The Russian's Greed

by Cap Daniels

  Gwynn’s mind alternated between exploding and imploding as the minutes passed like hours inside the darkened space. Every sound from the hallway was magnified and seemed to penetrate the door as if it were an echo chamber.

  If she comes back and I capture her, will I still have a career?

  How did I ever let this happen?

  Why would she do this to me?

  Questions without answers ricocheted inside her skull, growing louder with every passing second. As she pondered just how bad the coming days and weeks would be, the ding of the elevator stopping on her floor yanked her from the well into which she’d fallen.

  Moving with every ounce of stealth she could muster, Gwynn moved into the kitchen behind the narrow dividing wall between the entrance foyer and the rest of the apartment. Her only chance of subduing her prey would come in the form of sheer surprise.

  She pressed the cold stainless steel of her handcuffs behind the fold of her knee as the ratcheting mechanism clicked through its cycle, leaving the cuffs poised for quick application. Scenes from the morning’s fight in the middle of the living room flooded Gwynn’s mind. The speed and strength of the Russian were all but impossible to overcome. If she got one cuff on a slender wrist without the second one locked in place, Anya would have a swinging, jagged weapon hanging from her wrist. A weapon of any style in those hands was more than Agent Davis wanted to face.

  The footsteps, if they existed, were silent in the hall. Gwynn had listened for the sounds of Anya’s movements for weeks and never heard her make a sound. It was as if she floated just above the ground with every move of her feet. The question of how long she would have to wait was answered by the rattle of the key sliding into the lock. When the deadbolt receded, it sounded like a freight train roaring through Gwynn’s head. She subconsciously reached for her Glock, but the reality of her inability to draw and fire on the Russian overtook her, forcing her to leave the deadly weapon secure inside the leather binding of its holster.

  The knob turned, and the door moved a few inches inward and then froze. The expectation of the chain had stopped the door’s swing, but when the gold chain revealed itself to be hanging uselessly against the jamb, the door continued its arc into the foyer. The key slid from the lock just as Gwynn imagined the damage a key could do to a human body in the hands of a fighter like Anya. The mental picture of the crooked, torn, bloody flesh left her unable to quench the thirst in her throat.

  Finally, the door closed, and Anya Burinkova continued through the foyer and toward the hall. Gwynn sprang from her concealment and landed one step behind the Russian with her handcuffs poised for use against the bones of her wrists, but instead of the tall, lean form in jeans and a sweatshirt she’d expected, the sight froze Gwynn in her tracks.

  Hearing Gwynn move behind her, Anya spun, raising both hands into a defensive position. She adjusted her feet into a modified fighting stance—as much as the dress would allow.

  As the two women faced each other, both shocked by what they saw, Anya was first to speak. “Why do you have handcuffs?”

  Answering a question with a question always perturbed Gwynn, but she had no choice. “Why are you wearing an Alexander McQueen?”

  Anya relaxed, lowering her hands. “I like it. It fits. And I could afford it.”

  Gwynn tossed the cuffs onto the kitchen counter. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, why are you here . . . in that dress? I thought you were gone.”

  “I am here because I have date with Viktor Volkov to see his favorite ballerina.”

  Gwynn couldn’t stop staring at every inch of the silk chiffon dress. “You look breathtaking. I’ve never seen anyone except models wearing that, but . . . wow.”

  Anya offered a somewhat awkward turn, giving her partner a full view of the dress from every angle. “You can have it after tonight. I will never need dress like this one again.”

  Gwynn stood wide-eyed and mouth agape. “How much did it cost, and where did you get it?”

  “It was very expensive, but Volkov gave to me money to buy dress. It would be rude if I kept money and bought cheap dress, no?”

  “Oh, yeah. That would be way rude. He’s going to die when he sees you.”

  Anya ignored the flattery and let the dress fall from her shoulders. “I cannot wear ponytail tonight, so I must change my hair. You will help me with this, yes?”

  “Yeah, of course, and I’ll do your makeup.”

