by Cate Noble
She had been stunned to find no one posted behind the brothel. The Rio Police would have posted three-quarters of their force at the back. Once a suspect hit an alleyway, it was game over. Suspect 1, Police 0. The favela never gave up her own.
And therein lay a clue.
The fact that no Brazilian law enforcement had been present—the Federal Police would never allow the CIA to work solo inside the state—indicated a clandestine operation, an extraction. Dante probably didn’t have more than one or two other operatives with him. They’d sneak in, grab her—sedate her, if necessary—and slip her out of the country.
The scary part was, To where? Had they already struck another deal with Viktor Zadovsky?
After eight blocks, Cat climbed off the bus, carrying an abandoned newspaper tucked beneath her arm. She didn’t want to get too far away. Yet. She wouldn’t leave Rio without her son.
Regret that she hadn’t left Brazil already dogged her steps. Alfred had warned her, but she hadn’t acted fast enough. Alfred. Jesus…was that how Dante had found her? Because she’d helped Remi? Would she face charges in connection with Remi’s suicide? If that was true, then perhaps Marco’s identity was still secure.
The sidewalks had opened into a small business district. She moved briskly along, studying the skyline. Then she doubled back and entered a nondescript four-story building. Signs advertising OFFICES FOR RENT were posted on the doors. The lobby was deserted except for an elderly man who’d just hung up the pay phone. As he moved toward the exit, she studied the directory of private offices, mostly legal and medical.
The elevator began humming in descent. Moving away, Cat pushed open the heavy metal door and entered the stairwell. At the very top, she found a maintenance door. Jimmying the lock with her dagger, she eased onto the flat terraced roof. Startled pigeons flew off.
Staying low, she moved to an enclosed corner behind a row of large electrical boxes. From here she had two escape routes: the building next door was a mere jump away, plus there was a wrought iron fire escape down the side.
Fighting tears, she sank to the ground and closed her eyes. Her limbs trembled violently as she forced herself to breathe slowly.
Seeing Dante alive was a bigger shock than her mind could handle. More than her heart could take, too. The urge to wrap him in her arms and rejoice had been strong. To touch, to feel, to know he was real.
But those feelings had just as quickly been strangled by the venom she saw in his eyes. He had seen the video. Of that there was no doubt. That was probably the bomb he spoke of. Bombshell.
She rubbed her forehead, recalling exactly how damning the video had been.
Viktor had obviously made good on his threat to provide a copy to the CIA. Had the video forced the Agency to scrub the high-level mission Dante had been on? That was the only explanation for staging the deaths of three top operatives that Cat could come up with. The CIA would pretend they’re dead, mourn, grieve, swear vengeance…then send them into deep, deep undercover assignments, something fate-of-the-free-world big.
If that were the case, then Giselle’s persistent questions about Dante’s death may have been perceived as a threat. Had the CIA sold them out to Zadovsky to quickly silence their queries?
And if Dante was alive, did it mean her friend Max—probably ex-friend now—was too?
Digging through the minefield that was the past made Cat’s head hurt even worse. And solved nothing. She forced her focus back to the present. The here, the now, the oh-shit.
That she’d gotten away was a temporary win in a battle that had much bigger stakes.
For her it was Marco.
If Viktor Zadovsky ever learned about her son…
No. She’d taken extreme measures to keep Marco hidden.
And as painful as it was to contemplate, she might have to leave those measures in place, leave Marco at the orphanage for now. At least until she felt they could flee safely.
Right now, she was being hunted. If Dante captured her with her son, he’d know the truth. Would he even try to seek custody for a child he’d never wanted?
People like us can’t have families.
Which one of us would be a worse parent?
She swallowed against the ache in her throat. She needed to warn Sister Dores. Once Dante started backtracking, there was a good chance he’d learn she had a connection to the orphanage.
She weighed the risks of using the pay phone down in the lobby. The chances of the church phone being tapped were slim. If Dante had known she was at the orphanage, it would have made better sense to nab her on her way to or from work. Confronting her at the brothel had been risky.
