Once on the ground, he and I were met by a limo that took us to the Metropole hotel. In the back of the car, Demarco reached over and took my hand, winking at me when I looked up. I pulled my hand away and whispered, “Not yet.” When I saw the driver looking in the rearview mirror, though, I realized there was no way to tell if the Russians already had eyes on us as a precaution. I smiled at Demarco and scooted across the seat, sitting against him as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders. I was instantly irritated by how good it felt and looked out the window at the passing scenery to take my mind off of it. Moscow at night was a grand city, full of architectural drama at every turn. Having never been in Russia before, I was stunned by its beauty. This certainly was not the Russia I’d expected from my years of hearing of its cold, ugly gloominess.
It was one in the morning local time when Demarco and I checked in and proceeded to our room. The room reserved for MacAuliffe was next to ours, with a connecting door that locked from both sides, but could be opened to create a larger suite. After he checked in, MacAuliffe would move his stuff into Henninger’s room and Demarco and I could each have one of the connected rooms. To the front desk and anyone who might perform a security check, it would appear my “husband” and I were blissfully sharing a room.
Demarco headed straight for the minibar and grabbed two bottles of Maker’s Mark, pouring them into glasses and handing one to me.
“I didn’t ask for a drink,” I said.
“I know,” he replied, “but I thought it might help you deal with what I’m about to say.”
I took a swig. “Knock yourself out.”
Demarco drained his drink in a single gulp, then looked at me and said, “I asked Morello to recommend they send me instead of Zeller.”
My jaw dropped and I felt my blood pressure rise. Why the hell would he do that? My first thought was that he would get his rocks off watching me with Gurov, but I knew there had to be more to it than that. Demarco was hoping to trick me into having sex with him again. And with adjoining rooms, nobody would know except us.
Livid, I kept my emotions in check and coldly said, “We are not having sex, Demarco. I’m here on business.”
“Mercer—”
Then I suddenly exploded. “We’re on an actual operation this time, not a training run. If you overstep your bounds again, I swear to God I will report you.”
I was so pissed off, I didn’t hear what he said as I set down my drink and stormed out of the room. I waited in the lobby bar until the other agents showed up at the hotel two drinks later. The bar was about to close when Henninger came down and sat next to me, not even looking in my direction. He ordered a drink, then took it to a table. On the bar was his room key, which I grabbed. After signing my tab, I headed back upstairs and entered the new room, right next door to Demarco’s. My bags were already there, as was a note from him, scribbled on hotel stationery.
Don’t hate me. This was not about sex. I’ll explain if you let me.
Screw him and his explanations. He had purposely forced his way into an operation where he knew I’d be required to have sex while he watched. After taking advantage of me in London, that was unforgivable.
* * *
Demarco texted me early the next afternoon. I had problems getting to sleep the night before and had only been awake a few minutes.
I’m ordering room service. What should I get you?
I understood that he needed to order for his wife, and I was hungry. I picked something out of the room service menu and texted it to him, then hurriedly made myself presentable. Half an hour later, there was a knock on our common inside door.
“Room service,” Demarco said when I opened. He was holding a tray, wearing a gray T-shirt and linen drawstring pajama pants.
I took the tray and tried to shut the door, but his solid body blocked it.
“We have to talk about this,” he said.
“There’s nothing to talk about except the operation, and we can do that at dinner.” We were supposed to dine together at a local restaurant for the sake of our cover story. Demarco stepped back and let me shut the door.
That night we had a delicious dinner at a restaurant called Izumrud. I was distant yet polite, and more than a little distracted by Demarco’s clothing. The last time I’d seen him dressed up was in London; if he looked this good tonight, I would have no problem pretending to be crazy about him at the reception when he’d be wearing a tux. I was in a lovely dress, slightly conservative but still showing a bit of cleavage, and I caught Demarco sneaking a peek every now and then. The man had no shame.
He held back on his threat to “talk about this” until we finished our entrees and ordered dessert. “Look, Mercer,” he said quietly, “I know you’re a good enough agent to realize that our chances of success tomorrow night are greater if you and I are getting along. Regardless of what a bizarre situation we’ll be in, we’ll need to work as a team, support each other and all that. Do you agree?”
I sighed. Demarco had a point. But I didn’t have to give in easily. “Sure.”
He frowned at my lack of enthusiasm. “The reason why I’m here with you on this operation is because I was — I am — concerned about you.”
“So you’re not just here to watch the show?” I asked sarcastically. “Or to try to get into my pants again?”
“No, I’m not,” Demarco said seriously. He paused as the waiter served our desserts, then continued, his voice almost a whisper. “You’re new to all this and may not realize how serious this shit is. We’re in fucking Russia. And that building we’ll be in tomorrow is heavily fortified. This isn’t London — you slip up here and you disappear down a hole so deep they may never find you.”
“I can handle myself,” I said. “I’m new, but I’ve proven my worth.”
“You have,” Demarco agreed, “but you need someone next to you who’s used to being in tense situations. Zellar’s a nice guy, which is probably why they picked him, but I’m the one you want beside you if things get wonky. Sills knows that, which is why he went along with Morello’s suggestion.”