  Anya offered the slightest of frowns. “I do not wear makeup. You know this.”

  Gwynn helped her from the dress. “Tonight, you do. Let’s get to it.”

  The next hour was spent turning one of the world’s most classic beauties into the princess of New York City.

  Halfway through the process, Anya caught Gwynn’s attention in the mirror. “Why did you have handcuffs when I came inside door?”

  Gwynn’s shoulders dropped in embarrassment, coupled with disappointment in herself. “I thought you had escaped, and I was going to arrest you when you snuck in to collect your things.”

  Confusion consumed the Russian’s face. “Escaped? From what?”

  “I thought after you ran away from the thing with the kidnapper, you weren’t coming back. I even had to report it to . . .” Gwynn dropped her brush and ran from the bathroom. After dialing frantically on her cell phone, she shoved the device to her ear.

  “Special Agent White.”

  “Agent White, it’s Davis. She’s back!”

  White lowered his tone. “Do you have her secured? I’ll send a team to—”

  “No, not like that. I mean, she never ran away. She was just shopping for a dress, and now she’s back.”

  “Slow down, Davis. What are you talking about, a dress?”

  Gwynn took several deep breaths. “She ran from the scene of the kidnapping, I guess to get away from the media and the cops, but she didn’t leave the mission. We were shopping for a dress for her date with Volkov when it all happened. I guess she thought she should continue the mission, and she bought a killer dress. It’s an Alexander McQueen, and it is gorgeous. You should see her in it, Agent White.”

  “Davis, I don’t care about the dress. Are you telling me she’s back on board?”

  “No, I’m telling you she was never not on board. She wasn’t running from us at all. I was way wrong about all of that.”

  “Wait a minute. She came back voluntarily as if nothing happened?”

  “Yes, exactly. I think she was sincere last night when she said she’d work this mission even if we weren’t threatening to send her to prison.”

  “Not so fast. It could all be a ploy to get our guard down. Maybe she didn’t run when she had the perfect open door to make us believe she wasn’t ever going to run. I don’t know, but listen to me. You keep that girl in your sights, and don’t let anything like this happen again. Am I making myself clear? You’re responsible for her in the field. Everything she does is on you. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. But I think you’re wrong—uh, I mean with all due respect—you may be incorrect about her. I don’t think she’s going to run.”

  “You better hope she doesn’t.”

  Gwynn laid her phone back on the arm of the sofa and turned to see Anya standing behind her. “You and Agent White thought I was not coming back, no?”

  “No, not exactly. He thought you’d come back to get your things and then disappear again, but he doesn’t know you like I do.”

  Anya cocked her head. “And what did Special Agent Guinevere Davis think?”

  “Junior Special Agent Davis was scared, and she thought her boss might be right, but your friend, Gwynn, knew you wouldn’t do that to her.”

  Anya glanced at the handcuffs on the kitchen counter. “So, it was Special Agent Davis who was going to handcuff me?”

  Gwynn smiled. “Yeah, I guess it was. But, hey, I’m really glad you came back, and I’m sorry for any doubt I had.”

  Anya checked the time. “I was never really go
ne unless you call Bergdorf Goodman a place a runaway former Russian spy would go to hide.”

  “You went to Bergdorf’s and didn’t take me? You should be ashamed.”

  “I have confession,” Anya said. “I did not want you to go. Shopping with you is exhausting.”

  Gwynn stuck out her lower lip. “You just need to learn how to properly shop. That’s all.”

  Anya lifted the dress from the back of a chair. “I think I can properly shop, and this dress agrees with me. Now, help me put it on. I have date with handsome Russian jeweler, and it is black-tie date.”

  17

  DRUGAYA ANYA

  (ANOTHER ANYA)

  The apartment telephone rang, and Gwynn snatched the handset. Hello.”

  “The car has arrived for Miss Anya,” came the doorman’s pleasant tone.

  Gwynn gave her friend and partner the once-over. “She’ll be down shortly.”

