Читать книгу Secret Contract - Dana Marton - Страница 6

Burge, happy whenever he got to order her around, pushed her through the green metal door at the far end of the cell block but didn’t follow. What did they want with her now? She was on her guard, scanning the people ahead with suspicion—a good basic stance for the incarcerated.

The sharp scent of bleach hit her nose. The room had gotten a scrub down that morning. Thank God, she hadn’t been pulled for that job.

“Miss Jones.” The greeting came from one of three men, outsiders, who stood at the head of the room. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

One of the dozen or so harsh fluorescent lights above flickered as she went straight to the back, picking her way among white plastic chairs and folding tables that were set up classroom style for the elderly volunteer who came in twice a week to give GED classes. Three women waited there already, wearing the same orange jumpsuit that hung on Carly’s figure. Clothes that marked them, set them apart. She would never wear orange again once she got out of here. Like most people in the place, she had a whole list of “never-agains.”

She nodded to Anita and took in the unfamiliar girl next to her. The third woman she knew only by sight and fame. Gina Torno was in for murder and not particularly popular in cell block 3C. Rumor had it, before she’d gone bad, she’d been a cop.

“My name is Brant Law. I work for the FBI,” said the man who’d greeted Carly by name earlier.

Her defenses, already up, threw a few extra dead bolts. The last time she had mingled with the FBI, they’d been storming her apartment. And this guy could have been the agency’s poster boy—black suit, crisp white shirt, a face carved into cold professionalism.

She glanced again at the other women as she squirmed in her seat. Why were they here? Anita flashed a nervous smile. Carly acknowledged it with a small nod. She hadn’t as a rule sought to make friends on the inside—she didn’t belong with these people—but she didn’t mind Anita Caballo. They had shared kitchen duty a couple of times. Anita had entertained the crew with some pretty funny Latina jokes.

“This is David Moretti, who will be providing legal assistance for you.” The FBI guy, Law, introduced the tall dark-haired man on his right.

Moretti allowed a professional smile, his stance relaxed. He wore a suit, but it wasn’t like the FBI agent’s. This one was sharp and expensive, the kind fashion models wore in the magazines people donated to the prison. He was the hottest guy she’d seen in six years, not that he had much competition considering the male guards.

The ruling feeling when she looked at him was mistrust. He was a lawyer. Her own loser lawyer had let her down big time.

“Nick Tarasov will be responsible for your training and safety,” Law said, introducing the most intimidating of the three.

Training for what? She narrowed her eyes as she watched Tarasov. He stood with his legs apart, hands behind his back, commando style. He wore a black T-shirt, black cargo pants, combat boots and an expression that made her want to leave the room before things got unpleasant. His stance, the hard look on his face and his unblinking eyes transmitted but one message—this one could be scary if he wanted to be.

None of the men said, “My pleasure,” or “Good to meet you,” as they were introduced. Jerks. Government men. To her, the two meant one and the same.

They hadn’t broken her yet. They sure weren’t going to do so now. She straightened her back and her chin came up a notch.

Law picked up a yellow folder from the desk and opened it. “Anita Caballo, embezzlement. Samantha Hanley, grand theft auto. Carly Jones, hacker. Gina Maria Torno, manslaughter.” He looked up and at each of them in turn. “This is your lucky day.”

Carly caught the young woman who had to be Samantha mouthing a four-letter word. Anita folded her hands in front of her. Gina’s face pretty much reflected Carly’s feelings: mistrust and skepticism. The first thing you learned in federal prison was not to believe in luck. If they had any luck at all, none of them would have been here in the first place.

“You were brought together based on your unique skills to form a team to perform a specific task. Miss Caballo’s financial expertise, Miss Hanley’s knowledge of various vehicles and locks, Miss Jones’s experience with network security and Miss Torno’s proficiency with weapons make you uniquely qualified for a very important mission.”

