This time, she managed to interrupt him. “There’s no need to be so formal. Most of my colleagues simply call me Dr. Rossi. You’re welcome to do the same.”
Awareness flickered in his gaze at this unsubtle reminder of her credentials: PhD in organic chemistry, her research on chemical defense with the U.S. Army at Edgewood Arsenal, then her high-profile post as a senior scientist at the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons in the Netherlands. Not to mention her current assignment.
“I’m sorry, but I seem to have missed your name?” she prompted.
Her interrogator was still studying her with narrowed eyes, trying to figure her out. At last he inclined his head, mouth twitching with the hint of a smile.
“I’m Nikolai Ivanovich Markov, from the security office. I was dispatched by Dr. Belov to convey his profound apologies for your cancelled visit.”
The security office, my foot!
She barely contained a snort. The security office was no more than a polite euphemism for his real affiliation.
The man had just told her, without saying so directly, that he worked for the Federal Security Bureau, the Russian successor agency to the KGB. In her experience, there was no unpleasant or unethical trick those spooks wouldn’t stoop to. She’d need to stay at the top of her game.
But she found herself wondering if Dr. Belov’s “accident” had truly been accidental.
Tamping down her qualms, she extended her gloved hand for a courteous shake. After a pause so brief it was barely noticeable, his grip encased her fingers, his hand sheathed in sleek black leather.
Despite the layers between them, a flare of heat—survival instinct—made her tingle. Shivering, she buried her hand in her coat pocket.
“Ilya,” Nikolai Markov said calmly, still watching her. “Take Dr. Rossi’s suitcase and attaché case to the train.”
Swiftly she slipped in front of the hired muscle and blocked their path to her suitcase. She tightened her grip on her attaché case, not about to let it vanish the way her purse had. They’d have to be one hell of a lot more forceful to separate her from the documents she carried.
But she hoped to avoid that outcome.
Donning a professional smile, she extended her free hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mister…?”
“Just Ilya, Dr. Rossi,” said Nikolai Markov. “He’s a man of few words.”
Of course, without a surname she wouldn’t be able to look him up, using her contacts at the U.S. Embassy, when she returned to Moscow. No doubt any name they gave her would be false, but sometimes an alias turned up back at Langley.
Meanwhile, Ilya-with-no-last-name hulked over her, face buried under his muffler, gray eyes like dirty ice staring through her with a chilling lack of interest. This thug could break her in two with his bare hands. Thankfully, his orders were simply to assist with her luggage.
When he didn’t accept her hand, Skylar kept smiling and pivoted toward his partner. A scar snaked through the rough terrain of this one’s pitted face. But he gave his name gruffly as Artur—again with no surname, of course.
“Dr. Rossi,” Nikolai Markov said gently, “your train departs in one minute thirty seconds. Go aboard now, please.”
Sucking down another lungful of icy oxygen, she gripped her attaché case firmly with both hands.
“According to the schedule Anton Belov provided, my first meeting with the mayor of Khimgorod is set to occur in three hours. Even with Dr. Belov indisposed, I’m sure the mayor can resolve any minor issues that may arise.”
For a heartbeat, Nikolai Markov stared at her with those opaque black eyes. Perhaps she’d succeeded at last in surprising him, though his demeanor gave nothing away.
“I am afraid Dr. Belov’s…indisposition has resulted in the cancellation of your entire itinerary—from your meetings to your hotel reservation. Go aboard now, please, Dr. Rossi. This is no place for diplomatic negotiation.”
Without engaging in a physical scuffle, she couldn’t prevent Artur from hoisting her suitcase as though it weighed nothing. Well, she could work without a change of clothing if necessary, and pick up local toiletries in town. What mattered was that she still had her documents.