  Anya looked as if she just stepped from a runway in Paris in the Alexander McQueen dress. “Please do not worry. I will be back.”

  “I believe you, but I won’t expect you until after breakfast. If you’re not home by noon, though, I’m calling out the cavalry.”

  The Russian frowned. “I will not go home with Volkov.”

  Gwynn blushed. “I would . . . if he asked.”

  “I must go. I will be home after dinner.”

  “No!” Gwynn demanded. “You can’t go down yet. Make him wait.”

  “Why would I do this?”

  “Because trust me, girl. You and that dress are worth waiting for.”

  Anya stepped from the apartment and into the hallway, and Gwynn locked the door behind the deadliest woman in Manhattan.

  As the elevator doors opened, Viktor Volkov stood in a bespoke tuxedo, looking every bit the dashing millionaire he was, but his stone-faced demeanor melted when the Eastern European beauty stepped from the elevator like an angel with a brand-new pair of wings. Volkov’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes turned to saucers. Without a word, Anya crossed the floor as if floating and laced her hand inside his offered arm.

  In his native Russian, he said, “You look more beautiful than any diamond.”

  Anya offered a tiny smile and answered in formal Russian. “You know all too well that Russian women are the most beautiful in the world.”

  “True, but if angels exist, tonight, I have their queen on my arm.”

  Volkov installed Anya in the left rear seat of the black Bentley Flying Spur and took his seat beside her. After a long, admiring look, he asked, “So, how much did that dress cost me?”

  Anya lifted his hand from the seat and placed it on her thigh. “Do you really care how much it cost?”

  “Touché”

  They pulled away from the curb, and Anya stared through the moonroof. “It is sometimes difficult to know where city lights end and stars begin.”

  Volkov reclined his seat and joined her in stargazing. “Indeed, it is, but tonight you will see the brightest star in the city dance with all of her heart.”

  Anya gave him a look. “Perhaps I should be jealous of this ballerina.”

  Volkov let out a roar of laughter. “Perhaps you should, my dear.”

  The driver brought the Bentley to a stop in front of Lincoln Center and stepped out, opening Anya’s door. Every head turned as she stepped from the quarter-million-dollar luxury car in her designer evening gown showing a perfectly toned leg. Hardly anyone noticed the stunning blonde had only nine toes . . . Well, hardly anyone.

  Volkov seemed to be drawn to the wound. “I hope you will share that story with me soon.”

  Anya glanced down, remembering the night off the beach in Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, when she’d pinned the American operative, Chase Fulton, to the sandy bottom of the shallow water in an effort to subdue and ultimately interrogate him. The operative had other plans and got off a shot from his Makarov pistol from inside his dry bag. The irony of having her toe shot off by a weapon made by her Russian countrymen had never been lost on her, but that was a story Volkov could never hear. Instead, she said, “Is part of reason I am now American girl. I do not wish to relive the pain of incident that took my toe.”

  Volkov offered his arm. “In that case, I’ll never ask again. Shall we go inside?”

  Her hand landed inside his elbow, and they climbed the steps to the stares of onlookers who weren’t wearing ten-thousand-dollar dresses and custom-made tuxedos.

  Volkov pulled the gilded invitation from his inside pocket and presented it to the hostess.

  “Thank you, Mr. Volkov. Please enjoy the ballet.”

  They rode the elevator to his private box overlooking the stage, and Anya took in the surroundings. “These are wonderful seats.”

  “They certainly should be,” he said. “I am a platinum-level sponsor of the Bolshoi.”

  Anya raised an eyebrow. “The Bolshoi?”

  Volkov, pleased his self-aggrandizement had not gone unnoticed, nodded once. “Yes, my dear. You are in for quite an evening.”

  When the dancers took the stage, Anya leaned forward, completely mesmerized by their strength and grace. Accomplished dancers are athletes of the highest order with unrivaled stamina and control of their bodies. Memories of hours upon hours in the bitter cold training to hone her body into the perfect killing machine for the Rodina flooded through Anya’s head as she imagined the pain the dancers had endured to become what they were.

