No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) (36 page)

“Do you really care to test that theory with the clone of Al-Naddi?” he asked.

I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to concede that point just now. “I am confident enough that Judyta Taszynski would not raise another Al-Naddi,” I said, raising my chin.

“And if Al-Naddi’s followers ever get their hands on the baby?” Bouker asked grimly. “How will his education, upbringing and environment be any different than that of his father?”

“They won’t find her or the baby,” I said with a conviction I didn’t feel.

“Yes, they will,” he countered, his voice chillingly cold. “You cannot hide her forever. As long as Judyta Taszynski is alive, they will find that baby.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to let you kill her,” I said firmly.

Bouker stared at me for a long moment and then his voice softened. “I know the executions seem a harsh step, but trust me, in the end we will have saved many, many more lives. Perhaps even American ones. We must balance the good of the whole against the needs of a few.”

Basia slapped Bouker hard across the face. The crack of her open palm hitting his cheek stunned both Bouker and me because for a moment, we just stared open-mouthed at her.

“Bastard,” she hissed at him. “Don’t you
dare
try to justify murder to me.”

Bouker frowned and for a moment, I thought he might hit her back. Then his eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Are you dumb, woman? I am holding a gun to your heart.”

“You won’t shoot me, because I’m the only person who has exactly what you want,” she said hotly.

Bouker nodded and then turned the gun on me. “True. But I could shoot her.”

I gulped. “Okay, let’s all calm down. You’re here, Bouker, because I fed you a tip. In minutes, if not seconds, the rest of the players who received similar tips will arrive. Then we’ll all talk. Peacefully.”

At least, I sincerely hoped so. I glanced at my watch. What the hell was taking Slash, the surveillance team, MI-6, the Swedish authorities and whoever else had decided to crash the party so damn long to show up? I couldn’t have been
that
good at evading all of them. Or had I? If they didn’t show up soon, I was in real deep kimchee. I had counted on them to protect Basia and me.

“You’re a fool,” Bouker said to me. “I have no intention of waiting for anyone else to show up. Do you think I came here without a plan of my own?”

He grabbed Basia by the shoulder, hauling her up from the bench. He slid the gun under his windbreaker and pressed it into her back. “Let’s move,” he said.

“Now wait just a minute,” I started.

“Move or I’ll kill you both and take my chances,” Bouker said grimly.

I came to my feet. “Where are we going?” I asked, trying to stall as he pushed us ahead of him.

“Just move.”

My mind raced as we walked around the back of the museum and headed down the sidewalk. I couldn’t figure out what had gone so wrong with the plan. Slash and the surveillance team should have spotted me long ago. In fact, when Bouker appeared, they should have immediately made their move, if for no other reason than to protect me and Basia—their only link to Judyta.

So, where the hell were they?

As we moved toward the tram stop, I glanced around. There were very few people walking about now and no one gave us a second glance. Nervously I looked up and noticed a glint coming from the branches of a tree. I frowned, wondering why metal would be in trees, when the answer hit me like a punch in the stomach.

Slash and the others weren’t still looking for me. Oh, they’d found me all right. They were up in the trees, probably on top of the museum, in fact, likely everywhere, waiting. But waiting for
what?
Well, whatever it was, I sure hoped they got to it soon because things were going downhill a lot faster than I expected.

As the three of us approached the street, a white van suddenly pulled up in front of us and screeched to a halt. The side of the van had black-and-red lettering that said
Nordiska Museet.

“Uh, oh,” I said. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

“Get in,” Bouker said, pushing us forward as the side door slid open.

I hesitated. “Um, did I mention I get carsick in vans?”

“Don’t argue with me, Ms. Carmichael. You’re expendable.”

“Well, if you put it like that,” I said and started to climb in.

Before I could get in, I heard a loud crack. I flinched on reflex and then understanding dawned. The crack was a single report and I’d been shot.

I clutched my abdomen, but when my hand came away there was no blood, no nothing. In fact, I couldn’t feel anything, not pain, heat or cold.

