Deadlock

by Iris Johansen

  "I won't be able to sleep." But she closed her eyes anyway. It had been a rough night, and she could still see the bloody bodies of Nemid and his bodyguard. Totally unexpected. Totally shocking. Not only their deaths but the fact that Garrett was right, and Nemid had delib¬erately sent her into that hell. What could have meant enough to make anyone-?

  "He deserved to die," Garrett said as if reading her thoughts. "If Staunton hadn't killed him, I would have done it myself."

  She didn't open her eyes because she didn't want to see the darkness in his expression. She knew it was there. She shouldn't mind. She was accustomed to it now.

  She did mind. She didn't want the darkness there because of her. It hurt her in some way. She wanted to push it away, push him away.

  No, she only wanted to push away the darkness.

  Her eyes were still closed as she reached out her hand to him.

  She could sense his sudden stillness.

  Then he leaned forward and took her hand. "What's this for?" She shook her head. What could she answer when she didn't know herself?

  "Okay. That's fine. I won't push it." His grasp tightened. His hand was warm and strong holding her own.

  And even though her eyes were still closed, she knew the darkness was no longer there.

  "SHE SLEEPS?" FATIN ASKED several hours later as he came back into the room. "I brought you food. I thought you might need it before you left me."

  Emily opened her eyes. "I'm not sleeping." She looked at Garrett, who was leaning against the wall. "When can we leave?"

  Garrett gazed at Fatin. "Yes, when can we leave? Have you heard anything?"

  He smiled. "According to the radio, it seems our honorable council¬man has been butchered by thieves or the Taliban. His body was discov¬ered by his secretary, who came early to help him with a speech he was to give before the council." He set the tray on the inlaid table in front of Emily. "Such a pity. It's a terrible, brutal world, isn't it?" He turned to Garrett. "But sometimes we can skip away from the brutality with the help of friends." He turned and moved back toward the door. "It is only bread, cheese, and pastry. I will bring tea."

  "Thank you."

  "No, I repeat, it is my pleasure." He flashed a smile that lit his round, dark face. "Do you need clothes? Transportation?"

  Garrett grinned. "We seem to be losing our shirts at every turn. But I imagine Ferguson had the rental car taken away from Nemid's house and our suitcases with it. We're not about to knock on Ferguson's door to get them. That might be entirely too tempting for him. I'll ask that clothes be brought by the pilot Dardon arranges to pick us up, but we still need to get out of the city without Emily being recognized." He nodded. "So yes, if you can get Emily some clothes, I'd appreciate it. Preferably something including a veil. Anything will do for me." He turned to Emily as Fatin left the room, "It will just be until we get out¬side the city."

  "You don't need to give me explanations. I don't like the fact that men keep women veiled and under their heels, but it's a disguise that would work." She took a bite of cheese. "I should probably try to wear it on the plane to the U.S. It's only during security that I'd have to shed the veil."

  He nodded. "But we'll arrange a private jet to get us to the New York area. I know a small local airport in Connecticut that's safe."

  "Safe? Does that mean under the radar of Homeland Security? An echo from your shady past?"

  "What else is a shady past good for?" He sat down across from her and reached for a piece of bread. "We'll whisk you away from the air¬port as soon as we hit the ground in New York."

  "I brought you clothes." Fatin came into the room carrying an armful of voluminous black garments. "I hope they're suitable." He set the clothes down on a stool. "If you have trouble with the proper way of wearing them, tell me and I will send my wife to help you."

  "Your wife?"

  "Yes, they belong to her." He shrugged as he saw her expression of surprise. "It is tradition."

  "I didn't mean-You've been very kind. Thank you."

  Her gaze went back to the smothering black veils of the burqua as he left the room before looking at Garrett.

  "You take what you can get." He repeated as he started to eat, "Baby steps."

  IT WAS DARDON WHO GOT 0 U T of the helicopter when they ar¬rived at the same poppy field where they had landed the day Garrett had gotten her out of the mountains.

  "I told you to stay with Irana," Garrett said as he opened the car door for Emily. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Irana didn't need me. She decided to stay in Morocco and work with another doctor who was developing a new vaccine for malaria."

