Hudson didn’t know what the words meant, but he doubted that they were flattering. Gapan struck Hudson as the kind of man who wouldn’t flatter God or Lenin, much less a capitalist.
“Ah, Gapan,” Novikov said, shaking his head. “The new Russia needs friends if it is to survive. That is why you were allowed to join this goodwill tour. Friends cannot be purchased. They must be won.”
Gapan looked bored.
“Ignore him,” Novikov said to Hudson. “He is a—how is it said, a hangnail?—from the old days.”
“Hangover,” Hudson said.
“Yes, I thought so.” Novikov squeezed the older man’s biceps gently, approvingly. “You should rest, my friend,” the Russian murmured. “We need you full of your usual vigor. This exhibit is Russia’s gift to the rest of the world, a sign of our desire to join with all other peoples in harmony.”
“And make money,” Hudson added sourly.
“But of course.” Novikov smiled. “You, of all people, must understand our cash difficulties. Surely a few hundred thousand dollars is not a great sacrifice for a man of your wealth?”
“Your government is charging me three million for the privilege of hosting this exhibition, and you know it.”
“Still.” Novikov shrugged gracefully. “Not a vast amount for you, yes? You, who are so very, very rich.”
“Now that you have renounced your socialist ideals, is there no limit to Russian avarice?”
Novikov tilted his head slightly and studied the other man. “If you feel the fee charged for the exhibit was excessive, I will try to intercede with the minister,” Novikov said. “Your friendship is valued.”
“Is it? Then why the shakedown?”
“Pardon? What is this word, ‘shakedown’?”
Silence stretched until the murmur of workers in the background seemed loud.
“I don’t know whether you’re part of this blackmail scheme or not,” Hudson finally said. “When I make up my mind, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, get that egg here.”
With that, Hudson turned his back and headed for the front of the museum.
Novikov watched as Hudson stalked down the polished marble corridor and out the arched thirty-foot-high ebony doors of his private monument to himself.
“Gapan,” Novikov said softly.
“I am here.”
“Find that bitch Toth.”
28
Paso Robles
Early Tuesday
Beyond the car’s hood, the plane’s engines were spinning. A dark-haired woman in a neatly tailored uniform waited at the head of the short stairway. Obviously the preflight checks were finished. All that remained was to get the passengers aboard.
And for Laurel to make up her mind how far she wanted to push Cruz.
“A jet complete with flight attendant,” she said finally. “Impressive.”
“And you think I’m retrograde,” Cruz said. “She’s the pilot.”
“Touché. How are your ribs?”
“Still there.”
“You really think you could carry me up those stairs kicking and screaming?”
“I’d just as soon not try.”
“I’ll bet. Especially after you find out that I’ve studied tae kwan do for seven years.”
His eyebrows lifted. “A woman of many parts.”
“And all of them independent.”
With that, she set the brake, turned off the engine, and reached into the backseat for her leather satchel. Then she turned toward Cruz, who was watching her with eyes that glittered like ice in the moonlight.
“I thought you were in a hurry,” she said.
“I am. But not if I’m going alone.”
“You’re not.”
“You’re coming with me?”
She nodded.
“Thank you,” he said huskily.
As Cruz spoke, he lifted his right hand and ran his thumb over Laurel’s lower lip, tracing it as lightly as a kiss. The swift intake of her breath made desire burn in him more fiercely than the pain from his ribs.
Knowing he shouldn’t, unable to stop himself, he threaded his fingers deeply into her silky hair. He couldn’t say whether he tugged her closer or she came to him as silently as the moonlight. All he knew was that her lips were warm and her breath tasted as sweet and clean as the night. He brushed his mouth over hers once, then again, before he forced himself to release her.
“I reserve the right to go home whenever I want,” she said in a low voice.
“Fair enough,” he said. For now.
He got out, interlaced the fingers of his right hand deeply with hers, and squeezed gently.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said simply.
“I know. But that’s not why I’m going.”
Through narrowed eyes, Cruz looked at Laurel’s upturned face. Slowly, giving her time to turn away, he bent down to her mouth. This time the kiss was less gentle, more intimate, more hungry. She leaned toward him, matching his hunger, heightening it, tasting him as deeply as he was tasting her.
For Cruz it was like standing near lightning. His body hardened in a wild rush of heat. Giving a groan of need, he dragged her closer with his right arm, letting her feel what she’d done to him. She made a husky sound that could have been surprise or approval.
He expected her to retreat.
She didn’t. She softened, letting her supple body fit against him, giving him back the passion he had aroused in her.
Abruptly he straightened, ending the embrace. Cursing himself for a fool every step of the way, he led Laurel to the plane. Touching her broke every rule in the professional book. Kissing her gently broke every rule in his personal book.
Finding out she wanted him as much as he wanted her was pure stupidity.
He consoled himself that at least it had taken his mind off of his ribs…and centered it about twelve inches lower.
“Take us home,” he said to the pilot as they walked aboard. “Fast.”
