The Gemini Deception (31 page)

“Really. Because it sure sounded like it when he came to your room the night before last.”

“What—”

“As you know, I’m responsible for checking your room for listening devices, which means I can place them at will because no one else checks.” Kennedy looked down at her, her arms folded across her chest. “I heard what he tried to do, and I also heard your disgusted reaction to it. He talks to you like he owns you.”

Ryden’s face burned and her hands tingled.
Breathe
, she told herself. “I can have you fired right now.”

Kennedy approached her and stopped a foot away. “Why, Elizabeth? Why are you afraid of him?”

“How dare you spy on me.”

“I was…
am
concerned about your safety. I was sent here to protect you.”

“But you were not sent to look for an unfounded conspiracy,” she said. “All I see is a nosy guard throwing false accusations. If there was any truth to your obscene theories, we’d be up to our noses in officials. Is your employer even aware of all this?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss my employer.”

“But you are at liberty to destroy my life with false accusations.”

“The elevator attack was a setup and you know it.”

“Oh, look. Another crazy theory.”

Kennedy looked dangerously angry. “Is it? Is it? If they wanted you dead, you’d be just that.”

“I was saved by good men who gave their lives for me.”

“Doesn’t it bother you at all that these
good men
died for no reason?” Kennedy shouted. “They gave their lives to protect someone who was never intended as a target, anyway.”

Where was Kennedy getting all this? It was bad enough she had to live with the deaths of innocent men for the rest of her life, but to have Kennedy rub it in her face was unbearable.

Kennedy continued. “What do they have on you? What are you involved in that can make you justify what happened to those men?”

“Nothing,” Ryden insisted.

“Then that’s very sad, because I wanted to believe you didn’t have a choice. That your life, or someone you cared about, was at risk.”

“Stop it,” Ryden yelled back. “You don’t know anything. I haven’t done anything.”

But Kennedy apparently wouldn’t let go. She took another step closer, until they were only a couple of feet apart. “You are responsible for the deaths of five innocent men, and I want to know why.”

“I would never hurt anyone.”

“I believe that,” Kennedy said. “That’s why I was hoping for your cooperation. I don’t have some death wish. If I had the slightest suspicion you were voluntarily involved, I would have kept my mouth shut. But I believe you were coerced—threatened somehow. Let me help you before more people, including yourself, get hurt.”

The exchange was becoming more heated by the second, and Ryden struggled to come up with a way to get Kennedy to stop this interrogation. “You needn’t concern yourself with my well-being.”

“It’s my job.”

“Then do your job and stop looking for ghosts. Just let it go.”

Kennedy’s expression softened. “I can’t,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Because I know you’re in trouble and I want to help you. There’s got to be a way to get you out of whatever mess you’re in.”

“I’m not in any mess, and I sure as hell don’t play the damsel-in-distress role very well, so I have no need for a knight in shining armor to rescue me. If I were in any trouble at all, I’d find a way to deal with it the way I always have.”

“Why can’t you accept my help?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because…” Kennedy looked flustered. “Because, I just do.”

Ryden wanted desperately to run to her and tell her everything. For the first time, she felt an urgency to talk, and Kennedy was so close to the truth. But neither of them stood a chance against these people. “There’s nothing to help me with.”

“Stop lying,” Kennedy said, clearly frustrated. She shook Ryden by the shoulders. “Who are you protecting?”

Myself
was the ugly, honest answer. “Get the hell out of here,” Ryden shouted.

“You’re in my room,” Kennedy hollered back.

Ryden pushed her away and walked to the door. “Leave. Do us both a favor, and leave.”

*

Manhattan Beach, New York

The GPS on Montgomery Pierce’s rental car accurately pointed him to Yuri Dratshev’s red-brick mansion in an upscale neighborhood, though he could have picked out the Russian mob boss’s home on sight. The exterior was a mishmash of garish excesses—a gold cupola topped the structure, six gold Roman columns flanked the front door, and the lawn was full of statues, mostly Italian nudes. Security was also well evident. A forbidding metal fence surrounded the estate, and cameras covered every angle of possible intrusion.