  "And Morocco is supposed to be safe?"

  "She has an army around her." He lifted his hand to his forehead in a mocking salute. "As commanded. She told me to get out of her way and go somewhere that I could do some good." He gave a low whistle as Emily got out of the car. "Quite an outfit. I don't even recognize you beneath all that drapery."

  "I can't breathe." She took off the veil. "I don't know how they stand it." She started to strip off as many layers as she could. "That's better."

  "I brought you more clothes and a computer."

  "Good," Emily said. "I want to check and see if I can find out any¬thing more about Nicholas Zelov and his place in Connecticut."

  "I dug a little deeper and found out a few things about him while I was with Irana," Dardon said. "When he was on the verge of bank¬ruptcy, he hired an accounting lawyer, Donald Warwick, to go through the family's affairs and see where they'd gone wrong in the corpora¬tion and how to correct it. It took a little of your money, Garrett, but I managed to get Warwick to talk to me. Evidently he was pretty thorough because he went way back to the start of the corporation in 1925." "And?"

  "He found sizeable amounts deposited in Mikhail Zelov's corpo¬rate accounts every six months on the same dates until 1943. Then they stopped."

  "Where did they come from?"

  Dardon shook his head. "First mail, then electronic transfers from somewhere in Belgium. Untraceable." "Belgium?" Emily asked.

  "Don't take any stock in that," Garrett said. "If you don't want someone to know where a deposit is coming from, you can reroute halfway around the world."

  "But Warwick said that Nicholas Zelov was very interested in those deposits. Nicholas said that old bastard, Mikhail, must have had some¬thing on someone, and it was too bad that the money had stopped."

  "Blackmail?"

  "Or payment for services rendered," Garrett said. "But Nicholas might have decided to do some searching on his own and come up with something that he thought might still be of interest. Hence the trip to Moscow."

  "And his sudden reversal of fortune," Dardon said.

  Garrett nodded. "It does seem a probable connection."

  "I'm tired of probable," Emily said. "I want to find out. Where do we go from here?"

  "Pakistan," Garrett said. "We'll change to a jet and head for New York."

  "That's what you said in Rome." To Emily it seemed a hundred years ago that she'd found out that they were going to Kabul instead of New York. Murder and pursuit and the discovery of that amulet that meant absolutely nothing to them right now.

  "This time it's a promise." Garrett lifted her into the helicopter. "I just had to check Nemid out after what you told me."

  She braced herself. "You said that I'd said other things that you thought might help. What were they?"

  He was silent a moment. "At one point Staunton was asked to come and talk to someone who had driven up to the camp to see him. He left you and Levy for a few moments."

  She gazed at him blankly. "I don't remember…" But now she vaguely recalled muttering something last night in that fever of memories. "Why would I blank that out? Why couldn't I remember he-"

  "You were sort of-" He shrugged, then said, "You couldn't focus on anything but Levy. That was the night that Staunton had given Borg the order to burn out Levy's eyes."

  Her back we
nt stiff as if he'd struck her. The memory of that night was right before her. "And Borg didn't stop," she whispered. "Staunton left the hut, but Borg didn't stop. And then he came back and said to Borg. 'Let me help. You're not doing it right.'"

  "Stop it." Garret shook her gently. "I told you that I'd never ask you to remember again. But I had to answer when you asked."

  She nodded jerkily. "I know." She remembered something else. "That next day Staunton was probing, digging at me, saying some¬thing about my blanking out things. It might be that he was trying to find out if I'd paid any attention to his leaving. Why… do you think that visitor was important?"

  "Because Staunton cursed, and said, 'Damn Babin. He's always nosing around, checking up on me.' "

  "Babin?"

  "Yes." He climbed into the helicopter. "It's important, but it was going to take too much time to make the connection right away so I called Dardon and told him to start checking for a Babin. But I could see the link with Nemid that had possibilities, and we acted on that lead." He turned to Dardon. "Take off."

  "In a minute. I have something more. I want to reveal my super-sleuthing and get praise heaped upon me."

