Limbo Man

by Blair Bancroft

  “You’re meeting someone,” Vee echoed flatly. “This trip actually has purpose, other than disappearing off the radar.”

  “Valentina,” he returned with what sounded like patience stretched as thin as her own. Or perhaps disappointment. “You know I do not have time to play games. From now on, every move has a purpose.”

  “Sorry. I don’t have your capacity for operating on no sleep.”

  “You got us out of Wyoming while I slept. We make good team. I promise a soft, very large bed in Atlantic City. And I will not bother you until you have caught up on your sleep.”

  Bother? Bother? He couldn’t still be thinking . . . They were partners, that was it.

  Cade had been her partner, and look how that turned out.

  If she could just get a few hours uninterrupted sleep, she could handle this. Really. Vee lowered her seat and let the sounds of the superhighway lull her to sleep.

  “What?” She groped her way up out of the sleep of exhaustion, swatting the hand that was shaking her. Hard. Seryozha swore and pinned her wrists, forcing her fists to her sides.

  “Shopping mall,” he snapped, looking about as loverly as a great white shark. “We must have clothes, good clothes.” When she simply glared at him, he let go of her wrists, got out of the car, and opened the passenger door. He held out his hand. His green gaze softened infinitesimally. “Sorry, but no shopping carts here. You must walk.”

  She didn’t move. “Nice outfit,” he coaxed, “for a big hotel. My clothes must look like Sergei, even if my face does not. And you must look like Sergei’s woman. He has very good taste. No jeans, no leather jackets, no sneakers, no ballcaps.”

  “I worked hard to find that ballcap,” Vee wailed, knowing she sounded like an idiot, but she was having a hard time coming back to nasty reality.

  “And I will treasure it,” he assured her. “And now we will go shopping.”

  Grumbling, Vee allowed him to pull her out of the car.

  Two hours later, Vee had acquired a designer pantsuit in soft, flowing black with an outrageously ruffled sparkling white shirt and all the accessories to go with it. Seryozha, in his guise as Sergei, had opted for all black, with a gold chain in place of a necktie. The compleat wiseguy. He had just come out of the Men’s Fitting Room and had assumed a pose, a rather arrogant one, for her inspection. She had to admit it. The monster was fading fast, turning into a man. No, turning into her nemesis, Sergei Tokarev.

  “They will recognize my clothes and the style of my woman,” he informed her, “even if they do not recognize me.”

  Whoever “they” were. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking. She still had sleep to catch up on. “Fine. You almost look human,” she growled, and turned abruptly toward the mall exit.

  Once back in the car, Vee resumed her nap, waking only when they entered the stop-and-go traffic of downtown Atlantic City.

  Sergei drove like a man who knew exactly where he was going, pulling up at one of the high-rise casinos fronting the ocean. “Zdrasvityeh, Johnson,” he boomed to the doorman, whose classic double-take might have been amusing under less dire circumstances.

  “Mr. Tokarev, sir?”

  Sergei shook his head sadly. “Run down by a New York taxi. Bad. Very bad. Casino good for rest, no?”

  The doorman beamed. “Welcome back, sir. We’ll take good care of you.”

  After breezing through a similar reaction at Reception, Sergei asked with an accent that seemed to deepen by the second, “My room iss available?”

  “Of course, Mr. Tokarev.” The receptionist cut two key cards and handed them over. And just like that they were standing at the elevator. No request for ID, no mention of payment, no awkward comment about their minimal luggage.

  “My home away from home,” Seryozha smirked, obviously enjoying her stunned expression. They stepped into the empty elevator.

  People were trying to kill him, and he’d exposed himself in a place where he was well known? He was either mad or very clever. Vee confined herself to muttering, “I might have known you gambled.”

  “Not me. Tokarev. He’s very fond of poker. And blackjack. Good at it, too, I might add.”

  “Fine. He can gamble while I sleep.”

  “You do not play?” He made it sound like a criticism.

  Vee bristled. “I told you I’m an investigator, not a spy. I don’t enjoy taking chances.”

  “Is dreary life, Valentina. You need fun.”

  The elevator door slid open. They stepped out into a long, empty corridor, elegantly decorated in shades of blue, coral, and gold.

