by Amelia Autin
“I agree,” the king said. “And the queen will, too. You will have the cooperation you need, Captain.” He turned his gaze on Majors Kostya and Branko. “Damon? Lukas? Anything to add?”
The two majors exchanged telling glances, and Alec wondered what that was all about. But the only answer they gave was, “No, Sire.”
“Zax?” the king asked, but Colonel Marianescu just shook his head.
The king faced Alec again. “Your request is granted, Special Agent Jones. Lieutenant Mateja is relieved of duty as of now, and is subject to your orders until further notice.” He glanced around the table. “Is there anything else, gentlemen?”
The senior policeman assigned to the case spoke up. “We have the names of seven Americans from the embassy,” he said abruptly. “Six are no longer in this country.”
Before the king could say anything, Alec asked sharply, “How did you get the names?”
When the policeman didn’t say anything, just stared back at Alec with a steady, unwavering expression, Alec glanced at the king, hoping he would intervene and order the policeman to reveal the source of his information. “I can take the names as a starting point, sir,” he explained. “But that’s all. It’s not evidence I can use if the names were the result of torture or some other kind of coercion.”
The king’s voice was dangerously soft when he said, “Torture, Special Agent Jones, is not tolerated in Zakhar any more than it is in the US.”
“That may be true, sir,” Alec conceded. “But coercion of any kind...”
“Not coercion,” the senior policeman said now. He smiled coldly. “It was a stroke of luck. Unbelievable luck. A lower-level criminal was arrested on an unrelated drug charge. We were not even looking at him for the human-trafficking conspiracy, but he offered up what he knew in exchange for leniency on the drug charge.”
Alec began to get the picture. Drugs were a very serious crime in Zakhar, even for a first offense. Zakharian judges and juries had no sympathy—the conviction rate was high and the sentences harsh. It was a huge break for them.
“This led us to five other men,” the policeman continued, “all with criminal records, all of whom are now in custody. Two of those men agreed to plead to lesser charges in exchange for their testimony against the other Zakharians in the conspiracy, including certain Zakharian officials who they claim were on the take. None of the officials have been arrested, but they are being closely watched. Their complicity in the conspiracy has not been established with certainty, and we do not want to move until you are ready to do so, as well—we do not want to tip our hand.”
Alec nodded his understanding, and the policeman continued in a dispassionate voice. “Both of the men have independently named seven Americans who either are, or were, stationed at the US embassy over the past nine years—men who supplied the fraudulent US visas for a price.” He pulled a notepad from his pocket and referred to it. “Four of the men were Foreign Service officers at the embassy who are now gone. One is still here.”
He named a name Alec recognized, instantly putting a face to the name. “Who are the others?” he asked.
The policeman read off the list of names. “Two were previous regional security officers, one of whom was your predecessor at the embassy.”
A sick feeling settled in Alec’s gut. Seven men. Seven corrupt officials serving at the US embassy over the past nine years. He’d known in his heart the king was right, that visa fraud had to be involved in this trafficking case—it was the only thing that made sense. But he’d hoped it wouldn’t be this bad. That it would turn out one, maybe two, people at the embassy were involved. Not seven men over nine years.
Slippery slope, he reminded himself. How many of these men had been lured into the conspiracy by their predecessors or others they worked with, believing “everyone does it,” and they’d never get caught? He would never know.
Alec pulled his own notebook from an inner jacket pocket and mechanically jotted down all seven names. His predecessor as RSO was the one that hit closest to home—he’d known the man for a long time. Not a friend, just an acquaintance. But still someone he knew personally. How many other men he knew in the DSS—men he’d worked with over the years—were also corrupt? He couldn’t believe Zakhar was unique in that aspect. Another thing I’ll probably never know, he admitted to himself.
He glanced up at the policeman. “Nothing on the ambassador?” he asked, holding his breath. He and McKinnon had pretty much cleared the ambassador in their minds based on the information McKinnon had been able to collect through his agency, but they could have missed something. And if the corruption went that high...
