Deputy Director for International Cooperation Anatoly Novikov spoke smoothly over her. Painfully polite, impeccably pressed and articulate, Novikov was the polished face Khimgorod showed the outside world.
Perfect English, of course. And a perfect load of horse manure from a bureaucrat living in the pocket of the Chemical Munitions Agency.
Over the years, Nikolai had met enough Moscow-bred political apparatchiks to recognize the breed.
Far more diverting, really, to admire the sinuous length of Skylar Rossi’s legs, displayed to considerable advantage between her pencil skirt and her sexy boots. Even the white lab coat flattered her slender frame, hinting at the supple sway of her hips beneath.
But Nikolai never made the mistake of mixing business with pleasure. He couldn’t afford to think of the woman before him as Skylar Dane Rossi, spoiled daughter of an international arms dealer, the heartless bitch who’d killed his little brother as surely as if she’d held a pistol to Kirill’s head.
She was the mark, that’s all. If he had to pull the trigger, he would feel no remorse.
He’d take care of her as ordered, one way or the other, then fly to the States on a new passport with the seven figures in hard currency he so desperately needed.
“Better yet,” she was urging, “my organization funds a training program in humane care and use of laboratory animals. You can apply by—”
“This institute is adequately funded by its existing clientele. We are not prepared to accept any foreign assistance at this time.”
Anatoly Novikov gripped her elbow to steer her around a particularly large puddle that gave the lie to his words. Like most of the Soviet-era military-industrial complex whose generous budgets had petered off when the Soviet Union collapsed, this chemical combine was falling down around their ears.
“Besides,” Novikov went on smoothly, “the Chemical Munitions Agency is our principal client. I am afraid the bleeding heart liberals and their animal rights crusade are not high on our commanding general’s priority list.”
“I see.” Skylar’s tone chilled noticeably. “Surely, Doctor, regardless of your funding source, you’ll wish to avoid the allegation that you’re torturing your mice? You’ll want to comply with international standards, and not merely for humanitarian reasons.”
Her companion appeared unmoved.
“As you can see, this research and development complex is largely inactive. The military chemical defense programs we implemented in Soviet times are no longer funded by Moscow.”
Behind them, Nikolai shot the bureaucrat a look of contempt. Hadn’t the man figured out by now that Skylar Rossi was far too determined to be misled by such a clumsy and ham-handed attempt at deception?
Nikolai was no scientist, of course. He’d studied Marxist-Leninism at the Friendship of Peoples University under a KGB scholarship, and that education was useless to him now. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize the Deputy Director was giving her the runaround, showing her only those facilities in the supersized complex that had fallen into disrepair.
Clearly the sensitive work was conducted in another building. The mayor might have pulled a few strings on Skylar Rossi’s behalf, but no local bureaucrat was going to pry the lid off that box—
The buzz of his mobile phone terminated his musings. Falling back another ten meters for confidentiality, Nikolai glanced at the display and flipped open his phone.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you. What’s the report on Slava?”
“Not good, Maestro,” Ilya said gruffly. “According to my sources, Slava and his brother left town after they fumbled the job with your American in Lenin Square.”
“For where?” Nikolai clipped out.
“The brother’s definitely on a flight to Croatia. Slava went to a friend’s dacha, they said—but no one seems to know where. He’s not answering his line.”
Unacceptable.
His fingers tightened around the phone as frustration seethed through him.
“Keep looking,” he said curtly. “We have our orders from the Ministry, and I need that money yesterday. Do you understand me?”
“Da, Maestro.”
He knew Ilya had to be chafing at this dressing-down, but his associate was professional enough to keep his emotions out of it.
Nikolai sliced a guarded glance down the vacant corridor, harshly lit by a single glaring bulb. “The mark returns to her hotel in an hour. With any luck, she should spend the next several hours resting or working in her room. If not, we’ll have another chance at her.”
“This time, we won’t miss,” Ilya grunted.
