Scarlett wiped off the heavy make-up in the bathroom, then quickly changed back into jeans, black sweater and sneakers. She left her hair pinned at the back of her head, which she covered with a tweed, cloth cap. She grabbed her green, wool jacket off the bed, along with a long scarf, which she wrapped around her neck twice to combat the winter chill.
Angel lay on her bed in her underwear. The woman didn’t have a self-conscious bone in her body. She was looking at her phone and smiling.
“I have to go.” Scarlett stood awkwardly in the doorway.
Angel’s blue eyes cut to her. “You have to get over it, Scar, it’s past time. Your dad is in prison. Most people don’t even remember what he did—”
“He didn’t do it,” Scarlett snapped.
Angel lunged to her feet and grabbed Scarlett’s arm. Her fingers tightened in a painful grip. “He did it. He got six US intelligence officers killed and sold the United States out to the Russians. You have to accept it and you have to move on. You are not your father.”
Scarlett stared into the face of her best friend and said the words she’d been keeping locked down deep inside since her mother had told her last week. “He’s dying. Dad’s got cancer and he’s dying.”
Angel’s eyes widened and then closed before she pulled Scarlett into a fierce embrace. Scarlett crumpled and they both dropped to the bed. She wrapped her arms around her best friend and tried to hold back the sobs that wanted to escape.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Angel stroked her back, up and down, a warm, calming touch. “Why do you never tell me anything until I yank it from you by being a complete and utter bitch?”
Scarlett wiped her wet cheeks. “You seem to enjoy yourself so…”
“Ha.” Angel let her go and Scarlett sat up.
She studied the thick, wool rug at her feet. “I couldn’t talk about it, it was just too raw.” She looked up. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to get Raminski’s phone number.”
Angel raised one brow. “What makes you think I didn’t get his number?” Her friend’s grin was sly and wicked.
Scarlett opened her mouth. “You acted like you were Cinderella dragged from the ball, only you forgot to drop the shoe.”
“No way would I leave behind a shoe.” Angel’s shoes cost more than Scarlett’s car. “But more to the point, I also got the sailor’s number.” Her blue eyes were assessing. “Do you want it?”
Was Angel bluffing? She had to be bluffing.
Scarlett remembered the way he’d looked at her before she got in the limo. Like he cared, which was crazy because he didn’t know her, and if he did he’d run a mile. No one wanted to know her when they figured out who she was, and that would go double for an American war hero.
She swallowed to moisten her suddenly arid throat. “No, I don’t want it.” But the lie abraded her tongue.
* * *
Matt stretched out in the back of the limo, eyes closed. He’d taken a quick detour to the White House to catch up with his buddy Jed Brennan who he hadn’t seen since the guy had been shot. Now Jed was off to sleep in some fancy DC hotel with a very lovely redhead. The guy was so obviously in love with the woman and her cute kid that Matt kind of felt choked. Jed was going to make a great dad, something every child should have, something Matt had missed out on. Still, it had made him a better man in the long run. The asshole who’d fathered him had hardly been a good role-model.
Now Matt was on his way home. One more day until Christmas, and although the wackos never stopped doing their whacked-out shit, even the FBI’s behavioral analysts got to chill out in a turkey coma for a few hours. Matt was looking forward to some solid sleep and serious time spent with his mother—not that she’d appreciate it, but it wouldn’t stop him being there for her.
His cell rang and he dug it out of his pocket. He frowned when he looked at the screen.
What the hell was ASAC Jon Regan, unit chief of TacOps I, doing calling this late?
“Lazlo,” Matt answered.
“You alone?”
Matt glanced at the limo driver but the privacy screen was up. “In a government issue limo.”
“You were at the Russian Ambassador’s residence?”
Matt swung his legs off the seat and sat up, suddenly wide awake. “You following me?”
“No.” Regan laughed but it sounded strained. “Can you tell me why you were there?”
