The Housewife Assassin's Deadly Dossier (5 page)

At least the lipstick was gone from her teeth.

She slipped on a pair of plain black low-heeled pumps then she smoothed her dress back into place. She didn’t bother to tame the errant strands of hair that had escaped her French twist. Instead, she plucked the last of the pins that held it in place, so that the rest of her thick, curly mane fell in loose coils below her rounded shoulders.
 

She didn’t look at him but into the mirror as she dabbed the smudges under her eyes with a tissue. “Mr. Craig, I meant what I said. I have absolutely no influence over Leonid.”

“I didn’t make love to you because of him.”

She paused, then shrugged. “It’s very kind of you to say so. But I’m a realist. And more importantly, I am grateful.” She turned to him—not to look him in the eye, but to touch the ring on his finger. “Your wife is a very lucky woman.”

He started to speak again, but before he could get a word out, she put a finger against his lips to quiet him. “On the other hand, I am married to a monster. Not just I, but too many of my countrywomen have discovered this the hard way.”
 

“What do you mean by that?”

“Pornography keeps my husband’s film company in the black.” She turned back to the mirror and patted away her tears. “So you see, meeting with him now is a waste of your time, and your company’s money. Once word gets out about my husband’s exploits—and eventually, it will—he will be, how do you say, an industry pariah.”
 

Jack frowned. “Even if the public were to discover this shadow business, why would it turn against him?”

“Because of the way in which his ‘stars’ are procured for his projects. Most are real actresses. Leonid promises them the stardom they seek at all costs. Instead, once they are on the locked set, they find out the truth about their new film role. If they scream or fight back, they are drugged before the filmed rapes begin.” Irina shivered. “This filth gets millions of downloads, but the girls are never seen or heard from again. I presume they’re sold into prostitution afterward—or worse. I’ve seen one of these films.” Irina’s lower lip trembled. “Today, he will have many women to choose from. No doubt his auditions have already begun. Later tonight, after the rest of the guests have left, his ‘chosen ones’ will be asked to stay behind.”
 

“Would you like my help in stopping him?”

She looked over at him. “Yes, of course!”

“Then I’ll need your help, too.”

She nodded. “Anything.”

“Irina, Leonid carries an attaché case, given to him by his father.”

She shrugged. “I know it, yes. He hates it! He says he’s not a businessman—that he is an artist, a creative genius. Ha! He may feel his father’s money makes him both, but neither is close to the truth.”

“The case contains something that will implicate him in this and other crimes. It wasn’t in his office. Do you have any idea where is it now?”

Irina stepped over to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The fourth shelf from the bottom held a leather-bound series of Charles Dickens novels. She tilted the one entitled
Bleak House
. Eight other books in the series slid to one side, revealing a safe. Irina tapped eight numbers on the digital keyboard.
 

The door opened, revealing the attaché case.

As she handed it to Jack, the books slipped back into place, as if they were never disturbed.

“The clasp has a combination lock. To open it, try eight six zero eight zero two. Most of Leonid’s pass codes are the birth date of our son, Alexi.” Irina took Jack’s hand and stroked it lovingly. “Use all possible caution, Mr. Craig. I’ll do the same. Now if you’ll excuse me, our guests are outside, taking their leave. I’ll do what I can to make sure my husband stays out of your way.”
 

She walked out, closing the door behind her.

To play it safe, Jack watched out the window until she came into view. She’d done a good job in pulling herself together. In fact, now she held her head high, and her shoulders back as she crossed to her husband’s side.
 

Leonid was in the middle of a discussion with some effusive British comedian who had just made his film debut at the festival. Irina inched through the crowd chatting by the water’s edge until she reached her husband’s side. When he finally noticed her there, he did a double take. Jack couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he saw Leonid pointing to her hair and laughing raucously.
 

She recoiled, as if he’d slapped her across the face.

He shrugged as she walked away, defeated.

The others, chagrined, covered for him with nervous laughter.
 

“Leonid Romanov, you’re incorrigible!” Rebecca teased him.

Jack fought the urge to shoot the bastard right then and there.

Better payback would come with the accomplishment of his mission.

He turned to the task at hand.
 

Jack nudged the six tumblers to those numbers Irina suggested.
 

The clasp flipped up, and Jack opened the case.

Inside, there were several folders. Most of them contained documents written in Russian, although one was in German, and another in English.

The top of the case had three pockets of varying sizes. All were empty.

Where the hell was it?

Jack pulled out the folders in order to feel around the bottom and the sides of the case. He was looking for any seam, indentation or lump that might indicate a hidden compartment.

He found a catch on the lid of the case. When he pressed it, a small square hole revealed itself, just deep enough to hold a thin rectangular disk.

The thumb drive.

He grabbed it—
 

Not a moment too soon. He heard a voice on the other side of the door. It belonged to Leonid.

But he wasn’t alone. From the woman’s laugh, Jack knew his host was nowhere near the party’s hostess.

Leonid was with the actress, Rebecca.

There was nowhere to go but under the bed.

“Really, Leonid, I don’t think we should do this now, and certainly not here—I mean, with your wife downstairs and all.” Rebecca’s words expressed wariness, but to Jack’s ear, her honeyed tone seemed ripe with anticipation.

