“What do you have in mind?” Peter asked.
“I have in mind a visit to my old friend. I believe he lives in the area—I keep track of old friends like him,” Dane said.
Joe nodded. “If you mean ex-KGB Colonel Anatoly Ivanov—or Colonel in the new Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR, depending what year it is and who’s asking. He’s listed in the file and his address is 32 Willow Park, Chestnut Hill. Nice address. His granddaughter is a student at Boston College.”
“That’s why he lives in the area. To protect her? Or did he get sentimental in his old age?” Shana asked.
“We’ll ask him,” Dane said. Her stomach did a flip and the rush of pleasure made her knees wobble like a twelve-year-old getting her first kiss. Dane had said we—he’d included her. They were still partners.
“Granddaughter’s relation to Spartak’s?” Dane asked Joe, avoiding her smile.
“She’s his cousin,” Joe said.
Dane looked speculative and said, “There’s more to this story than we’ve uncovered. I have a feeling we’re missing something big here. It doesn’t add up somehow.”
Shana nodded agreement, then ducked out to the ladies’ room. He watched her until she disappeared from sight and Peter caught his attention.
“Keep your phone on—we’ll be tracking you and waiting for a backup call if you need us,” Peter said. “I’ll call David. He’ll join us for coffee.” Peter smiled.
Joe said, “I’ll get you some … provisions.”
Dane nodded. Joe might be quiet, but he had a quick, practical mind, especially for details. He clapped Joe on the back as the man walked by. Their eyes met in mutual understanding and respect. Dane felt that deep-down certainty that he and Shana would be backed up no matter what. No matter if the FBI gave them hell for messing up their operation.
Shana turned and gave the group a last look before going through the door in Dane’s wake. He let go of her arm, but that was only because his magnetic hold on her had taken over once again. She felt its irresistible pull. And knew he was damn well aware of it.
Now that she had her investigator’s thinking cap back on, the distraction of worrying about Dane was pushed aside for the moment. She’d been troubled ever since Marian described the girl with Mr. Cool as a dark-eyed Latina type. Father Donahue’s description of one of the possible mothers was a dark Latina type too. But Paulette’s coloring was lighter and she had blue eyes. Father Donahue had dark eyes. And the priest wasn’t sure who the mother was. Could they be looking for the wrong woman?
Dane picked up a paper with the address written on it, took Shana by the arm again, and headed toward the car. Today, this moment, she didn’t mind Dane’s hold on her. It felt comforting and right. He seemed to need to hold onto her. As much as she needed to be held onto.
Joe was busy loading the car up with some things—provisions from the pantry, whatever that meant—and Shana knew there was a gun or two included. She was already armed, but extras never hurt.
“You might need these.” Joe closed the backdoor of the car and tossed them a set of keys. Dane caught them with his hand like he’d been playing first base all his life.
Chapter 12
“I’m driving,” Shana said.
“You’re lucky you’re coming along, girlie.” Dane vaulted around the front of the car and opened his door. That stopped Shana in her tracks with her mouth open. He pulled open his door, aware of the rush going through him—a combination of relief and the call to action. His body always responded when he had a plan of action, but he needed to keep himself under control. The rush was massive. And maybe scary.
Shana looked scared as she got into the car and sat next to him.
“I like Joe as the driver better. He opened my door for me.”
“Say it.”
“Joe has himself under control.” She lowered her voice. “You going to be all right?”
“I’m your partner. In for a penny.” He started the car. That was the best answer he could give her, even though he knew it was a non-answer. Strangely enough, she looked satisfied as she turned to look straight ahead. If he didn’t count the fact that she braced one hand on the dashboard as if she were ready to crash or be ejected in the next moment, he’d say she looked perfectly confident in him.
“You know where we’re going?”
He pulled out the paper Joe had given him and typed the address into the navigation panel. The governor had state-of-the-art equipment. Not necessarily his cup of tea, but he’d take advantage of the advantages.
