The Dangerous Boxed Set Page 16

  “Charity! My dear, so good to see you.” Nick stiffened as Worontzoff pulled himself away from a little gaggle of politicians, rich men, and journalists across the room to limp slowly toward Charity.

  Nick could see the men and women Worontzoff had been talking to craning their necks to see who could possibly be more important than they were.

  Nick had watched Worontzoff through his spotting scope and had studied hundreds of photographs. The photographs didn’t do Worontzoff justice.

  He wasn’t tall—Nick was a full head taller—but he had an animal, magnetic presence that turned heads and stopped conversations. If you didn’t look at his hands, he could even be considered a handsome man, with a leonine head of graying blond hair, light blue eyes, and high Slav cheekbones.

  He made a beeline for Charity in his odd gait, ignoring everyone who tried to engage his attention as he crossed the huge room.

  Charity was pink with pleasure, since she was so obviously the center of the Great Man’s attention. There was a little buzz of Who is she? and then Worontzoff was right in front of her, bending to give her a little buss on the cheek.

  Nick’s jaws clenched but there was nothing he could do about it without looking like a boor. It was a fatherly kiss, though there was absolutely nothing fatherly about Worontzoff’s face when he straightened.

  “My dear, you’re looking positively radiant! More beautiful than ever. What have you been doing?”

  The tone was coy, but the glance he shot Nick was sharp as a saber. He knew perfectly well what she’d been doing and why she was glowing.

  Charity held on to Nick’s arm. “Vassily, I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Nicholas Ames.”

  Worontzoff smiled right into Nick’s eyes. They were clear as glass and just as cold. “Well, Mr. Ames, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Charity’s is a friend of mine, as the saying goes. You will forgive me if I don’t shake hands with you.” He held up one shattered hand, mottled red and crisscrossed with scars. “I had…a little run-in once with a prison guard.”

  Don’t worry, you fuckhead. I wouldn’t shake hands with you, not even with a gun to my head, Nick thought.

  Whoa.

  This was bad. Being undercover means believing. You have to believe your cover story with every fiber of your being. You eat, drink, and sleep your cover story. You never, ever break cover, especially in your head.

  Nicholas Ames, New York businessman, would be absolutely delighted to meet a famous man, someone he’d never meet ordinarily. Stockbrokers lived off contacts and this was a good one. If nothing else, Nicholas Ames could dine out on having met a contender for the Nobel.

  Nick had to get back into character now or he would endanger not only himself but Charity.

  He breathed like when he sniped. Long, calm breaths, guaranteed to drop his heart rate ten beats per breath and assumed an expression so bland it was as if he were alone in the room.

  He nodded at Worontzoff’s hands. “No problem, sir. I’m very pleased to meet you. Charity’s told me so much about you.”

  Worontzoff turned to Charity. “Have you now, my dear?” He placed his claw of a hand on her forearm.

  Nick had goose bumps so thick the hairs on his forearm brushed against his shirtsleeve at the expression on Worontzoff’s face when he looked at Charity.

  Nick’s instinct—hot, immediate, primordial—was to attract attention away from Charity, the way a mother bear lures a hunter away from the den where the cubs are sleeping. Look away from her, fuckhead! Look at me instead!

  “Yeah.” Nick raised his voice a little, enough to carry. Enough to make Worontzoff instinctively look at him. “She said you were like a father to her. It’s really nice of you to let me tag along tonight, though to tell you the truth, I don’t know much about classical music. I’ll let Charity tell me what’s going on.”

  He grinned, clueless businessman mainly interested in the woman whose waist he clasped. Tightly.

  “Yes, indeed.” Worontzoff’s gaze fixed on Nick’s hand at Charity’s waist, then rose to his face. He nodded gravely. It wouldn’t have been out of place at an imperial court. “Well, all that remains is for me to wish you a pleasant evening, then. I hope you enjoy the music, Mr. Ames. Charity.”

  He walked away, the emperor who’d summoned them to his court.