  Four minutes into the first act, a ballerina adorned in perfect white descended a narrow staircase at center stage, performing a flawless pirouette en pointe as her tortured toes hit every step. Her technique and strength astonished everyone in the theater, and the crowd rose as one in uproarious applause and shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!”

  The ballerina continued to the front of the stage and performed the traditional reverence as the crowd continued their admiration.

  Anya had seen dozens of performances, but what happened next was unheard of in the ballet. As the ballerina bowed with the same elegance she had displayed throughout her entrance, a disembodied voice rang through the theater. “Ladies and gentlemen, the youngest prima ballerina in the history of the Bolshoi National Second Company, Ms. Anya Volkovna.”

  The applause heightened, and Anya turned to Viktor in disbelief. “Anya Volkovna? She is your daughter?”

  Volkov bowed slightly. “My niece. My brother’s only daughter.”

  As the applause waned, the orchestra played on, and the performance continued. At the end of the final act, while the audience poured their praise and applause toward the stage, Volkov stood, took Anya’s arm, and led her from the box. A tuxedoed young man placed a bouquet of roses in Volkov’s hand just outside the box and motioned toward the private elevator to the stage. When the small door of the elevator car opened, Viktor motioned for Anya to step out first. She did, and he followed two steps behind.

  Anya, the ballerina, bowed and curtsied as flowers landed at her feet from the throngs of adoring attendees. As she turned to leave the stage, her dark eyes lit up in delight, and she was immediately transformed from the most elegant prima ballerina imaginable to a delighted child at seeing her favorite uncle. She flew into his arms, crushing the roses between them. When the embrace finally ended, he placed his niece back on the ground and turned to his date. “May I introduce your namesake, Anya Volkovna. The former assassin took the ballerina’s dainty hands in hers, and they kissed cheeks. “Ty byl velikolepen!”

  Young Anya blushed at the compliment and spoke in Russian. “You are too kind. Thank you, Ms. Anya. I see that my uncle has, once again, adorned his arm with the most beautiful woman in the city.”

  Anya corrected the dancer. “Only possibly the second most beautiful as long as you are in the city.”

  The reunion of uncle and niece continued as dozens of adoring girls begged for pictures with young Anya.

  The ballerina leaned close to Anya’s ear. “Sometimes I pretend I do not speak English.”

  Anya wh
ispered back, “Me, too.”

  Back in the Bentley, Volkov’s smile could not be erased. “I so love seeing her dance. Isn’t she perfect?”

  Anya laid her head on his shoulder. “She is, and she obviously adores her uncle.”

  He put his hand over his heart. “And I love her. Since her father was killed, I see that the family has whatever they need. Even though the wall fell, Russia will never be as comfortable as America for broken families.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your brother, but you are so very kind to care for his family.”

  “It isn’t kindness. It is responsibility. I fear I may have been the reason for his murder.”

  Anya gasped. “How could this be?”

  “It’s a long and terrible story I won’t tell on a night like this. This is a night only for celebration.”

  The driver pulled away from the curb but circled into a private parking area near the back of the theater.

  Anya asked, “Are we not going to dinner?”

  Volkov patted her arm. “Patience, my dear. We are most certainly having dinner, but we must wait for the guest of honor.”

  Almost before he finished the line, an obscure door opened from the theater, and a teenaged girl with a bobbing ponytail ran from the door, directly to the Bentley, and slid onto the front seat as if escaping the scene of a crime.

  In hurried Russian, the girl spoke to the driver. “Go! Go! We must go before I am discovered.”

  The heavy car accelerated nearly as impressively as Anya’s Porsche, and soon, Lincoln Center was well in their wake.

  Young Anya turned to Volkov. “Thank you, uncle. I so love New York, and especially dinners with you. How lucky I am to dance for you and to have a magnificent dinner.”