by Cap Daniels
He slid a key into a metallic mechanism behind his desk and produced three diamonds, each significantly larger than any Anya had matched in the previous two days. He clamped each of the stones into locking tweezers and slid them across the desk. Without being told to do so, Anya lifted each precious stone to her eye and examined them closely. When she’d nearly committed each one to memory, she slid the loupe into her other hand and examined the three stones with her left eye.
Volkov watched, intrigued. “Why did you change eyes?”
Anya stood, pocketed the loupe, and replaced the clamped diamond to the desk. “Stand and dance with me.”
“What do you mean, dance with you?”
She stepped away from the desk and held up her arms in the perfect ballroom dancer’s frame. “Come, come. Dance with me.”
Hesitantly, Volkov stood, stepped into her frame, and felt her right hand fold over his left. She softly hummed the Viennese Waltz and made the opening step. “You are wonderful dance partner, Viktor.”
“As are you, but I fail to see—”
“Shh. Just dance. And now, close right eye.”
He did as she instructed, and as soon as she was confident his eye was truly closed, she moved her left hand to his cheek and laid the blade of the knife she’d been palming against the skin of his face. “Now, open both eyes, but do not stop dancing.”
He reopened his eye and caught the glisten from the tip of the razor-sharp blade. In an instant, he recoiled and retreated several steps. “What is wrong with you?”
She smiled and sheathed the small blade. “Nothing is wrong with me, but when we choose to see the world with only one eye, we often overlook many of its dangers.”
The look on his face made it clear he never expected his ‘angel’ to bear a sword of any length. “Why do you have a knife?”
“Because I am beautiful girl in dangerous city . . . Or perhaps I am dangerous girl in beautiful city.”
Volkov returned to his seat, never taking his eyes from Anya. He motioned toward the stones on the desk. “Have you memorized these diamonds?”
“I have.”
“Good. Come with me, but keep that knife out of your hands.”
She followed him from the office and into the vault, where he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. He opened a small door in the back wall of the vault and withdrew a velvet pouch from inside. Anya took the pouch from his hand and poured its contents onto the table. As she watched the light refract from every facet of the diamonds as they fell from the pouch, one by one, she counted eighteen stones.
Volkov motioned toward the scattered diamonds. “These few stones are valued at just under two million dollars on the retail market. Find the three matches to the ones you examined before threatening to cut my head off.”
She glanced between the diamonds and the jeweler. “Cutting off someone’s head with small blade is much harder than you think.”
In less than five minutes, she set three stones to the side and bagged the remaining fifteen.
“Not possible,” Viktor said. “No one can remember three stones and identify their matches so quickly.”
“Perhaps no one other than me, but I have done it.”
He lifted the diamonds from the table and headed for his office with Anya close in tow. “If you’ve done it, you may have any one of the six stones you wish.”
He reclaimed his chair and pulled each stone to his eye in exaggerated motions. Pair by pair, he laid the diamonds aside until six nearly flawless gems rested beside their twins. Volkov motioned toward the desk. “Choose.”
Anya set her face in the cold, stern look as only Russian women can do. “All of these are beautiful, but I choose, instead, to continue working for a bit of the sweat equity you mentioned earlier.”
24
SOSHEDSHIY S REL'SOV
(OFF THE RAILS)
Anya was only slightly surprised to find the door to her apartment unlocked and standing open a few inches. She stepped through the door with blade in hand and made her way through the darkened foyer without a sound. As she stepped from the kitchen into the living room, a deep, confident voice cut through the silence. “You owe me two tires and a new shotgun mount.”
She switched on the lights, and Special Agent Ray White shielded his eyes against the sudden flood of fluorescence. “Do you want to tell me why you shot up my Suburban?”
“Because you ordered me to get the job done by any means. But you will be pleased to know I have not killed anyone yet.”
“Sit down. We need to set some new ground rules.”
Anya remained on her feet. “Where is Gwynn?”
“That’s up to you, I’m afraid. Now, sit down.”