The door closed seamlessly behind them. No sooner had Cruz and Laurel sat down in facing seats than the pilot ran up the engines for one last check. Moments later the plane eased forward, turned, and taxied onto the runway. The take-off was swift and smooth.
During the whole process, Cruz neither spoke to nor looked at Laurel.
“Impressive,” she said again.
“Taking care of people is our business.”
“I haven’t hired you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“What if I decide to go off on my own?”
“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”
He leaned over and touched a switch, dimming the lights in the cabin.
After a few moments, Laurel realized that he wasn’t setting the stage for seduction. He was watching the earth down below, where the landscape was drawn in moonlight and knife-edged shadows. His eyes worked the dark ground outside like radar.
She stared out her own porthole, wondering what he saw in the maze of shadows and silver light that so fascinated him.
“Where are we headed?” she asked after a bit.
“If you were as good a geologist as you are a gemologist, you’d recognize that ragged line down there.”
“Where?”
“See the line that cuts those hills in half?”
She peered through the darkness. Moonlight was a lot more deceptive than sunlight. It took time before she could make out the line that intrigued him.
“That one?” she asked, pointing.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“The San Andreas fault,” he said. “It’s the most perfect example of faulting in western America. Someday I’m going to spend a month walking it.”
“Shake, rattle, and roll.”
His smile flashed and he laughed despite his ribs.
“Our flight route will follow the San Andreas straight south and then out into the desert,” he said. “After that, the fault branches off to the west, toward a
place called Anza-Borrego, just west of the Salton Sea.”
“Were you a geologist once?”
“No. But I like to track the chaos that Mother Nature throws at us just to make sure we’re still awake.”
For a time there was silence while Laurel watched the giant fault unreel below them. She stole small glances at Cruz, but he never looked away from the rumpled land. He focused on it with the same intensity he’d shown while he traded shots with the assassins.
Like him, she was fascinated by the earth, but in a different way. She loved the tiny blossoms of beauty and color that the earth produced, the gems and the beach agates and the mineral specimens she turned into jewelry.
Slowly she settled back into the seat. She no longer looked at the land. Instead, she watched the man who sat with his knees a few inches from her own. He looked at the earth and saw chaos and violent potential. He was trained in violence. Most of his life seemed consumed by it.
Yet he wasn’t simply a windup assassin. He was intelligent, ruthless, and frighteningly perceptive. He was also capable of surprising tenderness. His combination of strength, intelligence, and gentleness was as unusual as it was beguiling.
It certainly beguiled me, she admitted to herself. I’m on this plane as much because of Cruz as for any other reason. That doesn’t speak highly of my intelligence, but that’s the way it is.
As if sensing her uneasiness, he looked up.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You made the right choice. Bet on it.”
“I already have.”
And what she’d bet was her life.
29
Karroo
Tuesday
Laurel awoke in darkness. Disoriented, still half asleep, she couldn’t remember where she was. The air in the small bedroom was still and cool. She was dressed in a light cotton shift and covered by a smooth sheet. She didn’t know how long she’d slept.
There was no clock in the room. The only hint of time came from the narrow border of harsh white light that outlined a heavily curtained window. She studied the light. There was a fierce quality to it, as if it had been forced through a crystal prism and magnified to laser intensity.
Desert light.
Slowly she began to remember bits and pieces of the previous night. The cool white light of the moon had outlined a severe landscape of dry mountains and rolling dunes. She’d seen them as the jet banked and landed on Risk Ltd.’s private strip at the foot of the Santa Rosa Mountains.
Risk Ltd.
Cruz Rowan.
Her father and the Ruby Surprise.
The images came flooding back to her, and with them an urgency that brought her upright in bed with her heart pounding and gunfire echoing in her mind. She felt again the chill of the cement floor hard against her body while Cruz’s weight covered her, holding her down.
Protecting her.
Then she remembered the warm, gentle pressure of his thumb on her mouth, and the hot, urgent pressure of his kiss.
With a swift motion she peeled away the sheet and surged out of bed. The tile floors of the room were smooth, clean, almost cold beneath her bare feet.
“Better than my cement workroom floor,” she told herself.
But her heart was still beating too hard, too fast. Some of it was fear. Some of it wasn’t.
“I wonder if Risk Limited has any way to protect foolish women from getting involved with men like Cruz Rowan,” she said under her breath. “Probably not. There just aren’t enough men like Cruz to make a business out of it. Too bad. I’m going to need all the help I can get. A country divided soon falls, and a woman divided soon falls in bed. Or in love.”
Her own words startled Laurel.
No. Not that. No way.
No “like mother, like daughter” for me.
She went quickly to the window and yanked the heavy drapes apart. A blazing yellow-white cataract of sunlight burst into the room. Blinking rapidly, she waited for her eyes to adjust.
Finally a dry, rocky landscape condensed from the blinding light. There was little else to see. Except for the scattered buildings of the compound and a macadam runway lying like a dead black snake rigid under the weight of the sun, the desert was empty.
She was isolated, alone, a stranger in a strange land.
Her hands tightened on the drapes as she struggled to understand why she’d trusted Cruz Rowan so much that she’d come to this desolate place with him.