“And that would be?” Gina cut in and gave the men an insolent glare. She was compact and tough as nails, with a short bob of mahogany hair and sharp brown eyes.

Who cares? Carly thought. She was doing no favors for the government. Forget it. Not after the bastards had locked her up and taken away any chance she’d ever had for a decent future. Justice had never entered her trial. It had been all about politicians wanting to show results to nudge up their approval ratings, using her high-profile case to score.

Law was watching Gina. “I’m not at liberty to discuss anything at this stage. I will not be able to give you any particulars until you agree to participate.”

That gave Carly pause.

But Gina was shooting back already. “What’s in it for us?”

“If you succeed, the rest of your sentence will be suspended and your records cleared.”

The four women sucked in air as one.

Carly swallowed a sudden rush of hope. Freedom. How many times had she daydreamed about that, thinking whatever she had to do, she would do it to get to the other side of these walls?

But not this. Not becoming the government’s lackey.

“And if we don’t succeed?” She found her voice. Regardless of whether she would even consider the offer on the table or not, she wanted to know all the tangents.

Law held her gaze. “At least you get out for a few weeks. And your willingness to cooperate would be taken into consideration at future appeals and parole hearings. The deal stands only if you all agree. If one person is out, it’s off the table for everyone.”

If they thought they could blackmail her with the others, get to work on her guilty conscience, they had another think coming. She barely knew these women. What did she care?

But the thought immediate freedom had got lodged in her brain, the possibility stinging her eyes. She was twenty-nine with four more years left of her sentence. She hadn’t expected to get a chance to walk down a street until she was thirty-three.

“Do you have any questions?” The Italian-looking guy, the lawyer, what was his name? David Moretti. He stepped forward, all smooth and sinuous. His gaze hesitated on Samantha for a second or two.

Maybe he was having second thoughts as to whether that one could handle whatever the men had in mind. She looked at least a half-dozen years younger than Carly was, insolent stamped all over her, noncooperative there in the sneering set of her lips and her I-dare-you eyes.

“Can I ask if you’re going to put the offer in writing? Do we get a chance to read it over?” Anita spoke up.

Moretti shook his head. “Due to the confidential nature of the mission, for your own safety, as little as possible will be documented.”

That jolted her. Not that they wouldn’t write the offer down, but the way it made this “mission” sound—dangerous. Then a rapid succession of revelations made her go still.

She would get out, let free by the government. The deal would not be documented. She wouldn’t have to sign papers to pledge anything. Whatever they asked of her had to be something clandestine, something they didn’t want anyone to know about. So if she disappeared during this mission, what could they do?

Absolutely nothing.

Most likely, if she was reading this right, they couldn’t even admit that she’d been working for them.

A new life, someplace far, far away where her record couldn’t follow her. She could do some software developing, consult under another name. A normal life in the States was out of the question, no matter what. Even if she took the mission and they succeeded, even if her record was cleared, her case had been high profile enough, all over the media. Nobody would give her a second chance. She’d be flipping burgers at a fast-food joint for the rest of her life, at best. She should risk her life for that?

“So how long do we have to think about this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?” Gina scoffed at the men.

Law glanced at his watch. “How about fifteen minutes? We’ll let you discuss in private. Call out if you have any questions.” He moved toward the door, the other two behind him.

“Is this a military mission, spying, assassination?” Gina kept at it. “Can you give us a clue?”

Law stopped and looked back. “Not at this stage, no.”

Tarasov half turned as he stepped out, and Carly could swear he was looking right at her. Man, he was as serious as a life sentence.

Gina flashed a rude gesture when the door banged closed behind the men.

Carly couldn’t agree more.

“Got a load of that?” Samantha was still staring after them.