  “Tell Tokarev he can go to hell,” Vee growled. And stop smirking!”

  “Is too bad, dushenka. Tokarev cannot do as you ask. He is known here. He pays the bill.”

  Vee ground her teeth as he opened the door on the first swipe of the card. Those locks hated her. It always took three or four tries before she could get a hotel door open.

  And then she forgot the little annoyances, exacerbated by lack of sleep. The large corner room featured a sunken conversation area deep enough to be termed a pit—with comfortable sofa, chairs, and plasma TV, all fenced to prevent the unwary from tumbling into it. The bed was kingsize with an über sophisticated comforter in black satin, banded in white. And beyond it loomed a panel of windows that drew Vee with near childlike curiosity, her energy momentarily revived. She peered out at a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, the city’s world-famous boardwalk, and the Steel Pier.

  “Okay,” she grumbled, while still feasting her eyes, “Tokarev has good taste.”

  He chuckled, his arms surrounding her from behind, pulling her back against him. “You like?” he whispered in her ear.

  “I like,” she whispered, “but do you have to stay in character when we’re alone? Sergei Tokarev is not my favorite person.”

  “Ssh!” he hissed into her ear. “You want I speak good English and maybe get us killed?”

  Bugged? Tokarev’s regular room was bugged? Well, hell, of course it was. FBI, Homeland Security, the bad guys—take your pick.

  With a small huff, Vee broke away, headed for the bathroom, which turned out to have a whirlpool tub and what looked like enough gold fixtures to gild the Lincoln Memorial.

  “Sleep,” Sergei told her when she came out. “I make phone call, look for more clothes.”

  “Your contact?”

  “Da.” He handed her a notepad and pen. “Write sizes, pazhalsta. I good with women, but not with sizes.”

  He said it with such a feigned look of innocence that Vee couldn’t contain a snicker. Impossible man.

  He glanced at her list. “Not forget bra, panties.” Vee added her panty size, but balked at the bra. “My bra is fine. No need to replace it.” Or let him know it had a custom-made pocket for an emergency GPS locator, complete with an On-Off switch.

  Dammit, but she hated it when he played Sergei, but she had to admit that under the circumstances he had no choice. But why he’d come to Atlantic City made no sense. The minute he transformed back to Sergei Tokarev, he became a target. So why take the chance?

  He’d already answered that. He’d come to meet someone, and there was safety in numbers. The crowds at the casinos in Atlantic City were huge, mindless swarms of human beings intent on the lure of easy money, the thrill of staking it all, or desperate to win back what they’d lost. Though they couldn’t care less about Sergei Tokarev and Vee Frost, they formed an unwitting, impenetrable shield.

  There was no such thing as an impenetrable shield. There was always a way. But right now . . . the broad expanse of bed beckoned. Vee stripped to her bra and panties, arranged the pillows to her satisfaction, pulled up the covers . . . and was instantly asleep.

  She woke to a room illuminated more by the neon glow of Atlantic City’s casino strip than by the last fading rays of the sun. She lay on her back, forcing her brain back to life by picking out the room’s many elegant features, which were almost lost in the gloom of early
evening, while very much aware of something large and warm beside her.

  Vee turned her head. The dusk was kind to him. The two-inch scar on his cheek, a gentle pink. The facial swelling less grotesque, the bruises reduced to sallow yellow. From this angle she couldn’t see the bandage on the back of his head, but the fuzz was beginning to look more like hair than brown sprouts on a chia pet. She pictured the photo Tingley had shown her. Right height, right build, right head shape. Determined chin. Good lips—when they weren’t reduced to in a grim line, curling in arrogant disdain, or laughing at her. Not that his lips had been clear in the photo, nor the fathomless depths of his green eyes. But he was the Sergei Tokarev of the photo. And something more.

  And . . . God help her, she liked him. At the moment they were partners. Which meant that Seryozha was using her for his own ends, just as she was using him. They were plunging together down the rabbit hole, and Vee could only pray he knew what he was doing. The alternative was an Armageddon that reduced her personal worries to infinitesimal.

  Turn off the angst, Frost. Sleep’s knit up the raveled sleeve and all that. Back to the job.

