Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (145 page)

Pasha checked his watch again. By now the Gulfstream had pulled away from the international terminal and had begun the long taxi to the end of the runway. In just a minute or two he would see the plane approaching; as it reached the end of the taxiway the pilot would flash his landing lights once. When Pasha saw that signal he was to emerge from his hiding place and sprint the twenty yards to the waiting plane. Just before the Gulfstream turned the corner onto the runway, the door to the darkened cabin would open and the ladder would quickly drop—and in a matter of seconds Pasha would be airborne and away from this accursed place.

He still wasn't certain exactly when things had begun to go wrong. Maybe it was Jengo's cowardly defection—his death drew the attention of the wrong people. Maybe it was earlier than that—maybe it was Michael Severenson's mental instability. If the man hadn't thrown the insects into his own field, they never would have been discovered. Maybe the whole effort was doomed from the very beginning—maybe it was the fault of Dedushka's ill-conceived plan. One thing was clear to Pasha: If it wasn't for Dr. Polchak, no one would have ever understood. He should have killed the man long ago.

He thought about Kathryn Guilford again. Now that was a beautiful woman—too bad. But it didn't really matter—there were thousands of beautiful women in Russia, and he would soon be able to afford as many as he wanted. Pasha had done what Dedushka had asked of him; he had demonstrated his loyalty and it was time to claim his reward. It was time to go home and become a prince.

He heard the rising whine of engines and rolled onto his stomach to look. He saw the Gulfstream slowly rolling toward him—a sleek white two-engine jet with a mosquito-like nose and upturned winglets at the tips of the wings. The jet was nearing the end of the taxiway. He crept on all fours to the edge of the brush and tensed like a lion waiting for a gazelle . . .

The landing lights flashed off and on.

Pasha took off, bent low but running as fast as his exhausted legs would carry him. The distance was so short but seemed so long. He feared that at any moment sirens would sound or searchlights would flood the runway with light—but nothing happened. Everything went exactly as he had been told.

He reached the jet just as it rolled to a complete stop. Exactly as planned, the door in the starboard fuselage swung open. A three-step ladder with a chrome handrail dropped down and locked in place. Pasha planted one foot on the middle step and grasped the handrail.

A man he had never seen before stepped into the doorway and planted his left hand in the middle of Pasha's chest.

“Pasha Semenov,” he said.

“Move aside! Let me in before—”

“I have a message from your grandfather. He said to tell you, ‘With trust comes responsibility'—and he said to tell you he loves you.”

The man raised his right hand and pointed a pistol at Pasha's forehead.

There was a deafening blast and Pasha's head recoiled violently. His hand slipped away from the handrail and his body fell backward onto the tarmac.

The Gulfstream completed its turn, accelerated down the runway, and took off.

53

K
athryn picked up the photo from the coffee table and looked at it. The glossy black-and-white showed Pasha Semenov sprawled on his back on a concrete surface with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. “That's really creepy,” she said with a shiver. “I was out on a date with that guy just over a week ago. Can I pick 'em or what?”

Alena took the photo and studied it. “Looks like his little peashooter didn't help him this time. Good—the jerk had it coming.” She handed the photo to Nick.

Nick rotated the photo and looked at it from different angles. “You say this happened at the Wilmington Airport?”

“Just yesterday,” Donovan said. “The pilot of a commercial airliner spotted the body lying on the tarmac. Apparently Semenov was planning to hitch a ride out of the country. Somebody canceled his flight.”

“Maybe he had too much luggage,” Nick said. “The airlines are getting very strict.”

Donovan took the photo back and dropped it into a manila envelope. “We found his car just north of here; we think he made his way to Wilmington on foot. He cut through an airport security fence in a remote area and hid in the brush near the runway until after dark.”

“Boarding a plane isn't like hopping a freight,” Nick said. “Somebody must have arranged to meet him there.”

“Yeah—a private charter from the Virgin Islands. The pilot and passenger were John Does. They've disappeared; we don't expect to find them.”

“I don't get it,” Kathryn said. “Are you saying somebody met him there just to kill him?”

“And they left the body for us to find.”

“Who would do that?”

“His grandfather.”

“What?”

“His godfather, actually—a Russian named Yuri Semchenko. We're convinced Semchenko was the driving force behind this whole thing. He's the biggest corn farmer in all of Russia. He figured he could become the world's top corn exporter by eliminating his top competitor—the U.S. So he found himself an ex–Soviet bioweapons scientist with an old recipe for a really nasty fungus, and he convinced a couple of graduate students to make a few hi-tech upgrades. Then he told his godson to deliver it.”

“So are we planning to arrest this Semchenko guy?” Alena asked.

“No, we're not.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, Semchenko is a Russian citizen—that makes things a lot more complicated. Second, the guy's got tons of money. That means he's got a lot of friends in the Russian government—people who aren't about to turn him over without some really convincing proof. We don't have that proof; we probably never will.”

“Then what's to keep him from trying it again?”

“My wife had a talk with him.”

“Your wife?”