“They’d let us out,” Carly said. Her brain seemed to be stuck on that thought, bringing up the list she kept in her diary—things she wanted to do once she was free, the big-ticket items like starting a whole new life and the small everyday stuff she missed. She pictured walking into a computer megastore and spending the day there. She wanted to go to a restaurant and choose her food—steak and a knife sharp enough to cut it. She wanted to dance with a man, to be kissed until the memory of the last six miserable years floated away. She didn’t want to not have sex again until she was thirty-three.

She could get out. Now. It didn’t have to be about letting the government use her. She could use them.

“What do we have to lose?” she asked, the small measure of initial hope swelling, filling her to the brim, mixing with the excitement of facing a challenge.

“Have you ever seen that movie The Dirty Dozen?” Gina pinned her with a hard glare.

When she looked at you—really looked at you—it wasn’t that hard to believe that she’d knocked someone off.

Carly shook her head. From the way Samantha pulled up a black eyebrow, she figured the girl hadn’t seen it either. Anita stared at her lap and didn’t seem to be listening.

“During World War II, twelve convicted killers are given a chance to get out of prison. They are dropped behind enemy lines to fight the Nazis,” Gina said.

“So?” Samantha shrugged. She was the youngest among them, with the whole gothic thing going—not an easy feat to pull off in an orange jumpsuit. Her short hair was died black and formed into stiff spikes, plenty of holes in her skin above her eyebrows, in her nose and in her ears where her earrings used to be.

Gina turned toward her slowly. “Two words for you—suicide mission.”

A few moments of silence passed.

Anita took a deep breath and looked at them, gave them a tight, apologetic smile. “I get out next month. On parole.”

Carly stared. The woman hadn’t mentioned that in the kitchen.

“Meaning you’re out?” Gina was tapping her rubber-soled slipper against the leg of the chair in front of her.

“I’m sorry. I mean, what if you’re right and this is really dangerous?” To her credit, if she felt intimidated by Gina, like Carly was, she didn’t show it.

“What do you think we’ll have to do?” Carly asked, thinking, How closely would we be watched while we were doing it?

“Whatever it is, they wanted me because I know guns,” Gina said. “The commando guy looked like serious business.”

Right. The way Nick Tarasov had stood there— hair in a severe military cut, his bluish-gray eyes sharply focused—he looked as cold and hard as the floor-to-ceiling metal bars at the end of the cell block. Seemed about as unmovable, too. He hadn’t said a single word the whole time.

“They want us because we know about guns, money, computers and breaking and entering.” Gina looked at them. “My guess is some kind of spying.”

“Don’t they have trained spies? Like people who do that kind of stuff for a living?” Carly asked, but a little thrill ran through her. Her only solace for the past couple of years had been watching Alias in the rec room. What would it feel like to be part of something like that?

“We’re disposable.” Samantha shrugged.

The carelessly offered comment gave them all something to think about.

Anita stood to walk around the other women, her movements too graceful to be called pacing. Her black braid that reached to her waist swung a little with each long step. She carried herself like a competitive dancer. “Mission Impossible.”

Was she considering it? Carly watched her. Why on earth would she?

“More like Charlie’s freakin’ Angels,” Samantha said deadpan and rubbed her left earlobe that had more holes than beta-version software did. “I’m in. But don’t expect me to start flipping my hair and wearing a bikini.”

Carly ran her teeth over her lower lip. The thought of staying in prison for another four long years seemed intolerable now that the possibility of freedom had been waved in front of her. Whatever she had to face, it couldn’t be worse than this, the slow wasting of her life day after day, month after month. She could swear she felt brain cells pop one by one as they died from atrophy. She craved challenge. Outsmarting the government would definitely provide one. She would go along with their game while she figured out how to get away from them. No way would anyone ever bring her back here.

“I want to do it,” she said.

Gina stopped tapping and drew air in through her nose. “What the hell.”

Anita sat down and folded her hands in her lap. She said nothing as the women all watched her.

Disappointment squeezed Carly’s throat, but she understood where Anita stood. If she had only a few weeks to go, she wouldn’t be jumping off a cliff blindfolded either.