She emptied her pockets. What little money she had on her wouldn’t last long. The prepaid card she carried for pay phones had been purchased at a random newsstand months ago. Thousands of those cards were sold daily for cash. They were untraceable. Still, she’d discard it after using it.
Peering over the edge of the roof, she studied the crowds and traffic below. Once she made a phone call from here, she’d need to find another place to hide until nightfall, when she could move around more freely.
Creeping downstairs, she was relieved to find the lobby empty. She dialed the church office, prayed one of the nuns would answer quickly.
Instead, Zetta, the other volunteer, answered.
Cat cut off the woman’s overly cheerful explanation of how quickly she was packing up the last of the church office in preparation for moving. “I need to speak with Sister Dores right away.”
“She is cooking. Can I give her a message?”
“Hang up and tell her to come to the office. I will call back in a few minutes.” Cat disconnected without waiting for a reply.
Ducking back into the stairwell, she counted seconds, then called the orphanage a second time. Her hands were shaking again and she almost cried out when Sister Dores answered, sounding as normal and harried as ever.
“I can’t talk long; this is urgent,” Cat said. “Someone might be listening. Are the children okay and has anyone been there looking for me?” She didn’t want mention her son’s name.
The nun spoke slowly. “They are all fine. Uh, the sick ones are all eating again.” Since Marco had been the only sick child not eating, Cat knew that Sister Dores understood her unspoken question. “And no one’s been here,” the nun went on. “Can you tell me what is wrong?”
“Someone very bad is searching for me, so I have to leave. I will be in touch, but remember our agreement.” Seven days. If the nun didn’t hear from Cat within a week, she was to assume the worst.
“I understand.”
“Give the children my love.” Give Marco my love. Cat’s voice started to break. “I’ll be in touch.”
“We’ll light a candle for your safe return.”
A tear streaked down Cat’s cheek. She dashed it away. That meant Sister Dores would hang a white handkerchief in the front window to indicate it was safe—or in this case, that no one had come by. A red kerchief would signal danger.
It was a system they’d created back when Cat and Marco had first arrived at the orphanage. After all that Cat had suffered at Viktor’s hand, she’d been extremely paranoid. Scared to leave, scared to stay. Unable to forget the atrocities.
The kerchief in the window had helped exorcise those fears.
Fears that had now returned.
Chapter 28
Berlin, Germany
June 2
(Thirteen Months Ago)
Cat put the makeup on extra heavy.
Yesterday Viktor had been furious because her bruises had shown up on the video. Giselle had paid dearly for it. The week before he’d been upset her roots had darkened, had ordered her to color her hair. “You must look impeccable!” Viktor had commanded.
Cat no longer questioned how her friend could endure it. While Viktor never drugged Giselle before she was tortured, what he gave afterward blocked her pain. It also blocked the memory of what had gone before, so each time Giselle faced he
r horrors anew. She couldn’t remember that it always ended when she passed out. She couldn’t remember why she was being punished.
And though Cat dutifully explained every time that Giselle’s torment was part of Cat’s punishment—Viktor wanted no information from either of them—each session began with Giselle’s awful cries of “But what have I done?”
And when Giselle screamed out that she’d tell Viktor anything if only they’d stop…Cat held her breath, afraid her friend would mention the tiny two-month-old infant that they’d left in Paris.
Dear God! What had happened to her son?
How much longer could this madness go on?
Behind her a whip cracked. Cat jumped and stepped back from the delicate eighteenth-century mirrored vanity. The house they were in, what little she’d seen of it, was large and filled with similar expensive antiques.
To torment her with his confidence that they’d never escape, Viktor freely explained they were at his late aunt’s home outside Berlin. Judging from the occasional snippets she overheard in German from a television somewhere in the house, Cat believed this was true.
