Framed

by Leslie Jones

  “Magnificent view, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Da. As beautiful as Moscow’s skyline. Still, nothing I’ve seen can rival the Kremlin when it’s lit at twilight.”

  “You’re Russian,” he said, gazing warmly into her eyes. “Zdrast vwee tye.”

  Fatianova laughed. “Hello to you, too. Clearly you do not speak Russian.”

  “Did I pronounce it wrong?” He chuckled, a warm, masculine sound. “No, I’m embarrassed to say that I’m one of those Americans who never mastered another tongue.”

  “No?” She fluttered her lashes and made her eyes sparkle. “Tongues are not the only way to communicate.”

  “True.” He shifted closer so that their arms brushed. “You take my breath away. You’re easily the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She ducked her chin, feigning modesty. “Thank you.”

  “May I buy you a drink? Or better yet, join me for lunch.”

  She set her empty glass on the edge of one of the curved metal planters. “Unfortunately, I’m meeting someone. Who is late, as usual.”

  “A . . . friend?” Was it her imagination, or did he sound disappointed?

  “A co-worker. We need to discuss a matter, but it shouldn’t take long.” Would he wait, or prowl after another companion? She hoped he would be patient. A recreational romp in the hay seemed just the thing to relieve her stress.

  “Then lunch it is.” He smiled wryly at her. “I’m sorry. That was presumptive of me, wasn’t it?”

  She brushed a hand over the sleeve of his cashmere coat. “I like a man who takes charge.”

  He immediately moved closer. “Then, after your meeting, meet me at the bar.”

  She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, then smiled coyly. “All right. I will.”

  “It’s a date. Don’t take too long.” He straightened and walked away, heading to the bar. She watched as a seat magically opened up as he approached. He unbuttoned his coat as he sat, then swiveled around to look back at her, raising a hand and smiling.

  A group of ladies gathered up their belongings and headed to the door. Fatianova appropriated their table before anyone else could, thoughts flickering back to her earlier idea. The fees to enter into the bidding to purchase her stolen nuclear bomb would more than cover the cost to rent a fancy yacht and a pilot for an evening.

  Pulling her smart phone from her trouser pocket, she opened her email. The window had closed an hour ago; eighteen people had responded to her invitation. A goodly number. She added the last three to her master list, then composed a short message.

  Applications have now closed. Wire the nonrefundable $10,000 entry fee to this account number. Details to follow.

  The waiter brought her drink, which wasn’t at all bad for an American attempt at a classic Russian drink.

  “Get me one of those, too, would you?” Fyodor said, settling into the adjoining wicker chair.

  “You’re late.”

  “I took the wrong Metro. Damned confusing maps.”

  “What can I get for you, sir?” The waiter hovered by Fyodor’s chair, his English momentarily jarring to her ears.

  “Bring him the same,” she answered, lifting her glass. Fyodor’s English barely passed muster. If he could even ask directions to the toilet, she’d be surprised.

  “Make sure he uses Stolichnaya Elit, not some cheap vodka.”

  Fatianova conveyed his order. The man jotted it on a pad and left.

  “Have you gotten through to your smuggler?” she asked.

  “Da. He had to lie low for a few hours.”

  “What happened?” Fatianova didn’t really care. As long as she got what she wanted, nothing else mattered.

  “He didn’t tell me, but he says he can’t risk crossing the border for a few weeks, at least.”

  She tried to quash her growing frustration. “Did you offer to pay more?”

  “Of course. He wouldn’t budge. At first, I thought he might be trying to steal our package and sell it on his own, but I’m convinced he doesn’t know what it is.”

  Be nice to him, she reminded herself, drinking half of her cocktail in one long swallow. She forced a smile. “I’m assuming you’ve thought of a solution?”

  “I didn’t need to. He gave me the name of a group he says might help.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugged, but Fatianova sensed his tension. He wasn’t nearly as confident as he sounded. “They call themselves the Citizens for a Free America. They’re neo-Nazis, like the National Socialist Party.”

