The Housewife Assassin's Deadly Dossier (4 page)

Arnie shook Jack’s hand vigorously. “I’ve already sent you a schematic of the villa, which you can easily memorize. The office has a safe large enough to hold an attaché case. You’ll find it behind a framed poster of the movie
Tart and Sour,
which Romanov produced as well. It opens with a retinal scan.”

“Then how will I open it?”

“Easy. Just take a selfie of you and Leonid, with this.” He handed Jack an iPhone. “The camera is equipped with pattern-capturing software that will reproduce his irises exactly. Just point the picture at the color dot, and you’ll be in the safe in no time.”
 

 
“Ryan, why a thumb drive? Why not place the intel in a secure cloud instead?” Jack asked.

 
“Putin isn’t just grousing for the cameras when he declares the Internet has been a CIA project from its inception. He rightly believes that Russia is under American scrutiny at all times.”

Ryan glanced at Jack’s intricately carved platinum band. “Leave it on. Your cover includes your marriage.”
 

Jack winced. He hadn’t broken the news to Ryan that, recently, his wife of two years had left him—the first of many relationships to crumble under the strain of a stressful job that took him all over the world and bound him to secrecy.
 

Just this morning, when he discovered she’d taken the square ebony box holding those things dearest to him, he made the decision to remove the ring.
 

How ironic, he thought now.
 

Apparently, ambitious actresses aren’t sentimental either. While the deck hands scurried to secure the yacht among the others tethered to Palazzino Alvisi’s massive dock, Rebecca removed her sunglasses in order to better admire his wedding band. At the same time, Jack had a first glance at her eyes—almond-shaped, hard and bright, like well-cut sapphires. “Ah! Your wife has wonderful taste.”

Any hope Jack may have had that knowledge of a spouse would dampen her enthusiasm disappeared once and for all when she brushed past him while descending the boarding ramp. Even if her frock hadn’t been made of sheer silk, he’d have felt her hardened nipples against his jacket.

Great, thought Jack, the last thing I need is my very own shadow. So that she takes the hint, I’ll give her the cold shoulder the moment we get inside so that she realizes I’m not up for any fun and games.

The sooner he met with Leonid, the better.
 

Jack’s introduction to his host happened too late in the evening—almost at the party’s conclusion.
 

Worse yet, it was too short and not so sweet. Leonid’s breath smelled of vodka, he barely smiled, and his eyes roamed to the other guests even as Jack assured him that he was eager to talk about the sequel’s financing. A very broad hint that serious face time wasn’t going to happen came with a slap on the back and a promise to “discuss the project in a more conducive setting. Let’s say lunch, tomorrow on the terrace at Lineadombra?”

Jack nodded and smiled benignly. Holding up Arnie’s iPhone, he said, “Do you mind? The wife will kill me if I don’t get a picture of me with her favorite producer.”

Leonid shrugged, but Jack knew he was flattered by the smirk he gave when the cell phone’s camera clicked. Afterward Tanner hustled Leonid in the direction of an aging American action star.

Good riddance, Jack thought.

He shifted his gaze to the mezzanine. Which room was the office, he wondered. Oh yes, it was the second of two double doors located directly across from the large staircase that connected the two lower floors.

As his eyes moved across the second story’s open hall, they rested on a solitary figure: Irina Romanov.

She was leaning over the ornate wrought-iron railing that circled the mezzanine, frowning down at the crowd below.
 

Unlike the other ladies in attendance, she was not adept at the sleight of hand that allowed more determined women to feign fleeting youth. Neither was she as stylish as her female guests. Her widow’s peak was already graying. A few stray tendrils had escaped her chignon. Her black cocktail dress hugged her solid frame in all the wrong places.
 

There were tears in her eyes.
 

In fact, her eyeliner was smudged to the point where black streaks darkened the webs of fine lines attached to the corners of her eyes.

Had Tatyana Zakharov shown up anyway?

The only picture Acme had of the Russian agent was at least two years old. It had been taken off a street security webcam feed in Istanbul. Jack cursed himself for not having scrutinized it better, not that it would have mattered. She’d worn oversized sunglasses, and the picture was in black and white. She wore a scarf over her head, but from what he could see of her hair peeking out over her forehead, she was a platinum blonde. Then again, as with all agents, male or female, she may have been wearing a wig.

He scanned the faces of the two hundred guests milling below them in the grand ballroom. All night long, Ross and Leonid had been shaking hands with the film’s fans and well-wishers. At this very moment, beside the nervous little man from the boat, at least four comely beauties were hanging on Leonid’s every word. The women were not shy in their attempts to provoke the producer, and he was not at all bashful in returning their admiration with a wink, or for that matter a forthright proposition.

