As Sergei approached, Arkadi Petrovski reached for the vodka bottle, obviously intending to pour drinks into the two shot glasses sitting on the table. His hand froze, the bottle plunked onto the table with a crack all too close to the sound of a .22. Heads turned, the bodyguards reached for their guns. Impatiently, Petrovski waved them away. He took a second, firmer grip on the bottle and poured.
Sergei slid onto the bench seat next to his boss. Both of them had their backs to the wall. Arkadi Petrovski was a solidly built Russian, who looked like the well-fed Commissar he once had been. Except that now he was much better dressed in a custom-made three-piece suit that would have made a Cosa Nostra don proud. He sported an impressive mane of graying hair, keen steel-gray eyes, and a tie that made Sergei wince. As usual.
“You will forgive an old man his shock,” Petrovski said. “The tales are true then. You should not be alive.”
Sergei had a sudden flash of seeing himself in the mirror on the airplane. That was what . . . two days ago? Not much time for improvement. No wonder Arkadi was shocked. “You should have seen me two weeks ago,” he returned easily, as if he actually remembered those days in the hospital. “But as you see, I am alive, if a bit battered.”
Petrovski nodded, looking solemn, and handed him one of the shot glasses. “Zadróvyeh!” The two men slugged back their drinks in one gulp. A necessary ritual before talk could begin. “Should I add ‘Za lyoobóf?” Arkadi inquired slyly, raising one shaggy brow.
“You are a dirty old man,” Sergei replied, pouring a second round. “To love then, and to your spy network, which never fails to impress.” They drank. “And speaking of love, perhaps you can spare Vanya to keep my friend company at the blackjack table. I would not be happy if anything happened to her while we talk.”
One glance and the bodyguard Vanya was beside them. “You will keep an eye on Sergei’s woman, the so-beautiful blonde who is currently playing blackjack. No harm is to come to her.”
Vanya winked at Sergei and left.
“You are mad,” Petrovski snapped as the bodyguard was swallowed by the brilliant light outside the lounge. “Get rid of her. That woman will be the death of you. If you don’t have the stomach for it, I have plenty of men who do. This is a problem I can take off your hands.”
“Touch her and you die, old man.”
“Two weeks in captivity and they’ve brainwashed you? I don’t believe it,” Petrovski scoffed. “Sergei Tokarev is too tough to crumble, even to a beauty like that one.”
“But, as we both know, I am not Sergei Tokarev,” Seryozha countered smoothly.
Petrovski’s hands clenched. His fist came close to slamming into the table. “You are a rogue, a madman with his own agenda. For all these years I have given you cover. I should have purged you from the Organizatsiya long ago. And if you were not the son of my only sister,” he added more softly, “I might have done so. Our blood tie demands that I listen to you, even though I know I risk everything. And for what? So the Americans will not lose one of their cities? Must I care when they are the only country in the world to actually use a nuclear bomb?”
“It is a matter of honor,” Sergei hissed through gritted teeth. “And morality. Just because the Americans dropped two bombs to end a war that had tainted every corner of the globe—a war that killed twenty-three million of our people, must I remind you?—doesn’t mean anyone should ever do it again.”
“They will kill you,” Arkadi said flatly. “The terrorists are even greater fanatics than you, and Leonov would kill his mother if the money was good enough.” Petrovski stopped, frowned. “Why are you here, Seryozha? What can possibly be worth the risk? Being with the American screams that you have betrayed the Organization. Nephew or no, I should order your execution on the spot. You know that, yet you are here.” He waited, his steady gaze never leaving Sergei’s face.
Sergei took a deep breath. “I have a story to tell . . .” Arkadi’s frown deepened as Sergei told his tale, from his summons to a meeting with Massoud and Leonov—a meeting he could not remember—to the flight from the burning resort in Wyoming.
“Bozhe moi,” the older man breathed when Sergei finished. “You were the only one of us at that meeting, the only one who knows the final arrangements.”
“So I was there?”
“Yes. When you went missing, we traced your movements. You were there. Your car was gone, but one of Leonov’s lookouts talked.” Arkadi shook his head. “Not a strong man. Leonov should be more careful.”