Leonid’s response was much as Jack’s would have been, had he been the one to coerce Rebecca into his bedroom.

So, she was the one he’d chosen for his next rape film.

As they fell onto the bed, the mattress sagged practically to Jack’s face. He could barely breathe, and he certainly couldn’t turn his head.

“Leonid, please! I said—I said no!” The slap that followed brought a pause to the action above Jack’s head.

But not for long. It was followed by another slap.

And then a deep moan.

Was Leonid hurting her?

“I told you, Leonid—I’m not into the rough stuff.” Rebecca’s warning was serene, not angry or frightened.
 
Jack presumed she was trying not to panic.

“My dear Rebecca, you also said you’d make an exception in my case.” Leonid’s tone was firm. “Look what I have, just for you—the handcuffs you were admiring, just the other day.”

“You’re mistaken. If anyone was admiring them, it was you.” This time, Rebecca’s tone was as cold as ice.

“Indulge me,” Leonid insisted.

The next sound—that of the sharp click of metal upon metal.
 

“It’s…too tight,” Rebecca murmured.

“You’ll see. You’ll like it that way.” Leonid laughed. “I know I will.”

He didn’t waste any time proving this boast. With each thrust, the mattress groaned and dipped. Jack flattened his head against the floor.
 

I hope this asshole comes quickly, Jack thought. Otherwise, I may suffocate.

He took the gamble of tilting his head to one side, where he could see out the door to the balcony. While they’re preoccupied, he thought, maybe I could inch my way out from under here and crawl out onto the patio, then down onto the Grand Canal’s promenade.
 

He was just about to make a move in that direction when he saw a pair of feet in the threshold of the balcony door:

Low-heeled, plain black pumps.

Irina.

Jack could only imagine the look of horror on her face.

What he couldn’t imagine was what she’d do next.

The gun must have had a suppressor because Jack barely heard the whisking bullet leaving the chamber. On the other hand, its target gave a loud gasp. The thump that followed was proof that Irina’s shot had hit its mark.

In no time, Jack was on his feet.

Irina stood frozen, staring at the bed where the gun was aimed.

Jack was not shocked to see that the victim was Leonid. The bullet caught him on the left side of his neck. There was so much blood that it was obvious she’d struck his carotid artery.

What did surprise him was that it was Leonid who had been handcuffed to the bedposts.

Rebecca was sitting on top of the dead man. Realizing the gun was pointed her way, her eyes narrowed warily. “Please, Mrs. Romanov, put down the gun.”

Instead Irina shifted her aim to Rebecca. “You slut! If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Irina, hand it to me.” Jack kept his voice gentle, but firm.

“No! You don’t understand—”

A second later, Rebecca was off the bed and beside Irina.
 

Before Jack could react, she elbowed the older woman in the stomach. As Irina doubled over, Rebecca wrenched the gun out of her hand and pointed it back at her.

Jack stared at her. “Whoa, Rebecca, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

She smiled as she shot him in the shoulder.

“What the hell!” Jack shouted. Irina muffled a scream with a hand over her mouth.

Rebecca motioned to Irina. “
Gde portfel?”
she asked.

Jack recognized the language. She’d asked in Russian,
Where is the briefcase?
 

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

She swung the gun around so that it was up against Jack’s temple. Pressing her lips into a pout, she murmured, “I don’t know if I should be proud of the fact that I’ve so successfully deceived the celebrated Acme operative Jack Craig, or disappointed that you obviously don’t sleep with my picture under your pillow.”
 

“Tatyana Zakharov is…
was
my husband’s latest whore,” Irina muttered.

Well, Jack thought, that explains a lot, including why she’s about to blow my head off.

“Your husband had something I wanted,” Tatyana continued, this time in Russian. “A computer memory stick.”

Irina’s eyes shifted to Jack involuntarily.
 

Seeing this, Tatyana smiled. In English, she purred, “Ah, I see. You sweet-talked this old bat into fetching it for you.” She slapped the gun against his temple. “Hand it over.”

Jack was attempting to staunch the blood from his shoulder wound with his left hand. Slowly, he lowered his right one into his pocket and pulled out the thumb drive. He held it out to her—

When she reached for it he tossed his arm over his shoulder and muttered, “
Plavat' za eto, suka.”
 

Translation:
Swim for it, bitch.

They heard the
ker-plop
through the balcony window.
 

Tatyana let loose with an angry shriek. But this time, when she raised her gun to shoot Jack, Irina grabbed the younger woman’s arm. They struggled. Just as Irina yanked it from Tatyana’s hand, the gun went off.

Irina gasped and looked down.
 

Blood gushed from her chest.

She fell backward—out the window, with the gun.

This time, the splash they heard was louder.

Angered, Tatyana stalked back to the bed. She rummaged in the bloodied sheets until she came up with her purse, from which she pulled a cell phone. She hit a button, waited, then said, “Mission aborted. Wait for me by the dock.”

So, she had an accomplice, Jack thought. Was it Ross Tanner?

She reached down for her stilettoes. As she strapped them on, she bent down so that she and Jack were face-to-face. “The nearest hospital is
Servizio Citta'Di Rosin Massimo
. It’s, oh say, a ten-minute walk from here. Since you’ll probably bleed out on the way, here’s a little something to remember me by.”