So . . . not a good idea. He’d have to play things by ear until he figured out what the hell was going on.
Sergei settled back into his seat, feigning sleep while his mind raced. He’d been summoned back from Sri Lanka to a high-level meeting to discuss the Proyect. Project. An innocent name for a horrific plan.
Massoud, head of the terrorist cell, would be there, very likely his number two, Navid, as well. And, unfortunately, their new best friend, Boris Leonov, who had his eye on Sergei’s job with the entire East Coast Brotherhood in his not-too-distant sights.
Sergei had understood he’d have to make like a juggler to get through the meeting, but he’d considered it an exciting challenge—worthy of his skill—keeping nukes, unstable U-236, an elderly bomb tech, terrorists, and rival Russian bastards in the air at the same time. On the way back from Sri Lanka, he’d flexed his fingers, flexed his mind, and knew he had all the right cards on his side. He welcomed the fencing match. All he had to do was keep Leonov in check and lead the terrorists on, faking it until he got what he wanted.
It was called playing with fire.
No, that analogy wasn’t strong enough. He was juggling all right, but walking a tight rope at the same time, feet dancing as bullets flew past while the mocking voices of skeptics jeered from every side.
Had he gone to the meeting? He had no idea. Perhaps it hadn’t happened yet. Whatever. Obviously, something had gone very wrong.
Sergei slitted his eyes open, craned his head to look at the combat guys. One of them was reading a newspaper. Another was just returning from what appeared to be a trip to the john. Hm-m . . . if he could extricate himself from Blondie . . .
Moving as slowly as gravity and what he sensed was diminished physical fitness would allow, Sergei removed his arm from around the blonde and levered himself to his feet. He headed for the bathroom, nodding casually to the tough guys as he passed by. Except for two who were sleeping, they kept their eyes on him every step of the way. Only one nodded in return. Okay, so no miraculous transformation to good guy. The Feds simply figured that with this much firepower on board, they didn’t need to put him in handcuffs. But allowing him that close to Blondie’s gun? Careless, very careless.
The lavatory was luxury class, several steps up from standard airplane accommodations. Not until he’d relieved himself and turned to wash his hands, did he catch a glimpse of the stranger in the mirror. Govnó! Stunned, he stared at the distorted features of the bald and bandaged creature his own mother wouldn’t recognize. What was Blondie doing on his shoulder? She should have taken one look and run screaming all the way to the tail of the plane.
The bruises on his face had faded to pale yellow and sickly green, so whatever had happened, it wasn’t yesterday. But the damage was recent. Whatever recent was.
Newspaper. Maybe the guy was through with it, willing to pass it along . . .
Sergei recognized just how badly he must have been hurt when he had to spend a couple more minutes inside the john coming to grips with his situation. Neither body nor mind were responding as rapidly or as well as he expected. In fact . . . okay, he’d have to face it, his fingers were twitching—close to a downright shake. He was trapped on a private plane with nine Feds, not counting the pilot and co-pilot. He had no idea how that happened. No idea where they were going. His only possible ally might be Blondie, who certainly hadn’t seemed afraid to sleep on the monster’s shoulder.
So what was she doing here, one lonely female surrounded by ten men, including himself? Not that she wasn’t worth surrounding. In that, his good fortune stunned him.
Sergei’s sluggish mind stirred; thoughts whirled, clicked into place, like the little ball on a roulette wheel. Bait. That’s what she was. A juicy come-on for a man known for his appreciation of women.
Yet Blondie had a gun.
So what? Either she was playing good cop, or the Feds were pimping her out. Probably both. Bozhe moi! He really was in bad shape if he couldn’t remember that. Sergei took another look in the mirror and shook his head. Nobody, not even someone assigned to play good cop, would want to come near him. He’d lay odds there were no hot and sweaty moments between the sheets among the bits he’d forgotten.
He had his hand on the door when another thought struck him. How did the people out there expect him to speak? As Sergei, the Russian arms smuggler, or . . .
Better stick to the bare essentials. Nothing more than a few mumbles until he could figure out what the hell was going on.
Fortunately, the newspaper was lying on one of the tables set between four facing seats. He only had to pick it up, murmur the universal “Okay?” and he was waved on his way.