  The plan had been for Nick to wander the house. The palatial mansion was too old for its blueprints to be on record. They had a general idea of the layout, but Nick’s task was to explore as much as he could.

  A tuxedo ruled out a pen camera. He had a camera built-in to his wristwatch. They’d download the images in the van while Nick drew the floor plan of what he’d managed to see. Maps were his specialty.

  So now what he needed to do was wander, but at the same time he was reluctant to leave Charity. He found a big group of boring-looking men and a few women discussing presidential politics and left her with them.

  “Bathroom break,” he whispered into her ear. “Be right back. Don’t move.”

  She smiled up at him. Okay, she mouthed.

  Nick checked each guy in the circle in turn, looking them in the eyes, sending the subliminal message—Watch out for her—and made for the back of the room.

  He was good at scouting terrain. Their big break in the Gonzalez case had come when he broke into Guillermo’s office at midnight for the tenth time and hit the jackpot. Ten bills of lading where almost a ton of cocaine was going to be traded for ten thousand military-issue rifles, which the same night were going into the hands of Somali rebels, with a neat 100 percent markup.

  The bills of lading told them what, where, and when and the Unit’s elite team had observed the first deal, confiscating the cocaine the next day, and had taken down the terrorists involved in the second deal.

  Two for one. Head office had been ecstatic.

  But making like a ghost through Guillermo’s household had been easy. The tone of an enterprise is set at the top. Guillermo had been almost totally without self-control and the nights he wasn’t shit-faced on tequila, he was stoned on his own product. The guards were the same.

  Getting past them had been a piece of cake.

  That was a 180 degrees from here, where the guards weren’t half stoned. They were sober and vigilant and everywhere.

  Nick had barely crossed the threshold of the room when a servant came up. “May I help you, sir?” he asked in accented English.

  Nick rocked back on his heels and put his hands in his pockets, jiggling some change. Making sure his watch face was exposed and focused on the man.

  “Yeah.” He looked around admiringly. “Huge house. Beautiful, too. Lots of artwork.” He grinned foolishly and leaned forward, as if imparting a secret. “Looking for the bathroom, you know. Can you tell me where to find one?”

  There. He had the guy on video now, full face. If the goon was wanted anywhere in the free world, the face would be matched up to a name.

  The man inclined his head gravely. “Down the corridor, last door on the right, sir.”

  “Great,” Nick said cheerfully. He could turn the corner, see what other rooms there were. He stepped forward and found himself staring into the man’s eyes, steely dark gray. Unblinking. Unyielding.

  He’d just turned himself into a brick wall and Nick couldn’t get through without exposing himself.

  “Allow me to show you the way, sir.” The man turned without waiting for an answer and walked ahead.

  O-kay. That’s the way they were playing it. Nobody was to be left alone to wander the house. Not even for a second.

  It might just be to guard against theft. God knows there was enough to steal. The place made Judge Prewitt’s house look like a Brazilian favela.

  Spotlit antique vases on stands, paper-thin silk Persian rugs, silk tapestries, the odd Monet and Picasso…very civilized, indeed. The abode of a man of discernment and learning. The kind of house money alone couldn’t buy

  The whole place gave Nick th
e heebie-jeebies, a sense of discomfort so great that for a second there, he thought he’d throw up.

  Each item he saw was paid for in untold blood and suffering. Every stick of furniture, the walls full of books and paintings, everything there was the fruit of crime, bought with some victim’s body. Nick felt exactly as he’d felt in Guillermo’s house—as if he were walking over human bones.

  Without lifting his head, out of his peripheral vision he saw tiny security cameras embedded in the ceiling moldings every five feet. In the bathroom, forcing himself to squeeze a few drops of piss out of his dick, he saw another.

  There was no question of going roaming and no question of planting bugs. He was going to get a glimpse of a big receiving room, the bathroom, and, presumably, the room where the music was going to be played. And that was it.

  When Nick emerged from the bathroom, the guy didn’t even pretend he wasn’t waiting for him. Wordlessly, he followed Nick back into the room still buzzing with upper-class ladies and gentlemen getting a high on proximity to literary greatness and champagne.