Cat turned now to face Viktor. His cell phone rang and he answered, business as usual. He knew Cat wouldn’t scream or cry out again when he was on the phone.
Giselle had already been strung up in the far corner of the spacious bedroom. She dangled naked, on tiptoes, her arms pulled straight up and secured by the rope that hung from the ceiling. Giselle was gagged, but her eyes darted around wild and frightened. But what have I done?
Viktor was seated in a leather chair beside Giselle. He kept the phone pressed to one ear, while spooning sugar into his tea. “Yes, yes, it’s going better than expected. Your little show of faith”—he glanced at Cat—“has convinced me. One of my associates will be in touch to consummate our final agreement.”
Viktor met Cat’s gaze as he ended the call. “Those stupid bastards have no idea what they’ve done. They hand you over like a sacred lamb. As if anything could ever make up for the loss of my wife and son. I will make laughing stocks of them with these videos.”
Cat had been told from day one of her captivity—Viktor enjoyed counting off days—that he blamed her for everything that had gone wrong in Belarus.
He knew there had been other agents involved, but Cat had infiltrated his inner sanctum: his lab. Her face was the face of deception. He even seemed convinced that the Chechen Rebels who’d attacked the Institut had done so at the CIA’s behest. And since she’d worked for the CIA back then, she bore the onus of their guilt.
Cat had slowly come to realize that with Dante and the others actually dead, the CIA had sold her and Giselle out, to make amends with Zadovsky, who was now an all-powerful free agent.
Any guilt she might have felt over what she was being forced to do had long since fled. Some days she even relished the thought that these videos would indeed end up in the hands of the CIA’s worst enemies.
Two men entered the bedroom.
Karl Romanov, Viktor’s bodyguard and butt monkey, stepped around the video camera mounted on a tripod as he moved to stand beside Giselle. The other man, whom she knew only as Jeter, stood in the open doorway, eyeing Cat.
“I thought an audience might inspire you,” Viktor said. “Take your place.”
Cat walked across the icy cold room and perched on the edge of the bed. She’d been given the red lace outfit to wear again. A long-line corset bra, frilly garters, and seamed nylons with matching red stilettos that killed her feet. Literally.
There were razor blades imbedded inside her shoes. And if Cat winced as she walked, Giselle was whipped.
“I hope you remember what you did wrong yesterday.” Viktor lit a cigarette. “Your friend could use a reprieve.”
At Viktor’s nod, Karl activated the camera. Cat forced herself to smile in Jeter’s direction. Though he was off camera, it would appear that she was hell-bent on coaxing someone into her bed. That she was determined to woo him with her body, and failing that, to start spilling secrets of how she’d brought other operatives to their knees by fucking their bodies and minds.
Cat’s failure to come across convincingly yesterday had resulted in her friend’s punishment. Oh, Giselle! I will not fail you again.
Cat had quickly learned that what she said mattered little as long as she got the names and places right. Viktor knew which jobs she’d worked and with whom, but apparently not the specific details since he didn’t correct her fabrications. Not that she was giving up much since the people she spoke of were now dead.
They filmed for only twenty minutes. Once Cat was completely naked—except for her shoes—and had promised to tell her lover more, soon, Viktor stopped filming. For Cat, it was both too long and not long enough.
When Viktor offered mocking applause, signaling the end, Giselle reacted with a Pavlovian whimper. Giselle knew what came next, what her part was. Looking at Viktor, Giselle begged with her eyes to be released.
Viktor withdrew a capped syringe from his pocket. “You want this, my pet?”
Jeter moved in and handcuffed Cat’s wrists behind her. Then he grabbed the hair on the back of her head and forced her to watch Viktor’s sick little show.
Giselle stared at the syringe, her body writhing. Behind the gag, she made animalistic noises.
“Show Karl how bad you want it,” Viktor said.
Barely able to move, Giselle twisted, trying to get Karl’s attention. He ignored her. Her noises grew louder until Karl backhanded her. Then Giselle bounced on her toes, her noises even more desperate.