“Your suggestion,” I corrected him.
“My suggestion, yes,” he said.
“Why are you so concerned about my well being?” I asked bluntly. This man had been nothing but a prick to me so far, figuratively and literally.
“Because I sensed something in London,” he replied. I stared, waiting for him to continue. The seconds slipped by. Finally he said, “I don’t want anything to happen to you, Mercer. You’re an excellent agent, and I knew we could work well together as a team. I’m here to make sure the operational goal is met and to protect you if things get strange.”
There was a palpable feeling that Demarco was on the verge of going in a direction he wasn’t quite prepared for and had instead chosen to take a step backward. Or maybe I had imagined it. This man was so damned hard to read.
I appraised him as he took a bite of his ptichye moloko cake. Demarco seemed sincere, possibly for the first time since I’d known him. Still, I couldn’t resisting taking a shot at him.
“The only important thing is the operation,” I said quietly. “Just don’t forget to take care of business while we’re in that office.” Then I added, “I don’t give a shit if you watch me fuck the target. You already know I put on a convincing act.”
Demarco looked at me, then slowly broke into a wry grin. “Touché,” he said. “Nicely played, Mercer.”
I poked at the kulich I’d ordered. It was dry and tasteless, the only bad part of the dinner so far. I looked at Demarco’s plate. “How’s that cake?”
“Fucking delicious,” he said, then held a forkful of it up to my mouth. Caught off guard, I parted my lips and let him feed me a bite.
“Oh my god,” I mumbled. “That’s amazing.”
“Right?” Demarco said.
When we got back to the hotel, we both entered his room, then I said a curt goodnight before going to my own. I had just changed into a T-shirt and
panties, my typical sleeping attire, when there was a knock on the adjoining door.
Rolling my eyes, I opened it to see Demarco, still dressed. “One more thing,” he said.
“What?”
“This,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. I was so caught off-guard by the move that I gave in without thinking, melting into it and kissing him back. Demarco’s lips felt wonderfully soft against mine. When my brain caught up with my body I tried pushing him away, but he was too strong and held me in place.
I did the only thing I could think of and bit down on his lower lip, hard. Demarco yelped and let me go, putting his hand to his mouth and mumbling, “What the fuck?”
“Don’t ever do that again,” I warned, then for some reason felt compelled to hedge my bet by adding, “unless I ask you to.”
Blood was visible between his fingertips as he backed up into his room. “Psycho!” he growled.
“Asshole!” I countered.
Twenty-Two
Demarco and I were escorted to a large ballroom in the General Staff Building, a part of the Ministry of Defense complex in Moscow’s Arbat district. The exterior of the building wasn’t quite as magnificent as the famous General Staff Building in Saint Petersburg, but it reeked of Imperial Russian charm. The ballroom’s interior, though, was breathtakingly dramatic, with forty-foot ceilings and rich dark burgundy and gold walls. A massive gilded chandelier hung in the center of the room, matching the columns surrounding the room and the gilded trim detailing.
The two of us had breezed through two different security checks with our Swiss passports, one in the building’s lobby and another at the door to the ballroom. There were perhaps two hundred people in the room and most of them looked under forty, all dressed to impress, the women in gowns and the men in tuxedos. Few of those men, however, looked as dazzling as Demarco in his custom-tailored black tux by Italian designer Ermenegildo Zegna. The fit was just tight enough to show off his physique, and I had stupidly exhaled audibly when he walked into my hotel room earlier. His bottom lip was only slightly swollen, and I was relieved to see no visible injury on the outside, if only for the sake of the operation.
Demarco was gentleman enough, surprisingly, to compliment me on my gown, although he did it in his own unique way. “Holy shit, Mercer,” he had said, adding, “You certainly clean up well.” The white gown by Andrea Silver minimized my flaws while accentuating my assets, drawing attention from my size and to my generous cleavage. Demarco had not been subtle about taking note of the latter. Although he had no way of knowing, I was also wearing the most beautiful matching bra and panties I’d ever seen.
Pavel Baryshev saw us arrive and gave a subtle wink, then ignored us as planned. We settled in and mingled with other guests, staying glued to each other as we talked in Russian and French about the amazing new video compression algorithm developed by the coders at Sukuizu.com, our supposed website. Anyone checking the site later would find a seemingly legitimate Swiss business centered around making video more usable online.
Few people noticed when Sergei Gurov entered the room. He was not a particularly impressive-looking man physically: medium height and build with a shaved head and cold, beady eyes. There was something about him, though, a sense of his own importance. Demarco also had a cockiness to him, but Gurov looked like someone who considered himself untouchable and above everyone.
Demarco saw it, too, whispering to me, “This guy is only a monocle away from being a Bond villain.” I laughed despite myself, as much to release the tension of feeling my partner’s warm breath on my ear.
Gurov barely spoke to anyone as he surveyed the room with a Champagne glass in his hand. I watched as he scoped out the women, with equal attention given to their dates. Eventually Baryshev glided over to us and introduced himself. I could tell he was apprehensive about how the evening would go — quite understandable considering his ass was on the line. After a few minutes, he said, “Don’t leave. I will bring Sergei over in a moment.”