  Veuve Cliquot, no less.

  Nick couldn’t indulge in even half a glass. Not for security reasons—actually, not drinking a drop in an assembly like this one drew more attention and would compromise the mission more than getting shit-faced—but because the acid roiling in his stomach wouldn’t let him drink a drop of the bubbly. He’d just throw it up, and wouldn’t that be great for an undercover agent?

  Nick barely recognized his own body. Danger didn’t freak him out, didn’t make him sweat or fill his stomach up with acid. Danger focused him, made him bright and hard, cool and controlled. Iceman.

  Not now. He had a bad case of the jitters, for the first time in his life. The signals he was getting from the outside world—the armed guards everywhere, the cameras—weren’t doing it. Those signals just confirmed he was dealing with criminals. What was messing with him so badly was intangible, a constant buzzing vibe he found it impossible to ignore, and it had to do with Charity’s presence here.

  Worontzoff had used the time in which he was outside the room to herd Charity away from the other guests and into a secluded corner. Nick saw them immediately, the instant he crossed the threshold, his eyes turned like a magnet to her.

  Charity standing close to the wall with Worontzoff, his back to the crowd, cutting her off from everyone. Charity wasn’t reading it that way at all. She was smiling up at him, talking animatedly, that lovely face pink with excitement.

  Nothing in her body language even remotely communicated distress, though she was standing a hand’s span from a monster. She hadn’t learned to recognize what he was because monsters hadn’t been a part of her life. She thought Worontzoff was human.

  She sure as hell wouldn’t smile up at him if she knew half the things he was capable of.

  Then the fucker reached out an arm and put it around Charity’s shoulders and her smile widened. Worontzoff bent down to whisper in her ear and Charity’s bright laugh rose clearly in the air, audible all the way across the room.

  Every cell in Nick’s body screamed and jangled. He had to actually stop and take a breath, because what he wanted to do was to rush forward, break Worontzoff’s arm, throw Charity over his shoulder, and get out of there, just as fast as was humanly possible.

  His entire system buzzed with the need to get Charity out. Hand reaching for a gun that he couldn’t use, adrenaline flooding his body with no outlet possible.

  Usually, his hunches were fairly subtle—a vague feeling that he should zig instead of zag. But there was nothing subtle about this. This was full out red alert, the siren in the submarine booming remorselessly just before the incoming torpedo hits.

  Part of it was jealousy, of course. Two hours ago, he’d painted kisses across Charity’s shoulders, right where Worontzoff had his arm. That pretty breast pressing against the jacket of Worontzoff’s tux—he’d kissed it and suckled it so often he felt like he owned it.

  So, yeah. He was jealous. Jealousy wasn’t anything he’d ever felt before, so it took him a second to recognize it.

  He hated another man’s hands on her, another man making her laugh, another man inside her space.

  But it was more than jealousy. There was terror bubbling right underneath, sharp and electric. Worontzoff was obsessed with her, with the woman who could have been his Katya reborn.

  But it was make-believe. Charity only looked like Katya. She was another woman entirely and when Worontzoff finally figured that out—that his Katya was forever dead and Charity could never take her place—God only knew what kind of revenge he would take.

  Worontzoff moved. Nick’s whole system jolted, another layer of sweaty fear added to the mix. Worontzoff had shifted so he could come closer to Charity, in profile to Nick. Who could now clearly see what had been hidden before.

  A hard-on. The fucker had a hard-on. It was lightly hidden by his jacket but it was unmistakable. Thank God Charity didn’t notice anything, smiling upward into Worontzoff’s face, chattering away. Knowing her, she was talking about a good book she’d read, the upcoming concert, her garden. She was clueless.

  Clueless people ended up dead around monsters, and they died badly. Charity’s pretty head was filled with literature and music, love for her aunt and uncle, and kindness toward her friends. She had no idea what the outside world was like. She had no idea that the man she was probably discussing concerto movements with could have her strung up on a meat hook, as one of the women who’d testified against Worontzoff’s proxy in Belgrade, Milic, had been.