“That takes care of navigation.” He looked over at her and smiled at her scowl. “What are you going to do, girlie?”
“Cover your back.”
He patted her thigh for the comfort and warmth—more for him than her.
“We’re outta here.” He took a breath and attempted to notch it down again, then put the car in gear and drove from the governor’s mansion driveway at a reasonable speed. It wasn’t yet dawn. He looked at his watch.
“I figure we have three hours before we turn to pumpkins.”
“What?”
“You don’t know your Cinderella allusions?” He shook his head.
“Sure I do. But I never pegged you to use one.”
“We’ll need to get to the heliport to take off for the Vineyard in three hours,” he said. He turned the car and drove down an empty main thoroughfare toward Newton. He only needed the navigator in a pinch. He knew Boston and the environs well enough. It didn’t take long. He’d always considered this a miniature city compared to LA and Chicago. Not to mention New York.
“What’s the game plan?”
He knew she would ask and the truth was that he didn’t have a game plan.
“I’ll come up with one before we get there. Or maybe we’ll knock on the door and my old friend will answer and we won’t need to play games.”
“Seriously? You aren’t really ‘old friends’?”
“Actually, yes. We parted on good terms. By good terms I mean he owes me one. I had figured he’d be dead by now. I hadn’t heard anything in a long while. Haven’t bothered looking him up.”
“He would prefer not to pay back the favor?”
“Who would? I mean anyone who knows my line of business would be crazy to—”
“I get the picture,” Shana said and folded her arms, the soft glowing health of her skin and rounded muscles of her biceps plump and inviting enough to squeeze. They crossed and covered her chest like a womanly shield. Her chin was up and her scowl was at the ready. She was his warrior princess set to go at his behest.
“You look beautiful—you know that?”
“Don’t start again,” she turned to him so he could see her reluctant good humor through the exaggerated scowl.
“Again? Did I miss something?”
“You’re going to miss a turn if you don’t pay attention to where you’re going.”
He took the ramp onto Storrow Drive West and picked up speed. Still no traffic. This was a perfect time of night to drive—to go on a mission. His favorite time. He couldn’t have planned it better if he’d been trying. Which he hadn’t. The idea that he was going through with this—that he was taking on the responsibility—the fight—to protect another baby—caused a squirming sensation in his gut like someone had a big spoon and they were stirring him up from the inside. He loosened his grip on the wheel a notch and banished everything but the here and now from his head.
“We get there and I go in. You stay outside the door to back me up.”
“Doesn’t he have security?”
“Probably a dog and someone inside. It’s Newton, Massachusetts. Maybe some alarms but that won’t matter—he’s home at this time and he won’t want the police barging in—especially when he sees it’s me.”
He stopped talking and drove fast, remembering the exit and the street without the pesky navigator chirping at him. Once on Anatoly Ivanov’s street, he slowed, pulled over, and shut the car down t
wo blocks out.
“Maybe we should call first,” she said. They faced each other. He knew she wasn’t afraid; it was actually a good tactical suggestion.
“I don’t have his number with me—it’s on the secure computer—or on the air gap drive back at the beach house.”
“I’m ready when you are.” She lifted her bag with the gun and took it out. Still the Century Arms CZ 82.
“A skimpy 18mm?”
“It’s all in how you use it.” She gave him a double brow lift. He loved this girl.
“I go in first and check for dogs. Joe gave me some meat for the occasion.”
“He gave you meat?”
“While you were in the girls’ room making a pit stop for the road.”
“We drank a lot of coffee.” She scowled her Shana the beautiful scowl that only made her look like a mischievous sexpot imp. He didn’t tell her in words, but his grin might have made his thoughts obvious.
“I have a gun,” she said.
“Let’s do this.” Dane opened his door, grabbed the brown paper bag filled with ground sirloin from the backseat, and got out. Shana followed suit.