Nikolai paused, an unaccustomed twinge of discomfort squeezing his chest. If Skylar Rossi hadn’t had the devil’s luck—her father’s famous luck—she’d be dead twice over by now.
But Dane Rossi’s luck had finally run out. And not even a man of Nikolai’s talents could keep Dane’s brilliant, overly inquisitive, stubborn-as-hell daughter alive forever.
“Remember your orders, Ilya,” he said tightly. “No more mistakes. Or there will be…consequences. Tell that to Slava when you find him. Or do the job yourself.”
His associate rumbled assent, and Nikolai ended the call. He’d worked intermittently with Ilya Petrovich for fifteen years, and trusted him as much as he trusted anyone he worked with—which wasn’t saying much. They were both ex-KGB, both seasoned professionals, both ruthless when they needed to be.
When he drank, Ilya added a cruel streak and a nasty temper to the volatile mix. But Nikolai allowed none of his associates to drink on the job.
Ahead, Novikov steered Skylar through a heavy door, and Nikolai quickened his pace. When he strode into the laboratory behind her, his fast reflexes barely deflected him from running into the mark, who’d jerked to an abrupt halt.
Instinctively he put out an arm to steady her, one hand grazing the small of her back. Beneath her crisp white lab coat and the power suit she wore like Teflon armor, the lithe strength of her dancer’s body resonated like a plucked violin under his fleeting touch.
Nikolai inhaled, and her bright floral fragrance filled his head—subtle but unexpectedly seductive, especially from a woman who seemed to disdain cosmetics. As he lingered, hand still brushing her back, she turned to gaze up at him. With the movement, sleek tendrils of raven hair swung gently against her sculpted jaw. Behind the stylish black-framed glasses she’d donned for the tour, her sky-colored eyes were wide and startled.
As their gazes locked and held, his heart stuttered, a reaction hard and lethal as his Walther TPH semi-automatic pistol when the weapon bucked in his grip.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, as though she’d felt the same impact. Her tongue swept over the sensual curve of her lower lip, making her mouth glisten. Without warning, an electric charge of raw lust arced through him.
“Don’t be,” he said gruffly, breaking the contact between them. “It’s my mistake.”
Whatever else she was, Skylar Rossi was a beautiful woman. And he was a healthy, red-blooded male who’d always kept his sexual needs under tight rein. Perhaps too tight. He was disconcerted by the unwelcome distraction of his physical response to her—the mark, the last woman on earth he could afford to view as a sexual partner. It had been years since he’d allowed himself such an undisciplined reaction to any woman.
No doubt it was time for another careful, casual, arms-length liaison under an assumed name on some Caribbean island.
He found the prospect curiously unappealing.
Frowning, he scanned the row of sealed plexiglass chambers, the height of a man, that marched across the dank, airless room. A maze of sealed ventilation ducts and pipes, festooned with rust and mildew, twisted overhead. Apparently oblivious to the crosscurrents zinging between his companions, Anatoly Novikov was pointing out the high efficiency particulate air filters that trapped microscopic particles released from the testing chambers before they could contaminate the outside air.
Eyeing the plex
iglass compartments, Skylar Rossi fumbled to remove her spectacles.
“Madonna mia,” she breathed.
Nikolai instructed himself not to get involved. He was already too involved with this mark. Despite their private history, the secret connection that quivered between them, what he was doing to her was nothing personal.
Don’t get involved. Just walk away.
“What is it?” he said tersely.
Damn.
“These are aerosol chambers,” she explained, making a visible effort to maintain her poise, “for testing the efficacy of lethal airborne agents on live subjects. We use them at Edgewood, of course, for purely defensive research on animal subjects under the appropriate humane use protocols. Defensive research—on antidotes to counter chemical weapons—is permitted under the relevant treaty.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Her voice wavered. “I’ve never seen a test chamber this large.”
As he peered into the sealed chambers, even Nikolai felt his scalp crawl. They’d just been shown the unfortunate rodents Khimgorod used for research. But these chemical testing chambers were clearly designed for humans.