“I’m not leaving, Mr. Markov.” Skylar looked him straight in the eye. “These discussions are a top priority for my government and eight others that fund work at ICSI, and I’m operating under official instructions from the highest level. I’ve seen no documentation to indicate your own government has withdrawn its approval for my visit. Moreover, my tickets were purchased with taxpayer dollars, and funds for my lodging were already wired to the hotel. I’m committed to these meetings, even if it means sleeping on a couch in the lobby.”
She angled her chin up and pinned him with the imperial look she’d learned from her celebrity mother. “I’d like to go to the hotel now, please, so I can freshen up before the mayor.”
As if to underscore her words, the train jerked forward, its carriages clanking and rattling as the locomotive did its work.
Too late now to send me back.
Another indication that Markov, whatever his agenda, wasn’t acting under official orders. Or else the train would have waited.
Still, a sense of mounting apprehension made her scalp crawl. All too clearly, someone didn’t want her here. Maybe the FSB had decided her presence was a liability. Wouldn’t be the first time the Russian spy agency and the Foreign Ministry had disagreed.
“This is unfortunate, Dr. Rossi,” Nikolai Markov murmured.
His dark eyes shifted to Ilya. Jerking a nod as some unspoken message flashed between them, the goon trudged forward. Violating her diplomatic immunity, his hard hand closed on her shoulder.
A coil of anxiety tightened her chest. People had disappeared in Siberia before—millions of them, in fact. Officially, Khimgorod didn’t even exist. She’d called her office from Novosibirsk, but the Russians could claim she’d never even arrived…
She did her best to conceal her qualms. The secret to negotiating with Russians was embedded in the old deodorant commercial.
Never let them see you sweat.
“Artur,” Nikolai Markov said. “Take our American guest’s suitcase to the car.”
Pivoting, Markov glided toward the only break in the top-security barricade, where a concrete guard shanty, bathed in harsh light, guarded the exit. The silver gleam of a cell phone flashed as he tucked the device against his ear and muttered into it.
Skin prickling with apprehension, she followed, her shoulder gripped by Ilya as he quick-marched her from behind. Nikolai Markov crossed the treacherous platform with balletic grace, stepping lightly as a deer across the black ice—almost mesmerizing, in a way. The man looked and moved like no security watchdog she’d ever encountered.
Thanks to her father, she’d encountered the best.
At least he’d agreed to bring her into town, which moved her one step closer to her goal. The chemical combine was a thirty-mile drive past the city itself, according to the satellite imagery.
As they approached the station exit, Markov snapped the phone shut and dropped back beside her.
“I’ve modified your travel arrangements, Dr. Rossi. Although your stay will, of necessity, last no longer than 2300 hours this evening when the next train arrives, all guests are required to adhere to the laws and regulations that govern this closed city.”
“I’d expect nothing else.” Discreetly she tried to slip free of Ilya. But the hired muscle only tightened his grip. Despite the insulating layers between them, her shoulder began to ache.
For a heartbeat, Markov’s gaze flickered toward her.
“Ilya,” he said quietly.
Just like that, his trained watchdog released her.
Skylar resisted the impulse to rub her aching shoulder and returned to the business at hand. “I’ve been thoroughly briefed on the laws that govern the closed cities—”
“Given the possible consequences of any deviation, allow me to refresh yo
ur memory, Dr. Rossi.” As they approached the barbed-wire fence, his gaze swept the perimeter. “No photographs are allowed anywhere in the city or its environs. If you disregard this rule, your camera will be confiscated and destroyed, and you may be subject to legal penalties, possibly including detainment.”
“I understand.” The weight of her smart phone, with its embedded camera, seemed suddenly heavy in her briefcase.
“No PDAs or smart phones.” For a breath, his eyes flickered toward her, as though he’d read her mind. “If you disregard this rule, the device will be confiscated and destroyed, and you will be subject to legal penalties, possibly including detainment.”
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Markov. This isn’t the first closed city I’ve visited.”
“No laptop computer or tablet,” he continued, “no radio equipment or other electronic device is allowed to visitors anywhere in the city. If you disregard this rule—”
“My equipment will be confiscated and destroyed, and I’ll probably be thrown in jail. I catch the drift,” she said lightly, working to interject a note of humor.