The policeman shook his head. “No, nothing. And we firmly believe the names we have in our possession are an all-inclusive list.”
Well, that’s something anyway, Alec didn’t voice that thought as he tucked his notebook away. Seven corrupt officials working at one embassy would be a scandal when the press finally broke the story—when the indictments come down and not a moment sooner, he vowed silently—but not nearly the scandal it would be if the current and/or former ambassador to Zakhar were involved.
“No one you questioned mentioned Vishenko?” When the policeman shook his head regretfully, Alec said, “It would be too much to hope for, but I had to ask.”
Silence filled the room for a minute. Then the king glanced around the table once more and asked again, “Is there anything else, gentlemen?” When no one spoke, he said, “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. You are dismissed.” He stood, obviously expecting them to file out, which they did. Alec hung back because he wanted a word with the king alone, but the king said, “One moment, Lieutenant, if you please. And you, too, Special Agent Jones, if you would be so kind.”
Alec exchanged glances with McKinnon. Wait for me, he mouthed, and McKinnon nodded before leaving the conference room.
The king turned to his bodyguards and said, “Privacy, please.” The two majors also left the room, following McKinnon out.
Angelina stood at military attention, and Alec could see—because he’d come to know her so well even though they hadn’t known each other very long in something as unimportant as time—that she was nervous at being asked by the king to stay. It wasn’t anything in her face or manner, or even her body language, but somehow he knew she was expecting the worst.
After the door closed behind the last person to leave, the king smiled unexpectedly. “Why is it, Lieutenant, you always fear I intend to reprimand you when I ask to speak with you? What have I done to deserve that reputation?” He didn’t wait for an answer he probably figured wasn’t forthcoming. “No, Lieutenant, I merely wanted to remind you of our earlier conversation regarding a fighting man’s instincts. And to talk to you about your cousin. She was like your younger sister, yes?”
A look of surprise crossed Angelina’s face.
“That information is in your dossier, Lieutenant. It is not a secret. It is one of the reasons Colonel Marianescu and Captain Zale picked you for the queen’s security detail. One of the reasons I wholeheartedly endorsed their selection. You understand what it is to lose someone you love.” He waited for that to sink in before adding, “That your cousin may not be dead, after all, that she may be in mortal peril instead, is something you will have to deal with. And if your cousin dies, you will have to grieve for her all over again.”
“I know that, Sire. I...” Angelina’s pale blue eyes never left the king’s face. “I have accepted it.”
“I understand how difficult it is to be detached when someone you love is in danger.” The king’s eyes—such a vivid green—seemed to darken with his words, and one hand clenched tightly. “How the desire for revenge can overwhelm even the best of intentions.” After a tense moment, he visibly, forcibly relaxed. “But I have faith in you, Lieutenant. This man Vishenko must face justice for his crimes, along with everyone else involv
ed—they must be seen to face justice as a deterrent to others. Killing them is easy. Bringing them to justice is not. Do not let me down. Do not let your country down.”
Alec hadn’t thought Angelina’s spine could be any straighter, but at the king’s words, pure steel seemed to enter it. “No, Sire,” she promised, the light of determination in her eyes. “I will never let you down.”
The king’s smile returned. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Thank you, Lieutenant. That is all.” He waited until Angelina had left the room, with her soft yet military tread, and then he turned to Alec, whose eyes had followed Angelina’s exit. “Yes, Special Agent Jones? You wished to speak privately with me?”
It had to be said. “Forgive me for speaking frankly, sir,” Alec said slowly. “But I want to emphasize that while the US will cooperate fully in the investigation into the attempted assassination of your son and Vishenko’s involvement in it, our primary focus has to be the human-trafficking case involving the corruption and visa fraud at our embassy.” Alec put as much regret into the tone he used for his next words as he could. “Your son’s case—while understandably of paramount importance to you—is ancillary to our primary investigation.”
