The men all wore their hair cropped short, with buzz-cut beards. Wires snaked from under their collars into their ears. Under their arms their suit coats bulged.
Horse parked the Jeep on a side street about a block away. “I’m not really dressed for an evening in a club.”
He paused by the fender and a tingle dropped through my body as he looked me up and down. “You’re dressed for action pretty much anywhere,” As he held out a hand he said, “Whatever else, Vesper, even if you wore a tent you’d still look like lit dynamite.”
At the door he took out the card and showed it to one of the doormen.
The doorman looked at the card and reached to take it. Horse said, “You see this name on the card? Is that you?”
“No.” The man’s voice was a barely tamed growl. “I take card to him. He says if you come in.”
The man reached for the card again. Horse took him by the wrist and pulled his arm up and back. With a hand on the man’s shoulder, Horse pressed him until his face was almost level with the gold motif on the black carpet in the club doorway.
“No,” Horse hauled the goon’s arm high in the air until the man let out a grunt. “I tell you what. You take message to him. Then, I decide if I give him card.” Horse mimicked the accent perfectly.
The man’s face reddened with anger and Horse gave his arm a wrenching twist. “Understood?”
He nodded. Horse pushed harder. “Yes.” The man groaned. “Okay, okay.”
The other three bouncers’ eyes gleamed like knives. One of them indicated with his fingers for Horse to show him the card. He looked at it, tilted his head to one side and had a quick chat into his cuff. After a couple of moments he ushered us through the doors and into a plushly carpeted, glass-sided elevator that catapulted us up the side of the building.
At the top we were met by another man, blonde and dressed like a Maître-d’ who guided us into a buzzing clubroom. We passed through a noisy, high-ceilinged cocktail bar, stacked with illuminated bottles. Lithe women in thin strings of colorful sparkle danced on podiums and at tables. Girls draped their toned bodies on banquettes and in booths, around and over men in business suits with wolfish eyes and shark-like grins.
We were shown to a secluded booth with a discrete view of the club and the expanse of Manhattan through the floor to roof windows.
“Allow me to bring you some refreshments. Would you like cocktails, snacks? If you would like to dine with us, we have an excellent chef.”
Horse asked what I would like. I shook my head. He ordered two bourbons and I tried not to smile. The Maître d’ bowed from the waist, “Of course.” And backed out of the booth.
“Well,” Horse said, “This is a civilized step up from a gun battle on a windy roof.”
“If you call the hospitality of gangsters ‘civilized.’” It came out saltier than I had meant.
I was hot in the leather pants. My thigh was against his. I hadn’t meant for it to be. When the drinks came, he held his and looked in my eyes. “You fought well at Carmine’s. You stood and faced the fire.” He raised the tumbler and took a hit off the drink. “I was impressed.”
I wanted to take a slug of the smooth liquid myself, but the pressure of his thigh against mine was so distracting that it was hard to keep my thoughts organized. Whatever was coming, I knew that I would need a clear head.
All the time he was inside and he had rejected all of my attempts to see him, I wanted to understand why. What he said before told me that he still thought I was responsible for him going to jail. More than anything I wanted to make him understand that wasn’t how it had happened, not by a long shot. But I was riddled with unexplained guilt.
All the talk there had been in the Bureau office about how, ‘If this one wasn’t his, he’s got it coming for plenty of others,’ I hadn’t bought that, even at the time. I’m a law and order girl. I want people tried and held to account for what they’ve done. For what can be proved. None of that ‘roll of the dice’ talk ever sat well with me.
If someone committed a crime, we were supposed to prove it and let them face the consequences. That ethos was a big part of what had attracted me to the Bureau in the first place. It seemed like it ran on strict rules and it didn’t deviate. It took me a while to realize that it wasn’t that way in every Bureau office, or in every department.
Just like any other enforcement branch, there were people who talked about ‘shades of gray,’ and ‘redressing the balance,’ and all the other things that were used to excuse what I saw as straightforward corruption. There were even people like that in AC. Specialist anti-corruption Agents who would turn a blind eye or plant a piece of evidence.
“Horse,” I meant to just raise my hand, but when I put it down somehow it wound up on his thigh. I had already started, “There’s something I need to tell you.” In the dark booth with Manhattan sparkling behind him, his eyes glimmered.
Then another voice interrupted me. “My friends. Tovariches. I am Vassily.”
A tall man with short silver hair stood in the opening to the booth. His gray eyes shone over a pair of dark shades. “Welcome.” He extended a big hand. On the back of that hand was a tattoo. The design was a familiar motif but looked as though it had been executed by a first-rate calligrapher. It looked imperial. “Thank you for coming. May I know your names?”