Matt buzzed his fingers through his short hair. TacOps I specialized in covert entry in order to place sophisticated listening and surveillance devices at targeted locations. Basically they were government sanctioned burglars with an array of spy tools that would make James Bond drool.
“ASAC Frazer asked me to take his place at some Christmas party. Pain in the ass.” He thought about Sarah LeMay and pressed his lips together. He didn’t do regrets—something he’d inherited from his father—but right now he had a few when it came to that woman and her big, brown eyes and lack of phone number. “Why?”
“I’m going to send you a photograph. I want to know if you know this girl.”
Matt waited for the image to come through. The picture showed a cute backside encased in a heart-stopping dress with all those crazy petticoats as she leaned over a desk. As distracting as the view was, he concentrated on what she was doing—she looked like she was…dismantling a lamp. Fuck.
“Well?” asked Regan.
“Her name is Sarah LeMay—”
“Congressman LeMay’s daughter?”
“Yep. She was there with her sister, Angel. Knocked champagne down my front and I walked her to the restroom so I could get cleaned up.”
“You think it was an accident?”
Matt thought back to the whole thing. “I did. What’s going on?”
“That photo is a still shot of her taking the baseplate off a lamp in Ambassador Dorokhov’s office.”
Matt’s mouth went as dry as a blowtorch. She was an operator? In which case she was beyond a pro. She’d reeled him in with her display of innocent vulnerability. Was he a target? Son of a bitch.
Regan cleared his throat. “She was trying to plant a bug in the Ambassador’s office only to discover someone beat her to it.”
“Someone?” Matt asked dryly.
“That’s right.” Humor ran through Regan’s voice.
“Why the hell would she bug the Russian Ambassador’s office?”
“Damned if I know, that’s why I called you. You left the same time as she did.”
Matt nodded, not surprised that there was surveillance on the street. Watching the comings and goings from foreign embassies must be routine for counterintelligence services. “I gave them both a ride home.”
“Give ’em anything else?” The voice was more cautious now.
What’s going on?
“If I said ‘I wish’ do I have to go to sensitivity training?”
“No straight single man on earth would need sensitivity training for telling the God’s honest truth. Those women were hot. You should have seen where she hid the screwdriver.”
Remembering the lines of her dress, Matt had a good idea. Shit. He rubbed his forehead. The idea that he’d been duped did not sit well. “I dropped them at the congressman’s house and the driver took me to the White House—”
“You went to the White House?” Regan sounded as if he was choking on his tongue.
“Not inside. Just the rear entrance to meet up with a buddy of mine for a few minutes. It wasn’t planned, and I didn’t tell her I was going there.”
There was a long, tense silence. “Can you meet me at The Center?”
“Now?” Matt virtually passed it on the way to his home. “Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.”
“I had a feeling you were going to say that.”
“Tis the season to give joy.”
“Trust me, if anyone is going to give me joy I don’t want it to be you.” His mind cut back to the elfin face of Sarah LeMay. An operator who’d naile
d him with a pair of big, brown eyes. He’d obviously lost his touch. “I’ll be there in ten. Make sure there’s plenty of coffee.”
* * *
Andrei Dorokhov opened the door to his office and strode inside. His wife and Sergio followed, arm in arm. Natalie was drunk, but he didn’t mind. She flirted with everyone she met, male or female, but she’d never betray him. She wouldn’t dare.
Sergio might.
His “assistant” was ruthless and ambitious, but he wasn’t stupid. Sergio Raminski wouldn’t mess with him unless there was something to gain from it. Andrei understood Sergio better than anyone. He’d once been exactly like him.
Andrei walked to the fireplace and opened a box of Cuban cigars, offered Sergio one and then clipped the end of another before lighting it. The soothing aroma of sweet tobacco eased into his lungs. Natalie poured them each another glass of vodka.
“Here’s to a successful evening.” She passed him the drink and smiled at him in that way she had, as if he were the only man in the room.