“Did you trace me to Bellvue?”
“No. When the trail went cold, we assumed you were dead. Leonov said you left the meeting unhindered but, naturally, we did not believe him.”
Sergei groaned. “So I know how and when the bomb meets the isotope, and I cannot remember.”
“You made an unexplained trip to Florida just before the meeting, if that’s any help. Do you remember?”
Sergei shut his eyes, frowning. “Florida? I thought I had only forgotten the meeting. But a trip to Florida? This is not good.”
“A quick trip. One day. Perhaps it is something you do not want to remember. The mind is a strange thing, keeping you away from bad things.”
“That may be why I took a beating,” Sergei said. Silence enveloped their small portion of the lounge as he searched his mind for stubbornly reluctant memories. “I arranged for the U-236,” he said at last. “It was the only way I could stay in the inner circle. I went to Florida to finalize the deal.”
“And . . .?”
“I am not sure. “Perhaps I was supposed to take the U-236 to the meeting.”
“What did you do with it, Seryozha?” Arkadi snapped.
He’d never seen his uncle’s eyes that hard. That intent. Was he friend or foe? Did he want to stop the Angel of Death, or had Arkadi flipped to the other side? The price that would be paid for the isotope and the expertise that went with it was astronomical. A small country’s national budget.
But the soulless in the organizatsiya, those who followed Boris Leonov, saw the bomb as a grievous wound to America, a blow that would curry favor with the rejuvenated aggressiveness in Mother Russia. It would also leave an extraordinarily vulnerable America for the Organization to plunder. And Arkadi, who could also be greedy? It was perhaps best he truly didn’t know what happened to the bomb’s catalyst, U-236.
“I don’t know,” Sergei told him. “It’s gone. I guess the beating took more out of me than I thought.”
“You always lied well, Seryozha. Almost I believe you. But you are my blood, and I still have a remnant of honor left. So what do you want of me? You would not take this risk for the few words we have already exchanged.”
Sergei didn’t have to force a smile. It was beginning to look as if he was going to survive the encounter with his uncle.
If there weren’t a dozen men waiting to take him out when he left the bar.
He looked Arkadi straight in the eye. “I want you to spread the word that I remember nothing. That I contacted you because I was told Sergei Tokarev is a known member of the East Coast Organizatsiya. I am solely on a quest to find myself. I know nothing of a rogue group in the Brotherhood, of terrorists, bombs, or isotopes. I did not know you were my uncle until you told me.”
Petrovski nodded. “You always had the brain of a Machiavelli, even when you were a child.”
“Will you do it?”
For the space of five seconds, which seemed like five minutes, Arkadi Petrovski considered the question. “For the sake of the family,” he said at last. “And because I like you. And because I have not fallen so low that I relish the idea of women and children incinerated and a hundred square miles irradiated with poison.” Petrovski shrugged. “After all, I cannot make money off dead men.”
Sergei nodded, satisfied. Uncle Arkadi would not let him down. “How many are watching, do you think?”
“From the Italians we learned the rule of omerta. You can be sure my people are more silent than the weak Ameri
cans at Homeland Security. So my answer is, ‘None.’ My men did not talk. It is unlikely the hotel staff would know there is money to be made on the present location of one of their most frequent guests. So, no, I do not think they have found you yet. Take your woman and go before they do.”
“Can we leave it ’til morning?” For a moment Sergei allowed himself to look wistful.
“Ah, to be young again. I give you tonight. My men will guard you well.” Arkadi poured a third round of vodka. “To love. And a night in a soft bed.” They clicked shot glasses, drank, slammed the glasses down in unison.
Sergei walked back into the light. Vee was not the only one fortunate in her relatives. Not that he was one hundred percent certain of the old man, but at the moment Arkadi was the closest thing he had to a friend in a world that had been spinning out of control ever since the forgotten meeting in New York. Armageddon was a Hail Mary pass he intercepted . . . or didn’t. The ball was in the air, and he didn’t even know where the game was.