I was in danger.
Was I really?
Again she heard gunfire in her mind, felt the jerk of Cruz’s body as he took the bullets that had been meant for her.
Right. I was in danger.
Now I’m safe.
And I have to find a way to tell Dad, a way that won’t lead Cruz right to him. But how?
The question had haunted Laurel before she fell asleep. In the past, if she’d thought about it at all, she’d have assumed that a cell call couldn’t be traced.
After last night, she doubted it.
In addition, she had to assume that every Risk Ltd. phone within her reach was attached directly to a tape recorder, if not a human monitor. Unhappily, she stared at the telephone on the bedside table.
“So near and yet so far,” she muttered.
Abruptly an idea crystallized in her mind. It often happened that way. A problem she had worried over before falling asleep somehow would get solved while she slept. She looked at the phone’s number pad, picking out what she needed.
Three, two, six, four, three, seven.
She lifted the receiver, punched in her father’s cellular number, waited for the signal, entered the six digits as a callback number, and hung up quickly. The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds.
Praying she’d done the right thing, she looked around for her clothes. She couldn’t find anything beyond what she already wore, the sheer green nightgown that had been left on the turned-down bed last night. It was pretty enough, but hardly the sort of thing she’d wear in front of strangers.
She went to the closet. Except for a thin cotton robe that matched her nightgown, the space was empty. She swept the robe off its hanger and pulled the frail cloth around her shoulders. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Still tying the sash, she stepped into the cool hallway, looked both ways, and headed for the lighted room she saw at one end.
A sturdy woman with glistening black hair and skin the color of a rich red brick was setting a table. The room was large, floored with terra-cotta tiles, and comfortable in the colorful yet spare way of Southwest design. The furniture was one of a kind rather than mass-produced. The Native American rugs were at least ninety years old, with not one bit of pastel pink or garish turquoise woven in.
“Good morning, Ms. Swann,” the woman said cheerfully. “I’m Grace Mendoza. I work for the ambassador. Did you rest well?”
“Yes, thank you. Where are my clothes?”
“In the dryer. They should be ready by the time you’ve eaten breakfast—or lunch, if you prefer.”
Laurel blinked. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven. Cruz said we should let you sleep as late as possible. It sounds like you had quite a night.”
“It had its moments,” she said tightly. “Where is Cruz? I need to speak to him right away.”
Mendoza looked at the young woman’s gown and robe, and smiled. But all she said was, “I saw him head out to the gym a few minutes ago with Sergeant-Major Gillespie.”
Laurel remembered how Cruz had talked her into accompanying him in the first place. He’d claimed that he was too hurt to drive.
“The gym?” she asked in disbelief.
“He works out at least once every day when he’s here.”
“Even when he has a broken rib?”
“Cruz heals quickly,” Mendoza said, barely hiding her smile.
“Quickly?” Laurel’s voice was acid. “The man is a walking medical miracle. Where’s the gym? I can’t wait to see a real, live miracle.”
<
br /> “It’s in the far building under the old pepper trees,” Mendoza said, pointing. “But wouldn’t you like a glass of orange juice or a cup of coffee instead? Cruz will be back soon.”
Laurel didn’t answer. She was already striding through the heavily glazed doors, heading for the gym, eager to confront a lying son of a bitch known as Cruz Rowan.
30
Los Angeles
Tuesday 11:00 A.M.
Highland Park in West Los Angeles was almost like Gorkiy Park on a hot summer day. A bad loudspeaker made the balalaika music sound properly tinny, and the smog reminded Damon Hudson of Moscow’s hazy summers. The sidewalks were crowded with dumpy women in cheap clothes. The benches in the park were jammed with dour old men who smoked and talked out of the corner of their mouth, as if afraid someone might be eavesdropping on their unimportant conversations.
Hudson hated it.
Although he’d made a civil crusade of his admiration for the Soviet Union and its people, the truth was more complex. He loved the system and despised its surly inhabitants.
Millions had died in the Great Patriotic War against Hitler. On top of their bodies were piled the millions more who died in gulags and death camps from Belarus to Siberia. But despite all those deaths and the recent political upheavals, little had changed in the Russian people themselves. Even after seventy years of Soviet reform and rule, Hudson found the Russian people to be sour, smelly, and superstitious.
He was reminded of that unhappy truth each time he came to the émigré community in West Los Angeles. That was why he avoided the whole place like a leper colony.
Today he didn’t have any choice but to be among the stubborn peasants. Davinian would be more at ease in these surroundings than anywhere else. The jeweler had grown sentimental in his old age. He loved to soak up the ambience of Mother Russia the way other old men loved to soak up the summer sun.
For their last meeting Hudson wanted Davinian to be as comfortable as possible.
The jeweler was sitting quietly beneath a bloomed-out jacaranda tree. With his bald head and bony limbs, he looked like an awkward, morose bird. He wore sunglasses with round metal frames, but they weren’t enough to protect eyes gone squinty with age. He looked right past Hudson without recognizing him.
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