The Lion in Russia
Page 1
Pussycat Death Squad
The Lion in Russia
Roslyn Hardy Holcomb
roslynhardyholcomb.com
Pussycat Death Squad The Lion in Russia
Smashwords Edition Copyright December 2012 Roslyn Hardy Holcomb
Discover other Roslyn Hardy Holcomb titles at Smashwords including
Hot for Teacher
Dark Star
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Roslyn Hardy Holcomb.
Cover Artist: Whit Holcomb
This e-book is a work of fiction. Though it might refer to historical events and actual places might be mentioned, the names, characters, places and incidents are either made up by the author or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Acknowledgement
The character, Cesaré Shahidi is used with permission from Lisa G. Riley.
Chapter One
The White Stripes, “Seven Nation Army” pounded through the massive speakers. Vries could feel the famous guitar riff thrumming through her chest as though the bassist was picking out the rhythm on her ribcage. She moved with the beat of the music shaking her hips, feeling the silken swish of her vintage Pucci maxi skirt against her legs with each step she took in the platform heels. She made a striking figure and she knew it. It was her job to always stand out in a crowd, to draw attention wherever she went. A role that oddly enough lent itself even more to her more lethal vocation.
The spotlight did a great job of concealing that which she didn’t want seen. The standing-room-only crowd parted for her as it did only for major stars. And Vries had been a star for more than twenty years. A nod here and a smile of acknowledgment there. Even brief kisses in greeting were not enough to dissuade her from her goal. She spotted her target almost by accident. The tall man with the thick mane of graying hair would probably blend in almost unnoticed were she not deliberately looking for him. Years of experience had given her almost a sixth sense for these things.
She made her way across the large room until she was standing nearly directly behind him. Smoothing her damp palms over her skirt she continued moving to the beat. This was always the worst part of any assignment, the moments right before the strike when she had time to question herself and her technique. Aside for his name and photograph she had no idea who this man was. She preferred it that way, it left her with fewer doubts. She trusted her handlers to only give her targets that needed killing. Still she wondered about the morality of what she was about to do. Of course, there was little room for that kind of thought in this world of realpolitik. Eliminating the bad guys by legal means was both time-consuming and messy. Thousands could die and billions of dollars be wasted trying to eliminate one bad man. This method was more efficient and saved lives and money. And she knew that afterwards, the doubts would go away, and she would feel nothing but pride in a job done well.
After a few seconds she reached up to remove her signature platinum afro pick from her mammoth Afro. She automatically checked the safety lock on the mechanism and glanced down briefly to ensure she’d filled it properly. Then she sidled up behind the man. It only took a moment for her to jab the pick into the back of his hip with a smooth, practiced motion. The man reacted quickly to what she knew to be a sharp, but momentary prick. She smiled apologetically; the music was much too loud to allow conversation, so she gestured toward her oversized designer bag as the culprit. He waved it off as inconsequential, not knowing as she did that he was a walking dead man.
The slow-acting poison would take nearly a week to kill him, but kill him it would. Its effect would mimic that of a heart attack. He probably would never remember their meeting at this Paris fashion show, and if he did, no one would ever connect his death to such a brief encounter. Continuing on her way she returned the Afro pick to its customary place in her hair and made her way backstage. She was due to strut down the catwalk in less than ten minutes. Vries St. John was on.
***
Vries slumped down in one of the comfortably padded chairs in her boss’s office. Lelia Assad McBride generally worked out of her home. Vries assumed it was part of keeping her clandestine operations secret. Lelia’s husband, Patrick McBride had some type of hush-hush job at the Pentagon. On paper at least Lelia was a stay at home wife and mother. Vries, of course, knew differently. She stretched out her legs, encased in white patent leather go-go boots across the arm of the chair. The soft dove gray and eggshell white used in the room was very restive, and the chair she reclined in was covered in plush charcoal gray chenille. Too cozy for words. Jet lag was really doing a number of her and she dozed lightly as she waited for Lelia to show up for their appointment. Just as she drifted into deeper slumber Lelia came into the room. Vries came awake and immediately sat up in the chair. Even dressed casually in a cerulean blue silk blouse and well-tailored charcoal gray wide legged trousers Lelia McBride commanded immediate respect. She moved like a soldier, but with a feminine grace that Vries wondered at.
“Hello Vries,” she said in softly accented English as she took a seat behind her elegant ivory and glass desk. “So sorry for the delay, but I had to drop the boys off at school myself this morning.”
Vries nodded and stifled a yawn. “That’s okay, I was just wondering why this meeting had to occur face-to-face. Usually we make do with emails and couriers.”
“This assignment is too top secret for our usual communication methods.”
Vries raised her brows, but didn’t speak, though she wondered what type of assignment could be even more secretive than the ones she’d been doing for this woman for half a decade.
Lelia placed a folder on her desk in front of Vries. “This is your new target. It’s a departure from your usual type assignment.”