Karl slapped her again. Across the face, the breasts. And Giselle bounced furiously, wanting more, more, more.
“I think that’s enough,” Viktor said finally.
Karl removed the gag and untied Giselle’s hands. She was free…but all she did was stare at the syringe Viktor held.
“Now show me how bad you want this,” Viktor said.
Giselle dropped to her knees at Viktor’s feet and pushed his legs apart. She attacked his trousers, groping to free his flaccid penis.
And then she was sucking, making those awful animal noises again, her blond hair covering Viktor’s lap. Viktor patted her head, and ignoring both women, he casually asked Karl if the day’s mail had arrived.
A few minutes later Viktor lifted Giselle’s hair and looked down at his still soft penis going in and out of her mouth.
“Tsk. You must not want it as badly as I thought,” Viktor said. “Perhaps later.”
“No, no, no, no.” Giselle redoubled her efforts, sucking harder, moaning, crying, and clawing at Viktor’s pants.
Cat detected Jeter’s low smirk as he tightened the grip on her hair, shaking her ever so slightly though not enough to get Viktor’s attention.
Jeter knew, they all knew, that Viktor wouldn’t get aroused until he looked at Cat. And the longer Viktor ignored Cat, the more frantic Giselle’s efforts became.
Finally, Viktor met Cat’s gaze and smiled. “See how nicely this goes when you do what you’re supposed to?”
Cat tried to nod, but Jeter’s grip was too tight.
Giselle was making different noises now as Viktor’s penis began to enlarge. She knew that precious syringe was almost hers.
“You can get her ready for me,” Viktor said to Jeter.
The grip on Cat’s hair released and she was jerked to her feet. Then Jeter turned her back to the bed and bent her forward, facedown in the mattress. The razor blades chewed into her feet again.
Behind her, she heard Jeter lower his zipper. He pinched her buttock, silently daring her to react. “Now tell Viktor how bad you want him.”
Chapter 29
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
July 12
(Present Day)
Cat eased into her hiding spot at the convent. It was risky coming here in broad daylight, mere hours after being discovered. But her newly hatched plan depended on her moving fast.
Using bottled water, she bathed and
changed into better clothes. She counted her stash of money. Part of her regretted what she was going to have to spend to pull this off. Another part was grateful she had the money available. If all went as planned—no ifs, it had to work—there’d still be enough for her and Marco to flee, to begin anew.
The temptation to go by the orphanage grew with each heartbeat. To see Marco just once more…
No.
She ticked off the reasons in her mind. It was likely the orphanage was being watched. Coming here was hazardous enough. And she had yet to make good her escape.
But the truth…the real reason she couldn’t go see her son was that she knew she wouldn’t be able to leave him.
She wiped away tears and started separating her cash. She divvied it up among the multiple hidden folds of her backpack, along with her other IDs.
Then she repacked her clothes, including the two wigs she’d need to match her passports. Anything she couldn’t carry on her back had to stay behind.
Feeling queasy, she wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead. Damn it, she couldn’t get sick right now. She had a plan to execute. A plan she prayed wasn’t totally insane.
Instead of hiding from Dante, she was going to lure him away. There was a flight leaving for Mexico City in three hours and she planned to be on it, ticketed as Luzia Gomez. If he hadn’t already done so, Dante would eventually monitor the airlines.
He wouldn’t have her arrested at Rio Airport, where she’d be taken into Brazilian custody and could fight extradition. Even if she lost, time in a foreign jail would give her an opportunity to strike a deal with her captors. Or better yet…to escape.
There was a risk he’d have someone waiting in Mexico City. But even if she was arrested there, at least she would have drawn Dante away from Rio. Away from Marco.
No ifs, she told herself again. After she landed in Mexico City, she’d book a flight to Amsterdam, but someone else would be on that flight, carrying her Luzia identification. Then using a brand new passport, she’d make her way back here, collect Marco and his passports, before vanishing.