His smile was warm and conspiratorial, but deadly at the same time. “At least the names you will allow me to know you by.”
“I’m special agent Vesper Cross.”
“I’m called Horse.”
“Of course. I know of you both, but independently.”
STAYED NEXT TO Vesper as Vassily took us to his private office. His regulation goon size must have been XXXL. The two who trailed behind us were even bigger than the ones on the door. His office had a breathtaking window and was big enough for a library.
“Mischa,” he told one of the flunkeys, “Check the fire exit. Make sure it’s been properly closed.” The goon crossed the room and left through a small door on the far side. As Vassily took his place behind the huge, ornate desk, the other goon made to search me.
“Your arms. Up, please.”
I hit his throat with the heel of my hand. Glassware shook as I slammed him against the big bookcase. His eyes blazed, even as he spluttered and choked. He was going to take some more subduing, I could see it. I was ready to body slam him, low.
“Armand,” Vassily’s voice was smooth. “I don’t think we need to worry about whether or not our friend is armed.” The bodyguard relaxed immediately and even offered me a gentle smile.
Vassily said, “If he wanted a gun, he could probably just use yours. Let’s let him be.”
“Of course.” He straightened his tie. His eyebrow arched as he told Vassily, “He’s good, this one, no? I like him.”
Vassily smiled a little at that and nodded in reply.
Armand said, “Can I kill him, boss?”
Vassily paused and his sly grin held for a moment. “Not at the moment, Armand.” And he looked at me. “Maybe later.”
I patted Armand’s cheek. “You can try, Armand.” And I smiled. “Any time you like.” He smiled back.
Vassily invited Vesper and I to sit and we took the nice leather padded chairs in front of the desk. They were just noticeably smaller than the one behind it where Vassily swiveled and grinned.
“I gather you have a card of mine. May I see it?”
I handed him the card. He ran his thumb along the edge and over the corner. “You don’t mind telling me how you came by it?”
“Carmine Monreale gave it to me earlier this evening. But I think you knew that.”
“Yes, I knew were the card came from.”
“He told me to ask you about the boilerhouse project.”
Vassily’s face froze. His smooth smile was still in place, but it as like the light went off and there was nothing behind it anymore. His eye stayed on me as he reached into the desk. Instinctively my upper body l
ocked and my hand hovered, ready to grab my gun. Vassily lifted a phone and tapped the screen before holding it to his ear.
His smile came back to life as he said, “Carmine. What a pleasure.” He pushed back in his chair and he smiled as his voice lowered. “I hope that you are well this evening.” He listened a moment.
“Of course. And that gentleman is with me now. With his beautiful companion.” His eyes focussed with a locked intensity as he looked over Vesper’s curves. The urge to grab a weapon was so strong that I had to take a breath.
“Is she now?” His brow lifted. “I shall have to watch her very carefully.” Then, “The gentleman mentioned something.” He waited. “That’s right.” He nodded as he listened a while. “Well, if you say so, Carmine. I just wanted to be sure we all sat around the same table.” He smiled and nodded. “Of course, my friend. And you. A la prossima. Ciao.”
“Well now,” he put the phone back in the desk drawer and closed it. “You two are a surprise.”
Vesper said, “What can you tell us about it, Vassily?”
Vassily tapped the card on his desk as he looked from Vesper to me and back. “You,” he looked in my eye, watching as he spoke. “Not very much. You’ll understand.” Then he looked at Vesper. “Her? Very much less, I’m afraid.” When he said that I had an urge to grab him. Slap him around. Make him deliver. Something. Even though I knew it wouldn’t work. And, if I acted in a rage like that, his goons would be on me like a landslide.
Their training probably wasn’t as good as mine, and their skills may not have been as sharp, but if I gave in to an outburst of temper, it would slow me down, make me sloppy. I sat back and concentrated of being calm. Breathe deep. I was immediately annoyed with myself.
The frustration, I knew, came from having my priorities skewed. If I grabbed Vesper by the arm, marched her outside and left her there with a guard, Vassily would tell me a whole lot more. He had said as much.
So I stood. The goons reached for the insides of their jackets. Vassily’s smile sharpened as he raised the fingers of one hand and the goons relaxed. I took Vesper’s hair and pulled her up. Dragged her to the door. Opened it and shoved her outside. The feeling of her hair, soft and warm, bunched tightly in my fist, made me think of that night. I pushed the thought back down, though it wouldn’t go all the way. As I dragged Vesper, I tried to manoeuvre to get a look in her eye, give her a glimpse of mine. But she wouldn’t lift her eyes.