Vries took the folder and opened it slowly. She wondered if the gray color was chosen to match the décor. Knowing Lelia it probably was. As she stared down at the photo she felt as though an icy hand had suddenly clutched her heart. Breathing was almost more than she could do and she thought for a moment she would faint for the first time in her life. After taking some deep steadying breaths she raised her gaze back up to meet Lelia’s. “You’ve got to be kidding? I can’t do this.”
“So you do recognize Lyov Azhikelyamov. Or the Anglicized, Leo Azhikelyamov. I had wondered. Rumor has it that you are lovers. I pay little attention to tabloids, but to hear them tell it you are a daughter of Satan.”
Vries looked back down at the photograph. Leo’s phenomenal good looks came through even in the one-dimensional picture. His translucent gray eyes were punctuated by the sharp slash of his high cheekbones. His lashes and brows were a bit darker, giving character to his face and making his eyes really stand out. His thick ash blonde hair swept across a high forehead, the silver strands she knew to be there looking more like artful highlights than indicative of him aging well into his forties. She doubted that the billionaire ever bothered to have it done.
“No, he’s not my lover, but I do know him. After all, I just signed another contract with his company. Or rather, his ex-wife’s company. I should
think it would be bad form to sleep with my boss’s ex-husband. Pasha is Russian, but I doubt she’s that Russian.”
Lelia leaned back in her chair, her perfectly arched brows raised in inquiry. “So you’ll continue to be La Luz de un Girasol? Last time we talked you said they thought you’d gotten too old.”
Vries shrugged. At thirty-five she was considered washed up by many in the modeling industry, but fortunately for her she was as popular on the runway as she’d been when she first started at the tender age of fifteen. Print work wasn’t as plentiful and she had planned to retire after New York’s Fashion Week in the spring. She’d only stayed this long to provide a cover for her clandestine work. The renewal of her contract with the House of Girasol came as much of a surprise to her as anyone else. She still thought the title of “The Light of the Sunflower” rather ridiculous, but it paid well and who was she to quibble?
“I have no idea. Pasha Azhikelyamova negotiated the deal herself. I guess they changed their mind again.” She made a dismissive gesture even though she was still troubled by the mystery, but obviously the current puzzle was more pressing. “Why on earth would you expect me to kill him? He’s a businessman, no way he needs killing,” Vries said. “No way in hell will I do it,” she said with a firm shake of her head.
“No. No. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear Vries. We don’t want him eliminated. You will be guarding him from those who do,” Lelia said.
That was even more shocking. “Guarding him? Why on earth would he need guarding, especially by us?”
“It’s rather complicated. Usually you don’t want to know the details, but I think in this particular case you won’t be able to do your job without them. Do I have your permission to tell you the whole story?”
Vries nodded, still looking at the photo.
“Azhikelyamov has managed to run afoul of the president of his country.”
The icy hand squeezed harder. “Putilin?”
“Yes.”
“What on earth did he do to cross that homicidal—” she bit off the word “sonofabitch” as Lelia didn’t approve of profanity, “Man?”
“Azhikelyamov hasn’t done anything, at least not yet. He is set to testify at a trial exposing corruption and complicity within the Russian government and some of the craziness that went on with the oligarchs back in the nineties.”
“Why in the hell would he want to do such a thing?” Vries asked, forgetting Lelia’s proscription against cussing. “If they’re allowing a trial, they’re probably only doing it to bring out their enemies so they can be sent to prison.”
Lelia nodded, her eyes sad as she paused for a long moment. Vries remembered too late that Lelia had personal experience with just such a conspiracy. “Right. The U.S. State Department apparently feels the same way. Except there’s some indication that Putilin is actually against the trial, though he’s not saying so publicly. According to them, he was maneuvered by the parliament in some kind of way to let them go forward.”
“Somebody out-maneuvered Plutonium Putilin?” Vries asked, using the nickname the president had earned after several of his enemies wound up dead from the potent, and easily traced, poison.
Lelia leaned forward with her elbows on the desk. “Apparently they’ve concluded that he can’t poison them all.”
“Wanna bet?” Vries said with a derisive snort. “I don’t put anything past that man. He is positively reptilian. He gives me the creeps.”
“You know him?” Lelia asked with an arch of a well-manicured brow.
“I’ve run into him a time or two. He’s married, but has a thing for young models. I’m too old for his taste apparently, but he’s always at the Paris shows,” Vries said. “Trust me he needs no excuse to kill. And doesn’t care who knows it.” She looked back up at Lelia. “That still doesn’t explain why Leo would take such a huge risk. He’s been around for a while, surely he knows better.”
“I was going to ask you that. It’s one of the reasons I chose you for the assignment.”