  "You found out something more about Zelov?" Emily asked. "No, more important. Staunton." "What?" Garrett asked.

  "Do you remember I told you that Staunton might be a pseudo¬nym for a Robert Hurker?" "And is it?"

  "Yes, it's only one of many. I had time when I was with Irana to buckle down and dig deeper. He doesn't use Staunton very often. He seems to save it for the times when there's no danger of him being booked. That's why I wasn't able to trace the name."

  "Tell me about Hurker."

  "Born in Melbourne, Australia. His father was a fisherman, his mother a whore until his father took her off the streets. He grew up in Sydney. He was booked for burglary and assault with a deadly weapon when he was ten. After that it was straight downhill. He almost beat a shopkeeper to death when he was fifteen and got off because he was a minor." He paused. "His mother and baby sister fell overboard off his father's fishing boat and drowned when he was sixteen. He pretended to be heartbroken. The social worker who had his case said that there was a possibility he did it himself. It got too hot in Sydney, and he dis¬appeared for a while. He was going to the university and when he came back, the only thing he'd learned was how to be smarter and more vicious. He took off for France, and has been hopping about the world and doing what he does best."

  "Murder," Emily said. It was strange thinking of Staunton as a child, even the vicious child painted by Dardon. It was as an adult that he had dominated her life and imagination.

  "Evidently he does it well enough to earn a sizeable income," Dar¬don said. "And attract very affluent clients."

  "Where does he live?"

  Dardon shook his head. "No address. He moves around a lot." "Can we contact any of those clients and see if they know any¬thing more about Staunton than we do."

  "If we have the time," Garrett said. "I'm not sure we will. We'd do better to concentrate on having him come to us."

  "I'm still checking." Dardon started the engine, and the rotors be¬gan to spin. "I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

  But they knew more than they had moments before. They could see the pattern, where he had come from. Staunton had been a mon¬ster who had dominated her thoughts and emotions since the first mo¬ment she had seen him. Now he was being made into a human being.

  "He did kill his mother," Garrett said. "He told me that he'd taken care of the bitch. He didn't mention the baby."

  "It probably wasn't important to him." Emily said. "What differ¬ence does the life of a little baby make?" Her lips tightened. "I want to show him how much of a difference it makes. I want to-" She stopped. Control. Keep cool and calm. "How long before we'll reach that airport in Connecticut?"

  ELEVEN

  "YOUR GUN." GARRETT HANDED her a box when he came out of the tall brick building at which they'd stopped after they'd landed at the small private airport in Connecticut. "A.40-caliber Glock as you re¬quested. I'd like to see you shoot sometime."

  She shook her head. "After my father taught me, he said I should never pick up a gun unless I meant to use it. He was in Special Services before he became a photographer. He never wanted to kill anything or anyone again, but he knew there was always a threat out there." She smiled reminiscently. "I got pretty good. He used to tell me that he'd put me up against any of the guys in his unit. It was bullshit, but it gave me confidence later when I had to deal with the scum who were trash¬ing the museums." She opened the box. "Nice. Is that all you bought here?"

  "No, Dardon is picking up some long-range electronic equipment. He'll be out in a minute." "Electronic equipment?"

  "We're going to see if we can trigger a response from Mr. Zelov." "Got it." Dardon opened the car door and got into the backseat. "Pretty sophisticated. It may be good enough."

  "Providing this is the right Zelov, and he has a guilty conscience."

  Garrett started the car. "We'll have to see. Or rather Emily will have to see."

  Emily looked at him in surprise. "What?"

  "I think you should be the one to do the Q and A on Nicholas Zelov. He might be less defensive." "Why?"

  "What did you tell me about the private life of Nicholas Zelov?"

  She glanced down at the computer she'd been studying since she'd gotten on the jet in Pakistan. "He's divorced, no children, parents dead, was in drug rehab eight years ago. Likes women, loves gambling, hates work." She looked up. "Evidently not like his rather bizarre an¬cestor."

  "Likes women." Garrett said. "And I phoned his house while I was buying your gun. He's not at home, but the housekeeper said that he was at Foxworth, a very plush casino near here." He quoted. " 'Loves gambling.' Put the two together and we might hit a home run."

