The Russian Seduction (34 page)

A heartbeat later, his fingers threaded through hers. Alexis closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against his back, heart aching as a lump swelled in her throat.

Yeah, this is love.
The real deal—at least on my end.

It would just about kill her to say goodbye. But the worst of those incriminating photos were burning a hole in her handbag—right next to the damn wire. Just in case she needed any reminders about why she was leaving him.

Harshly Victor cleared his throat. “Comrade Admiral, I appreciate your kind forbearance in tidying up these bothersome details.” Despite his iron restraint, a hint of sarcasm edged his words. “Nonetheless, I do have one final question that would benefit from your…thoughtful insights.”

“Very well,” Ivashov said brusquely. Having delivered his nasty payload, the guy was clearly chafing to make his escape, indifferent to the devastation he left behind.

“Several vessels in the area reported a tactical cruise missile launch from the
Lenin
just before she sank,” Victor said. “Reports were also filed regarding an apparent detonation near our naval base in Sevastopol. That ground zero was well within range of the
Lenin
’s missiles.

“My final question, therefore, is the following.” Victor’s fingers tightened around hers. “At whom was my father instructed to fire?”

Her solar plexus knotted up, just like in the
dojo
when she braced to absorb a good punch. No way Victor was supposed to know about that missile through his own channels. His mentor Admiral Grachev probably hadn’t even known—or maybe he’d withheld the info. So Victor was flying solo on this one, with only Alexis to guard his back.

“I’m afraid I know nothing about that,” Ivashov said at last. “Moreover, if I
had
known anything about such a sensitive matter, you will understand that I could not conceivably discuss it under these irregular circumstances.”

In a nightclub, he meant. To a renegade sub skipper who’d lost his command and his tipsy Belarusian girlfriend. Well, neither of them had expected the job would be easy.

“Let me offer a conjecture,” Victor said smoothly. But she picked up the way he was biting off his words, and knew his temper was straining at the leash.

“The naval exercise in question occurred only two weeks before Ukraine’s pivotal parliamentary elections,” the captain noted. “While the head of the Ukrainian reform party, who was also the probable next prime minister, was vacationing nearby. Let us conjecture that the
Lenin’
s missile failed to reach its intended target, but detonated close enough to terrify the politician—and to deliver a warning from Moscow.

“Let us conjecture that the frightened politician withdrew from the race but changed his mind on the eve of elections, grasped his courage, and won by the narrowest margin. However, such a prime minister would probably give Russia a wide berth throughout his tenure. He might well fail to push back against what might otherwise be considered intimidation and interference from his bullying neighbor to the north.

“Which leads me to the final question, Comrade Admiral.” Victor paused. “Do these conjectures strike you as plausible?”

Now he was definitely sweating under his tux, and Alexis felt a trifle overheated herself. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Ivashov wasn’t going to play ball and give them what they needed from the kindness of his heart.

Yeah, it was definitely time to initiate Plan B. And the sudden inspiration that flashed through her brain was one she wished she
hadn’t
come up with. Just the prospect of trying it made her palms sweat.

But this interview had already dragged out way too long. The admiral’s patience was nearing its limits, and their options were dwindling fast. Tonight she’d seen on the Russian news that a U.S. naval carrier group was now stationed near Ukraine, ostensibly to observe the unorthodox Russian maneuvers. And since the Russians considered the Black Sea to be their personal sandbox, the heavy U.S. presence had lodged under their skin like a painful sliver. She’d bet Russian Fleet Command was chafing to pluck it out.

One nervous trigger finger on either side, and the whole damn region would ignite into a war zone. Which was particularly risky given the coterie of submarine-launched ballistic missiles, with their nuclear payload, playing wallflower at the party.

Besides, Victor had way too much riding on the outcome—both personal and professional—to entertain the option of failure. His father’s reputation meant everything to the guy, probably even more than his own. But to get what he needed, Victor required her assistance. And he was going to get it.

Still, her heart backflipped in her chest like an Olympic gymnast on a tumbling run. Discreetly, she eased her hand away from Victor’s and started inching toward his belt.

“Captain, I’m afraid I can’t be of any further assistance,” Ivashov stated coldly. “But perhaps you’ll indulge me if I offer a personal observation. If the Russian navy
were
to receive orders from the appropriate level to eliminate a future top-level leader of an insignificant border state, our strike would
not
go astray.”

“Duly noted, Comrade Admiral,” Victor murmured.

And Alexis sure as hell noted it too. The buttoned-tight admiral had just indulged himself in a little badass. Not only had the bastard as good as admitted his government’s hostile intent to bump off the prime minister of Ukraine. He was practically rubbing their noses in it.

“Then perhaps,” Ivashov said pointedly, “we might explore these fascinating conspiracy theories of yours another time. I’m expected for another meeting shortly. I’m certain you’ll understand.”

OK, this was it. Man, Alexis could hardly believe she was going to try this. She’d be straying way off script—breaking the rules in a major way. And she didn’t need to wonder who’d taught her to do that.

But Ivashov was heading for the exit. If she planned to act, it needed to be
right now.

Adrenaline spurted through her system like an injection as Alexis grabbed the hidden pistol from Victor’s holster. Already her legs were moving, lunging between the two men and the curtained exit. Victor was pivoting, no doubt trying to figure out what the hell she was doing. But her sudden movement made Ivashov hesitate within Victor’s dangerous reach, and kept the admiral quiet for a critical few seconds.

Holding the ugly silver gun in both hands, feet spread for balance and arms outstretched the way Victor had taught her, Alexis pointed the deadly muzzle straight at Ivashov. The two men froze. A satisfying flicker of alarm fired both faces as they eyed her ready stance.