And Jack wasn’t at all surprised to see that Rebecca was one of Leonid’s ardent acolytes. Tatyana didn’t have to be here for Irina Romanov to see her husband in action. She was a producer’s wife. Thanks to his movies and the prizes they’d garnered for him, he was a celebrity.

The groupies followed. Temptation was inevitable.
 

So was a wife’s heartache.

Especially that of a wife as humble and homely as Irina Romanov.
 

As sorry as he felt for her, he knew there was nothing he could do about it. In fact, Leonid’s vanity worked to his favor.

He watched as she made her way toward the staircase. But instead of joining the party, she walked up to the third story.
 

Smart woman, he thought.

Now that the second story was clear, he slipped up the back stairwell.

The attaché case wasn’t anywhere in the office.
 

Not in or around the massive Baroque desk, or stuck in any of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
 

And while he got into the safe with no problem at all, it was empty, except for a pair of platinum diamond-studded cufflinks.

Jack couldn’t find anything resembling a thumb drive in any of the desk drawers, either.
 

Where the hell was it?

The master bedroom was next door.
 

It couldn’t hurt to look there as well.

By using the terrace, he made it out one set of double-paneled doors and into the other without anyone seeing him.
 

Roused by the gentle breeze coming through the open balcony doors, the white gauze curtains rose and snapped like waking wraiths. What little light there was in the room came in from the lampposts lining the Grand Canal below.

In fact, the room was so dark that Jack hadn’t noticed the woman lying on the high four-poster bed until she rose onto her elbows.

It was Irina Romanov.

Jack made sure that none of his dismay on her behalf was reflected in his eyes. “Ah, Mrs. Romanov! I—I guess I’m in the wrong room. I was summoned to your husband’s office.” He held out his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you. I’m Jack Craig, with Acme Industries’ Financial Securities division.”
 

She stared down as she replied, “Yes, I know your name. You’re the banker interested in financing the sequel to Leonid’s latest and greatest.” Finally, she took his hand and shook it limply. “Let me guess. Leonid—how do you Americans say it? Oh yes—he blew you up.”
 

Jack shrugged. “What you mean to say is that he blew me
off.”
 

As if confirming her supposition, Leonid’s laughter rose over the din of the crowd, now standing down by the dock at the water’s edge.

The party was over and Jack had failed.

Seeing the look of disgust on his face, Irina shrugged. “I hope I did not sound too rude. What I say is a reflection of my own experience with my husband. He has his priorities, sometimes to the detriment of those who can do him the most good.”

“Have I wrongly presumed that the financing of his next film is his current focus?”

“His priorities change with the wind. One day, his quest is an Oscar.
 
Another day, it is notoriety, fame, and celebrity—even if it means funding pornography.” She shrugged as she rose from the bed. “As with most ambitious men, next on his list is another sexual conquest. My Leonid has no true loyalty, with principles or people.” Ashamed, she looked down at her feet. “He does not even have a love of country.”

She knows about the Putin payoffs, Jack realized.
 

He tilted her head up, so that she had to look him in the eye.

Then, very gently, he kissed her lips.

She didn’t recoil, or even blush, let alone back away.
 

Instead, she savored it.
 

She fell into the kiss, and into his arms.

Afterward she whispered, “I cannot influence him, if that is what you want of me.”

To dissuade her from this presumption, he placed his index finger on her cheek and let it roam diagonally to her lips.
 

She sucked it in between her teeth—slowly, at first, but then she nipped it hungrily.
 

He pushed her back down onto the bed.
 

“No…” Her voice sounded so far away, but she didn’t fight him when he raised her arms, pinning them over her head with one hand while the other cupped her left breast. She closed her eyes and moaned softly when he squeezed her nipple gently between his index and third fingers.
   

Then she looked down and noticed the ring on his wedding finger. He felt her stiffen. “So, you are married.” Her tone was listless.

Damn it, he thought. Still, his cover was rock solid. He had to go with it. “Yes.” At the very least, he sounded penitent.
 

It wasn’t part of any act. What woman wants a man who won’t tell her where he goes at night, or for that matter weeks on end? What woman isn’t pained at the scent of another on the man she loves deeply?

All women are, and this woman was no exception, he knew.
 

Irina wrenched her hands from his grip—

But only to unclasp his belt buckle.
 

She did not stop him when he lifted her skirt and entered her.

His thrusts were relentless. She closed her eyes and bit her lips, whispering her groans into his ear.

He felt her climax, and he knew she felt his surge as well.

They collapsed in each other’s arms.

She started to sob.
 

“Please don’t cry,” he murmured.
 

“I always weep when I am happy,” she whispered back. She rose from the bed and turned to face the large ornate mirror over the dresser. She sighed at what she saw. Her hair had fallen out of the twist, and her eyes were black with mascara.