They approached the address slowly, walking arm-in-arm in case of patrol cars, and scoped the place out. The dogs announced their arrival at Anatoly’s gated driveway. The place was a massive brick Tudor. Dane waved the bag of meat in the dog’s direction, talked to the two animals quietly, and had them under control within a minute. No lights came on in the mostly darkened house. He could see a hint of light probably in a back room far into the depths of the mansion.
“Looks like Anatoly went medieval and got himself a castle. Watch out for the moat.”
“Seriously. How do we get past the gate?”
“We ring the buzzer.” He pressed the brass button embedded in the cement fence post to the left of the gate and heard a gruff voice ask in a Russian accent who they were. Dane answered in Russian.
“What did you say?” Shana whispered, moving close to him. He noted she had her hand on the gun she’d transferred to her pocket.
“I told him I’m their boss Anatoly the Holy’s best friend from Lashkar Gah, Afghanistan. It’s where we met and carried out a mission together many years ago when we were on friendly terms—using the term ‘friendly’ broadly.”
There was no response from the buzzer intercom for a few beats and Shana was about to say something—most likely smartass—but Dane raised his hand in a stop sign. After a beat more the gates started opening. He and Shana slipped in and headed for the front door where a few lights popped on to greet them. Not the massive searchlights he noted at each eave of the structure, but the front door welcome lights. He didn’t let that fool him. There might not be any real moats, but he was sure good old Anatoly had a moat mentality.
Two large men dressed in black T-shirts and jeans and carrying Makarov Mp-443 Grachs—Russian semiautomatic hand guns—stepped outside the door on the wide brick front portico and waited for them to come up the steps. He and Shana stood just below the bottom step on the walkway. Dane put a hand out to stop Shana from going any further. He decided not to go up the three steps until he saw Anatoly, to make sure the man was still in charge. Anatoly had to be over seventy years old.
“Is Anatoly up?”
“Step forward,” the larger man, on the left, said.
“Tell him I’ll wait out here.”
“He’s inside—preparing coffee for his visitors,” he said, and his compatriot chuckled.
Dane crossed his arms and kept a neutral face. Shana stood at his side without moving or speaking. She was an excellent partner. They all stood there at an impasse until Dane heard a voice from inside calling out in Russian. Dane couldn’t be sure, but he thought he recognized a few swear words.
The two men put their guns into the backs of their jeans and stepped inside the door, gesturing Dane and Shana forward. Dane stood still. He watched the bigger guy’s eyes. Finally, the man put up his arms and his compatriot followed suit.
Dane moved forward and Shana stuck with him as they went up the three steps, through the massive door, and past the doormen. They landed inside a room-sized entryway with an iron chandelier hanging from two stories above their heads. Dane stepped out from under it and walked toward the open door on the right, where soft light spilled into the entry. Pushing the door open all the way before entering, he kept Shana behind him.
He didn’t trust Anatoly after all. He glanced back toward their welcoming committee. They stood inside the now closed front door, but their hands were down and ready to grab their weapons as they watched him and Shana.
“Anatoly—you in there?” Dane called into the room.
“Come in already, Mr. Blaise. I won’t shoot you.” The Russian spoke with a less heavy accent than he used to have and laughed.
While he was laughing, Dane darted forward inside the door, out of view of the doormen, and raised his gun in front of him and at the old man, Anatoly Ivanov.
“Toly, old boy—I didn’t know you went with the SVR after the KGB ditched you?” That was to let him know Dane was up-to-date on his intel—though he was not.
“Sure. I did a stint before—how you call it—retiring. I’m an old man on a pension now enjoying my golden years here in the States. How are you, old man?”
Shana had ducked into the room and pulled the door closed behind her, gun out and pointed center mass at their host.
“I see you brought backup. Very nice,” he said, as he looked Shana over. Shana, of course, did not flinch. Dane had seen her deal with the same reaction from every man she encountered every damn day of the week. As far as he could tell, Shana was completely immune to it. Probably expected it. Certainly treated it as situation normal. He let his gaze rest for a serious beat on Anatoly before he spoke.