Just then Rashid Bouker staggered forward and fell into my arms, causing me to lurch backwards into the rear fender of the white van, holding onto him as if we were dancing. I smelled the coppery scent of blood and realized it was Bouker, not me, who had been shot.

Basia had apparently been as stunned as I and started screaming as two armed figures jumped from the van. One was a tall, thin man with a black mustache, and the other a slender, pretty, dark-haired woman. Basia started to run, but the man caught her by the back of her blouse and hauled her into his arms. The grim-faced woman yanked Bouker from my grasp and pushed him to the ground. Then she grabbed me by the fleshy part of my upper arm, trying to pull me into the van.

I resisted, kicking and shouting at the top of my lungs. In the distance I saw a dark figure run up behind the man holding Basia and tackle him, sending all three crashing to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs. The gun flew from the tall man’s hand and landed on the ground a few feet away.

“Elvis!” I shrieked when I saw the black trench coat and realized who was trying to save us. “He has a gun!”

The woman holding me was temporarily distracted, so I used the moment to shift my weight and smash my elbow into her face as hard as I could. Blood spurted from her nose as I slid my hand out of my sling and grappled for the gun, trying to point it away from me. I managed to force her arm above her head, and she accidentally discharged the weapon. She snarled and tried to bite me, so I slammed her into the van, using my weight as a weapon.

She head-butted me hard in the face and I felt my nose crack. But I hung on as she twisted her body and together we fell to the ground, still fighting for control of the gun. As we rolled around on the pavement, I saw out of the corner of my eye that Elvis was in big trouble. The tall man was seconds from recovering his gun, although Elvis desperately held on to his leg, using all of his geeky one hundred and thirty-five pounds to keep him from moving. Basia sat in dazed shock on the pavement, undoubtedly paralyzed with terror.

In the meantime, the dark-haired woman had rolled me onto my back and started screaming at me in what sounded like Italian. My strength was quickly ebbing and I wasn’t certain I’d be able to hold on to her wrist with the gun much longer. She kneed me twice in the stomach and despite my determination, my grip began to loosen. Grunting, she finally wrenched her wrist free and lifted the gun. Just before pulling the trigger, her head seemed to explode and she fell over on top of me, the gun falling from her fingers to the ground. I screamed and frantically tried to push her off me. Gasping for breath, I rolled to the side just in time to see the tall man aiming his gun at Elvis.

“No!”
I shrieked.

Seemingly from nowhere, a man sailed through the air in front of Elvis just as the gun was fired. The man took the bullet square in the chest and fell hard to the ground. Then another crack sounded and the tall man aiming the gun at Elvis abruptly fell forward toward Basia, his arms outstretched. Basia screamed and crawled toward Elvis, where he lay on the ground. His trench coat was torn and the fedora nowhere in sight. Sobbing, Basia reached him and he rose to his knees, pulling her into his arms. Then, to my astonishment, the man who had taken the bullet in the chest for Elvis sat up, drew a gun and knelt over the fallen man.

Suddenly dozens of people materialized out of nowhere, sirens were wailing and everyone was shouting and running. My strength was completely gone, so I lay on the hot pavement, panting for breath, covered in the blood and gore of the woman who still lay half on top of me.

People were issuing orders in several different languages and the acrid smell of gunsmoke burned my lungs. I felt like coughing but wasn’t even sure I could draw enough air into my lungs to make the effort worthwhile. My eyes were blurry with tears, my nose throbbed, and the pain in my wrist felt like sheer agony. I was pretty sure my wrist had been completely broken this time, and maybe my nose and a couple of ribs along with it. Still, I guess it was better than a bullet to the brain.

The man who had protected Elvis walked over and knelt down on the pavement beside me, pushing the woman’s body off with a contemptible grunt. He gently smoothed the hair off my face and slid a steady hand under my head, lifting it up.

I got my first good look at his face as he asked, “Are you okay,
cara?
”

My answer was to turn my head to the side and throw up. I couldn’t stop until I had nothing but dry heaves. Each contraction of my stomach sent an unbearable pain through my wrist and nose, and when I finished I lay back panting in exhaustion. Slash stayed with me the whole time, murmuring comforting words to me in English and Italian, wiping my mouth and face with a soft cloth. I heard him call for a medic and some water and soon I felt a cup being pressed against my lips. I greedily drank a few sips.