“Macy works for the State Department. She dropped by to see Semchenko the other day—at his home in Russia. Very nice place, she said.”

“What did she say to him?” Kathryn asked.

“She told him we were very sorry his godson had gotten into trouble.”

Kathryn waited. “That's it?”

“That's what they call ‘diplomacy,'” Donovan said. “I'm not very good at it myself, but Macy—she's a real expert. That woman can pat you on the back and leave a footprint. Believe me, I know—I'm married to her. She was telling Semchenko, ‘We know exactly what you did, and if you ever try it again, there'll be hell to pay—now clean up your mess.'” Donovan held up the manila envelope. “That's what this was all about. Semchenko was sending us a message.”

“By murdering his own godson?”

“By cleaning up his mess.”

“Wow,” Nick said. “Talk about tough love.”

Donovan looked at Kathryn. “Sorry about your farm. What are you planning to do for the next couple of years?”

“I suppose it's back to banking,” Kathryn said. “That's what I did before I met Michael. Callie and I might move back to Holcum County for a while. It's too depressing here; I just shut off the water a few days ago and the vines are already dying. Alena's been helping me mothball the place.”

Donovan turned to Alena. “What about you? Back to northern Virginia?”

“My dogs need me,” Alena said. “My pastor's been feeding them for me, but I've been away too long. Not much holding me here.”

“Sorry for all the trouble,” Donovan said. “If it's any consolation, you both have your country's deepest gratitude.”

“Allow me to translate,” Nick said. “You're not getting any money.”

“Seriously,” Donovan said. “Thanks for helping us catch this thing in time.”

“Nick's the one who figured it out,” Kathryn said. “You should thank him.”

“I can't do that,” Donovan said. “It's against my religion.” He shook hands with both of the women and got up from the sofa.

“Tell your wife we'd like to meet her sometime,” Alena said. “She sounds like our kind of girl.”

“I'll do that,” Donovan said.

Nick jumped up from his chair. “Hang on a minute—I'll walk you out.”

When the farmhouse door closed behind them Donovan said, “Since when are you the gracious host?”

“I need to ask you something,” Nick said.

Donovan stopped and turned to him. “Well?”

“How do you propose to a woman?”

Donovan blinked. “What?”

“I've never done it before. I've done grant proposals, but I'm not sure it's the same thing.”

“Nick—are we talking about a proposal of marriage?”

“Well, obviously. What did you think?”

“Just wanted to make sure we're on the same page, because we never are. Are you actually planning to propose?”

Nick nodded.

“When?”

“In about two minutes—so can we cut the chitchat and get to the tutorial?”

“You're kidding me.”

“You heard what they said, Donovan—they're both planning to leave.”

“Poor Macy,” Donovan said. “She'd give her right arm to see this.”

“How did you propose to Macy?”

“We were in New York back then,” Donovan said. “I took her to this really nice restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side—blew a whole week's pay. After dinner we did the carriage ride thing in Central Park. A little corny, maybe, but—”

“Skip all that. Tell me what you said.”

“Nick, it was a long time ago.”

“Just give me the gist.”

Donovan shrugged. “I just told her that I loved her, that's all. I told her that I couldn't live without her, and that my life wouldn't have any meaning or purpose unless she—”

Nick took out a pen and paper and began to scribble notes.

Donovan took the pen away from him and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Hey—I need that.”

“No, you don't. Now listen to me: This is not a classroom lecture and you don't need notes. And this is nothing whatsoever like a grant proposal—if you treat it like one, I guarantee you'll crash and burn. Just speak from the heart, Nick—just tell her what's on your mind. It doesn't have to be poetry; she'll know whether you mean it or not.”

“But I'm no good at that.”

“Then you'd better start learning, because this proposal isn't the last time you'll have to speak from your heart—it's just the first. She doesn't want a greeting card, Nick. She doesn't want to hear what somebody had to say to somebody else—she wants to hear what
you
have to say.”

Nick looked at him hopelessly. “But I don't have anything to say.”

“Okay, here's a couple of tips to get you started: No bug references, understand? No matter how much you love insects, she won't appreciate the comparison. And remember the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Get right to the point—don't beat around the bush—the longer you talk, the dumber you'll sound. Think like a fighter pilot: Fly straight to the target, drop your load, then go to afterburners and get your butt out of there.”

Nick squinted at him. “You lost me at ‘afterburners.'”

“Just go, okay? The longer you put it off, the harder it'll be to do.”

Nick turned and looked at the farmhouse. “I can do this.”

“Sure you can. You're the man—you're the Bug Man.”

“I'm going in,” Nick said. “Wish me luck.”

Donovan watched him as he marched toward the house. “Luck, nothing,” he said under his breath. “You need a miracle.”

Nick charged into the parlor and stopped so abruptly that Kathryn and Alena both looked up from the sofa.

“I have something to say,” he said, “and if you don't mind I'd like to ask you not to interrupt me until I'm finished. I'd appreciate it if we could defer any questions or discussion until after my presentation.”