She slid her knife back into its sheath and settled onto the sofa.
White stared her down. “It would appear we’ve developed a bit of a communication problem. I can do it in Russian if you’re having trouble with the language barrier.”
“I am not having any trouble at all. You told me to get the job done, and you didn’t care how many laws I broke or who I killed. These are your words . . . in English.”
White rubbed his forehead. “Not everything I say is meant to be taken to the extreme.”
“I did not take it to extreme. I told you I have not killed anyone yet, but I did press my knife to Volkov’s face today.”
“I don’t even want to hear that story. What I do want to hear is how you convinced Skipper to come onboard.”
“I simply asked for her help, and she came for me. This is friendship.”
White continued rubbing his head. “Speaking of friends, Agent Davis is not so patiently waiting to hear your decision.”
“What decision?”
“It’s become glaringly obvious to me that you prefer to work alone. When you don’t have your sidekick hanging on, you make moves no one could anticipate, and you get things done. When Gwynn is weighing you down, things don’t seem to happen as quickly. Gwynn has a skill you lack, though. It’s called subtlety, and you could learn a great deal from her in that area.”
Anya sat expressionless as he continued.
“So, I’m leaving it up to you. The reins are off. You can run all you want. You can butt-stroke drivers all day on the D.C. Beltway and steal all the cars you need. I don’t care, as long as when this thing is over, Viktor Volkov and Sascha Goncharov are in prison . . . or dead.”
“You did not tell me killing both of them would be satisfactory ending for this mission. I can do that tonight.”
White held up a hand. “Calm down, warrior princess. We don’t want them dead. That’s a last resort when all else has failed. So far, we have no evidence either of them is dangerous to anyone except the diamond brokers and their bank accounts.”
White sucked at his teeth. “I don’t know what to do with you. On the one hand, I want Davis to learn from you, and I want her to keep an eye on you so you don’t go off the rails. But on the other hand, I want to turn you loose on these bastards and let you do what you do best.”
“Killing people with knives is what I do best.”
“I know, but that’s not all you’re good at. So, let’s hear it. What do you want?”
Anya didn’t have to think. “I want to do whatever I must to bring Anya Volkovna and her mother to United States.”
“I already told you what that requires. I’ll get that done as long as you tie Volkov to his brother’s murder and you put him and Sascha behind bars. The question is, are you going to do that with or without Agent Davis?”
“I want Gwynn to continue with me.”
White rose from his seat and pointed at the Russian. “Then keep your butt on the reservation, and don’t get arrested. If you do, I’m not bailing you out.”
She gave him a simple nod of understanding and apparent compliance.
He looked down the hall. “Get in here, Davis. She wants you to stay.”
Gwynn emerged from her bedroom looking like a scolded child.
&n
bsp; White put a finger in her face. “She’s your responsibility. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You better, and for God’s sake, find a way to control her.”
He stomped from the living room into the kitchen and rifled through cabinets until Davis asked, “What are you looking for?”
“Something to drink. Don’t you have any alcohol in this apartment?”
Barely loud enough to hear, Anya said, “I need a legend.”
“What?” White said.
“I need a backstory. I believe Volkov will soon investigate my past. He does not know my last name yet, but some things happened today that make me believe he is going to open a door and let me put in one of my feet. Maybe the one with only four toes.”
“Your legend is already in place in your real last name—if Burinkova really is your last name. You’ve been a working actress for three years. Your credit score is seven twenty-five, and you’re an organ donor.”
“My real last name is Fulton. I have passport and driving license.”
White held up both palms. “Sure, we can make that change if you want Volkov and the whole Russian mafia to go knocking on your door in Athens, Georgia, and then on the door of that two-hundred-year-old plantation house on the coast.”
“In that case,” Anya said, “my last name is definitely Burinkova.”
“I thought you’d see it our way. Now, about that drink?”
Anya pulled open an oversized drawer beside the stove and waved the back of her hand toward its contents of vodka, whiskey, and a bottle of merlot.
