The Spy With the Silver Lining (2 page)

“Injuries. But you said—”

“The minor bump on the head and black eye haven’t slowed her down much.”

“Mama has a black eye?”

“In a few days she’ll look as beautiful as ever. Now get going.”

“But—”

“Your flight leaves—” Polax checked his watch “—in fifty minutes. Move your amazing ass, Balasi. I’ll be in touch.”

Pierce entered Merrick’s office at Onyxx in Washington expecting a pat on the back, and his vacation request confirmed. He and Jacy had managed to wrap up the kill-file mission and defuse a time bomb.

All was good, and now it was time for a little fun in the sun. He deserved it. He was anxious.

“Sit down, Pierce. That was a helluva job you did for us in Montana. Jacy’s back working for us. Polax is happy that Prisca has joined his team of female spies. And we have the original kill-file in our possession.”

“And Holic Reznik?”

“Holic is never going to see the light of day. His prison cell at Clume is now his permanent home.”

“And the Chameleon?”

“We’ve alerted the appropriate organizations directly involved in his intended mayhem. Of course, we still want him, but for now lives have been spared. You and Jacy can be damn proud of that. The agency is grateful.”

All in a day, Pierce thought. Now let’s settle on a date when I leave for my requested time off. He probably wouldn’t get a month like he’d asked for, but surely two weeks. He could live with that.

“Sorry to have to tell you this, but your request for vacation time has been denied.”

Pierce had just sat down. He looked across the desk at his commander in disbelief. He hadn’t had time off in over a year. Not unless they were counting his recovery time from taking those two bullets for Bjorn in Austria months ago. Rehab had been no picnic, but he’d gotten used to the routine. He had more bullet holes in him than all his teammates put together. Still, a little rehab hardly qualified as a vacation.

“You’re denying my request? Why?”

“Polax called and he’s got a problem.”

“Since when are his problems our problems? Or should I say, mine?”

“When they parallel our interests. He’s uncovered a critical piece of information, and that information could put us back on the trail of the Chameleon. Ever hear of a man named Yurii Petrov?”

“The Russian mobster,
oui,
I’ve heard of him. He’s doing time in a Czech prison.”

“Was. He escaped a week ago.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“I don’t have all the details. What I do know is that since he’s been in prison his operation has still been running smoothly. We know he’s the prime source for laundering the Chameleon’s money. Last week someone pulled off a billion-dollar weapons deal with the Russians. We believe it was the Chameleon.”

Pierce shifted in his chair and crossed his jean-clad leg over his knee, his frustration in check.

His comrades had given him the name Sleeper years ago because he seldom showed an ounce of emotion, or revealed what he was thinking. His self-control was what had kept him alive for thirty-five years. His lazy brown eyes gave the impression that even if his balls were on fire, he wouldn’t reach for a water glass.

He said, “You think he’s going to contact Petrov to clean his money?”

“He probably already has. Polax tells me Yurii Petrov keeps sophisticated records on all his clients. That means he’s got data on the Chameleon. We want it.”

“Do we know where Yurii Petrov keeps this data?”

“We think he has a command center somewhere in the Mediterranean. But so far we haven’t been able to lock in on the location. To infiltrate his core and retrieve the data we need to uncover his hideout. He calls it Nescosto Priyatna. Quest has been under some heavy ridicule since Petrov’s prison break. Polax is looking to redeem his agency. We’re looking for data on the Chameleon. I’ve met twice with Lev Polax and we’ve come up with a plan.”

“If you don’t know where to look, how are you—”

“Petrov has a score to settle with Quest. Polax believes he’s going to go after one of his operatives. The agent responsible for his seven months in prison.”

“How do I fit in?”

“When agencies work together good things can happen. The Austrian mission was proof of that. I’ve never been too proud to join forces with another agency if we can score a victory. Shutting down Petrov’s cartel would be a big perk for EURO-Quest. And I don’t have to tell you what it would mean to Onyxx if we can draw the Chameleon out of hiding to get another crack at him.”

Pierce could see that the idea thrilled Merrick. And why wouldn’t it? The Chameleon had been a dagger in Merrick’s side for fifteen years. This went far beyond just business with his boss. Everything involving the Chameleon was personal to Merrick.