And if he ended up in the right place at the right time, when they untangled the pile, which player would be holding the ball?
Or would the question be moot?
Because they were all dead.
Ahead of him, Sergei saw Vee perched on a stool, shoulder to shoulder with Vanya. Warmth flooded through him. The hunt was on. And he wasn’t alone.
Chapter 13
A nod of thanks, which Vanya reciprocated with a flashing grin, and Sergei settled onto the high stool next to Vee. She did not look at him, did not acknowledge the swift brush of his lips over her cheek. Offering the female dealer his most charming smile, Sergei laid a hundred dollar bill on the table. More blasé about his damaged face than Uncle Arkadi, she handed Sergei his chips with the warmth he was accustomed to receiving from women of all ages.
Except Valentina Frost, who was definitely living up to her name.
Nichevo. If she did not wish to enjoy herself, too bad. He had won a few hours’ respite, and he planned to take full advantage of it. They were skating on thin ice, he and Ms Valentina Frost, but that added to the thrill of the chase. With the immediate threat of execution lifted, his blood could surge with pleasure instead of fear. He could catch his breath. Gamble, make plans. Make love, perhaps. Sergei’s lips curled in a secret smile as he asked for a card. Whatever was bothering her, she would get over it. He would make sure of that.
An hour later and four hundred dollars richer, Sergei gathered his chips, tipped the dealer, and watched while Vee dropped a respectable number of chips into her stylish evening purse. “Let’s cash out and get you some more clothes,” he offered. A stiff-necked nod was her only response. Bozhe moi, what had he done?
Vee’s stone face was mild compared to her expression when they finally returned to their room to find Vanya standing outside the door. Uncle Arkadi’s bodyguard held out a key card. “Completely clean,” he said in Russian. “No bugs. Boss says I’m to stay out here all night. You probably saw Ilya by the elevator, and Oleg’s got the stairs.” He gave Vee an amiable nod. “So rest easy. But Boss says it’s best you go by first light.”
Sergei took the card, shook Vanya’s hand, and ushered Vee inside their room, very much aware that her fit of pique had expanded into seething fury. What now?
Still standing in the entry hall, she tossed the bags with their new purchases onto the sofa in the sunken sitting area below and swung round to face him, eyes blazing. “I thought we were partners, or at least working together for a common cause. But to you I’m nothing but an ornament, the little woman to be parked at the blackjack table and remembered when it’s convenient.”
When she stopped to draw breath, Sergei managed, “But Petrovski would speak only with me—”
“How do you think I felt when that great thug sat down next to me? How could I know who he was? Though his type was recognizable enough. I figured he was there to kill me or kidnap me—”
“Didn’t he tell you—”
“When he leaned close to my ear, I could only think he was going to shoot me, stab me, or bite my ear off.”
Govnó! “I am sorry—”
“No, you’re not. You do as you damn well please. You’re a loner with no concept of working as a team. I’m just another tool you can use or toss away as it suits you. You tell me nothing. I am a cipher. Zip. Nada. Zero. You didn’t even give me a keycard of my own,” she added on something close to a hiccup. “I couldn’t go back to the room. Did you think I was going to bug the place? With what? We escaped Wyoming with nothing but the clothes on our backs.”
She paused, struck a dramatic pose, eyes shining with the light of discovery. “Ah! I was supposed to rendezvous with my DHS black ops team and let them do the dirty work. And just what was the supposed to gain? Do you suppose they think you talk in your sleep? Or do you suppose I want them checking up on how well I whore for my country? Well, you’re crazy, Tokarev! I see it all now. When you want back-up, I’m useful. But when you think I might work against you, I’m shut out. Well, let me tell you, Sergei-Seryozha-Nick, or whoever the hell you are, we work together or we don’t work at all. I won’t be dressed up like a Barbie doll and ‘parked’ while you make all the decisions, all the plans, and maybe drag me along behind when you recall my existence—”
He shut her up by the simple expedient of pulling her close, shoving her face into his chest, and holding her there, one hand behind her head, the other behind her back. “You will be quiet and listen!”