With great care he reinserted himself into his window seat, settling Blondie’s head back on his shoulder. She murmured and snuggled closer. Nice. The Feds had surely gotten that part of his profile right.
At last he allowed himself to open the newspaper. Bladskoye dyelo! He’d lost more than two weeks. Anything could have happened by now.
Was he too late? The worst had happened, and the Feds were investigating the aftermath. Hardly. The newspaper was full of war and disaster, but not on the scale of Armageddon.
So he was going to have to wing it, keep his mouth shut, find out where they were going only when they got there, find out what the Feds wanted to know when they asked him. Maybe Blondie could be coaxed into filling in the gaps, though he was clueless about how he could get her to do that without revealing his unique vulnerability.
The sun was still climbing when they landed at an airport that looked not much different from some he’d seen in Siberia. Sergei figured they must have been flying west, at least two times zones, because the sun had not yet reached its zenith. As the plane descended, he’d seen the vast dark green of forests, a glimpse of rugged mountains. Colorado, Montana, maybe Wyoming or Idaho.
As they taxied, one of the suits unbuckled his seat belt and approached them. Gently, he shook Blondie’s shoulder. “Time to get up, Agent Frost. We’re here.”
Too bad the suit and Blondie weren’t on a first-name basis. Awkward, sleeping with a female when he didn’t even know her first name.
And yet . . . Frost was a name he recognized. He’d seen it in the newspaper, heard it on TV. An unusual surname, one he ought to recall . . . James Frost, known as Jack, that was it. Deputy Chief of Homeland Security. And Blondie was a relative, he’d bet on it.
No way. Not even Jack Frost would pimp out his own daughter.
Yes, he would. From what Sergei had heard, the man had steel balls. Ruthless was the kindest adjective applied.
And Blondie had them too, no matter how anatomically impossible that was. Only someone that tough would snuggle up to Sergei, the monster, who was also Sergei, the gangster.
“You and Tokarev,” the suit added, speaking to Blondie,“will exit the plane protected by our cordon of guards. There’s a van waiting that will take you to the safe house. Two shotgun cars, fore and aft. Agent Kessel and I—he nodded toward his partner—will stay with you, plus all six guards. That should ensure your safety until we . . . ah . . . make some progress.”
Blondie nodded, smiled. “Thanks. We appreciate the help, Agent Grimes. It was pretty lonely out there for a while.”
Blondie turned to him, flashing a smile that pinned him in his seat. Anger evaporated in a blaze of a very different kind of heat. “Hey, Nick, time to check out our new home.”
Nick. Who the hell was Nick?
The only words Nick had spoken since the black-clad commando types had escorted them from Aunt Victoria’s house to the dock, had been the whispered command to lower her seatback, plus Tokarev’s smirking assurance that he would behave himself. After that, not a word. Not on the airplane, not on the van. Odd. Even now, he was sitting beside her on the rear seat, teeth clamped over his tongue, arms clamped over his chest, his face as stony as she’d ever seen it. Probably just an antipathy to Feds, yet something just didn’t feel right.
Vee
looked over the other occupants of the eight-passenger van. One of their black-clad guards sat in front with the driver. The two suits from the plane occupied the center seat, leaving the back for Nick and herself. Agent Grimes was older than his partner. A man with sharp, hard eyes that missed nothing. Mid-forties. Fit. Way beyond competent. Dear old dad had assigned his best. Agent Stan Kessel was at least a decade younger, better looking, with an American melting pot face that blended into any crowd. His eyes revealed a brain as sharp as Grimes’s, but kinder. Probably because he’d had less time to become cynical, Vee thought.
For whatever reason the two agents, the driver, and the warrior riding shotgun showed no more inclination for chitchat than Nick did. They rode in silence for nearly an hour with one escort SUV in front, a second at the rear. Vee’s tension built. It was all too much like the ride from Bellvue. She’d begun that night in New York full of confidence, eager to embark on a high-profile adventure. Now, she was all too aware just how easily the best of plans could explode into chaos and death.