  A hand cupped her bottom. “Hungry?”

  “Uh . . . starving.” Damn him—all he had to do was touch her and her nerve endings went off like bottle rockets.

  “Then get a move on. Thirty minutes ’til supper arrives. You’ll find boutique boxes on the couch.”

  Thirty minutes to get showered and dressed didn’t leave time for what she had in mind. “I suppose you’re one of those people who can tell time even when they’re asleep,” Vee grumbled.

  “Naturally.” He patted her panties in what she’d swear was the most patronizing gesture possible. “Unless you wish to dine nude, you will get up now. Oof!”

  Vee bit her lip, hoping, too late, that her fist hadn’t opened one of the wounds on his chest. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but the mission was too important for Seryozha to be slowed down because she had lost the notorious Frost temper. Fortunately, the bedcovers must have cushioned the bl—

  She was on her back, pinned to the bed by a very large body flattening her into the mattress. And he was laughing, damn him. Laughing.

  Or maybe not.

  “We do not have time for games, Valentina. Or temper tantrums. You are fortunate I allow you to sleep and eat. Now give me a kiss and say you are sorry.”

  “Your accent is slipping,” Vee whispered sweetly.

  “Govnó! You dangerous woman, Valentina Frost. Most dangerous.”

  He kissed her.

  Chapter 12

  Two seconds. Just a friendly good-girl-it’s-time-to-get-up kiss.

  Five seconds. His lips refused to disengage.

  Ten. His body pressed harder against hers. Blood rushed to his groin.

  Bombs. Multiple bombs. Disaster worse than 9/11.

  With one of the nastier Russian “mother” profanities, Sergei rolled off the bed, springing to his feet with a scowl, to find Vee staring at him with a look almost as grim as his own. The pit yawned, they both knew it. No matter what orders she’d had, they couldn’t risk being distracted. But what he’d seen in her eyes, what he’d felt as she melted into him, twining her arms around his neck . . .

  Perhaps he was wrong . . . perhaps tackling the elephant in the room head on would make them stronger . . .

  And perhaps whoever had the bomb would have a change of heart and toss it into the nearest ocean.

  He knew why this thing that loomed between them was called an elephant. It was all-powerful, overwhelming. Demanding their attention before they could move an inch. Govnó! He’d never let sex rule his life, he wasn’t going to start now.

  “Dress in box,” he barked. “Put on now or no time for supper. Meeting friend in”—he made a show of peering at the bedside clock—“forty-seven minutes.”

  She was quick, the blonde American FBI agent, as she returned dressed to kill, as the odd American idiom went. And, Bozhe moi, she was stunning. He’d not forgotten to buy the items she would need to go with the high-waisted black dress—high heels, a purse just large enough to hold her smaller gun, minimal lacy panties he had no trouble picturing beneath the clinging silk knit. Had she put on the matching bra? He couldn’t tell. Probably not, since she’d told him not to buy one. Stubborn was her middle name. The necklace and earrings were Svarovski crystals set in twenty-four carat gold. Nice, very nice. Eye candy, head to toe. A suitable companion for Sergei Tokarev, who was known for the superior quality of his female companions.

  He gave her an abrupt nod of approval and caught her flash of disappointment before the haughty professionalism of the daughter of the Deputy Chief of Homeland Security took over. Evidently, she had expected a more romantic reaction when all his attention was focused on keeping them both alive. Unfortunate. Which was why his romances were always fleeting.

  Supper had arrived while Vee was dressing. Any camaraderie they had developed over the past few days was noticeably absent while they worked their way through filet mignon, baked potato, house salad, and a rich merlot. As Sergei gazed with approval at the crisp amber topping on his crême brulée, he asked, “Blackjack—you play?”

  “Why don’t we simply converse in Russian, Vee responded sweetly, “so I don’t have to endure your fractured English?”

  For the benefit of whoever was listening, or perhaps watching, he should slap her. For the breach of rules, he should toss her out on her ear. End of game. But as the remark of a feisty new girlfriend, he couldn’t fault her. And Tokarev was known for his soft spot for women, many of whom spoke Russian, so what the hell . . .