“We’ve got the Chameleon’s original kill-file now. We’ve defused an international disaster and made friends along the way. It’s a victory, but what I…Onyxx wants is the Chameleon. I’d like to have been there when he learned that we had commandeered his kill-file. That bastard has been dogging me…the agency for too damn long.”

It was a fact, and Pierce understood Merrick’s frustration. His commander had been living with a sour taste in his mouth for too long. After all, the Chameleon had killed Merrick’s wife.

“I’d like to nurture this neighborly relationship with Quest. It’s been working to both our advantages.” Merrick tossed a file across the desk. “This is what we’ve got on Yurii Petrov. He’s a leading force in the Red Mafia, but he’s much more than that. He’s been a busy man over the past twelve years.”

Pierce reached for the file and opened it. First off was a picture of Petrov, along with the stats. Five feet nine inches, weighed two ten, brown eyes, black hair. In the picture he was dressed like a tycoon. He looked in good shape for a man headed for fifty.

He skimmed the pages of information. Later he would read them through. He closed the file.

That was when Merrick dropped the bomb. “What I want from you is to play house with Polax’s bait. It’s only a matter of time before Petrov makes a move on her. How long has it been since you were back home?”

The question caught Pierce by surprise. “Home? You mean Louisiana?”

“Le Mystère, to be specific.”

“Four or five years, maybe.”

“How’s Saber Lazie doing these days?”

Pierce arched an eyebrow. “He’s still on his feet, kicking it around.”

“So you two are still on good terms?”

“Oui.”
Where was this going?

“You still have that house near Bayou Lafourche?”

Pierce uncrossed his legs and sat up a little straighter. “What are you asking of me, Merrick?”

“This is a bodyguard job with a twist.” Merrick slid another file across the desk. “Polax’s agent. The one you’ll be playing house with until Petrov makes his move. She comes with baggage.”

“What kind of baggage?”

“Her mother.”

Pierce reached for the second file and opened it, and there staring back at him was the mouthy little bitch he’d encountered months ago in Austria. The woman he’d been tempted to shove out of the helicopter if only one of his bullet wounds hadn’t dislocated his shoulder in the process.

He closed the file. “Balasi put Yurii Petrov in prison? How did she manage that?”

“She used her charm. You know the standard for Quest agents. They’re trained specialists in the art of seduction.”

The woman he’d met didn’t know the definition of charm, Pierce thought.

“This particular agent is an expert in bringing a man to his knees. Polax tells me Petrov fell in two months. So hard he declared his love, gave her a ring and asked her to marry him.”

Casmir Balasi, wife material? A two-headed viper would be more fun.

“This isn’t going to work.” Pierce closed the file. “We didn’t get along in Austria.”

“Then you know her?”

“She was the agent that doubled for Nadja Stefn that day in Austria on Glass Mountain.”

“If you had a conflict with her, why isn’t it in your report?”

Because he had never expected to ever see her again, Pierce wanted to say. He didn’t. Instead he made a suggestion. “Maybe Ash Kelly could take this one. I hear he’s been back a few weeks.”

“It’s true Ash has returned from his sabbatical. He seems a hundred percent, but I’d hate to find out otherwise on a mission of this importance. To be honest, he never made the list of candidates. After I discussed potential operatives with Polax, he picked you as the lucky winner.”

Pierce muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Indigestion.”

“This mission will require a man who can stay focused and in control.” Merrick grinned. “We both know you have a knack for that. You’ve proven to us more than once that you can straddle an electric fence in a knife fight and never break a sweat. That’s your gift, Pierce—patience and adaptability. Not to mention your dead aim. I’ve never seen a man who can keep a cigarette lit in the eye of a hurricane better than you can. How many times have you been shot now?”

“I’ve lost count.”

“My point. It’s that resilience that I’m counting on.”

Bad weather, he could handle. Eating a bullet, no problem. But babysitting a bitch with more attitude than brains… He’d volunteer for a bullet in the middle of the Arctic any day.

In his entire thirty-five years no one had been able to get under his skin the way Balasi had. If he was forced to do this, he was the one who was going to need an extended sabbatical…in a padded cell.

He asked, “What’s up with the mother? How does she fit into this?”

“There’s an interesting story behind Ruza Balasi. She’s somewhat of a legend in Europe. A retired stage actress. Polax tells me Yurii Petrov tried to kidnap her a few days ago. He wants her to vanish for a while. That’s where your friend Lazie comes in.”