No matter. I shoved her outside and grabbed the nearest goon by the smooth lapel of his expensively tailored suit coat. I pulled him so my nose was against his. “I’ve counted all of her bones, none of them are broken. If I come back and there’s a even a hair out of place, I’ll tear you in two.”
I shoved him outside with her, slammed the door behind me and returned to face Vassily across his desk.
“So. Tell me.”
His eyes sparkled, as though he had appreciated the show. “Drink, American?”
“Bourbon.”
He got two glasses and pulled a bottle from a shelf and poured two decent shots. He took his time, letting me watch that he served the drinks. He didn’t click his fingers. And giving himself time for whatever he was going to tell me. We drank.
Vassily told the goon with his hands prettily folded, “Check the fire exit.” And motioned back over his shoulder with his thumb. “Wait there till I call you.”
The goon nodded and stepped behind Vassily and out of a door at the back of the room.
“Okay. This boilerhouse thing.” He sat back. I was very surprised that Carmine even told you that much.” His eye was steady on mine. “Nobody has even heard that word.” I felt he was telling me the truth. Still, I was sure that he was a pretty expert liar. “Nobody outside the group knows that it exists. Nobody who’s still breathing that is.”
“You’re saying I’m in danger just by knowing. Okay. Wait up while I tremble.”
He was in no hurry. I waited.
“Carmine telling you, that didn’t put you in any danger.” He took a sip of the bourbon. “The man who you said came after Carmine, the guy who got a text message about your pretty pet Fed out there?” his eye gleamed. “Tovarich, if he’s after you, you can’t get any more dead than you are already.”
“So. Nothing you tell me is going to make that any worse.”
“If it got out that we had this conversation, I’d be on his list too, American.”
“Okay. But we’re here now. So it can’t get any worse for me, and it won’t get any worse for you either. Where has that got us?”
He was going to tell me something. I wouldn’t have been twitchy and impatient if Vesper wasn’t outside the door. Two days ago I was ready to kill her and I would have relished it, but she was steadily becoming my fatal weakness.
“Okay.” He sat forward with his hands clasped together on the desk. “There’s a group. It’s a very tight group and it gets things done. Everyone in the group will do whatever another member needs, but its main purpose is to get things from the places of power. Politicians. Lawmen. Security services.”
Thinking about what happened at Carmine’s place gave me an idea. “Military contractors?” I asked him. He paused. Then he nodded.
“It’s not a big group, but it has one fucking hell of a reach. City Hall, the Senate. All of the agencies there’s somebody. All of them. You want something and you got the right connection, you can get it done. Plus you need the buying power, of course.”
“Travel permits?” I asked him.
His mouth pursed as he looked at me. “All of those girls.” I tipped my head back, towards the door.
“Them?” he laughed. “You don’t think I find beautiful girls like those in some stinking, smoky hole in Bosnia? Promise them they can work as waitresses, come her and live like queens?”
“I believe it happens.”
“Girls are told stories like that, then they get bundled into crates. Next thing they know they’re on the quayside in Baltimore, or they’re locked up in some fleapit in New Jersey. Little Odessa maybe.” His head shook. “Those are not my girls. My girls, they’re from the Kirov ballet school or they’re Ukrainian show jumping champions. They don’t wait for a sugar daddy to sweep them out of this. They competed to come here. They want it. Spend their time with rich men, older men. They make great money, and they learn.”
“So they aren’t looking for a ticket out?”
“They wouldn’t take one.” I must have looked a little skeptical. Vassily leaned forward. “Those beautiful Russian girls? They break your heart. Spend a couple of hours with one of them, she make you fall in love so hard it hurts.” His eyes misted for a moment. “Happened to me. Sometimes it happens three, four times a month. Sometimes every day. God, when they make love.” He looked away for a moment. “Those girls, they’ve got sad Russian poetry that runs like a cord through their souls. Make you ache like winter, my God.”
I remembered how beautiful the women in the club had been.
Vassily shook his head. “With those girls, it’s real love and they really know how to make it.”
“So, all of your girls climb over each other to come here and work for you. They love it, they love you and you love them back. Everything in the garden is lovely. So. What do you need the boilerhouse for?”
“Actually, it is immigration and visa issues more than anything. Simple bureaucracy.” He took a nip of his bourbon. “All of it would work out through the normal channels, or nearly all, but it would take so long.”
“And time is money.”
Hunter: Perfect Revenge (Perfectly Book 3) Page 11