“What the hell took you so long?” I finally managed to croak.

Slash was dressed in fatigues, a dark T-shirt and heavy black vest. A pistol rested against his boot. A variety of ropes, knives and other assorted tools hung from a thick belt around his waist.

“Sorry,” he said, helping me into a sitting position and handing me a cloth to press to my bloody nose. “Things didn’t go exactly as we had expected.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We had marksmen in place, but you were in too close proximity to shoot them safely.”

“Well, next time do me a favor and take your chances.”

“Are you injured anywhere?” he asked, his hands slipping across my chest, abdomen and legs, gently feeling, searching and pressing.

“Are you asking that just so you can cop a feel?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“No, I don’t think I’m shot anywhere. But I’m pretty sure my wrist is broken and maybe some ribs. Something happened to my nose. It feels squashed. I think there’s gore in my hair. But I’m not complaining. I’m alive.”

He leaned over and lightly pressed a kiss against my cheek. “You are one damn lucky lady. So, this was your plan,
cara?
” he asked, waving his hand across the bloody scene.

“Actually, no. I had envisioned a lot more civilized talking and a lot less shooting.”

He clucked his tongue softly. “I told you no heroics. You did not listen to me.”

“Hey, I didn’t plan on the heroic part. It would have worked out a lot better if people would have acted the way I expected.”

“Rule number one in undercover operations—expect the unexpected. People are not computers,
cara.
They will, more often than not, act illogically.”

I sighed. “I calculated a twenty percentage margin of error on that. Note to self, next time, make it fifty percent. Slash, I know about Al-Naddi’s clone. It would have been helpful if you had clued me in earlier.”

“I didn’t
know
earlier. Things happened more quickly than we expected. I knew you’d try something, but I didn’t think it would be something quite so bold. You forced us all into action.”

“That was the idea.”

“Well I admit it was a clever move, bringing in Bouker. That all but guaranteed we’d see Al-Naddi here.”

“Is that him?” I asked, looking over at body of the tall, mustached man who had almost killed Elvis. “Mr. Superterrorist himself, Samir Al-Naddi?”

“
Si.
We’ll do DNA tests to make sure, but I’m certain that it is, indeed, him.”

He didn’t look so threatening lying there on the ground, his arms still stretched out in front of him. Still, I sensed evil and shivered.

“Is he dead?”

“
Si.
A single shot to the head.”

I turned away, feeling sick to my stomach again. I wondered if I’d ever feel normal again. Just then a guy dressed in fatigues similar to Slash’s walked over to us. He had a buzz haircut, a gun and a weapon’s belt identical to the one Slash wore.

“Nice work, Agent Carmichael,” he said to me. “Are you all right?”

“
Agent
Carmichael?” I repeated with a raised eyebrow, looking at Slash.

“Consider it a field promotion,” he said, his lips twitching slightly.

I shook my head and it hurt. “Who are you?” I asked the other guy in my scratchy voice.

“Agent Russo,” he said, straightening. “I’m in charge of this operation.”

“What operation?”

“Operation Rebirth.”

“And that would be?”

“The shutting down of CGM’s cloning operation and the capture or deaths of two of the world’s most-wanted terrorists, Samir Al-Naddi and his first lieutenant, Alessia D’Agostino.”

“Is that D’Agostino?” I asked, pointing to the woman’s body, which was now surrounded by medics and what looked like military photographers.

“Si,”
Slash replied. “We think D’Agostino masterminded the hit on Mashir Al-Asan’s bodyguards in Genoa.”

“Is she Italian?” I asked. “Because I’m pretty sure she was screaming at me in Italian.”

“Her father was an Italian diplomat, her mother an Arab,” Russo explained. “She became involved in Al-Naddi’s cause during a tour her father had in Yemen when she was just a teenager.”