“I’m still in business. As you may have guessed.” Dane lowered his gun and stuck it back into his pants under the shirt. Shana kept hers out for a couple more ticks. Anatoly gestured them toward some comfortable-looking chairs and he took the couch.
“Even as gracious a host I am being, I assumed this was not a social call.” The man picked up a cup from the table in front of him and took a sip. Dane couldn’t be sure it was coffee—it was probably laced with vodka or brandy, knowing Toly.
“I can’t wait to find out what you want. Are you calling in your favor after all these years? How many has it been?”
“So many years you owe me interest.”
Toly smiled one of those not-really-a-smile smiles. Dane decided it was time to get to the point.
“We need you to back your men off on their baby selling operation—the baby farm needs to cancel their harvest.”
“All these years and you don’t know me well. What the hell is a baby farm? You know I am not in the baby selling business. I am officially retired from all business.”
“Who took over the reins?” Dane could play that game too. He’d be interested to see if Toly threw someone under the bus.
They stared each other down for a while. Then Dane said, “This could be a long night at this rate. Maybe I’ll invite some of my friends to join the party.” He knew Anatoly knew this was code for calling in backup—law enforcement in particular. Shana didn’t say anything and didn’t react. She watched the Russian and the door, a tricky task since they were in opposite directions, but he appreciated the perfection with which she played her role. He was thinking he’d need to reward her, when Toly threw up his hands.
“Okay. You have me. I still keep in touch. I dabble enough to know about some trouble at the club last night.”
“The Garage Club? You know about that.”
Toly nodded. “I confess I didn’t know for sure it was you. Not until you mention this despicable term—baby farm. That I am not lying about—I have no baby farm. I have rumors. Some missing women lately. Bad for business.”
Dane badly wanted to ask him what business he was referring to—drugs or prostitution—but that was small potatoes compare
d to the baby farm business and he desperately wanted to protect Paulette—from Mr. Cool and from the FBI.
So he said, “Glad to hear it, Toly. I didn’t think for a minute you were personally involved. But I need you to get control of the guy who is—I have a name. I wonder if he’s any relation of yours—Spartak Ivanov.”
Toly nodded his head. “My no-good grandson. I will get control. It is done.” Dane was skeptical and wondered how much control the old man still had. They would soon find out.
“In exchange you will make sure the FBI and other alphabet soup people stay away—they can have Spartak. I don’t want him any more, but leave the rest of the men to me.”
It was Dane’s turn to nod his head and he figured it was Toly’s turn to wonder if Dane had the clout to deliver. Hopefully they were more than a couple of has-been posers in this game and could still carry it off.
“And one more request,” Dane said as he rose. “I need to find a woman who recently had a baby. Her baby is about three months old and we think her name is Lara.”
The last reaction Dane expected was for Toly to jump from his chair and rush toward him.
Chapter 13
“What do you know about my granddaughter? Where is she?” His tone was harsh. Only the small coffee table separated them. Shana was on her feet and at the ready. Dane knew Toly saw her out of the corner of his eye—ever the aware, cagey operative that he was. But Dane was aware of the two thugs in the hall and an untold number on standby. None of this helped with his confusion.
“Lara is your granddaughter? Then Paulette is your great-granddaughter?”
“What do you know about Paulette?” Anatoly growled, balling his fists.
“The baby is safe—” Dane meant to reassure him, but when Anatoly came at him wielding a previously hidden knife, he instantly realized that the old man assumed he’d kidnapped his granddaughter and her baby to leverage him for something.
Not bothering to ask Toly to stop, or to give fair warning, Shana pulled her gun and took a shot in the air over Anatoly’s head. Dane didn’t startle as badly as the older man—it could have been his relative youth or it could have been he was used to Shana’s occasional impetuousness. He took the opportunity to grab the knife away—without cutting himself—and to push the old man back down into his seat.
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