram said. “You have your type, don’t you?”
Reaching what appeared to be a new foyer, Haven saw doors still in motion from having been flung open.
“You’ve come to talk steel,” Zoryana called from the darkness of the room.
“Why are we here if you don’t trust her?” Ram hissed.
As they entered, Dr. Cathey squinted at the light splashing across the room, and Haven did the same. The space held little furniture, save a leather tufted bench surrounding a display case in the middle. The walls, however, were lined with glass cases that held an array of weapons—daggers, scythes, lances, knives, swords. Hermetically sealed, she guessed, to protect the artifacts. She could feel the professor’s awe through his grip on her hand at the sight of so many of history’s pieces collected beneath this roof.
“Regardless of my trust, she is the best in her field,” Dr. Cathey said. “If we want answers about this sword, Zoryana has them.”
“What sword would that be, dear Yusuf?” Zoryana swung around a door and sauntered toward them.
“As I told you—”
“The Adama Herev.” She clasped her hands, as if he were a naughty child and she the schoolmarm.
Dr. Cathey sighed. “You will tell me it doesn’t exist.”
Her silence was as chilled as the temperature-controlled room and seemed to indicate she intended exactly that. “I think not.” She finally sighed. “I will not toy with you, because you are old and frail.”
“I am losing my patience,” he bit out.
She motioned to the wall where embrasures supported long and short blades. “As you can see, I am fond of swords. There is as much life to them as the breath in us. They speak of culture, of customs. The metal to the era, to the progression of time and ferocity. It was not until the Iron Age—”
“Forgive me, but we have no time for history lessons.” Dr. Cathey snorted a laugh, catching Haven’s eye. “Sorry,” he whispered, apparently realizing, as she had, that he’d quoted one of Cole’s favorite arguments about historical backdrops.
“Come.” Zoryana whirled and vanished through the door she’d just emerged from. It was part of the wall, and the display case hanging effortlessly from its front panel held a massive sickle dangling in midair, as if suspended by some invisible hand. The door nudged outward to grant them entrance.
Inside waited a long table and a wall of scrolls and books. Tomes hugged all sides.
The dank, musty texts sucked moisture from the air. Dimly lit, it felt more like a dungeon than a library. Zoryana went to a high shelf at the far wall, climbed a three-step ladder, and retrieved a cylinder from the top shelf.
“This,” she said as she descended, holding her long dress with one hand and the cylinder with the other, “contains all the notes, drawings, depictions—whatever—of the sword.” She passed it to Ram.
He took the cylinder, uncapped it, and slid out a bundle of vellum, which Zoryana intercepted. She unrolled it, her palm splayed over one side, her nails reminding Haven of talons, and revealed a depiction of a sword. With Ram’s help, she placed ornamental weights at the corners, then hit a switch. Light bloomed beneath the glass table, illuminating the drawing and instantly brightening the room.
“This is from a depiction given to me from”—Zoryana swirled her bejeweled fingers—“some society. I remember not the name.”
That was a lie. Zoryana’s eyes didn’t convey the forgetfulness. In fact, they seemed to home in on something familiar.
Dr. Cathey leaned over and stared at the rendering. “Simple, but perhaps effective.”
“It is dull. Boring in the way of ancient swords,” Zoryana complained. “But then, I know what brilliance can be wrought of steel and iron, so to see one so blasé hurts the soul.” She laughed, then released one side of the vellum, allowing it to roll back up before she spread out a second. “This one is a twelfth-century design.”
“Who drew these?” Haven asked, glancing at the sketch.
“I did, of course,” Zoryana snarked. “Who do you think? A twelfth-century knight?”
She clearly hadn’t met Tzaddik.
“Be nice,” Dr. Cathey said, then looked to Haven. “She has long had a fascination with the Adama Herev, which is why I wanted to come. Her collection of drawings and anecdotes is unparalleled, as is her knowledge of it.”
“You’re such a dear,” Zoryana said, but her tone betrayed nothing of whether she meant that sincerely or sarcastically. Probably the latter. “Yes, most I drew from other etchings, paintings, or portraits. My goal is simple: to have every possible semblance of the sword here”—she nodded to the room—“and someday, perhaps, the collection will be complete.” She plucked out another drawing. “This I sketched from the painting by Anton Robert Leinweber.” She laid out a third. “And this from Peter Paul Rubens’s work of the slaying of Goliath.”