Chapter 33 Ingrid
Ingrid
She was awake before dawn, opening her eyes to an unfamiliar darkness and lying in an unfamiliar bed.
Not that unfamiliar beds were new to her; during her work abroad, she’d slept in more such beds than she could count, some of them swathed in luxury one-thousand-thread-count linens, others infested with bedbugs and reeking of stale sweat and cigarettes.
This bed, in Maggie’s spare room, was clean and comfortable, if spartan, with white cotton sheets and a utilitarian blue blanket.
The practical bed linens of a practical woman, in keeping with everything else in Maggie’s farmhouse.
If one had to go into hiding, this was as agreeable a place as one could hope for, but Ingrid longed to be at home.
To water her plants, sleep in her own bed, sit at her own hearth.
For too many years, she’d bounced around the world, never really settling down until she’d retired in Purity.
This was the town where she’d planned to live out her life, the town where she’d intended to die.
Something that might happen a lot sooner than she expected.
She rolled onto her side and reached out to Lloyd.
To her surprise, he was not there and the sheet was cool to her touch.
Usually she was the first to get up in the morning, the first to fire up the coffeepot, and it unsettled her to find his side of the bed empty.
She turned on the lamp and saw that his clothes, which he’d left draped over a chair the night before, were now gone.
She caught the faint aroma of coffee, wafting up from the kitchen.
She climbed out of bed and got dressed.
Downstairs, she found Lloyd sitting in the kitchen with a mug of coffee on the table in front of him.
Also on the table was the 9mm Heckler that first shot of caffeine was only now revving up her gray cells.
“Refill?” she asked Lloyd.
“Yes, please.”
She poured him a fresh cup of coffee and sat down.
Watched Lloyd stir in his usual two teaspoons of sugar plus a generous slug of cream, turning his coffee into a child’s brew of sweet caramel.
Lloyd liked things sweet. Which made her wonder why she had been his choice as a wife. Sweet she was not, and never had been.
Outside the window, darkness had lifted to a dull gray. Inside, they were just an old married couple, sitting at a kitchen table with their coffees, waiting for the sun to come up.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She sighed. “Yes.”
“And be honest with each other.”
“Yes”
“Even though it scares me.”
She frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because of what I might hear.” He met her gaze. “When you were with him—with Rodrigo—it must have brought back a lot of memories.”
“They weren’t all good.”
“But you miss it.”
“I miss doing things that mattered. Plus, in those days, we were in Paris and we always had to be on our toes. When you’re in a situation where things can go wrong, badly wrong, life just seems more . . . vivid.”
“Not the way it is now.”
She smiled. “We’re older, Lloyd.”
“And now he walks back into your life. I have to admit, the man looks good. I can only imagine what kind of figure he cut thirty years ago.”
She looked toward the kitchen window, at the approaching dawn, and an image of a young Rodrigo flashed into her mind. Coal black hair, a cocky smile. An intense gaze that could catch a woman’s attention and hold it forever. “He did,” she admitted. “But he’s not why I got involved in this.”
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s all about catching this mysterious fifth man.”
“We can do it discreetly. We don’t need a bureaucrat’s approval to take down the enemy.”
“The enemy?” He shook his head. “I can’t even tell you who that is anymore.
Those dead Vory in Madrid, or the people who executed them?
With so many bullets flying, it’s almost as if it doesn’t matter.
Killed the wrong man? Too bad, so sad. But you could be the next mistake, and this is why it’s time for us to ask for help.
The five of us may not be enough. We need someone to help us finish it. ”
“Who would that be?”
“Rodrigo. I’ve already called him.”
“What?” She stared at him. “When?”
“Yesterday. I didn’t want to call him. In fact, I was hoping to never lay eyes on the man again.
But I can’t let anything happen to you, Ingrid.
That would kill me. If he can keep you safe, if he can put an end to this, then I say .
. .” He took a breath. “Let’s all work together.
” He glanced up at the kitchen clock. “He should be getting into town about now. I told him to come straight here.”
She looked her husband in the eye, and the gaze he returned was steady, unflinching. “Are you sure about this?” she asked quietly.
“I may regret this, but yes. I am sure.” He sighed. “We need the man.”
By the time Rodrigo walked into the house, the first streaks of dawn had appeared on the horizon.
He brought with him the scent of leather and citrus and confidence, the confidence of a man who knew how to navigate the world.
How does he do it? Ingrid wondered, eyeing Rodrigo’s bomber jacket and thick swoop of hair.
How did he always manage to so effortlessly take command of a room?
Rodrigo gave Lloyd a respectful nod, an indication that whatever rivalry existed between the men was, for the moment, set aside.
Then Rodrigo turned his full attention to Ingrid. “Everything under control?” he asked.
“So far,” she said. “Where’s your team?”
“I had to fly them in from another op. They’ll get into town tonight. And where are your friends?”
“They spent the night watching my house. They should be back any minute.”
Lloyd said, “I’ve been keeping an eye on things here.”
“Good for you,” said Rodrigo. In the kitchen, he poured himself a mug of coffee and leaned back against the counter, looking as comfortable as if he were in his own kitchen, his own house. It was classic Rodrigo; whatever the setting, he always seemed to take possession of it.
“How did this happen?” Lloyd asked. “How did Ingrid end up a target?”
“A very good question,” said Rodrigo.
“Is there an answer?”
“A partial one.” He turned to Ingrid. “After Lloyd called me, I did some digging, checked in with my sources. And it’s true, you do have a passing resemblance to Lilia Kuraskaya. Which could explain their mistake.”
“It’s an inexplicable mistake for Moscow,” said Lloyd.
“Unless they were deliberately fed false information. They just haven’t learned the truth about Lilia yet.”
“What truth?”
“Lilia Kuraskaya is dead.”
Ingrid and Lloyd glanced at each other in surprise. “How?” Ingrid finally asked.
“She died of natural causes two months ago. It was a stroke. Twenty years ago, after she defected, she was relocated to Santa Cruz, California, where she lived under the name Helen Hoffman. The Russians never found her, never learned of her new identity. My sources felt it was safe to give me these details since the woman’s now dead and beyond the reach of the GRU. ”
“How did her identity get pinned on me?” said Ingrid.
“I don’t know. But you have to admit, it gives us an interesting opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” said Lloyd. “What are you talking about?”
Ingrid didn’t need to have it explained; she understood what Rodrigo meant. It was the same thought that had already occurred to her, the same plan that she had in mind. The trap has been set, and I’m the bait.
Through the window, she saw headlights flicker on the road. She watched as the vehicle approached, its shape finally materializing out of the predawn gloom. It was Ben’s van.
“The gang’s all here,” she said. “I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.”