“Is she another hurricane?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know the saying. Like mother, like daughter.”

“In this case, more than you know. Polax shared some interesting facts with me. A little history I wasn’t aware of. Want to hear more?”

“If I say yes, does that lock me in?”

“You were locked in the moment Polax took a look at you, then read your file.”

“I’m still not sold on the idea.”

“You’ve got what it takes to pull this off. I know it, and you do, too. It’s not going to be easy, and it might not end up picture perfect—rarely do missions go as planned. But I’m in agreement with Polax. You’re the man. One more thing. When this is over, Casmir Balasi must be alive. If she’s not breathing air, you and I will be facing a firing squad, along with Polax. That’s no bullshit.”

“O
h, Mama, your eye… Does it hurt?”

“Of course it hurts.”

“It looks…ghastly.”

“Thank you, Cassie. I feel so much better knowing that we both agree I look terrible.”

They had left Prague’s Ruzyne Airport on a commercial flight headed for the U.S. Ruza was dressed all in black. As usual, her silver-gray hair was neat and glamorous, twisted into a low knot at the nape of her neck, secured with a diamond clip.

Casmir always admired the fact that her mother looked stunning no matter what. Black eye and all, at age fifty-two, Ruza Balasi was a vintage classic. She knew what color looked best to complement her flawless complexion, and what to eat to keep her slender five-eight figure below 120.

Her mother slipped her sunglasses back into place. “Is this going to remain a surprise or are you going to tell me where we’re going? I haven’t taken a vacation with you in years. I’m looking forward to some extravagant shopping, and dining out every night.”

Casmir settled into her seat, contemplating how to tell her mother that their vacation spot wasn’t going to be a sandy beach in the Mediterranean, or a shopping extravaganza in Paris.

“This is a work vacation, Mama. I can’t play the entire time.”

“That’s fine. Just point me in the direction of the most expensive dress shop and I’ll be happy.”

“My boss said—”

“Such a nice man, Mr. Polax.”

Casmir raised her perfectly arched blond eyebrows. “Yes, isn’t he. Definitely one of a kind.”

“We like one of a kinds, don’t we, dear?” Ruza patted Casmir’s hand, then eyed her daughter’s scarf. “Is that a Naubow?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. There is nothing that compares with French silk. And these colors…they’re so vibrant. You really do look good in saguaro green and salmon. You should wear them more often.”

“What did you pack, Mama?”

“Not what I would have liked. With only one good eye to guide me through my wardrobe, I fear we’ll have to do some major shopping right away.”

From what Polax had told her, shopping was going to be a bit of a problem. How to tell Mama they were headed for the swamp, their babysitter a snake named Mr. Asshole?

Casmir continued to contemplate, then decided to hold off. Something ingenious would surely come to her in the next few hours.

Mama believed that Quest was an international real estate agency. Casmir would never have considered lying to her mother if she had thought she could handle the truth. But there was no way Mama would have understood. Her first question would have been, “Is it dangerous?”

After all, she was the offspring of Madame Ruza, a retired stage actress who ate fruit and salad to keep herself trim, and visited the beauty salon for a manicure and pedicure weekly. She enjoyed grand parties and sipping martinis dressed in negligees trimmed in fur with matching satin bedroom slippers.

College had bored her, and her runway modeling career had grown stale. But she had honestly never been bored a day in the five years since she’d worked for Quest. She’d come to accept that her present life had been one of those fated twists in the road. Who would have guessed she’d become a spy the day she had bumped into Polax on the street?

“On this trip I’m going to be inspecting a number of properties for an interested client,” Casmir began. “Property in Louisiana.”

“We’re going to the U.S.?”

“Yes. Louisiana.”

“There’s this decadent place there that I’ve read about. It’s called New Orleans. Wouldn’t it be grand to go there?”

“We’re flying into New Orleans.”

“Oh, this is so exciting.”

“Le Mystère,” Casmir added. “The place where we’ll be staying is called Le Mystère. I think it’s farther south.”

Pierce flew into New Orleans, then rented an open Jeep. The city brought back memories, and he found himself driving by the Glitterbug. He’d been a bartender there during his lean and mean years. Later, when Saber Lazie had felt he was ready, he’d graduated to the underground game room where real money could be made.