I was nervous as hell as we waited. I looked up at Demarco; having his big presence next to me was reassuring. He caught me looking and smiled, then took my hand in his, intertwining our fingers. Was that an act, part of our cover? Or was he trying to calm my nerves? He didn’t strike me as the chivalrous type.
Before I could decide, Baryshev arrived with Sergei Gurov. He made the introductions in French, calling us “my new friends,” then made a quick departure. Gurov jumped right in, saying, “So tell me about your business.”
Demarco did most of the work, and I could tell Gurov didn’t care much about the answers. Those dark eyes were intimidating, though, and he exuded an aura of omnipotence that was frightening. We spoke a little about Geneva, where he’d apparently spent quite a bit of time. We’d done our homework and conversed about the city with enough specificity to convince Gurov.
I was practically holding my breath, wondering when the Russian would make his move. The idea of being alone with this man was scary enough — letting him have his way with me while Demarco looked on would be terrifying. It was all I could do to put up a happy, charming front when I was freaking out on the inside.
Demarco knew it would be better to get things over with sooner rather than later, and he fed Gurov the perfect opening, saying, “This building is amazing, Deputy Minister.”
Gurov’s eyes lit up. “Yes, we are very proud of it,” he said, pausing for effect before adding, with what he probably thought was a smile, “Would you like a short tour? I’ve grown tired of trying to keep up with conversations about the Internet.” My stomach tightened into a knot as Demarco and I enthusiastically took him up on his offer.
We left the ballroom, the security guards posted outside the entrance snapping to attention when they saw Gurov. The three of us strolled through empty hallways, stopping here and there for a sentence or two. The entire building was astounding and steeped in both Soviet and pre-Soviet history, with statues and paintings lining our path. The marble floors and dramatically tall ceilings added to the sense of spectacle. It would likely have been fascinating if I weren’t dreading what was to come. Gurov occasionally stole a glance at my cleavage, but seemed more interesting in appraising Demarco than me; I assumed that whatever pleasure he derived from his kink was as much about humiliating the husband as it was degrading the wife.
Although I knew what lay ahead, I was still caught off-guard when Gurov said, “And here is my office.” I steeled myself and tried to focus on the task at hand: provide enough of a distraction so that Demarco could slip the Cyclops sniffer out of his bow tie and insert it into the ethernet cable. We both knew that would not be easy, since we’d been told that Gurov insisted the husband watch while his wife was being defiled.
Gurov placed his palm against a small screen next to the door, then opened the door as the lights flickered on. The office was large and impeccably decorated, with a huge desk fashioned from some exotic wood commanding the most attention and small tables and chairs scattered around the perimeter. Portraits lined the walls and I recognized two as famous Soviet military leaders. There were two doors on the wall to our right. Through one I could see the conference room Baryshev had described to the Agency, meaning the closed door must be the bathroom he’d also mentioned. The conference room held the wiring closet where incoming phone and Internet signals were routed to the numerous devices in the suite.
I walked to the desk, running my hand over the polished surface, my stomach doing flip-flops as I waited for Gurov to make his play. In my peripheral vision I could see Gurov next to Demarco and I heard some quiet Russian I didn’t understand. Turning toward the two, I saw Demarco staring at me, a strange look in his eyes.
Something was badly wrong. I could sense it.
Demarco said something quickly in Russian. There were words I couldn’t make out, but I clearly heard Demarco refuse. Then Gurov calmly said, “You have no choice, my friend.”
Again Demarco refused. This would have seemed
to be going according to plan, as the Swiss husband would refuse to allow Gurov to have sex with his wife, except I could tell there was a problem. “What is going on?” I asked.
I was stunned by Gurov’s reply: “Your husband is going to suck my cock.”
I didn’t have to fake my utter shock.
“What? No!” I said.
Gurov remained calm and collected. “He has no choice,” he said. “You would not want me to call security and explain to them how I discovered you going through my files here, would you?”
There were so many layers of action and reaction at play, both genuine and faked, it was all I could do to keep them straight. I would offer to perform the act instead of Demarco, but first I had to pretend to get to the point where, as Marit Zobrist, I had no other choice. Offering too quickly would seem suspicious. Demarco, as my husband Aimon, would have to walk the fine line between not wanting to do it himself, while simultaneously not wanting his wife to do it either. But we both knew that I had to provide the distraction because Demarco was the one holding the Cyclops.
The refusals and negotiations rapidly escalated before Gurov finally lost it and yelled, “You will do as I say or I will bury you both in a Siberian prison!”
His eyes burned with rage and power-fueled desire. There was a moment of silence as Demarco and I eyed each other, searching our brains for a solution. Gurov returned to a calmer state as quickly as he’d become unhinged.
Unzipping his pants, he reached in and pulled out his limp, uncircumcised penis.
“I’ll do it,” I said, not having to fake my fear as I approached Gurov.
“No!” he said with a dismissive sneer. “It must be him.”
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