  “Naughty, Valentina,” he responded in Russian. “You will pay for that later.” He repeated his question about blackjack.

  “Enough not to lose too badly.”

  “Good. I like blackjack.” He rolled his eyes, promising an explanation later, then addressed himself to his favorite desert.

  Later came while they were standing in front of the elevators, ignoring the call button. “We will parade through the casino,” Sergei said, still in Russian. “Give everyone a good look. I am well known here. Then we will have a brief argument—I do not wish to play blackjack. I leave you there and go to my meeting. It will look as if I am off to play poker, as I am known to prefer it.”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t go alone. Someone’s trying to kill you!”

  “I must. Petrovski will talk only if I am alone.”

  Vee’s mouth snapped shut over whatever she was about to say. She stared. “Petrovski? Arkadi Petrovski?” she inquired, sharpening her are-you-crazy stare to a look that said, Now I know you’re crazy.

  “You know Petrovski?”

  “I was well briefed. He’s head of the East Coast Organizatsiya. Your boss. You’re walking into the lion’s den.”

  “Not quite.” Sergei shook his head. “There are two factions. One wants me dead, yes, but Arkadi is my friend.”

  Vee drew herself up to her full height, plus three-inch heels, and tried to stare him down, even though she still had to look almost straight up. She could be very funny, his Valentina. He almost made the mistake of smiling.

  “I’m your minder,” she told him, “and I say it’s too dangerous.”

  “No one asked you, dushenka. Only I know what must be done to put an end to this. That is why the bad guys are after me. You have no choice but to do as I say.”

  Glowering, Vee stepped back, toed the carpet, hands fisted at her sides. He knew she wanted to lash out, shout at him, but she was too much of a professional to do it. Her only choices were to do as he’d ordered or stage the scene of all scenes and have him do something drastic like knock her unconscious.

  “I am sorry,” Sergei murmured, “but tonight even Arkadi must do as I say. My turn. I am become Boss, you understand?”

  I am become Death. Vee recognized the phrasing and knew it wasn’t accidental. Sergei was too good a linguist to echo Oppenheimer’s words by accident. She understood. Silently, she nod
ded.

  Sergei pushed the elevator’s Down button.

  Just inside the casino’s vending concourse, Sergei paused with his back to the wall. Before him was a sea of brightly lit shops and kiosks, selling everything from jewelry, high-end shoes and purses to children’s toys and tacky tourist souvenirs. Anything to make sure visitors spent whatever money they had left after the gaming tables and slot machines did their jobs. On the far side of the concourse, in stark contrast to the bling, loomed a cavern so dark it looked like a black hole next to an exploding star. His goal. The lounge where non-gambling patrons could buy a drink. For gamblers, drinks were free.

  Was Arkadi already there? How many men had he brought with him? How many were watching him now? And were they all Arkadi’s men? Since he’d set up the meet, there had been time for word to spread. For the guns to come out. If certain factions wanted him dead, even an array of eager shoppers wouldn’t stop them.

  But for some strange reason—in spite of what happened in New York—he had a feeling the bad guys wanted him alive. It was one of the reasons he needed to speak with Arkadi. Boris Leonov wanted his job, most particularly the brokering of the bomb deal, a sure stepping stone to the hierarchy of the Organizatsiya, with Arkadi Petrovski’s job clearly on the horizon.

  But Leonov couldn’t get to Square One without the U-236 or access to a bomb tech who understood antique nukes. Sergei had both. No matter which way Leonov turned, Sergei Tokarev held the trump cards. Which was probably how he’d ended up in the East River. Torture gone wrong.

  But had it gone wrong? That thought haunted him. Had he lost his usefulness because he told them something vital, something now lost in the void . . .

  Never. Time to get his head out of useless speculation and face the here and now.

  Sergei wound around the tightly packed kiosks swarming with shoppers who seemed determined to spend their last dime. He climbed the steps to the raised lounge and plunged into the gloom, moving straight to the bar, giving his eyes time to adjust. With his back to the solid mahogany, he scanned the room, locating Arkadi’s three bodyguards—all men known to him—before finding Petrovski alone at a table in the corner. So far, so good.