Vries frowned. “I told you, I’m not sleeping with him. Sure, he’s tried, and I’m not unwilling, but we’ve never managed to wind up on the same continent long enough for it to go any further than that. He travels more than I do. According to Pasha, he’s got business interests all over the world, even though most of his money is in Russian oil and gas. Besides, I really don’t know what his ex-wife would think of it. By all accounts they’ve remained good friends. After all, he bought Girasol for her, and couture houses don’t come cheap, even when they’re in trouble the way Girasol was. Still it’s best not to sh… uh defecate where you eat.” She quickly amended the phrase.
Lelia winced and made a moué of distaste. “Another charming American idiom.”
Vries grinned in response. “Sorry about that, but I still don’t get what all this is about.”
“Yes, I understand, but you do know him. It was important that the operative who received this assignment had a connection.”
“Why?”
“Well, he’s not likely to let anyone new into his inner circle right now. He knows he’s in danger, and has taken on an impressive contingent of bodyguards.”
Okay, so he wasn’t totally crazy. “Then why does he need me?”
“The State Department doesn’t trust them. They’re convinced that Putilin has every intention of having him killed before the trial.”
Vries pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. For once not caring that she was smudging her meticulously applied makeup. The fact that nobody ever died from jet lag was at the moment a mixed blessing. In her cover job as a model she traveled far too much for her liking. Even worse, she had to fly fairly frequently for her assignments as well. Right now she was far too exhausted to be dealing with this.
Vries tried again. “Okay, maybe I’m slow because I’m still on Milan time. But that still doesn’t explain why he needs me.”
“He doesn’t. Or at least he doesn’t think he does. He’s flatly refused any and all assistance State has offered—”
“And that’s another thing, why does State care what goes down with a criminal trial in Russia?”
“That’s a good question. They haven’t told me anything, of course, but I do have some theories if you care to hear them.”
“Oh do tell. But first do you have any coffee? And by coffee I mean something other than that Arabic tar you drink.”
Lelia laughed as she rose from her desk. “You wimpy Americans don’t know what you’re missing.” She left the room and Vries closed her eyes again only this time dozing off was impossible. All she could see was Leo’s charming grin and the way it transformed the harsh planes of his face. Why in the name of all hell had he gotten involved in this mess? Corruption was as Russian as borscht and vodka and unlikely to end anytime soon. The only thing Leo was going to accomplish was to get himself killed. Lelia returned after a brief absence carrying a serving tray with coffee and cream. After setting the tray on the credenza, which was perpendicular to her desk, she poured Vries a cup, leaving it black as Vries preferred and handing it to her. Vries took a long sip of the excellent brew as Lelia poured a cup for herself before returning to her desk.
“You look tired, Vries,” Lelia said in a concerned tone.
Vries frowned at the change of subject. “It’s been a tough year. Fashion Week was brutal. And I’ve had more assignments than usual.”
Lelia nodded. “Yes, and I’m so sorry for that. I know you’d looked forward to taking your usual winter holiday. Have you thought about what you plan to do when you can no longer go in the field?”
“Oh for the love of Pete. You’re trying to retire me too?”
“No, of course not. You’re my best, that’s why you’ve got this assignment, but I’m finding that I need someone in Europe. A manager there.”
“Business is that good?”
“The world is becoming more dangerous by the day, unfortunately. Do you think this is something you’d be interested in?”
“Fair enough, just know the job is yours if you want it. Now back to your current assignment.” Lelia leaned forward as she explained the intricacies of the situation. “I suspect your State Department sees this as an opportunity to get rid of Putilin,” she said.
“Well, that goes without saying, but I don’t see how they think this would do it. Putilin has done considerably worse things. The man literally has blood on his hands. Everybody already knows he’s corrupt and homicidal. Besides, he’s not even on trial here.”
“Yes, but even the fact that there is a trial might be indicative of a crack in the strong arm,” Lelia said.
“I don’t believe it. If there appears to be a crack there it’s only because it serves his purposes for it to look that way,” Vries said.
Lelia stared at her over her cup of coffee. After a long moment, she slowly lowered the cup and placed it on her desk. “It would appear that the president made quite an impression on you.”
“The man makes an impression on everybody. Mark my words, Putilin will let go of Russia when they remove it from his cold dead hands.”
Lelia nodded. “Most assuredly,” she said staring directly into Vries’s eyes.
Vries immediately straightened in her chair in response to the sudden chill racing down her spine. “You don’t plan for me to…”
“Assassinate the Russian president? Of course not,” Lelia said. And somehow Vries knew that while her handler spoke the literal truth, at some point the possibility of assassination had at least been discussed. She listened as Lelia continued. “We don’t send our operatives on suicide missions.” That sad look crossed Lelia’s face again. Vries could’ve kicked herself. Only jet lag would cause her to step in it so many times. She’d forgotten that Lelia had lost several subordinates through the megalomaniacal political machinations of her previous boss, the former dictator of Laritrea. “How closely do you follow Russian politics?”