He was lucky to have her. He raised his glass. “Vashe Zdoroviye, lyubov moya.”
He took a drink. He wasn’t tired. He’d spent most nights of his working life walking the streets of various cities of the world, hiding in dark alleys, passing cash and instructions via dead drops. Running agents. Retrieving information. Passing it on. It was a world where he was comfortable and sure of himself. It was here in this embassy that he worried he wouldn’t be what his superiors wanted. He’d pushed for this job. He’d wanted a way to return to the US but to remain untouchable.
A sense of nostalgia uncoiled inside him—it must be the Christmas spirit or one too many toasts to the ladies. For nearly two decades he’d run spy rings around the globe. He missed the thrill of the old days, but he was in DC to make sure the past stayed buried, and certain lies died with the truth. The network of Russian agents had always been more formidable than its American counterpart. Andrei had worked hard and sacrificed much to make sure it stayed that way. Only one man had ever really suspected him, but Andrei had taken care of him the way he took care of everything—with ruthless efficiency.
Sergio wandered over toward the curtains. The younger man was handsome and charming, obviously eager to be off screwing some woman rather than seeing to his master’s needs. Sergio had the looks and skills to go a long way in the diplomatic corp—more importantly, he had powerful connections who were all getting richer as Russia expanded its energy empire.
The first hint of a hangover sliced across the backs of his eyes. A sure sign of age and a weakness he wouldn’t reveal to anyone. “What do we have planned for tomorrow?” he asked.
“Lunch with the Canadian Ambassador, then an afternoon reception at the embassy for all the diplomats and embassy staff. After that you are free until the twenty-seventh when there is a cocktail party at the Smithsonian.”
Russians didn’t celebrate Christmas until January 7 and then it was a shadow of the celebrations the Americans indulged in. The only religion that had thrived in Russia for the last century had been Communism. Andrei enjoyed the season, although he saw little relationship between the birth of Christ and shopping. Even so, his wife would have his hide if he didn’t get her a generous gift. He planned to take them away for a few days skiing in the mountains, somewhere with a hot tub to soak his aching bones at the end of a day on the slopes.
Sergio continued pacing, then paused, stepped back, bent over and picked something small off the floor that glittered in the light.
Andrei frowned, then strode forward and took it from his assistant’s palm. An earring. He raised his brow at his wife. “Do you recognize this?”
Her eyes widened at his tone and she shook her head. “No.”
Sergio peered closer into Andrei’s palm and pressed his lips together. “It may have been the earring of one of tonight’s guests.”
“Did you bring her in here?” Andrei asked softly.
Sergio’s eyes narrowed. “No, Your Eminence.”
“Sweep the room.”
“It was swept earlier today, Your Excellency.” There was impatience in the man’s black eyes.
Andrei gripped Sergio’s throat and squeezed. “Sweep. It. Again. Properly this time. Take apart every light-fitting. Every telephone. Examine every cable. No one sleeps until I know the entire building is secure!” Fury ripped through him. He shoved the younger man away and hurled his crystal tumbler at the fireplace where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Clear liquid dripped down the white marble.
He headed for the door.
“Andrei,” Natalie called after him. “It’s just an earring.”
“It’s proof someone was in here when they shouldn’t have been.” He clicked his fingers and though her eyes narrowed, she closed her mouth and followed him out of the room without saying another word. Good. He was not in the mood to control his wife. He was not in the mood to be nice or polite or diplomatic. These people didn’t understand the stakes. They might think they did, but they didn’t. He would not let the Americans get the better of him. They strode down the stairs, Sergio following closely, past the rooms used for various social functions and administrative purposes, through the kitchens before taking an elevator down to the basement.
Mishka, his head of security, came out the door to meet him. “Do you need something, Your Excellency?”
Andrei held up the earring, which sparkled, in the dim light. “This was on the floor of my office. How did it get there?” He pushed past the man into the security section, straight to the monitors that showed all the cameras within the residence. There were none in his private rooms—above all, he understood the value of privacy. But all the public areas, all the corridors, were monitored.
