10. Alexei #2
I shake my head, grinning. “You’ve thought of everything. Nice job. Although the apartment will be a bit crowded with three of us in it, don’t you think?”
“Mickey will be moving into his sister’s apartment.”
“Mickey is living with his sister?” I keep my voice even with an effort. “That will be a bit of a handbrake on his lifestyle.” I’m almost choking on all the questions I want to ask, and equally determined to not so much as speak Ofelia’s name on any line that may have intelligence listening in.
Frankly, after what went down at the hotel, I’m surprised, and more than a little pissed off, that Roman would let Ofelia stay in Paris at all.
“Hang on,” Lars says. “Something’s come up. I’ll call you back.” Abruptly he cuts the line.
Even though I know it’s just a security tactic, I also know he chose the moment to cut the call for dramatic effect.
Prick.
I tap the desk impatiently until the line rings again.
“We’re secure,” he says when I pick up the second time. “Properly this time. So I tracked the surveillance in the van—”
“What were you saying before?” I cut him off.
“Huh?” I can almost see the bastard grinning. “About what?”
I pour myself more vodka. “Fuck off, asshole.”
“Lovely way to talk to your oldest friend,” Lars says with mock injury. “Fine. According to some crusty old conductor, Ofelia’s playing lacks heart, whatever the fuck that means. So she’s taking some time off. And since Roman refused to let her stay in Paris, she’s moving back to Spain.”
Spain.
Dammit.
It’s better than Paris, I guess, since there’s no chance I can return to France anytime soon. But Spain means family, and family means a hundred sets of eyes and security tighter than the fucking Vatican.
“There was quite the standoff when Roman ordered her to go home,” Lars is saying. “But Ofelia stood her ground. She looks a lot like her father when she argues, have you ever noticed that?”
For a second I remember the blue fire in her eyes when she saw me in that Paris speakeasy, the way they drilled into me when she asked what I would say about her performance.
The uncanny similarity between her scrutiny and Roman’s death stare didn’t escape me then, nor on the other rare times I’ve glimpsed the hard, brilliant strength simmering beneath the vivid blue surface.
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “I’ve noticed that.”
“In the end, they compromised. Ofelia’s headed back to Spain, but not to the finca.” He pauses again.
I grit my teeth. Fucker is enjoying this just a little too much.
“She’s moving to Granada,” Lars says.
Granada.
I don’t miss the slight edge underlying his delivery. Lars remembers Granada as well as I do. He knows exactly what happened the night of Ofelia’s twenty-first.
Moonlight and alcohol. Way too much alcohol. Ofelia in a midnight silk dress that I wanted to tear off.
“Oh.” I keep my voice even, but my mind is racing, images speeding through it like a disturbing slideshow.
Ofelia’s legs twined behind me, her dress rucked up to her waist.
Ofelia’s lips yielding beneath mine like my mouth was everything she’d been waiting for.
Granada.
Only eighty kilometers from the coast, and more than a hundred from Ofelia’s family.
“Hey, motherfucker.” Lars snaps his fingers into his end of the line. “Life-and-death stuff happening this end, friend.”
“When will she be there?” I hear the faint rasp in my voice.
“That’s your question?” He snorts. “Maybe check your tone when you find yourself talking to Mickey. Definitely before you talk to Roman.”
“Lars,” I say warningly.
“Fine.” He sighs ostentatiously. “Roman is on his way to Granada now, setting up a place for her to live. He’s having conniptions, apparently, because she insisted on living in the Albaicín, the old medieval quarter, which is very picturesque but a total fucking nightmare security-wise, to use Roman’s words.
She’ll be in by the end of the week. Oh, and if all that wasn’t enough to send Roman over the edge, she’s choosing her own security team, too. Mickey backed her up on that one.”
Good for Mickey, I think, concealing my surprise. Every time I decide I don’t like that prick, he does something that reminds me what a decent fucking human he is.
It would be a lot easier, frankly, if I didn’t like him.
And even easier if I didn’t like his sister.
“Don’t call me again,” Lars says. “I meant it about the sharks circling. Whoever these fuckers are, they’ve got contacts in high places.
Paris was crawling with domestic intelligence agents after your little shoot-out in the street.
Roman pulled some very expensive strings to make it all disappear.
Then he asked a lot of very awkward questions that Mickey and I didn’t have answers for. ”
Fuck.