They were climbing through a towering forest of evergreens, with blue-hazed mountains becoming more distinct with every mile. The road grew narrower, more deserted, with only an occasional gas station, convenience store, or a cluster of houses small enough to be behind them almost as soon as they came into view. Obviously, wherever they were, it was way out of town. She should feel relief. Feel safe. She didn’t.
The whole point of her job description was to help Nick get his memory back. Whatever it took. Alone with Nick on the island, she’d made some progress. But the way he was now—a wall of ice-coated granite over tension she could feel escalating from simmer to boil—he was too busy projecting hostility to relax enough to remember anything.
Too late to say they should have stayed on the island, but somehow she’d have to get him away from the Feds. At this point she wasn’t even sure she and Nick still had the tenuous rapport they’d developed over the last few days. Vee’s nerve endings—okay, call it female intuition—were flashing warning signals. There was something wrong about Nick. Ever since the airplane. She could feel it. Almost as if his hostility included her, and she’d thought they were past that. As much as Sergei annoyed her, at this point she’d almost welcome a flash of his lecherous charm.
Their destination was far more luxurious than Vee expected—a ski resort caught between summer and ski season and happy to rent the entire establishment, sans staff, for a hush-hush government conference. The narrow unpaved approach road wound through towering evergreens, following the path of a rushing stream that tumbled over a bed of rocks. The landscaping along the right front of the sprawling two-story wooden structure was enhanced by the splash of a natural waterfall at least six feet high, where early afternoon sunshine sparked rainbows in the cool, crisp mountain air.
Viewing the resort from a professional standpoint, Vee noted it was small enough to be guarded by the personnel they’d brought with him, yet large enough to offer privacy. She and Nick weren’t going to be forced to live their days with the Feds breathing down their necks—
And when had she stopped thinking of herself as a Fed? So insidiously easy to identify with Nick . . . but wasn’t that her assignment? Help Nick remember, turn him to the side of the angels . . . even if she had to lie, cheat, and whore. Whatever it took.
When Bill Grimes ushered them into the suite that was obviously the resort’s only claim to luxury accommodations, Vee’s knees wobbled with relief. Two bedrooms and a small sitting room. Embarrassing to share the suite under the eagle eye of eight federal agents, but not as shameful as the two of them being ushered into one standard-size hotel room with a kingsize bed.
Vee headed for the bedroom to the left; Nick went right. Briskly. No smart remark from Sergei. She got the impression he was as relieved as she to see the two-bedroom suite, and was keeping Sergei sternly in check. Well, hell . . . Not a comfortable thought to realize she was just a wee bit annoyed. Strictly for professional reasons, of course. She was supposed to make Nick like her. More than like her.
Vee shut out that unwelcome thought by concentrating on stowing her few articles of clothing in the dresser and putting her toiletries in the built-in vanity drawer in the bathroom. She turned to find Nick standing in the doorway to her bedroom.
“Can we talk?” Words from behind the stony mask of a stranger.
Vee felt the chill as she followed his lead into the sitting room. She sat on the burgundy leather couch, watching him warily. Something was definitely wrong, yet she hadn’t a clue. Another dream? Another vicious memory? Because while she was sleeping, they’d lost their hard-won rapport, and she couldn’t begin to guess why.
Nick sat in a matching leather armchair angled to face the couch. He examined her face, almost as if he’d never seen her before. He was bristling with hostility, frustration, possibly with a touch of resignation. After hours of brooding silence, it seemed he was finally ready to talk.
He scowled, leaned forward, looking as intimidating as the night he’d pinned her to the bed, waving her own gun in her face. Yet . . . under the menace Vee thought she caught something else. Anxiety, confusion, vulnerability? The Nick who needed a helping hand.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, he said, “I need your help. There are moments when my mind goes blank, moments when reality wavers.” He shrugged, his hard look softening to apologetic. “I guess my brain is as scrambled as the rest of me. I was hoping you’d be willing to tell me everything that has happened since I was hurt. Every last detail.”
Okay. A not-so-extraordinary request from a man caught in a high-profile drama where he couldn’t even remember his own name. Now that they were away from the others, he seemed more like the Nick she knew. And he seemed to be trusting her to tell the truth. So maybe some of the camaraderie forged by bullets, blood, and running for their lives still lingered. Vee hoped so, because a hostile, angry Nick—who could morph into Sergei any moment—was not someone she wanted to have in the same building, let alone sharing the same suite.