A den of muscle, guts and killer instincts, was how Saber had described the place when he’d first opened the door and Pierce had gotten his initial look at what Lazie’s twisted mind had designed below the Glitterbug.

After a few lessons from the master himself, he had stepped into a world that quickly separated the men from the boys. Before long he’d made a name for himself, and enough money to buy some land and build a cabin. A money-making job and regular meals—it was perfect for someone like him.

Then he’d met Merrick. The Onyxx commander had been seated in the front row one night. He’d sat at a table alone, his eyes never leaving the action. Days earlier Pierce had agreed to a high-stakes knife fight with a muscle-honed giant named Frog.

The win had been one of his toughest, but he’d managed to stay on his feet, and eventually become the winner of five thousand dollars.

The victory had put him at Merrick’s table hours later. The commander of Onyxx had bought him a drink, then laid his cards on the table. He said Pierce was a desirable candidate for a government special-ops team. He’d complimented him on his skill and survival techniques, saying that he was one of the best he’d seen anywhere, and that he’d been everywhere, so he should know. That there was a place for men like him.

The truth was Pierce had always felt alone, that there would never be a place for a man like him. But here was a stranger telling him he had value.

Merrick had sweetened the deal with a money figure that Pierce couldn’t have made in his entire lifetime. And so he had become one of Merrick’s boys. A man of purpose, one of the elite at Onyxx.

He didn’t stop in the Glitterbug, but he saw that it looked the same as it always had from the outside—a simple hole-in-the-wall bar, complete with strippers and loud music. It was a lucrative business for Saber Lazie, but he’d made his real fortune arranging fights underground.

The door was open, as always, welcoming the regulars and the curious. But few knew about Lazie’s exotic other world, or how much money changed hands in one night.

He glanced at the files in the seat beside him, still skeptical about the job. Bodyguard with a twist… This was a twisted mess, all right. Merrick hadn’t been kidding when he detailed the plan that he and Polax had come up with. He was supposed to keep Balasi hip-huggingly close until Petrov took the bait.

He wanted to put off his face-to-face meeting with her as long as he could, so he’d called Lazie to talk over the situation. Even though he was in New Orleans and could have picked up his cargo at the airport, he had persuaded his old friend to do the honors.

Besides, he had some catching up to do. There was someone he wanted to see in Le Mystère first. It had been four years since he’d seen sweet, generous Linet at the Ginger Root.

Lazie said she still worked behind the bar, serving beer with a smile. Keeping that picture in his mind, he headed south, bypassed Chalmette and followed the river.

He took Highway 39 to Scarsdale, then Stella. Thirty minutes later he cruised into Le Mystère. The main street was quiet, as usual, with two cars parked in front of Pete’s Grocery, one in front of Wanda’s Catfish Lounge and nine in front of the Ginger Root Bar.

Linet must be working, Pierce thought as he swung into the bar’s dirt-packed parking lot and hopped out. He hoped that Linet would be happy to see him. It would make his stay in Le Mystère more enjoyable if he had a little diversion from time to time. A small black-haired distraction with green eyes, and a set of wanna-touch-me breasts that had kept the bar stools at the Root covered from dawn until dusk for the past twelve years.

It was a known fact that some of the boys staked out a bar stool early and stayed all day and all night just to be on the receiving end of one of Linet’s boob-a-licious smiles.

Today Pierce planned to be one of the boys. He needed to get into the right frame of mind to face hell in heels.

It would take at least a dozen beers, maybe more.

It was said a man’s worth was measured by degrees of talent, skill and determination. Yurii Petrov had been born with a full glass of all three.

Once a simple Caucasian peasant from the mountains of Armenia, he’d first found his calling with the Russian Mafia. As a member of
the family
he’d fit the mold like a well-made shoe.

His penchant for detail and his gut-driven loyalty had sent him climbing the ladder quickly. And for his efforts he’d become a very rich man. No, a stinking, filthy rich man.

Over the years he’d perfected his skills, put his money where so many men put their mouths and quickly learned the advantages of becoming number one at everything he attempted.

Laundering money was a worldwide business, a lucrative business. But to do it flawlessly, without a trace, was an art form.

Yurii was an artist.