  Nick was the one who’d lifted the woman off the hook and down to the floor. The man who ran that prostitution ring answered directly to Worontzoff.

  When Worontzoff’s madness ebbed, when he finally realized that Charity really and truly wasn’t his Katya come back to life, but a nice little American librarian, his revenge would be swift and terrifying.

  Nick’s feverish imagination could conjure up any number of horrifying scenarios. Someone might lift Charity’s body off a butcher’s hook one day.

  The thought drove him crazy wild, made his whole system buzz with terror, made his heart thud.

  He wouldn’t be there to protect her. One way or another, he’d be gone soon, leaving Charity staked out like a lamb for the wolves. There would be nothing between her and some of the most ruthless men on earth.

  Nick’s fists clenched and for a second, he forgot to hold his wristwatch in a position to record his surroundings. He watched Charity and willed her to leave. To just turn her back on this monster and walk away.

  He could protect her now. Break cover, then put her in protective custody until they’d put the scumbags away. Even if that meant ripping her from her life forever, it was worth it. Once the image of Charity’s broken, lifeless body bloomed in his mind like a poisonous flower, he couldn’t get rid of it.

  Leave him, Nick told her from across the room, sending her screaming mental vibes. Get out of here. Run for your life.

  As if sensing danger, Worontzoff’s back stiffened and he turned his head swiftly. Too fast for Nick to look away, or wipe the expression of hatred from his face. Their gazes met, and locked.

  Nick could feel the cold blast from across the room and his stomach clenched as Worontzoff turned back to Charity and, smiling, held out his arm. From the next room came the sounds of musicians tuning their instruments. Worontzoff gave a look to one of his thugs dressed as a servant and a brass bell was rung.

  Worontzoff raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, the concert begins in five minutes. Take your seats, please.”

  With one last, murderous glance at Nick, he waited until she laid her pretty hand on his arm, and then escorted Charity into the music room.

  Teeth grinding, sweaty hands shaking, Nick followed.

  The concert had been exquisite. Cha had outdone himself, his bow weaving magic in the room. As always with great art, the world had fallen away. He felt as if there were just the two of them, Vassily and
Katya, listening to great music, just like in the old days.

  He was in his sitting room. Though the big hearth was ablaze, the fire was barely able to leaven his perennial chill. Vassily lifted his glass of vodka and sipped, letting the memory of the music go through him, tapping out the rhythm on the heavy silk brocade of the arm of the sofa.

  Ah, money and power. There was nothing like it. It could buy everything, including bringing Katya back from the grave.

  Vassily took his stylus and lightly pressed a button on the table next to him. As always, it only took a moment.

  There was a soft knock on the door and at Vassily’s command, Ilya walked in.

  “Come in, my friend,” Vassily urged. “Pour yourself a drink.”

  Ilya did, refreshed his own, then sat down on the armchair next to the sofa.

  He had changed out of his livery and was dressed casually. He gulped the vodka down in one swallow and poured another large measure. Vassily knew what a solace alcohol was for his friend and employee and never begrudged him his release. Ilya had a lot to forget. They both did.

  Vassily knew Ilya understood him, through and through.

  “What did you find out tonight?”

  Ilya answered promptly. “Nicholas Ames. Thirty-four years old. Retired from an American corporation, Orion Investments. Drives a Lexus with a New York State license plate. Property in Manhattan, a condo on Lexington Avenue. Value a little over two million dollars. No criminal record. That’s all I have for now.”

  It was enough. Bravo, Ilya.

  “I need wetwork done,” Vassily said. Wetwork. Mokrie dela. Murder. The KGB’s specialty. “But not by one of ours.”

  Ilya nodded.

  “Someone untraceable to us. Someone efficient, who can make it look like an accident. And I want it done tomorrow.”

  Ilya looked at him. “I know someone in Brooklyn who can help us, Vor.”

  “Use a cutout,” Vassily said sharply. “Nothing must ever be traced back to here. Is that understood?”