White pulled the Jack Daniel’s from the drawer, poured three fingers over two cubes of ice, and swirled the glass. “Since everyone seems to be on the same sheet of music now, let’s hear what your analyst had to say. Oh, and that reminds me. You owe three thousand dollars to the homeowners’ association for the gardens you destroyed, and there’s a guy with a badly broken nose who could use a new car.”
Gwynn poured two glasses of red wine and handed one to Anya.
She accepted the glass and raised it to touch Gwynn’s. “Here’s to being together again.”
White huffed and didn’t join the toast.
Anya flicked the rim of his glass with her fingernail. “All of the damage you described happened in the line of duty while I was following your orders, so United States Justice Department will pay for tires and other things.”
He wiped off the rim of his glass as if removing evidence. “You’ve been an American for fifteen minutes, and you’re already a bureaucrat. Welcome to the circus.”
Anya pulled the tiny plastic flag from her pocket and waved it as if on parade.
White snatched it from her hand. “So, tell me about this super analyst of yours. When will she have some background for us?”
Anya looked away. “Actually, I may have overstated her agreement to help us.”
White pointed the stem of the flag at the Russian. “Overstated? What is that supposed to mean? You said she was on board.”
“She is, but first she must confirm with Chase that it is okay for her to work with me.”
“Chase? She’s going to brief Chase Fulton in on this operation?”
Anya nodded. “Yes, this is how it works. Chase is commander of team, and Skipper—” Anya’s phone vibrated, and she turned to the screen. “Speaking to devil. It is Skipper.”
White groaned. “It’s speak of the devil, you no-English-speaking freak. Answer the phone before I shoot you in the head.”
“Hello, Skipper. You have good news, no? . . . This is good. . . . I will put phone on speaker so Agent White and my friend, Gwynn, can hear.” She motioned toward the small table nestled in the corner of the room, and the three took seats. “Okay, Skipper, everyone is here.”
“Yeah, well, like I was saying, Chase okayed the mission, but he’s not exactly happy how it came about.”
Anya reached for the phone and laid three fingers against the plastic case. “You said to him I am okay, yes?”
“Yeah, Anya. He knows you’re okay. Are you guys ready for what I have?”
Everyone nodded.
Skipper said, “If you’re nodding, you do know I can’t hear you, right?”
White growled. “We’re ready. Let’s hear it, for God’s sake.”
“Chill. I’m doing this pro bono. That means you don’t get to yell at me. Put me on the payroll, and you can yell all you want.”
White eyed Anya. “Is that whole team like this?”
“No, the boys on team are terrible. Skipper is only good one.”
The sound of Skipper banging on the phone rang through the air. “Hello! I’m trying to give a briefing here.” The raucousness died down as Skipper began. “Okay, so here’s the down and dirty. Before your guy Viktor Volkov went to prison and then came to the States, he was what we would call a cat burglar. His father, Dmitri Volkov, was a Communist Party official of some moderate rank. I didn’t take the time to dig up anything on him because he doesn’t really matter in all of this. The point is, Viktor and his brother—his name is, or was, Maxim Dmitrievich Volkov, by the way—were only eleven months apart. Maxim was the older one.”
Gwynn scribbled furiously on a yellow legal pad as the briefing continued.
“Apparently, Maxim was the perfect little red commie—awesome grades in every class, athletic, hammer-and-sickle-flag-waving Russki. The problem was, even though they weren’t twins, by the time the boys were teenagers, they were nearly impossible to tell apart. Same eyes, same size, you know the deal. Anyway, so his little brother, Viktor, despite being the spitting image of his perfect older brother, barely did well enough in school to make it to the tenth grade, and he dropped out some time during that year.”