“You’d better have a seat on the chaise, Comrade Admiral,” she said coldly. “And reconsider your answer about that unauthorized missile launch.”

Somehow her amazing brain was still managing to handle the tricky Russian grammar—directional case and all. Dragging in a shaky breath, Alexis knew she had about five seconds to redirect Ivashov away from the obvious conclusion that she and Victor were acting in cahoots. She might be protected from prosecution by diplomatic immunity, at least in principle, though she was acting pretty far outside her Embassy box. But, as a Russian citizen on Russian turf, Victor sure as hell didn’t enjoy the same protection.

“You’d better have a seat too, Captain Kostenko,” she ordered, staring into his startled gaze. “You know how much practice I’ve had handling this thing. I’d hate to shoot one of you by mistake.”

_____________________________________

A nanosecond of shock flashed across Victor’s grim features before she saw those sub skipper reflexes kick in. His eyes narrowed to slivers of Nordic ice, searching her for clues to explain her deviation from the plan.

“Be careful,” he told her softly, eyeing her clenched grip on the Walter PPK. She knew he was warning her about more than the damn gun.

“Have a seat,” she repeated, easing off the pistol’s safety. The first thing Victor had taught her was never to point the muzzle at someone unless she was prepared to shoot him. Since she couldn’t quite bring herself to point the gun at him, she leveled it at Ivashov.

Careful careful careful
, warned her
dojo
instincts.
You’re standing too close to your opponent’s fighting reach.
She edged away from Victor, though she didn’t really believe he’d attack her. Even if he hadn’t a clue what the hell she was doing. But she was straying pretty far off the reservation with this little surprise, and she didn’t want to tempt the ultimate alpha male to regain the upper hand.

At least Ivashov was finally eyeing her—and the PPK—with a modicum of respect.

“Who are you?” the admiral murmured. “American? British, perhaps?”

Yeah, I’m James frigging Bond,
she thought grimly.

“Frankly, it doesn’t matter who I am.” Desperately, she hoped the wire in her clutch was getting all this, that the technician was managing to filter out the din of background noise, and that the kid hadn’t fallen asleep at his post. If she lost focus for a millisecond, he might be the only guy positioned to save her ass.

Alexis summoned all her diplomatic skills to lie with a cool face. “What matters, Comrade Admiral, is that I have one hell of a backup team waiting just outside this room, and they have quite a bit less patience for dialogue and diplomacy than I do. Therefore, comrade, I repeat:
sit down
.”

In fact, she wasn’t too sure how to react if he didn’t. Thankfully, Victor took the lead, strolling over to the wingchair and dropping into it—apparently at ease. Still, it was evident to a black belt like Alexis that the captain was sitting on the edge of his chair, feet planted, minimizing his reaction time if he needed to jump.

“I don’t know precisely what game she’s playing at,” he said conversationally to Ivashov. “But I can personally attest that the firearm is loaded, and that her aim is somewhat shaky. My advice would be to avoid provoking her.”

Did that mean Victor was still trying to work with her? Or was he just playing along while he tried to figure out what the hell she was doing? The important thing for now was that Ivashov perched warily on the couch, putting distance between the two men, making it harder for her to cover both targets at once. Clever lad, the admiral was.

“We haven’t much time to chat before my friends become impatient,” she improvised, still wearing her game face. “And we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we, comrade. To avoid any unpleasantness, I’d like you to take another run at that cruise missile question.

“The way I figure it,” she continued, “that missile wasn’t fired until
starpom
Mishkin seized command. Since Mishkin was never investigated and thus presumably stayed loyal to his orders, it looks to me like you must have ordered him to fire.”

“An interesting chain of logic,” the admiral allowed, chilly gray eyes locked on hers, undoubtedly trying to read her. Or maybe still working to pin down her slight Russian accent. “Perhaps you’ll explain to me first, my dear lady, what manner of incentive would compel me to respond to your questions truthfully. Are you planning to shoot me if I don’t?”

“You could try to lie,” she admitted, keeping her voice untroubled, like he hadn’t just put his finger on the biggest weakness in her impromptu performance. “But it wouldn’t make much sense for the
Lenin
to target either another Russian vessel or any commercial ship passing through the region. Since the SS-N-26 Yakhont you fired was a short-range missile with a maximum reach of roughly 160 nautical miles, there aren’t exactly a plethora of likely options, are there?”

“Personally,” Victor murmured, “I must confess to a lingering curiosity about this issue.”

His electric-blue eyes hadn’t left hers for a second. Understandable, she supposed, since she was pointing a loaded gun in his vicinity. No doubt if he’d been on his submarine, he’d have plotted and locked in a firing solution to take her out by now.

Ivashov leaned forward and her heart kicked into overdrive. Overcoming her novice shooter qualms, she pointed the PPK at the bastard’s medal-blazoned chest.

“Easy, admiral,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t want you to drop your cigarette.”

“You’re American, yes?” Ivashov countered, keeping his skinny butt in the seat—for now. “Educated, affluent, fully bilingual, with an obvious talent for language. If I had to guess, I’d say you were most likely raised on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States.”

“That’s a nice guess, comrade, but none of this is important.”

“Unfortunately,” the admiral continued, “I haven’t seen your photograph, but I have read your dossier. All factors considered, I’d have to conclude you’re Captain Kostenko’s latest ‘homework assignment.’”

She’d thought she was ready for any trick the sneaky bastard tried to slip past her, but this little volley caught her by surprise. Ivashov had just tipped his hand, confirming her government’s suspicions that he wasn’t your average naval officer. He was military intel, most likely, and given his age he would’ve been trained up proper in the Soviet GRU—the least-understood spook agency in the bad old days of the USSR.