They hadn’t gotten off to an auspicious start. If she intended to succeed, she needed to build goodwill and lay the foundation for future cooperation with the local officials, including the security office. “I believe I understand the seriousness of our situation.”
“For your sake, I hope so.” He slanted her an ironic glance. “Immediately upon arrival at the hotel, you’ll be required to surrender your mobile phone and laptop, that automatic quartz watch you’re wearing, your digital alarm clock and any other electronic devices secreted among your possessions. Your telephone may be used in the lobby if a representative of our security office monitors your communications.”
“I understand.” Carefully she stepped around a patch of icy ground. If she went sprawling, she doubted the charming Ilya would catch her. Then they’d be airlifting her to the hospital in Novosibirsk.
The security measures were identical to those in a dozen closed cities—locations whose secret facilities performed covert nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons activities. They didn’t appear on any map, but they turned up in the satellite photos—far too extensive to camouflage.
In fact, the existence of these top-secret regulations at Khimgorod, a city where the Russians insisted they’d never done any offensive work, told Skylar her hunch had been right. Something nasty was going on at the Khimgorod Chemical Defense Combine.
“I hope you do understand, Dr. Rossi.” Halting at the guard shanty, Nikolai Markov pivoted toward her. “Any violation of these rules will result in your deportation at minimum, and your Russian visa may be permanently revoked. In addition, you may face other… consequences. Regrettably, one can never be certain, in such a provincial region, whether the local militsia will recognize diplomatic immunity—or choose to ignore it.”
“That would make my government very unhappy, Mr. Markov,” she said softly, and slipped past him to the guard window.
Now the bastard was openly threatening her. No doubt he believed, like many Russians in this patriarchal society, that a woman was easily intimidated. Sooner or later he’d realize, as his counterparts in Moscow had done, that underestimating her was a mistake.
She removed her black diplomatic passport from the travel pouch suspended around her neck inside her coat—a security precaution that had paid off in spades when her purse was snatched. As she passed it through the tiny window to the unsmiling matron who manned the post, the back of her neck tingled.
Markov stood at her shoulder, clearly intent on the exchange, close enough to feel his warm breath brushing her nape.
“Skylar Dane Rossi, age thirty-five,” he murmured. The unpleasant woman behind the glass darted them a suspicious look as she thumbed through the passport. “Named after your Italian father, if I’m not mistaken. The same Dane Rossi who served five years in your American prisons for illicit arms dealing, wasn’t it, before his lawyers overturned the conviction? According to some rather unflattering coverage in Newsweek, he was convicted of selling chemical weapons precursors to North Korea.”
Burrowed deep in her pocket for warmth, her hand knotted. This wasn’t the first time someone had connected her with her notorious father, but it was the first time a Russian had confronted her with it during a diplomatic mission. Usually they were hungry for the foreign assistance funds she oversaw, and eager to engage in peaceful research with ICSI.
Swallowing against the burning ache in her throat—the lump that still rose when she thought about her father—she pinned her gaze impersonally on the colorful visas filling her passport.
“You’ve done your homework, Mr. Markov. If you know the story, you’ll also know that my father passed away eighteen years ago. His police record is ancient history. I like to think he’s gone to a better place.”
“Your father was a very well-known figure in certain circles.” He leaned forward, breath teasing her ear. “Gone but not forgotten, Dr. Rossi.”
Panic fluttered in her chest. Why was he raising this? The bastard probably wanted to throw her off-stride.
She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Aren’t there other security regulations you need to brief me? When I visit a closed city, I’m usually assigned a permanent security escort.”
“Indeed. All visitors are prohibited from leaving the hotel without a security escort. In this case, your permanent escort is myself.”
He paused. “I hope this is not unpleasant for you?”
“I’m certain I’ll enjoy your company,” she said sweetly.
Porca puzzola! This jerk was really starting to annoy her.