  “And they’ll agree to go to Canada to retrieve my package?”

  “Our package. Don’t forget for one minute that you need me, Fatianova.” He dropped his eyes along her body. It didn’t matter what she wore; he always acted as though he could see her naked.

  She gritted her teeth. He disgusted her, but she would do whatever it took to secure a comfortable life for herself.

  She forced herself to smile as she raised her tumbler in a quasi-salute. “Of course I need you, Fyodor. We’re partners, aren’t we?”

  The waiter approached with Fyodor’s drink. She’d never been served so fast before. She, like most Russians, was used to waiting in long lines.

  He sipped suspiciously, then took a deeper drink. “I didn’t know Americans knew how to make a good Russian drink.”

  “When will you call them?”

  “As soon as I leave here. These people always need money for their guns and drugs. I’ll let you know what they say.”

  After he left, Fatianova stared into her glass, the activity and noise around her fading into nothingness. She couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry that Fyodor had to die. If he scored an American contact, he could live until his usefulness ran out. If he failed, she would kill him just for the sheer pleasure of it.

  Rising, she headed to the bar to find Cashmere Man.

  Chapter 16

  Saturday, February 18. 1:05 p.m.

  Viktor Sokolov’s Home. Boston, Massachusetts.

  Lark groaned as the panel van jolted against another pothole. The zip ties securing her wrists behind her and the cotton bag over her head prevented her from anticipating the rough ride. She could see dim light through the bag, but no concrete shapes. Her hysterical tears had finally subsided, but she still snuffled and hiccupped her grief through the gag.

  Mace was dead. She’d seen him shot, seen him fall and not move again.

  It was all her fault.

  If she’d never taken him to her hotel, if she’d believed him when he claimed not to be her enemy, maybe he’d still be alive. If she’d never gone to the Promenade with Kaley and her friends. If she’d never danced with him. If, if, if. She could drown in the ifs.

  Right now, she needed to concentrate on the whens. When the van stopped, she needed to be ready. When the two men in the back of the van tried to take her, she needed to fight. And when none of that freed her, she needed to be prepared for whatever came next.

  A cell phone from the front of the van jangled out one of those retro home-phone rings she hated. Loud, unnecessary, jarring noise. “Iggy. Yeah, boss. Headed there now.”

  Where? Where were they headed? Hearing the brief conversation slammed home the danger of her current situation. Shivers of fear replaced her grief. Logic said she was about to meet Palachka. Would he hang her from a meat hook in an abandoned warehouse? Shove needles under her fingernails? Cut off her ear?

  With her whole glorious life spreading before her in high definition, being shot execution-style, a single bullet to the back of the head, seemed abrupt and grossly unfair. In the movies, mobsters tortured their victims to get information out of them, then killed them. The mobster wouldn’t believe her if she claimed innocence. He would continue the torture until he got the answer he wanted.

  What was the question?

  The van turned onto a smoother road. Its suspension sucked, but at least the jolting eased. After a few miles, they merged onto a highway. The van rattled
from the increased speed, and she heard other cars around them.

  They got off the highway and onto surface streets, stopping at several red lights. Would anyone hear her if she started screaming? Not through the gag. When the van finally stopped and the engine died, her fear came roaring back. She tried to steel herself for what was coming, but already knew she wouldn’t hold up under torture. She had no tolerance for pain.

  The doors opened, and one of the men grabbed her arm. She fought for her freedom, fought against the hands hurting her, kicked as strongly as she could. One heel connected with flesh.

  “Fucking bitch.” One of the men twisted her arm up behind her, forcing a gasp of pain from her. Momentarily stunned, she was helpless as he simply lifted her down as though she were a bag of flour. One man took each arm and pulled her forward. Something blocked the sunlight. A building?

  A door opened, and the men dragged her inside.

  “Stairs,” Iggy said. “Go down. Come on. Do it.”

