Chapter 37 #2
Mak smiles silkily beneath his own mask. “Right now,” he says politely, “I may be your new best friend, Simon.” Turning to Agatha, he nods politely. “Madam Home Secretary,” he murmurs. “It’s been far too long since we last spoke.”
Agatha’s imperious stare drips with impressively contrived disdain. “I wish I could say the same, Mr. Tereschenko.”
“Tereschenko?” Lowbridge’s eyes widen, then dart nervously sideways.
There’s nobody coming to help you, motherfucker, I think coldly.
“Ah.” Mak lowers himself into the booth and slings one leg elegantly over the other. “My reputation precedes me, I gather.”
“What do you want?” Lowbridge’s pathetic attempt at bravado isn’t at all convincing.
“Rhys Stewart,” says Mak promptly. Ignoring Lowbridge’s empty glass, he pours Agatha a fresh whiskey from his own bottle. “It’s much smoother,” he murmurs, winking surreptitiously as he hands her the glass.
For the first time since her charade began, Agatha bites her lip to stop herself from smiling.
“Stewart?” Lowbridge, having missed their exchange, frowns in confusion. “What do you want with him?”
“I thought you understood who I am, Simon.” Mak smiles lazily.
“Intelligence is my business, and Rhys Stewart is neck-deep in the intelligence business. Rumor has it he’s about to start poking his nose into a North African country in which I have significant resources invested.
I’d like him to understand how things there are going to work.
” He hands Simon a cell phone. “Please give him a call. Invite him here to have a little chat.” He takes a leisurely sip of Scotch.
“He’s a Pigalle member, so he’s already been cleared.
And I’ve added him to tonight’s guest list as my plus-one. ”
Lowbridge stares at the phone like it’s a weapon. “How did you get that in here?”
“Dear boy.” Mak gives him an amused glance. “I installed the security here.”
Lowbridge gulps. “Why here? Tonight? Can’t you talk to Rhys some other time?”
“I’ve always found a little pressure and the right timing to be more effective than long conversations.
” Mak waves his Scotch airily at the tiers of seating surrounding them.
“And right now,” he says pleasantly, “I have over a dozen operatives in this room who have instructions to kill all three of you unless we come to an understanding by the time Miss Melikov takes the stage.”
Agatha gives a convincing gasp. Lowbridge turns deathly pale beneath his mask.
“I have no interest in your plans here tonight,” Mak goes on. “But if you wish to live long enough to execute them, I suggest you make that call.” He nods at the phone in Lowbridge’s hand.
The lights dim. On stage, the curtain goes up on the final warm-up dance before Zinaida’s. The audience leans forward eagerly, the tension in the room growing by the minute.
Lowbridge slowly lifts the phone. “It’s me,” he mutters into it, staring at Mak. “You need to get in here right now. Your name is on the door as Makari Tereschenko’s plus one. Don’t argue, Rhys,” he says harshly, clearly cutting Stewart off. “Just get here. Now.”
“Good choice.” Smiling, Mak takes the phone once Lowbridge has finished the call and slides it into his pocket. He glances at his watch. “Your friend has exactly five minutes.”
“You never said that.” Lowbridge’s voice shakes.
“Didn’t I?” Mak smiles blandly. “Madam Home Secretary,” he says, turning away from Lowbridge, “may I call you Agatha?”
“No,” says Agatha frostily, though I can detect the mirth dancing behind her eyes. “You most certainly may not.”
“I’m going to.” Leaning forward conspiratorially, Mak caresses her bare shoulder with one hand and puts his mouth close enough to her ear to almost nuzzle her neck. “Do you have any idea how utterly delicious you look in that dress?”
The home secretary quivers slightly, and I swear to God, actually stops breathing.
Bloody Mak. Despite the deathly seriousness of what is happening in the theater, I’m actually shaking with laughter. I reach for my earpiece to share it with Zinaida, then take my hand away.
Not tonight.
Maybe never again.
A familiar, hollow bolt of loneliness flashes through me, there and then gone.
In an instant, I remember the last time I felt that sensation: the night I was here with Roman, watching him and Mickey together.
I remember what I thought back then: the easy affection between them is so obvious it’s almost bittersweet to watch.
And I recall all too well the thought that followed that one: they’re family.
At the time, the loneliness came from my own certainty that I’d never experience that feeling myself.