When the matron behind the window stamped her passport, satisfaction surged through her—along with another pang of apprehension. Despite the obstructionism of the man behind her, she was finally making headway. From the hotel, she’d call her office. Once they knew she’d arrived, it became much more difficult for the FSB or the Chemical Munitions Agency to make her disappear.
As she passed through the steel turnstile, she addressed Markov over her shoulder.
“I do hope you’re not too bored or confused by our rather technical discussions on the science of chemical weapons. The lexicon can be a bit daunting for a layman. Have you brushed up on your organic chemistry, Mr. Markov?”
“I know very little about chemical weapons which are, after all, banned by an international treaty to which Russia adheres.” Though he appeared unruffled, a glint in his eyes told her he hadn’t missed her attempt to put him in his place. “You’ll also find that the scientific experts stationed here know nothing about these prohibited technologies.”
And perhaps there’s a bridge in Brooklyn you’d like to sell me.
“Then I trust our discussions will prove enlightening.” Tucking her passport safely away, she followed Ilya onto the snowy expanse of the parking lot, deserted under the harsh glare of floodlights. Directly before her, a black Volga sedan sputtered. Artur hunched behind the wheel.
With a courtly bow, Markov opened the vehicle’s back door.
Briefly she hesitated, struggling against a last violent instinct for self-preservation. Visiting a closed city always knotted her tummy, because she walked in places no American had ever been meant to visit. Even with every i dotted and every t crossed, she was too conscious that the biological and chemical agents cultivated in these Soviet-era laboratories were lethal. And the Soviet-era safety precautions were laughable.
Unfortunately, the paranoia induced by six months of living under constant surveillance in Moscow hadn’t helped.
“If you please, Dr. Rossi.” Markov’s gaze assessed her.
After his initial determination to corral her onto the train, her permanent escort’s courtesy suddenly seemed a bit too obliging. Still, balking at the last second would gain her nothing. She’d never find a taxi in this godforsaken outpost. Nor could she stand shivering on the platform, slowly freezing to death, for seventeen hours until
the next train arrived.
Drawing an unsteady breath, she climbed into the back seat and placed her attaché case across her lap. The unsociable Ilya heaved her suitcase carelessly into the trunk and wedged his hulking form up front.
Markov closed her door gently and circled the car to slip in beside her.
Though he was a slender man and the Volga spacious, suddenly the back seat felt crowded. In the enclosed space, a whiff of his fragrance curled around her: a masculine blend of amber and cedar wood, cut with the tang of citrus. Sophisticated like the man who wore it, that warm and layered scent. She wondered what else was hidden beneath that enigmatic FSB façade.
Discreetly she edged closer to the window and put a few more inches between them.
As the Volga churned through the snowy lot, snowflakes began to swirl through the Arctic night. When they turned onto a narrow road, a blaze of headlights swept through the car as another vehicle turned onto the road behind them. This barely-there road through the Siberian landscape seemed as deserted and devoid of amenities as the moon. The impenetrable blackness of the Siberian night closed in around her.
The elegant Mr. Markov sat quietly beside her, seemingly at ease. But she tingled with nerves under his watchful gaze.
Clearing her throat beneath that subtle regard, she snapped open her attaché case and pulled out her crowded itinerary. Its contents had been scrupulously negotiated with Anton Belov and the Chemical Munitions Agency in Moscow—a process that had taken weeks—but she knew all bets were off now. With Dr. Belov out of commission, she’d have to roll the dice and take her chances.
Parking her black-framed reading glasses on her nose and switching on her penlight, she flipped through her schedule. But it was difficult to concentrate under the intent gaze of the man beside her. However long she was allowed to stay in Khimgorod, evidently she’d be spending that time in his company.
With a sigh, she tucked her glasses away and initiated another effort at rapport.
“Have you worked long in Khimgorod?” She offered a friendly smile.
“No.” He spoke without a flicker of warmth or any other human emotion.
The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2) Page 2