The uniformed guard scanning the monitors looked at his boss nervously.
“Show me the footage from the corridor outside my office tonight. Start at 7:20 PM.” He’d been in his office until just after that.
The security guard scrolled back on the time log and then started playing forward at double speed.
“Stop. Her.” Sergio pointed at a woman dressed in a smoky-colored dress, talking to a man wearing a Navy uniform. The guard slowed it down to normal speed.
Andrei watched her closely, noticed she was wearing earrings very like the one he held in his hand.
She and the military man stood close together, as if entranced by one another. How sweet. Then she stepped back and walked away. The man went into the men’s room and she entered the ladies’ room. Another woman came out, and then he saw himself striding out of his office, adjusting his sleeves, eager to get to the party.
He moved out of sight and a few moments later the woman in the pretty, silver dress dashed out of the restroom and across the hall, into his office before the door fully closed.
“Fast forward,” Andrei ordered.
Sweat gleamed on the security guard’s brow. It didn’t take long before the woman exited his office and ran back to the restroom. She looked scared and upset. One of her earrings was missing.
“I don’t know how I missed this,” the guard said, voice trembling. “I swear I never moved from my post.”
The head of security cuffed the man across the back of the head. “Mudak.”
“Who is she?” Andrei demanded.
“Sarah LeMay,” Sergio answered quickly. “She was here with her sister, Angel.”
Everything inside Andrei went cold. “LeMay?”
Sergio nodded.
“The congressman’s daughter?”
“They were invited as you requested.” Sergio’s brows crinkled.
Andrei had sent the invitation in jest—as a warning. He’d never imagined any of them would come. “The man in uniform, who is he?” he demanded. This was bad. This was very, very bad.
Natalie answered. “A young man called Matthew Lazlo.”
“He represented FBI Agent Lincoln Frazer,” Sergio put in. “A last minute switch.”
Andrei had wanted to me
et the other federal employee. “So Matthew Lazlo is also FBI?”
Natalie shrugged. Sergio nodded.
Fury moved inside Andrei’s veins; cold, precise like razor-sharp ice. He reached inside Sergio’s jacket, watching the younger man’s pupils flare as he took his gun. Andrei whirled and slammed the guard on the side of the head with the butt of the pistol. The man fell unconscious over the console.
“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.” He spat on the man. “Send him home. We do not tolerate amateurs.” He handed the gun back to Sergio, who took it carefully.
“Do you want to issue an official complaint to the Americans?” Sergio asked in a level voice.
“Nyet.” Was the FBI running surveillance on him inside the embassy? Impossible. The stakes were too high, his retribution too potentially damaging. He needed to know what was going on. “Find me the girl, quietly,” said Andrei. “I want to talk to her.” The conversation wouldn’t be pretty. “And find out everything you can about the man.” He turned to his Security Chief. “No more mistakes, Mishka. Next time I won’t be so understanding.”
Chapter Three
To all intents and purposes, the top-secret Tactical Operations Center—or “the Center” as agents in the know usually called it—looked like a light industrial manufacturing facility. It was situated off the grounds of the Marine Corps base in Quantico for purposes of safety and secrecy.
Jon Regan held up some sort of wand. Not the magic kind.
Matt raised his arms and kept his mouth shut until the man finished running the thing over his body. Great. Another guy examined the limo. What the hell was going on?
“Okay, come with me.” Jon strode away.
Matt followed him through one door and then another, into a windowless room within a room. On one of the big screens, Sarah LeMay was displayed in glorious Technicolor as she flicked on a light switch. On another screen was a live-feed of the same room.
“Play the video,” Regan ordered, standing with hands on hips, watching the screens. “The team monitoring the surveillance feeds gave us the heads up as soon as they spotted her in there. We patched into the feed after that.”
Cold Light of Day Page 3