Novikov gave his American guest a tolerant smile. But Nikolai detected a flash of malice in the bureaucrat’s gaze, as though he was delighted to rattle her.
“In Soviet times, Dr. Rossi, these chambers were utilized for testing VX and other organophosphorus nerve agents…on monkeys. Just as you and your American colleagues did during the Cold War, I might note, at Edgewood.”
Novikov paused. “Highly unpleasant animals, monkeys. They stink and scream and throw things, and they have a nasty bite. Hardly deserving of one’s sympathy.”
Because he was observing the mark so closely, Nikolai noticed her white-knuckled grip on her briefcase and heard the tightness in her voice.
“They may be challenging animals to work with, Dr. Novikov, but that hardly makes them deserving of torture. Are you still working with primates here?”
“Naturally,” the doctor murmured, “all research efforts on defensive agents were halted when Russia signed the Chemical Weapons Convention. Consequently, this institute hasn’t tested chemical agents on monkeys in quite some time.”
Despite the smooth flow of words, the bastard’s tone was unapologetic.
The little prick is torturing monkeys and proud of it. There go his American assistance dollars.
Nikolai felt an unexpected kick of satisfaction at that prospect.
Certainly he himself killed men for money. In his experience, in the world he lived in, most marks richly deserved their fate. Law-abiding citizens with loving families, contented with their mundane lives, didn’t customarily wind up on a hit list. Unlike some of his associates, he’d always drawn the line at children and animals, who couldn’t even understand what was happening to them, much less have done anything to deserve it.
Nikolai might be a cold-blooded pragmatist, but he was not entirely devoid of professional scruples.
It looked like Skylar Rossi felt the same way about animal research, notwithstanding the demands of her scientific discipline. He was a keen observer of human behavior—had to be, in his job—and she wasn’t faking her revulsion. In fact, like the good little diplomat she was, the woman was doing her best to hide it.
She replaced her spectacles, retreating behind that convenient façade of scientific detachment, and swept loose tendrils of hair behind her ear.
“Where can I speak with the scientists who performed this research, Dr. Novikov? As former chemical weapons experts, they’re excellent candidates for ICSI funding. Precisely the community my organization seeks to engage in peaceful research with the West.”
“Many of those experts have retired,” Novikov said smoothly. “Those who have not are, regrettably, at a toxicology conference in St. Petersburg. However, I am authorized to show you the chemical analytical laboratory, if you’d like.”
She looked dissatisfied by his answer, and started to ask for something. But the buzz of his phone deflected Nikolai’s attention. He melted back into the corridor. A single glance at the incoming call with its suburban Maryland prefix had him pressing the phone to his ear, his gut knotting with worry.
“Irina?” he demanded softly. “Is it you?”
“Nyet, Uncle Kolya.” Immediately recognizing his nephew’s youthful voice, the affectionate nickname no one else dared use, Nikolai didn’t need the identification that followed. “It’s Misha.”
“What’s wrong, Misha?” Cautiously he pitched his voice lower. That knot of tension twisted tighter in his gut. “Has something happened to your mother?”
He’d always maintained a hermetic separation between his work and his personal life—such as it was—for his family’s protection. When he’d donned this persona for the Khimgorod job, he hadn’t even wanted to give his sister Irina this number. But this was no time to fall off the radar screen, not now when they needed him as they’d never needed him before.
“Yes, it’s Mama,” his nephew said tearfully. “She’s getting sicker, Uncle Kolya. She made me promise not to bother you, but she took her pills and she’s sleeping now, so I thought…”
“You did the right thing, Misha,” he murmured, slanting a glance behind him. No one else was in the corridor. In the aerosol chamber the mark stood within view, still peppering Anatoly Novikov with inconvenient questions about the facility’s staffing level and organizational structure.
He decided to prolong this risky contact another few seconds. “Is the nurse still coming every day?”
“Mama told her to stop,” the boy said. Nikolai muttered an explosive curse. “She says we need to save the money for—for her procedure. It’s this week, and she…she doesn’t have the money…”
Not wishing to alarm his nephew, Nikolai adopted a soothing tone.