It’s only now, when it feels like I might never know that easy affection again, I can recognize that feeling is exactly how I feel with Zinaida.
She’s my family.
I stare at the screens, my entire internal landscape shifting in a way that feels both exhilarating and liberating.
Zinaida Melikov is my fucking family.
Which means there is nothing I won’t do—nothing—to protect her.
Even if that means protecting her from herself.
The arrival of Rhys Stewart drags me back to the present, although my heart is thudding like a runaway train and my every nerve is scattered hell west and crooked.
“We got his location,” Paddy says in my ear. “And you were right. Kozlov was with him, along with an entire fucking army. We’ll wait for your word to take them out.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” I say, watching Stewart make his way through the theater toward Mak’s booth. “But make sure that’s all of them. And make sure Kozlov is taken alive. You know where to bring him.”
“Oh, hell yes, I do.” Paddy sounds almost gleeful, and I smile to myself. There’s something eminently satisfying about delivering real justice.
And nobody deserves that justice more than the pieces of shit we’re dealing with tonight.
I turn my attention back to Rhys Stewart, whose face visibly tenses as he sees who is seated in the booth. But he’s a harder customer than Lowbridge, so he masks it better.
“Rhys,” Mak says pleasantly, his arm still protectively around Agatha. “How good of you to come.” He glances at his watch. “And just in time, too. Your five minutes were almost up.”
Stewart’s eyes narrow, his eyes sliding to Lowbridge.
“He didn’t tell me about the five minutes,” Simon says defensively.
To his credit, Stewart takes a seat with every appearance of calm. “What kind of games are you playing now, Tereschenko?” Despite his world-weary attitude, I can see the trepidation lurking at the back of his eyes.
“Quite a simple one,” Mak says airily. “I heard about the recent arms deal you made with a certain North African country. Very lucrative for you, I’m sure.” He grimaces. “Unfortunately, it’s not in our own country’s interests. I’m going to need you to cancel it.”
Stewart sneers. “I didn’t think you had a country, Tereschenko.”
An oddly steely shadow crosses Mak’s eyes, and the hand caressing Agatha’s shoulder abruptly halts.
“If you think that,” he says softly, “you are very sadly mistaken, my friend.” Then, before Stewart can think too much on his words, Mak continues in his customary sardonic tone.
“In exchange for your cooperation in this matter,” he says, “you will of course be generously compensated with not only a position in another North African country, but another illegal arms deal, one which I can promise you will net you a far greater sum than the one I’m asking you to cancel.
You see?” he says, spreading his hands expansively and smiling around the table.
“I’m not an unreasonable man. Just a practical one. ”
“What guarantees do you have that I will get this position?” Stewart glares at him. “Or that this lucrative deal of yours will go through?”
“Rhys.” Agatha speaks in a low, tense voice. “He has guns on us as we speak. And if we don’t agree—right now—not only will we die, but tonight’s plans will be ruined.”
Stewart glances at Lowbridge, who gives him a slight nod.
“I am glad you see it my way, Agatha.” Mak busses her temple affectionately.
I almost explode with laughter, heady with the tension and anticipation.
He pulls a paper from his jacket pocket.
“I’m going to need you to sign this appointment approval, though.
” He hands her a silver pen. “Just to be sure.”
For the first time tonight, Agatha’s fierce glare isn’t feigned at all. “I’m not sure I’ve agreed to that,” she says through gritted teeth.
“Oh, you haven’t.” Mak smiles politely. “But you’re going to sign it anyway.” He leans forward, once again putting his mouth close to her ear. “You won’t regret it, Agatha, I promise.”
“Oh, I’d better not, Mr. Tereschenko.” Behind the shield of Mak’s head, she gives him a look that would demolish lesser men, but she signs the paper.
Mak hands it to Rhys Stewart, who eyes the contract warily.
“In case you still have hesitations,” Mak says, pulling out his phone, “give me your code, and I will transfer enough Mercura into your account to compensate for the lost deal, plus a bonus for your trouble.” His mouth curls when Stewart looks confused.
“Rhys, please.” He spreads his hands. “I’m a criminal, a traitor, and an arms dealer who is currently threatening your life.
What do you think I’m going to do—call the local bobbies to come and arrest you? ”
Stewart scowls. “Fine.” Grabbing the contract, he scrawls his signature across it, then snatches the phone from Mak and punches in a series of numbers before handing it back.