The king just stared at Alec for a moment without saying anything. “Do not take this the wrong way,” he said finally, “but if you ever have children, you will understand a father’s love for his child far better than you do now. You will understand the blinding rage a father can feel when his child is threatened...and the desire for revenge.”
A tiny pang went through Alec at the king’s words. A yearning for something he’d never realized was so strong in him. If I ever have children, he thought, his mind veering off onto a tangent with an impossible dream in the hazy distance. Angel. And children. If. If. If.
But the king wasn’t done, and Alec pulled his attention back with an effort. “But my son is only one,” the king said now, his face hardening and his voice turning frigid. “The Zakharian women who were trafficked are many. My subjects, Special Agent Jones. My people. Zakharians I have sworn to care for as if they are my children.” He paused until he knew Alec grasped the depth and gravity of his concern. “Both cases are equally important to me. As long as Vishenko pays for his crimes, that is all I care about. Do we understand each other?”
Alec’s admiration for the man in front of him rose once again. “Yes, sir. And for what it’s worth, if I have anything to say about it, Vishenko is going down. How he goes down is up to him. But he’s going down.”
* * *
The sun was high in the sky in Denver, Colorado. It had snowed the night before, covering the earth with a powdering of snow that made the world seem fresh and new, but now the snow had turned to slush, making walking chancy at best. Caterina Mateja was carefully picking her way to the bus stop to catch a bus that would take her to the second of her three housecleaning jobs that day.
But Caterina—who was known to her employers as Cate Jones because she’d wanted a common American name that wouldn’t be remembered—wasn’t really thinking about where she was putting her feet. She was adding up in her mind everything she would be paid today and what she had to budget for out of those wages.
Cate always insisted on being paid in cash, accepting with a fatalistic shrug the fact that she wasn’t accumulating any credits in the American social security system. She didn’t have a social security number anyway—she wasn’t in this country legally, having long overstayed her temporary work visa. Which, she thought now with a cynical smile, had been fraudulently obtained to begin with. She hadn’t known that at the time. Her supposed agent for the modeling contract she’d signed had arranged everything. Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about, he’d told her. I will take care of it.
But she couldn’t fret about that. Couldn’t change it, either. She was here in the States, with nowhere else to go. She couldn’t go back to Zakhar—she had no passport. She’d frantically searched for it before running, but eventually she’d been forced to flee without it. And she had nothing to prove her identity, even if she’d ever considered applying to the Zakharian embassy—which she hadn’t. Not just because she feared for her life should Aleksandrov Vishenko ever find out where she was, but because she could never return home. Could never face her family, her friends, after what she’d survived. Not even her cousin Angelina would welcome her back if she knew the truth.
She had to earn money to keep a roof over her head, food in her stomach and clothes on her back—warmer clothes, now that winter was here. She needed a new winter jacket. Well, new to her. She shopped at thrift stores for her clothes, and her next winter jacket would be no exception. If she was careful with her money, she might even be able to afford a pair of boots that weren’t too worn. A pair that would last the winter, and wouldn’t leak as her current boots did.
Maybe I should have picked somewhere warmer, Cate thought now. One of the southwestern states. But she’d been worried that in states adjacent to the Mexican border, she’d face stiff competition with other illegal immigrants for jobs that paid under the table. And she’d been homesick. She hadn’t realized it until she’d stepped down from the interstate bus that had brought her to Denver, but the mountains outside Denver reminded her poignantly of Zakhar. There were times she almost felt at home here.
Caterina hadn’t gone by her real name in so long, she didn’t answer to it anymore. So she didn’t even turn around when a harsh voice called out her name from across the street, didn’t respond as if the name had anything to do with her. But it did register in her consciousness. And she knew she had mere seconds to escape death.