She paused to pour half an energy drink down her throat. “Ah, that’s good. Sorry, I needed a drink. So, back to our fairy tale. Needless to say, their commie-party daddy was invited to all the little let’s-hold-hands-and-hate-freedom parties or whatever they’re called. Anyway, Maxim was always standing silently and obediently beside his party-official daddy like a good little Marxist, but our boy Viktor, who seems to have been a capitalist from the womb, wasn’t big on the party scene. Instead, he was big on breaking into the houses of his daddy’s commie buddies while they were drinking vodka and playing Cold War games or whatever. By the time Viktor was eighteen, he was already worth half a million, U.S. He stole everything from silverware to satellites. Okay, maybe not satellites, but you get the picture. It turns out little Viktor’s favorite thing to steal was jewelry. In fact, he didn’t just steal it, he learned to replicate it. Get this . . .” She paused for another drink. “Okay, I’m back. So, Viktor stole, bought, or borrowed one of those little spy cameras you see in all the old Cold War movies. You know the kind you can hide in the palm of your hand.”
White rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we know. Get to it.”
“I told you to chill, dude. I’m happy to hang up and you guys do this without me. It’s not like I need the work. I’ve got plenty to do.”
Anya gave White a shot to the shin beneath the table, and Skipper continued.
“Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was saying Viktor got a camera, but that’s not all he got. He also became an apprentice in Moscow under a master jeweler whose name I can’t pronounce, and it doesn’t matter. Little Viktor, it seems, had quite the talent for creating look-alike replicas of real jewelry using fake stones and colored glass—that kind of stuff. He got so good at it, in fact, he would break into houses, lay out all the jewelry he wanted, take pictures, and then put the jewelry back.”
White spoke up. “If all he did was take pictures, how did he end up in prison?”
“Patience, government dude, I’m getting to that part. So, Viktor would develop the pictures, make replicas of the pieces, and then wait for the next get-together of commie party yuckity-yucks. Then, he would break into the houses, swap out the real jewelry for the fakes he made, and vanish into the night. What
do you think about that?”
“It’s good stuff,” White said. “But what does any of it have to do with Maxim’s murder?”
“I’m getting to that part. Keep your pants on . . . unless you’re more comfortable with them off . . . whatever. Here’s the part where Mr. Good-Commie-Two-Shoes comes in. Maxim, as it turns out, wasn’t as squeaky clean as everyone thought. Even though he was already married, he had a thing for the ladies . . . and I mean all the ladies. I’m talking eighteen to eighty, blind, crippled, or crazy. He loved ’em all. Now, don’t forget Maxim and Viktor are practically body doubles for each other, but one of them is a jewel thief, and the other is a horndog, bedding everyone from Cindy Lou Whovna to Katherine the Great and everyone in between.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Gwynn yelled out. “I’m out of paper. Hang on just a second.” She ran from the table and returned seconds later with two more writing pads. “Okay, keep going.”
Skipper said, “Take it easy, chica. I’ll send you a transcript when we’re done.”
“Yeah, but your transcript won’t have my personal notes.”
“Sure it will,” Skipper said. “Didn’t Anya tell you I’m not only the world’s best analyst, but that I’m also a mind reader? By the way, I’m picking up some heavy lovey-dovey vibes from you about some girl named Sascha. What’s that about?”
“Sascha’s not a girl, he’s a guy.”
Skipper laughed. “Okay, that’s cool. Like a boy named Sue or whatever.”
Gwynn turned to Anya and mouthed, “How does she know?”
Anya smiled and shrugged as Skipper reclaimed the floor.
“Now that we’re done with the background, and whatever Gwynn’s thing for Sascha is, it’s time for the good part. At some point, our little Russki slut-boy has a fling with a czarina or whatever. She was the wife of this KGB colonel who was on his way to a general’s star in the Kremlin. So, little-miss-wife-of-colonel-come-general turns up pregnant, which is fine, except for one small detail. Her rock-star-one-star husband was aboard a ship in the Baltic Sea when said ship took a dive to the bottom. Before he was rescued, he spent enough time in the cold water to render his little trouser soldier unfit for duty, so needless to say, our friend, the colonel, had some questions about his lovely bride’s swelling belly.”