It had taken years to develop his faultless system, years to capitalize on the weaknesses of foolish businessmen and the greed that often followed misguided power. But he’d been patient and true to his calling. He’d watched and learned, and made his move time and again, until he’d turned millions into billions.

It had set him apart from the ordinary criminals who daily shuffled a few thousand in and out of banks and nightclubs. He was now considered the kingpin in the world of turning dirty money into street currency.

His life had been a wild ride to the top. There had been women along the way. Nights of hot sex and excess. But he’d always woken up empty.

When you least expect a miracle, it comes riding on the back of something wonderful.
His mother used to say that to him and his brothers when they were kids.

He’d never expected
Kisa
to be that something wonderful the day he’d seen
her
lying on the beach on the Riviera. But suddenly, at forty-nine, with money falling out of his pockets, respected by his peers, and a thriving empire, he had found what was missing in his life—he’d fallen in love.

Power and wealth paled in comparison when a man had found his soul mate. And for a short four months he had been happy beyond his wildest dreams.

Kisa
was perfection, her scent like a smothering flower, her voice the long-awaited aphrodisiac to the road of serenity. And when he first kissed her venomous lips, he’d been eager to be stung by her poison, willing it to infect his soul.

It had all been so perfect, and then he’d learned the truth about the woman he’d seen as his destiny.

For months, he’d lain awake at night in his prison cell thinking about how he would kill her. He had planned for it, dreamed of it. And then he’d seen his ring on her finger in Bratislava.

Why was she still wearing his ring?

Maybe the idea of snuffing her out of his life would grow on him again, but for now killing
Kisa
was the furthest thing from his mind.

Yurii closed his eyes and tried to imagine his hands around her neck, choking the life out of her.

He fed his muse, but it was no use. He wanted his life back. The life she had given him.

He wanted his
Kisa
back.

And maybe, after a time, his feelings for her would grow cold, and once his heart had become a chunk of ice, the idea of killing her would bring more comfort than torment.

He would think on it, but first there was business to attend to. It wouldn’t take long. He wasn’t crazy about a rendezvous in the middle of the Mediterranean with the Chameleon, but he was more than simply a good customer.

The Chameleon was a man much like himself. He was a man of honor and power. A family man with a wife and a son. He valued his home, and his privacy in the Greek Isles.

He had no need to know exactly where. And likewise, there was no need for anyone to know where he sought refuge away from the eyes of the world.

Da,
a rendezvous at sea with the Chameleon, a few words exchanged. Dates and times agreed upon. A price settled. The deal sealed over a drink and a handshake. Then he would be free to focus on
Kisa.

He understood now why a powerful man bitten by love broke the rules.
Nyet,
he was not weak. He was a realist. Or maybe a better word was a fatalist.

Kisa
was his fate.

And he, hers.

Yurii smiled as he thought about their meeting at the Kelt in Bratislava. He could have killed her easily. He could have slit her throat as Nicky had done to the brunette with the big tits. But he had wanted to hear her sultry voice once more, and touch her satin-smooth skin. Smell her sweet scent and taste her perfect lips.

And then he’d seen her finger weighted down by his gift.

He remembered the day he’d given her the ring. Afterward they had made love. The memory aroused him and he laid his hand against his cock and pressed hard as he pulsed to life.

He felt himself stretch as his blood began to hum through his veins. He worked his hand up then down, envisioned
Kisa
undoing his pants and taking him in her hands. His fingers would get lost in her hair as she knelt to cover him with her mouth.

He groaned, felt himself on the verge of ejaculation. He let it come where he stood on the balcony outside his lavish bedroom overlooking the lagoon.

Confident no eyes were watching him, he succumbed to his fate. The fate of a woman who had tricked him. A woman he should hate.

A woman he still loved.

The phone rang minutes later, and Yurii glanced down to see which button had lit up. It was Nicky, and he hit the intercom.

“What news do you have for me?”

“She flies across the Atlantic. Recovery will require a trip to the U.S.”

“Where exactly?”

“I will have the location very soon.”

“
Spasibo,
Nicky. You know what to do.”

“Your instructions are clear. Anything for you, Don Petrov.”

Yurii pressed the button to disconnect, then picked up the cigar that smoldered in the ashtray on the balcony ledge. Puffing hard, until the air turned gray and pungent, he stepped back and disappeared inside his bedroom to take a shower.