“She served Al-Naddi’s cause in many ways,” Slash continued. “Besides being his lover, she also ran his terrorist network out of Europe.”

“Is she dead, too?” I suppressed a shiver.

Slash nodded. “We would have preferred to take her alive, but we had no choice.”

“She would have killed me.”

“Si.”

“What about Bouker?”

“He’s still alive, but just barely. The other two Yemeni agents who accompanied him are dead. Al-Naddi and D’Agostino killed them and hijacked the van.”

“So Bouker was expecting his people in the van, but instead he got Al-Naddi’s,” I said.

“That’s right,” Russo said. “Bouker had also secured a boat for escape, but we had it covered. We waited because we were hoping Al-Naddi would show before we moved in on Bouker. However we hadn’t expected him to be in the van, so that took us a bit by surprise.”

“A bit?” I repeated. “That
bit
of surprise nearly cost us our lives.”

Agent Russo held up his hands. “At least it turned out all right.”

I looked around at the dead and injured people and wondered just how he had come to that conclusion. Slash was right. People were too unpredictable, which is probably why I sucked at social skills, and apparently by extension, covert operations. Give me computers, algorithms and logic, and I shined. Give me people, and I couldn’t talk my way out of a paper bag.

I folded the cloth and pressed it to a fresh spot on my nose. Looking around, I saw Basia and Elvis were being treated by medics. “Are they okay?” I asked Slash.

“
Si,
they are shaken, but alive. You have very brave friends,
cara.
”

“They’re the best. And speaking of friends, you took a bullet for Elvis.”

He shrugged. “I was wearing a bullet-proof vest.” He unfastened it and pulled it off, dropping it to the ground. He gingerly rubbed his ribs. “I will be sore for a few days.”

“Jeez, Slash. What if they were using armor-penetrating bullets? What if he had shot at your head instead?”

He reached under his shirt and pulled out the tiny gold cross from around his neck. “Ah,
cara.
Your concern touches me deeply,” he said, taking my hand and pressing it to his heart. “But you shouldn’t have worried. I had someone else looking out for me, as well.” He kissed the cross and tucked it back inside his shirt.

I smiled in spite of myself and then saw that Basia and Elvis were being helped to their feet. Once upright, they limped toward me, Elvis with an arm thrown around Basia’s shoulders. Basia’s face was smeared with dirt and grass and her hair stood straight up on the left side of her head. Elvis had lost the trench coat and his mouth was bloody and swollen. I didn’t want to even
think
about how I looked.

“Who are all these people and what’s going on?” Basia asked me, coughing. “Is this part of the plan? And what are
you
doing here?” she asked Elvis.

“Trying to save both of you,” he said. “And apparently not doing a very good job of it.”

Using Slash’s steady hand to support myself, I stood up, wobbled toward Elvis and gave him a one-armed hug.

“You are my hero,” I said. “Next time you don’t have to play secret agent to impress me.”

“Me either,” Basia said, giving him a slurpy kiss on the cheek. “You are one fab guy.”

Elvis flushed, looking pleased, but said nothing.

“Oh, that reminds me, you owe Xavier a date,” I said to Basia.

Basia nodded, nothing seeming to faze her now. “I can see there’s a lot more to this story than meets the eye.”

“You have no freaking idea.”

“Um, sorry to interrupt this happy little reunion, but there are still important matters to attend to,” Agent Russo interrupted.

“Who
are
you people?” Basia asked. “Is anyone ready to tell me just what the hell is going on?”

“Basia, this is Agent Russo and Agent…Slash,” I said. “They’re from the U.S. government.”

“We need to know the whereabouts of Judyta Taszynski,” Russo said.

To my surprise, Basia put her hands on her hips and got right in Agent Russo’s face. All five feet two inches of her.

“For what purpose does the U.S. government need to find Judyta Taszynski?” she asked. She sounded pretty cranky and I didn’t blame her after all we’d just been through.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Look, Agent Russo,” she said. “Either you start enlightening us or you get
nada.
We’ll all just go our separate ways.”

Russo looked offended. “You’ve got to be joking. I’m an agent of the U.S. government.”