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  "That's up to you." He got on the freeway. "It should take us about ten minutes to get there. Tell me about what else you found out about Nicholas Zelov and his great-great-grandfather, Mikhail."

  She pointed at the photo on the monitor of a palatial-looking man¬sion on the hill beyond the wrought-iron gates. The ground lights shin¬ing up at the onion-shaped towers of the building gave it a Disney-like magic. "That's the Zelov family home. It definitely has a Russian flair. It's said to look like St. Basil's in Moscow. It was built by Mikhail Zelov in 1922." Emily looked up from the laptop. "He kept a low pro¬file and lived in a tenement in east New York when he first arrived, then he took a trip to Canada, stayed there two years, and when he came back, he said he'd struck it rich in the Klondike gold mines."

  "Maybe he did," Dardon said.

  "And maybe he didn't," Garrett said. "Evidently anything was possible with Zelov."

  "At any rate, he lived the high life and left an enormous fortune to his two children. He died in 1943, and his heirs promptly started to run through his money," Emily said. "The present head of the family, Nicholas Zelov, was on the verge of bankruptcy five months ago but managed to pull himself out of it." She glanced at Dardon in the backseat. "That's about the time Warwick told him about Mikhail's private influx of money. Nicholas is still not doing well, but he can live marginally in the style to which he's accustomed." She closed the computer. "I'd like to know if Nicholas is getting any electronic trans¬fers as old Mikhail did."

  "That's one question you could ask him," Garrett said. "But I doubt if you'll get an answer." He nodded. "There's Foxworth. Quite the little Indian reservation, isn't it?"

  "Indian reservation?"

  "The casinos are Indian-owned."

  The neon-lit hotel-casino glowed in the darkness like a magnifi¬cent beacon in its setting of lush green terrain. "It's almost as palatial as Zelov's castle."

  "Then he should feel right at home." He pulled in front of the casino. "We'll park over there." He handed her a tiny black nodule. "Plant it somewhere on Nicholas Zelov before you leave him."

  "I feel like some kin
d of spy. Anyplace in particular?"

  He shook his head. "It's powerful and should broadcast from ten feet away. Just touch him anywhere, and the nodule will attach. I just like to be sure."

  She got out of the car and looked at the brilliantly lit lobby. "I'm not dressed for this." She looked down at her black slacks and white long-sleeved shirt. "I'll duck into the washroom and at least wash my face and touch up this wig."

  "You look great."

  "Bullshit." She strode toward the glass doors, which were immedi¬ately opened for her by a uniformed doorman. Clean up. Make dis¬creet inquiries and have Zelov pointed out to her. Then see what she could do about finding out what she had come to find out.

  NICHOLAS ZELOV WAS SITTING at the long, granite bar, and Emily had watched him drink two whiskeys in the space of the time she had been studying him. He was a big man in his late forties, with ruddy complexion and black hair. Zelov was barely upright on the stool, and his voice was slurred when he'd ordered that last whiskey. Evidently his alcohol rehab hadn't worked out, Emily thought.

  Sad, but that might be better for her purpose.

  She slipped onto the stool next to him. "My name is Emily Hud¬son, Mr. Zelov. I wonder if you'd answer a few questions for me?"

  "No, go away." He took another drink. "No whores tonight. A few more drinks, then back to the tables."

  "I'm not a prostitute, Mr. Zelov. I work for the U.N. I was inter¬ested in your family history."

  "U.N.? What the hell?" He suddenly stiffened and turned to look at her. "You're that woman who was kidnapped. I saw your picture in the newspaper." He reached out and touched her hair. "But the color is different."

  She leaned back away from his touch. "People recognize me. This helps a little."

  "I don't know why you want to talk to me anyway. I read that you were in seclusion somewhere. Why don't you go back there?" He took another swallow of the whiskey. "Ten minutes. That's all I'll give you."

  "Thank you. I'll try to be brief."

  "You'd better." He was gazing at her critically again. "You look better than you did in that video they released after the CIA got you away from those bandits. You need some meat on your bones, but you're not half bad looking. Would you like a drink?"