Monty pulled into the driveway and announced himself over the intercom. Half a minute later, the gate opened and he drove in to find a guard with a machine gun waiting to admit him at the front door.

The goon led him to Dratshev’s study, where more kitschy accoutrements awaited: red velvet curtains and animal-skin rugs, mounted trophy heads and a cherry desk inlaid with a massive, colorful, Orthodox mosaic of the Virgin Mary.

He was taking off his coat as Dratshev appeared in the doorway.

“How have you been?” the Russian asked. So many years had passed since they had seen each other that Monty scarcely recognized him. He’d gone completely bald or was shaving his head now, and his neatly trimmed mustache and trademark narrow beard, which ran along his jawline to the bottom of his ears, were more gray than black. Even his demeanor was different. He’d always been the picture of arrogant braggadocio, but today he looked worried. Although he smiled when he shook Monty’s hand, his dark eyes spoke another truth.

“Not relevant, nor do I think you care. I’m here about Jack.” Normally, Monty only referred to her as Jaclyn, but it was no business of Dratshev’s to know Jack’s birth name.

“Jack who?”

Monty suppressed a cringe. “The one you occasionally hire for hits.”

“Have a seat.” Dratshev gestured toward the corner that held a couch, coffee table, and two armchairs, as he shut the door. “Vodka?”

“I don’t drink.” Monty threw his coat over the back of one of the armchairs and took a seat.

“That’s not what I remember.” Dratshev laughed. “I remember you and me putting a whole bottle away, just the two of us.” He poured himself a glass from a bottle on his desk and took the armchair across from Monty.

“I don’t drink anymore.”

“Pity. Life is clearer through the thick bottom of a tumbler.”

“I have glasses for that now.” Monty patted his breast pocket.

“Age, she is a heartless bitch.”

Monty tapped his fingers on the armrest when Dratshev went quiet. He stared at the Russian, waiting for the man’s reaction to his visit and inquiry about Jaclyn.

“So.” Dratshev finally spoke and leaned forward. “I don’t work for you anymore.”

“That’s correct.”

“So, why do you come to me looking for help?”

“Because I can.”

“I don’t owe you any answers.”

“Just because you’re not my CI anymore doesn’t mean I can’t destroy you.”

“You said you would release me after I gave you that fucking crazy arms dealer in Israel,” Dratshev said. “I delivered.”

Monty had pulled any and all strings ten years ago to track down the Israeli bastard who had taken and hurt Jaclyn, and when he found him, he personally buried him alive. “Because you wanted him out of the way. He was taking your clients.”

“But I gave him to you when you said it was personal.”

“And then you gave me another one, and then another one, and then—”

“So, who cares?” Dratshev’s tone was matter-of-fact, but he took a long swig of his drink.

“I let you live twenty years ago in exchange for intel and cartels.”

“We smoked, had vodka together,” Dratshev said. “I bring you girls. We became friends.”

“We were associates.”

“And now you are a middle-aged, boring fuck.”

“Maybe, but I can take you down.”

“Bullshit.”

“I can call all those dealers you helped me put away. I’m curious as to how fast they can get to you from behind bars. My guess is between two to three hours.”

Dratshev’s eyes widened so much he looked like a cartoon. “That’s not our deal.”

“So?” Monty shrugged. “Who cares?” he repeated with Dratshev’s flippancy.

The Russian seemed to consider his alternatives for several seconds before he spoke again. “Why do you want Jack?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Do you know her?”

“None of your business.”

Dratshev stared down at the vodka in his hand. “I don’t know where she is.”

“You’re lying.”

Dratshev took another long swig. “I tried to find her for a job.”

“What job?” Monty asked.

“I don’t know. A business associate asked me to find her.”

“And?”

“I left a message. Jack called me back. I gave her the number of my associate, told her it was big money. Jack always works for big money. I didn’t hear from her again.” He seemed to be telling the truth.

“Let’s start with you giving me the contact number you gave Jack.”

“It’s no good now, for sure. Only for Jack,” the Russian replied.

“Who’s your associate?”