“I don’t want Mickey involved any more than he already is. He shouldn’t have to lie to his father.”
Lars snorts. “Good luck getting that little prick to stand down, after the motherfuckers in the van dodged us. He took that shit personally. And believe me, Mickey pissed is almost as dangerous as you pissed, albeit in a nerdier kind of way. Roman asked him point-blank if he knew anything about your disappearance. Mickey stared him straight in the face and said he had no fucking idea.”
I don’t like Mickey lying to his godfather. I know how close he and Roman are.
And I don’t like Roman cleaning up my mess. I also know that if the situation were reversed, I’d do exactly the same. It’s what family does, particularly families like ours.
I still don’t like it. Any of it.
“Where did the trace on the van lead?”
“Into a labyrinth, so far. The team that had you under surveillance have vanished without a trace. Their van was found dumped in a field near Chartres, the electronic equipment inside it destroyed beyond salvation. We’re nowhere on this John Owens character either, so far.”
“Call Dima.” I give him the rundown on my encounter with Owens in the Miami airport, which I only briefly touched on prior to this.
“Whoever Owens is working for is responsible for hiring these fuckers. We need to know who they are and what they want.” I pause, hesitating to say what I’m about to, then grit my teeth.
“And call Mak. If anyone has the contacts to get to the bottom of this, that prick does.”
Mak is Makari Tereschenko, head of the world’s largest private army of mercenaries and intelligence operatives.
He headed up the operation to rescue Ofelia and Masha from the Orlovs.
Since then, we’ve worked together more than once, not least because Mak sits on the Mercura board and is one of Roman’s closest friends.
Hence my hesitation.
But Roman’s friend or not, Mak is the best at what he does.
“You want him briefed all the way?”
“Full access. Whatever he needs.”
“When it comes to that motherfucker,” Lars says cheerfully, “I don’t ask questions.
Now. Until further notice, only contact me via coding on the encrypted laptop.
Let me know if you need to talk urgently, and I’ll set up a safe line.
Meanwhile, since you’re a man of leisure, you can make yourself fucking useful and look over the code for the Helsinki product. ”
“No problem.” I do my best to sound casual, but I’d be lying if I said the idea didn’t give me a secret thrill.
“For now, you’re definitely in the clear,” he says. “Your Ken Thompson identity is clean as a whistle. And I’ll keep the disinformation flowing on my end. I’ve got numerous diversions planned, the first of which involves me, on my yacht in Greece, wearing an eye patch.”
I give an involuntary snort of laughter. “You have to be kidding. On top of the Cuba story?”
“It’s all about misdirection, motherfucker,” Lars says cheerfully.
“You taught me that. The more confused they are, the better. I’ve even got Lance Ryder coming out to take some happy snaps.
After Cuba, of course, where you’ll be snapped having a wild party on the Guapa.
” He yawns. “I’m going to have terrible imaginary jet lag. ”
I shake my head, still grinning. “Maybe you should give that friend of Ofelia’s a call, see if he can soothe the pain.”
“Benny!” Lars says the name like he’s just thought of it. “Now that’s one of your better ideas, asshole. The way that boy uses his mouth—”
“Yeah, all right, I get the picture,” I say, cutting him off before he gives me the fine details I know he’s more than capable of. “Thanks,” I say, meaning it. “Really.”
“It’s what I do,” he says lightly. “Oh—your father sends his love.”
I wince, guilt and regret twisting my gut.
“He said to tell you that you owe him a day in Paris.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head, trying to rid it of my father’s lined, honorable face. “Tell him I’m sorry.”
For the son I can’t be. For all the ways I know I’ve disappointed him.
“Oh,” I say, just as he’s about to hang up, “tell Mickey I like the name he came up with.”
“Ha!” Lars’s infectious shout of laughter makes me smile again, like it always does. “I knew you’d get it. Kid has a twisted sense of humor. Probably why I like him.”
He hangs up without saying anything more, leaving me smiling.
I turn to leave and halt with a slight shock as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I removed my sunglasses while I was talking to Lars, but my eye patch is still up in my cabin. I usually wear it even when I’m sleeping; seeing myself without it is almost like looking at a stranger.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt self-conscious about my missing eye. Most of the time I forget about it. Often it’s a useful prop, whether to intimidate others, catch them off guard, or simply intrigue. Certainly no woman has ever complained about it.