She brought up her knee, and stars exploded. Doubling over in agony, he could only swear in his head. Agony kept him from any sound beyond a stifled moan. Miserable woman, didn’t she understand he was only trying to protect her?
Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “I stuck my neck out so you could fly free, get your act together, and find a way out of this mess. You are the VIP in need of protection. I am your minder. I don’t give a damn what you have to do to find your answers, but you’ll keep me up to speed every step of the way. Every step. Do. You. Understand?”
While Sergei struggled for enough breath to respond, she added, “And sometimes you actually have to listen to my opinion or—heaven forbid!—take orders from me. You are no more omnipotent than I am, or we wouldn’t be trying to save a whole city or whatever while running for our lives. We’re up shit creek, and, believe me, you ain’t gonna solve this one all by yourself.”
“I . . . already agreed . . . to that,” Seryozha gasped
“And evidently forgot it the very next instant.”
“You have injured the only part of me that wasn’t already bruised.”
“Idiót! You’re lucky I didn’t hit you on top of your bandaged head! Maybe that’s what’s needed to knock some sense into you.”
He considered. “Maybe you should do it. Remembering is what’s needed.”
Vee drew a deep breath and dropped her hands to her sides. “I’m tempted,” she muttered. “But mad as I am, I can’t bring myself to do it. With the luck we’ve been having, you’d probably pop back into limbo, remembering nothing. And then where would we be?”
Seryozha straightened up, using the fence around the conversation pit for leverage. He eyed the curved loveseat in the pit below, its plush surface almost completely obscured by shopping bags. Falling back on the false front of Sergei Tokarev, he easily summoned his most authentic wounded male whine. “There is bag, from earlier, you not open.” He let his eyes shift to a bright silver bag with a famous logo sitting on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table.
Vee arched an eyebrow. “You anticipated you were going to need a peace offering?”
Sergei shrugged and abandoned Tokarev. “I thought you’d like it.”
Vee’s anger dwindled. She might have over-reacted. Just a tad. Or was she, once again, allowing him to play with her head? Slipping back into following his Alpha male lead, even if it got them both killed?
A shiver shook her.
“Look in the bag, Valentina. We have only a shor
t time before dawn.” Back to Seryozha. If he didn’t stop yo-yoing between personas . . .
Stalling for time, unsure which way the conversation was going, Vee stalked down the two steps to the sitting area, picked up the bag, and peeked inside. A whoosh of breath before her hands crumpled the lavender tissue paper layered over Seryozha’s gift, hiding it from sight. She stood there, swaying slightly, eyes closed, mind numb.
“Is not snake.”
He was pissed and she couldn’t blame him. He’d offered an exquisite, if far too intimate, gift, and she’d rejected it.
No, not rejected. She simply couldn’t face the implication. She’d finally stood up and refused to allow DHS to pimp her out, and now . . .
“You said ‘when we both wish it.’ I wish it. I thought, even though you’re mad at me, you wished it too. Valentina . . . am I wrong?”
Head bowed, Vee stood below him, her whole body quivering. She couldn’t move. Words wouldn’t come.
“Sergei is ladies’ man. Shallow sex, no thought. Seryozha all work, not good with ladies. Only know how to speak by giving gift.”
“Then be Seryozha, dammit! Forget Sergei.” Eyes blazing, Vee raised her head to find him gripping the railing, a soft smile spreading across his face.
“For Seryozha you would wear the nightgown?”
What was happening here? She was standing in a hotel room in Atlantic City, confronting a known international criminal who still looked as if he’d gone ten rounds with the Heavyweight Champ of the World, and she had never been so aroused in her life.
It was the elephant in the room, the thing they had to get past before they could save the world.
Great excuse, Frost. You’ve been fascinated by him since the moment you met.
Blindly, Vee stared at the silver bag that was still clutched in her hand. Without a word, she mounted the stairs on the far side of the pit and headed for her bedroom. Did she want this? Or was she letting him manipulate her again, maneuvering her into doing exactly what he wanted to do? Which was exactly what she was supposed to do. Turn him up sweet. Keep him on the side of the angels.
Limbo Man Page 13