  She fumbled to find the first step. They yanked her down, causing her to stumble. She fell the last few stairs, grunting as she hit concrete. The men went back up the stairs and shut the door.

  Struggling to sit up, she listened for any sound. Nothing. No light penetrated the bag over her head. Wherever she was smelled musty, and the floor chilled her bottom. She worked her tongue around the gag, finally managing to push it out of her mouth. It hung around her neck. At least now she could take a deep breath.

  How could she get herself free? She stretched out on the concrete, laying her head along the ground, and tried to use the faint roughness of the floor to help drag the cotton bag off her head. After a few minutes, she realized she wasn’t making any progress. Knowing she would bump into something eventually, she stood, taking tiny, tentative steps.

  Her stomach hit some sort of plastic bin. She stepped sideways, grunting as her ribs connected with something solid. Turning around, she felt along it with her bound hands, eventually finding the corner of what seemed to be some sort of workbench. She slid into a squat, trying to catch the bag on the corner. After the third attempt, she succeeded in shifting the bag to the top of her head, and wasted no time in shaking it off.

  She was in a basement. Sunlight trickled in from a horizontal window near the ceiling. Even if she could get her hands free, she’d never fit through the window.

  She spent the next hour exploring her prison, but found nothing she could use to get herself free. In fact, it looked to her as though this basement had been designed for this very purpose. Finally, she sat down on the bottom stair, defeated.

  If Mace were here, he’d have no trouble getting himself free. Tears trickled down her cheeks. The thought of his strength, his humor, his fierceness all snuffed out in an instant choked her, and she began to sob.

  Eventually drained, she curled onto her side. Waiting like this made it all so much worse. When would Palachka finally come for her? And what would happen when he did? The light coming through the window shifted around to the west, then faded entirely.

  She fell asleep.

  The door at the top of the stairs banged open, jerking her to wakefulness. Iggy and the other man stomped down and lifted her unceremoniously to her feet, pushing and shoving her upward. She stepped into a kitchen.

  “He’s waiting.” A woman, her voice pitched low and hurried, made shooing motions. “Go up right away.”

  Iggy lifted a knife in her direction. She backed away, heart thumping, but hit a wall. He spun her around and flattened her against it with a hand between her shoulder blades. She squeaked in dread, but relaxed as the zip tie around her wrists tightened, then fell away.

  Iggy pulled her out of the kitchen and through a foyer. She caught sight of herself in a round mirror above a console table, and couldn’t stop the slightly hysterical titter that bubbled up. Her careful makeup had smeared, her hair stuck out in all directions, and her bridesmaid dress was ruined. The lace had torn at her shoulder and above her right breast, and part of the hem of the skirt hung down to her knee. She’d lost an earring.

  She looked like she had at eight, when she’d run away from her parents’ summer home in Nantucket. Her younger self had evaded search parties for three days before hunger forced her to take refuge in their caretaker’s cottage. For that, her mother grounded her for two weeks, causing her to miss the scheduled class trip to the zoo. She refused to speak to her mother the entire time. She’d been dying to feed a giraffe.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Shut up,” one of the men growled.

  Lark shut up. She didn’t want to get kicked or punched, and annoying her captors wouldn’t accomplish anything. The true threat lay with whoever had ordered her kidnapping. Instead, she looked around. To her right, a cozy sofa sat in front of a gas fireplace. Some sort of metal table was tucked up against the sofa’s back. The area opened up beyond that, the wood floors gleaming. A mahogany conference table and six chairs sat on a rectangular carpet. Smooth wooden stairs on the other wall rose to the second floor, which is where her guards prodded her.

  She took her time on the steps, gripping the polished brass handrail, wishing she dared take her high heels off. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see. Turn right at the top.”

  She did as commanded, her heart starting to pound again. Whatever was going to happen was near. Part of her was relieved. The anticipation made it hard to breathe. She walked past the Plexiglas half wall, which prevented anyone from falling to the first floor, past an enormous abstract painting in blood reds and deep blues, to a door standing wide open. A guard put a hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her through the door, stepping in behind her.