“I know who you are,” Basia retorted. “Now you know who I am. Start talking and make it fast.”

Russo glanced over at Slash who stood saying nothing, his arms crossed against his chest in an almost yoga-like calm and his expression inscrutable.

“Look, all we need is some information here,” I said to Russo. “What do you intend to do with Ms. Taszynski and her baby once you find them?”

“You have my word that Ms. Taszynski will not be harmed,” Russo promised.

“What about the baby?” Elvis asked.

“It’s not
her
baby,” Russo said. “It’s Al-Naddi’s clone.”

“It’s
her
baby to her,” I said. “What do you intend to do with the infant?”

Agent Russo had the grace to look uncomfortable. “It will be dealt with discreetly and properly by the U.S. government.”

“The baby is not an
it,
” I said, folding my arms against my chest like Slash. “No.”

“No?” Russo said, quite shocked. “No, what?”

“Judyta Taszynski wants to keep the baby.”

“Impossible!” Russo exclaimed. “Look, we can get her another one.”

I looked at Basia. “Did he really say that?”

“I’m afraid so,” she answered.

“Do I need to spell it out, Russo?” I said. “Judyta wants to keep her baby. She won’t care that he’s a clone of a now-defunct terrorist. Figure out a way to make it happen.”

“Have you all lost your minds?” Russo gasped, clearly aghast. “You should all realize that by withholding her whereabouts you are interfering in a matter of national security.”

“We’re talking about a baby, not a bomb,” I said calmly. “Besides, Judyta has already had the baby and they’ve bonded.”

Russo looked as though I had smashed a fist in his stomach. His mouth opened like a fish on a hook and he clutched his chest, gasping for air. He looked young and fit, so I sure hoped he didn’t have a heart attack. Causing one heart attack a week was my limit.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Is it normal?”

“The baby is a he, but does it make a difference?” I snapped. “You’re not taking her baby.”

“Well, I guess this changes things,” Russo said between gritted teeth. “What do you want?”

I had my answer ready and could now only pray it would work. My heart thumped painfully against my chest as I faced the moment of truth.

“Witness protection for Judyta and the baby,” I said in a surprisingly calm voice. “A new identity, a new place to live and a decent stipend for both of them. Leave her and the baby alone. No scientists hovering about, no weird examinations, no press conferences and no harassment. In return, she will promise to keep the true identity of the baby and its unusual conception under wraps forever.” I looked over at Basia to see if she thought Judyta would agree to the plan and was relieved when she smiled at me.

“Are you crazy?” Russo exclaimed. “I can’t agree to that.”

“Well, that’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“If I don’t deal?”

“Judyta and the baby disappear.”

“We’ll find her.”

“First? Maybe, maybe not. We all know there are others looking for her. Are you willing to risk failure, Agent Russo? This way you’re guaranteed to have Judyta’s cooperation and have the ability to keep her and the baby under tabs.”

“I don’t think you understand what you’re asking,” Russo seethed. “Or who you’re dealing with.”

I put my good hand on my hip and got right in his face. “Either show me you can make the deal or we’ll go elsewhere to ensure Judyta’s and the baby’s protection.”

I was bluffing like an SOB but glowered at Russo like I meant it. From the expression on his face, I figured he was supremely worried that his promotion was on the line if he screwed this up.

We stared at each other fiercely until Slash broke the silence. “Give her the deal, Russo.”

Russo blinked in surprise and then turned his glare on Slash. “Have you lost it, too? Can’t you see she’s blackmailing us?”

“She’s protecting her friends. But more importantly, she’s right. Al-Naddi is dead and no one else needs to know Judyta Taszynski successfully gave birth to a cloned child. If needed, we can issue disinformation that the infant and mother died during birth. The deal is a fair one. Give it to her.”

“You know I’m not authorized,” Russo protested.

“Then get the authorization,” Slash said simply.

Russo glared at me for another minute and then stepped away and began talking rapidly in a cell phone.

Basia gave me a quick hug. I winced at the pressure on my ribs. “So, um, who is he again?” she asked, pointing to Slash.