“Unfortunately,” Vee told him, “I only came along about twelve days after you were hurt. But here’s what I was told. You were found on the bank of the East River, severely beaten. A witness stated he’d seen you thrown off a bridge. The fall alone should have killed you, but somehow you survived. You were taken to Bellvue, put in high security because it looked like someone was trying to kill you.
“When you regained consciousness, you spoke only Russian. That bit,” Vee clarified, “you told me yourself. It wasn’t mentioned in my briefings. They provided an interpreter, and rapidly discovered you couldn’t remember anything. Zip, nada, nothing. That’s when they decided to call you Nick.”
A small nod, though his face had re-formed into a blank canvas, devoid of any flicker of emotion. “And then . . . ?” he urged.
“And then”—Vee grinned—“and then one morning, just about the time fingerprints on file at Interpol said you were Sergei Tokarev, a high-ranking member of the Russian Mafia who spoke broken English with a heavy Russian accent, you woke up speaking and reading perfect idiomatic English.”
Vee’s eyes widened as Nick plunged his head into his hands, shoulders shaking. Incredibly, he seemed to be laughing. Vee had never seen him laugh.
“And I had no explanation?” he managed at last.
“None. Your mind was as blank as a newborn. They tried every trick in the book—a parade of psychiatrists, drugs, even hypnotism. Nothing worked. Meanwhile . . .” Vee took a deep breath, trying to find a sugar coating for her role, and failed.
“Meanwhile, the Feds searched their database for an agent who might be able to establish more rapport than anyone had managed so far. Someone who spoke Russian. Young and female—”
“And strikingly beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, fixing her gaze on her clasped hands. Three words, and the man could destroy her determined professionalism.
“Next,” Nick snapped, switching back to work m
ode.
Vee recounted the whole sorry tale of setting out for Teterboro airport, only to be caught in a hail of bullets, their flight through the tunnels under Manhattan, ending on a granite island off the Connecticut shoreline. The call to her father, and their subsequent escape by boat and private plane to a mountain resort in what she now knew was western Wyoming. She was careful not to mention Africa. No sense bringing back that bitter trauma when Nick’s mood was so vastly improved.
When she finished, he stared at her, the green eyes piercingly sharp.
Govnó! The Feds knew it all. But hadn’t a clue about when and where.
Neither did he. If he’d ever known, the information was gone. At least he’d chosen the right speech pattern. It was a toss-up between Sergei the arms dealer and the real Sergei, so he’d gone with instinct.
And lucked out.
So far, so good. But if he was going to get out of this mountain hideaway and do something about the looming disaster, he was going to have to use Blondie. Who spoke to him almost like an old friend. She wouldn’t like Sergei, the arms dealer, but who was Nick . . . possibly himself? Or some strange version of himself? Time to find out.
“You do not mind being companion to a monster?” he inquired silkily.
She considered his question. Damn, but he still didn’t know her name. Her lips twitched into an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile. “Like the song from My Fair Lady, I’ve grown accustomed to your face. When I look at you, I see only my fellow escapee, Nick. As for the inside monster . . . yes, I’ve seen him once or twice, but mostly I’ve seen a man with a problem. Someone hurt in body and mind and needing help. That may be as much the reason they chose a female for your companion, as well as . . . the other thing. Women are caregivers. We have a lot of empathy.”
“About ‘the other thing,’ did we—”
“No!”
“Too bad. Sex was expected, no? Your government chose you for me.”
“Don’t you dare turn into Sergei on me!”
“But I am Sergei. You, however, may call me Seryozha.” Idiót! He’d made an amateur blunder of the most blatant kind. Somehow Blondie had bewitched him, yet he couldn’t remember ever seeing her before waking to find her sleeping on his shoulder aboard the Gulfstream. He was not Sergei. He was someone called Nick. And admitting he might have forgotten having sex with her was about as stupid as a man in his situation could get. Blondie was glaring at him, obviously furious, words pouring over him in a torrent. He’d better pay attention.
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