  “She’s here, Mr. Sokolov,” he said respectfully.

  A broad-shouldered man in his late fifties rose from behind a dark bean-shaped desk and came toward her. “Thank you, Iggy. Wait outside, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her guard closed the door behind him as he left.

  Mr. Sokolov wore an impeccable three-piece suit that had obviously been custom-tailored for him. Despite the dark circles underneath, sharp intelligence gleamed from his eyes. His nose had clearly been broken more than once. He smoothed a hand over his already neat salt-and-pepper hair.

  “My name is Viktor Sokolov,” he said. His gaze met hers, as though looking for a reaction, then roved over her, taking in her torn dress, mussed hair, and red eyes. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Ms. Larkspur.”

  Two other people occupied the room. A slim man about her own age sat alone on a sofa ringed by three other chairs. His blue hair was tousled and spiky in the front and shaved on the sides. A gray T-shirt with a green logo on the front hung loose over jeans torn at the knees. The other, a heavyset man, sat in one of the chairs in front of Sokolov’s desk. She took in his thinning hair, bulbous nose, and heavy eyebrows, recognizing Palachka. He met her gaze with frigid, flat eyes that filled her with fear. This man would hurt her without hesitation or mercy.

  Still, Lark couldn’t help the fury and grief that flooded her.

  “I’ve never even heard of you at all,” she said, voice shrill. “But your sacks of boar shit killed my friend. Just shot him dead when all he was trying to do was stop you from kidnapping me.”

  Mr. Sokolov’s brows snapped down. He looked over at Palachka, who rose and moved behind her. She twisted around to glare at him. He crossed his arms, feet planted solidly on the carpet. His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

  “The man interfered.” His voice sounded as cold as the winter in his eyes.

  Sokolov nodded and shrugged. “Then Iggy had no choice. Your friend should have stayed out of it.”

  “Stayed out of it?” Rage swamped her. “You deserve a special place in hell, you murdering bastard!”

  He slapped her. Searing pain ripped through her face and she cried out, falling hard onto her shoulder. Jesus God, that hurt! Even after the spots stopped dancing in front of her eyes, her cheek still throb
bed like a motherfucker. When her vision returned, she found herself staring at a sideways set of navy pants and dress shoes. Hard hands dragged her upright and held her still while Sokolov grabbed her jaw in rigid fingers.

  “Nobody talks to me like that, you stupid little bitch. Am I making myself clear, or do you need another demonstration?”

  She’d never been struck in her life. The shock of it robbed her of breath.

  His grasp tightened painfully. “Do you understand?”

  She clamped her lips over the words that wanted to escape. Murderer. Monster.

  A soft knock on the door caused Sokolov to step back and drop his arm. Palachka, still gripping her arms, pushed her over to a chair and thrust her into it. She put a hand to her cheek and discovered it was already swelling.

  A young, attractive maid entered. She brought a coffee tray to the desk without a single glance around and poured hot liquid into a cup, adding some cream from a tiny pitcher.

  “Don’t piss him off.”

  She barely heard the urgent whisper. Lark rolled her eyes toward the young man on the sofa. “What?”

  “You don’t know him. This is him being nice.”

  She dropped her hand from her puffy cheek and pointed it at his bruised face. “Did he hit you, too?”

  He nodded, casting a furtive look at Sokolov. “And I’m related to him.”

  The maid picked up her tray. “Did you need anything else, sir?”

  “No.”

  Sokolov returned to his seat behind the desk and picked up the cup, inhaling deeply before sipping. He jerked his chin at Palachka, who went back to his seat, as well.

  “Mr. Sokolov, I’m pretty sure there’s been a mistake here.” She couldn’t help the wobble in her voice. The truth was, even through her anger she felt so frightened her knees knocked together.

  His brows rose. “Do you?”

  Lark took another deep breath. “I think you have me confused with someone else. Someone else who was at the Promenade the other night?”