“I’ve told her she’ll have the money, Misha, and she will. Every kopeck. I want you to give me the nurse’s telephone number. Can you do that for me?”
While the boy found the information and dutifully read it to him, Nikolai memorized the digits and fought to hide his spiraling concerns. Irina’s medical condition wasn’t his nephew’s fault. If anything, it was Nikolai’s.
Because of the dangerous work he did and the nasty characters he dealt with, he’d learned early and hard to keep his family at a distance, for their sake. If he hadn’t needed to spend the last six months under deep cover in Minsk, buried in the persona that job required, he would have known how rapidly his sister’s rare neurological disease was progressing. He would have discovered sooner this risky, illegal experimental procedure which was the only hope her off-the-grid neurologist held out for a patient with transverse myelitis in Irina’s advanced stage.
If he’d had recourse to a more conventional source of income, if he’d been the sort of man who had a birth certificate and paid his taxes, he would have been able to help her sooner, before this illness threatened to leave her a permanent quadriplegic.
If he’d chosen an ordinary career, like the career in competitive chess he’d wanted as a boy, Irina and Misha wouldn’t be in this mess right now.
But the KGB had gotten him early—abetted by his bastard of a father, who was one of their top agents. After Nikolai made his first kill for the glory of communism at age fifteen, career flexibility wasn’t exactly an option. With the KGB and its alphabet soup of post-Soviet successor agencies, once you were in, there was no getting out. He’d fallen off the grid and vanished for years at a time.
His sister’s pain and suffering, and his nephew’s terror during his long disappearance, were Nikolai’s fault.
While he reassured the boy, reached the home-care nurse and arranged for her reinstatement, Nikolai kept his tone confident, his bearing unconcerned. From a safe distance, he tailed the mark and her escort through the dingy, crumbling laboratories where the Soviet Union had developed and perfected its toxic poisons.
Although Skylar seemed fully absorbed in the incomp
rehensible chemical jargon the Deputy Director was rattling off, one never knew who else might be watching.
When he tucked the phone away, Nikolai’s resolve had hardened to cast iron. Skylar Dane Rossi held his sister’s fate in her perfectly manicured fingers, even as she’d held his brother’s fate eighteen years ago.
Nikolai had failed Kirill, but he wasn’t going to fail Irina and her son—the only family he had left, the sole remaining link to any remnant of humanity he’d ever claimed to possess. His orders from Moscow were clear and specific. The fee would be wired into his overseas account the moment he confirmed the job was done.
No matter how committed to her vocation Skylar Rossi appeared to be, no matter how smart and strong and even attractive he might find her, she was still the mark. She’d serve Nikolai’s purpose best when she was gone.
_____________________________________
Safely ensconced in the Deputy Director’s office, Skylar struggled to contain her frustration behind the tiny, brightly lacquered cup of bitter Turkish coffee Novikov had reluctantly served her. Within these dark-paneled walls, blazoned with framed awards and commendations for scientific achievement, stood the usual Soviet set-up. A massive desk dominated the room, overshadowing the flimsy table set in a T configuration where she and Nikolai Markov were seated.
The entire arrangement was intended to intimidate, to create an impression of awe and inferiority that would stifle any effort at candor. This was hardly the first time she’d encountered the ploy in one of Russia’s closed cities. Skylar never allowed herself to feel disadvantaged by it.
Instead, she kept her gaze pinned on her host, barricaded behind his desk.
“I must confess, Dr. Novikov, that I’m a bit disappointed not to meet your laboratory heads and senior scientific staff. Dr. Belov and I discussed this at length when we arranged this visit, and he assured me these scientists would be available for our dialogue.”
“I cannot speculate as to why Dr. Belov failed to inform you about the unfortunate conflict with this toxicology conference.” Delicately, Anatoly Novikov sipped his coffee. “Given the regrettable extent of his injuries, Dr. Below is not available to question.”
The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2) Page 6