Dratshev shook his head. “I can’t talk about that.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“No. I mean I can’t.” The Russian sounded nervous. “Listen, I don’t know if you ever met Jack. I don’t know if you want to kill her or make hits for you, but I like her. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“You like her,” Monty repeated dubiously.

“Da.”
Dratshev met his eyes. “She is a cold executioner, but there is something good in her heart.”

“I think she’s in trouble,” Monty said.

“Maybe. She is not exactly a libra.” Dratshev snorted. “But why do you care?”

“A what?”

“You know, woman who works with books.”

“Librarian.”

“That’s what I said.”

Monty willed himself not to roll his eyes. “Did she take the job for your associate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

“If she did, you don’t want to get involved.” That meant a lot coming from the Russian, since he was aware of what Monty was capable of and what power he had. Monty had told him years ago that he worked for the Agency.

“That’s for me to determine,” Monty replied.

“If Jack is with her, you can’t do anything about it,” Dratshev said. “She will have to stay there, probably forever.”

“So your associate is a woman.”

He looked away and didn’t answer.

“Arms dealers, drugs, prostitution, organs, terrorism. I’ve handled them all,” Monty said. “Which one is it?”

Dratshev looked at him and simply nodded.

“I see.” The woman he was referring to apparently liked to dabble in a bit of everything.

“What would Jack have to do for her?”

“What she does best, I think. Find and kill.” Dratshev laughed. “Why do you care? It was her decision to take the job. Find someone else.” He took a big gulp of vodka and gargled with it.

Monty slammed his hand on his armrest. “I don’t think it was her decision.”

Dratshev choked on the liquid and broke out in a horrendous cough.

“Who is she?” Monty yelled. “Who is Jack working for?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Are you afraid of her?”

“Also.”

“Also, what? Do you work for her?”

“With her, for her.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to tell.”

“Arms?”

Dratshev glanced quickly left, then right, almost unconsciously. “This is a big deal, Pierce. No one can know.”

“Big money?”

“Big stakes. What I did this time can put me away for the next ten lives.”

“That’s your business. I’m not here about that.” Monty sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Remember how you and I used to work together? You would give me a name and I’d make sure no one ever found out. I got what I wanted, and you got to stay on top and keep the buyers to yourself. If this person is involved in the arms trade, which is your main financial source and occupation, you get to keep her clients.”

Dratshev coughed again, placed his tumbler on the coffee table, and leaned forward. “I can’t do it. The
suka
will find out I told you. I know she will. And when she does, my whole family will go down the shitter, liter…literary…”

“Literally,” Monty finished for him.

“She will cut us up in pieces and flush us down the shitter.”

“I got that.”

Monty had seen the Russian hesitant, scared, and uncooperative before, but he’d never seen him petrified at the mere thought of giving a name. Who had that kind of power over a kingpin like Dratshev? He wasn’t the brightest light on the tree, but he was good at what he did, and everyone feared him in the arms business. Dratshev didn’t need more than a simple dirty look to put a bullet in someone’s head.

Maybe this woman—who wasn’t exclusively in the same line of work—had the upper hand in some other business. But how many women headed multiple, dubious enterprises? Monty tapped his fingers again on the armrest, a nervous habit. He could only come up with two names: one had been imprisoned last year on racketeering charges, and the other…

He stopped tapping. “I’m going to mention a name.” Monty wanted more than anything, more than any other time in his life, to be wrong.

Dratshev nodded once.

“Is the woman Jack is working for called TQ…the Broker?”

Dratshev stared at him intently, the prominent vein in his forehead throbbing to the beat of his heart. Suddenly, without a word, he got up and left the room.

Monty’s hand went numb. He sat back and stared at Dratshev’s empty chair for a long time. “I told you she’d come after you, Jaclyn.” He rubbed his face. With unsteady hands, he grabbed Dratshev’s expensive notepad and pen off the coffee table and wrote:
Your cat is safe. Come home. 19 8 1 4 5.
He folded the paper, wrote
For Jack
on it, and left it on Dratshev’s desk, hoping the mob boss would pass it on if possible. “Please, be alive. I’ll find you, if it’s the last thing I do.”