She continued on her way toward the bus stop with forced nonchalance, but then darted down a side alley so quickly the gunman who’d been following her was taken off guard. She slipped and fell to her knees as bullets hit the building above her head, and a ricochet sent a shower of concrete dust over the space she’d so recently occupied. Desperate, she scrambled to her feet and turned the corner, her heart pounding in her chest.
Another hail of bullets echoed through the street and rattled off the side of the building. But Caterina was no longer there. And when the gunman reached the alleyway, she was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 14
Angelina waited for Alec outside the conference room. Princess Mara’s husband, Trace McKinnon, leaned leisurely against the wall, his hands in his pockets, also waiting. But his eyes were constantly on the move. And when Major Branko approached her, he straightened. It was a little thing, but telling. So was the way he removed his hands from his pockets oh so casually. She smiled to herself. Once a bodyguard, always a bodyguard, she thought. It is in the blood. Even when there is no need, a bodyguard cannot help being alert. Like a bloodhound on the scent.
“Lieutenant Mateja?” Major Branko’s voice was low, pitched to carry no farther than the two of them, but as Angelina came to attention, she was aware Trace McKinnon could hear every word.
“Yes, Major?”
“Were you or were you not given a direct order by Major Kostya to keep certain information to yourself?”
“I was.” Her chin tilted up.
“Then how is it Special Agent Jones knows about Aleksandrov Vishenko and the Bratva?”
“Because I told him,” McKinnon said, moving toward them with an unhurried air.
Angelina could see Major Branko was torn. He obviously wanted to question her, possibly even reprimand her, but hadn’t expected the king’s brother-in-law to interfere. She glanced from one man to the other. If this wasn’t such a serious issue, she could have laughed. Both men were sizing each other up, looking for weaknesses in the other’s defenses as automatically as they breathed.
Part of her yearned to be like them. Intrepid. Nearly invincible. A challenge to other men just by their presence. But part of her was glad she wasn’t like them. Would either of them have been abl
e to trick a confession out of Boris Tabor? No. Being a woman had its advantages.
The sound of the conference room door opening abruptly made Angelina turn toward it, just as Alec walked through the door. That is another advantage of being a woman, she thought with a secret smile. She loved how he made her intensely aware of her feminine side. A side of herself she’d repressed for years, hidden from everyone except Alec. A wave of longing surged through her that she was hard-pressed to suppress, but she managed it.
He crossed the wide hallway to Angelina and McKinnon. “Thanks for waiting for me,” he told them. “Is there something I can do for you, Major? Because if not, the king is alone now, and I don’t think he should be.”
Major Branko cast Angelina a look that said, We will continue this discussion another time, Lieutenant. When your protectors aren’t around.
Her returning glance said, Anytime, Major. Anywhere.
“So what’s up?” McKinnon asked after Major Branko left. “Why’d you want me to wait for you?” He glanced at his watch. “Mara’s just about to put the twins to bed, and I like to be there when I can.” He grinned at Alec. “Fatherhood’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me...not counting the princess, of course. I highly recommend it.”
An enigmatic expression crossed Alec’s face, a look that intrigued Angelina, and she wondered what it meant. But all he said was, “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to set up a time and place for us to meet. Tomorrow morning okay with you? My office at the embassy, say, 8 a.m.?”
“Sure. Anything you want me to do ahead of time?”
“No, I’ll get the ball rolling on those seven names. Speaking of which, did you mean what you said in there about Keira?” He indicated the conference room with a thumb over his shoulder. “Will the agency really give us whatever we need, without the DSS or the State Department having to fill out reams of paperwork?”
The grin faded from McKinnon’s face. “I’ve known Nick D’Arcy since I got out of the Corps and joined the US Marshals Service,” he said. “Worked for him a lot of years, first as a marshal, then as a special agent when the agency was created, before he went to DC to head up the entire agency. I can’t think of anything D’Arcy would like more than to put Vishenko behind bars for a long time—preferably for life.