“Well, then.” Folding the contract and putting it in his breast pocket, Mak stands up and smiles beatifically at the table. “I think that’s everything we need, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Damn fucking straight,” I say into my comms, grinning. “On tape, in their own words.”
“Cooked as a Christmas fucking goose,” Paddy adds. “Can we grab the fuckers now?”
Below us, Mak puts his hand out to the home secretary.
“Agatha,” he says. “Why don’t you join me up in my private booth?
I assure you, it’s a great deal better positioned than this one.
With far better service. And,” he adds, lowering his voice, “there’s a barman named Rocco I think you’ll adore. He has extremely . . . unique skills.”
She looks between Mak and the men in the booth, then a slow, extremely satisfied smile spreads across her face. “Do you know what, Mr. Tereschenko,” she says, taking his hand and standing up, “I believe I just might.”
“Agatha!” Simon Lowbridge leaps up, glaring at her. “We’re not done here.”
“Oh, I’m certainly not.” Agatha pins him with the glare that has reduced dozens of junior ministers to quivering wrecks.
“But you, Simon, most definitely are. At last count, I believe we have you on conspiracy to murder and election manipulation, both in your own words.” She pulls the tiny microphone from her sequinned mask and waves it in his face.
“And that’s before we even start on exposing your abuse of government contracts to enable human trafficking, you utterly despicable piece of shit.
And as for you,” she goes on, turning her glare onto a quavering Rhys Stewart, “you deliberately fucked up multiple diplomatic deals that I not only helped broker, but which have cost our country billions of pounds. I intend to make damned sure you spend the rest of your life paying for that.”
“And me?” Lowbridge’s voice rasps in his throat. “What about the rest of my life?”
“Unfortunately, Simon,” Mak drawls, “I fear it may be filled with pain.” He looks up and nods at the tuxedoed security men surreptitiously making their way down the aisle toward the booth. “Yes,” he says agreeably. “A great deal of pain, I fear.”
I watch Lowbridge and Stewart being escorted, grim faced, from the theater as the curtain drops over the final warm-up dance, and the lights below dim as the set is rearranged.
The chatter subsides into a low, excitable murmur as the waitresses all hasten to ensure bottles are replaced and glasses filled before the star attraction begins.
“Paddy,” I murmur into my comms. “You’re clear to take out Kozlov and his men.”
“Copy that.” Paddy’s enthusiasm is unmistakable.
I scan the crowd for danger out of habit, but I already know the danger is done, either dead or about to be locked in the basement cells.
I turn back to the stage, all too aware that my decision to watch Zin from the privacy of the control room has fuck all to do with security and everything to do with my lethal edge of tension.
I touch my comms. “Zin,” I say quietly. “We’re clear.”
There’s a pause that feels endless.
“Thankyou.” Her quiet one-word response, when it finally comes, feels like a farewell.
I fight a savage urge to go backstage and pull her out of the theater altogether, but I know it’s too late to stop her performance.
What I don’t know is just how far she intends to take the dance.
The curtain slowly rises.
A wide set of stairs ascends from the stage, which has been made to look like a still lake. As the curtain lifts, so does a large crescent moon, slowly appearing over the top of the stairs to shine on the fake water below.
Cradled in the moon’s gleaming curve is Zin.
Even with a midnight-blue-and-silver mask molded around her face, leaving only the scarlet slash of her mouth exposed, she’s unmistakable.
At least, she is to me. But then I’ve been studying her every movement for months now.
One stilettoed foot is propped on the edge of the moon, exposing a seductive length of perfectly toned thigh.
She’s arched backward against the moon’s curve, breasts thrust upward, head flung back so the elaborate construction of feathers, diamantés, and blonde curls touches the crescent on which she sits.
Her other leg hangs down out of sight, but as the moon rises even further, the tip of the other stiletto comes into view.
Zin draws a fan up slowly as she comes into full view, then turns her head and peeks over the top of it.
Her eyes bore straight into mine, as if she knows exactly where I am. As if she’s dancing just for me.
And just like that, all thoughts of Lowbridge, Stewart, and attempted assassinations are wiped completely from my mind.
Zinaida is all there is—and all I fucking care about.
I stare at her rising seductively onto that stage, holding an entire theater captive in the palm of one elegant hand, and know something for absolute certain for the first time in my life:
Zinaida Melikov is the only future I want.