“They would erase our records. He definitely said that, right?” Anita swallowed.

Gina nodded.

“Yes,” Carly said. Did she sound too eager, too desperate?

“We could get hurt. Or die. We have no idea what this is about. I don’t like the way they made it sound. Whatever they want from us might be worse than being in here.” Anita stood again.

What could be worse than four more years locked in a cell? Carly clenched her teeth. Anita wasn’t going for it. She tried to shrug off the disappointment, but couldn’t. Amazing how much hope a person could build up in five minutes.

Nobody ever got an offer like this. Nobody would even believe it, not that they would ever be able to tell anyone. Freedom, she breathed in the idea one last time, letting it fill her lungs. A nice fantasy while it had lasted.

But Anita said, “We might all regret this,” as she drew her spine straight. “Okay.”

Okay?

Startled confusion came first, then the puzzle solver in Carly’s mind zeroed in on the softly spoken decision. Why?

“Aren’t you full of surprises?” Gina said.

“I have my own reasons.” Anita squared her slim shoulders.

Carly waited for further explanation, but none was forthcoming. Anita wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

So she had secrets.

Carly took in the others. They probably all did. And they had all agreed.

Oh, God. They were doing it!

Maybe she should have been scared, but at this moment, excitement trumped everything. She felt her face split into a grin. Free. She let her eyes drift closed. She had a lot to catch up with.

“We’re getting out.” Her head spinning with possibilities, she looked again at the others.

That cooled her a little.

Gina’s face was grim, the set of her mouth determined. Anita stared straight ahead. Samantha had the same what-do-I-care? expression she’d stuck to throughout, but Carly thought she could see a trace of uncertainty and fear in her eyes. None of them said a word for a couple of seconds.

“It’s a chance to start over,” she told them, but some of her excitement was fading as bits and pieces of conversation floated back from the past twenty minutes, fully registering at last. Suicide mission and we’re disposable were definite buzz killers. She wouldn’t let things go that far. She would find a way to skip before the mission got out of hand.

She’d done more time, as it was, than any other hacker before or since her. And she had done no harm. She hadn’t been interested in any data, hadn’t stolen or damaged anything. She’d just looked at code, wanting to learn, searching for shortcuts, unique fixes and unusual solutions. She had paid for them dearly.

“Hey, we could have our own secret club. The Second Chance Chicks.” Samantha’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Or The Dirty Four. Maybe we’ll be in a movie someday.”

They’d never make a team. They were too different. Carly certainly was. She’d given up a long time ago on fitting in anywhere. And with this group, she didn’t want to fit.

Gina “the killer” Torno was giving Sam a dark look. “Don’t get too excited, kid. If they’ll ever make a movie about us, they’ll be calling it The Doomed and the Desperate.”

Not her, Carly thought, as she began to plan.

TSERNYAKOV CLOSED THE FOLDER on his computer and glanced out his office window that overlooked the factory yard, breathed in the sweet-musty smell of sugar beets being processed. Some people didn’t care for the permeating odor, much like broccoli cooking, but for him, it was the scent of his childhood.

Peter was late. Had he run? If he had, he would be found.

He glanced at the display of his phone when it rang, smiled at the familiar number and took the call. “How are you, Mother? What did the doctor say?”

“I was just thinking about you. What a good, good son you are. I’ll have to have more tests. I can just go in, no need to stay at the hospital.”

“Are you sure you want to stay here? I could have someone take you to Switzerland. They have better facilities.”

“This is where my strength is, in my country and in you. What would I do in Switzerland? I couldn’t even talk to anyone,” she said, then added, “You will visit soon?”

“In a few days. You have need of anything?”

“What could I want? My successful son spoils me.”

“You deserve it, Mamuska.”

She made a small sound. “I almost forgot, I ran into your aunt Irina at the hospital this morning.”

“Is she ill?”

“She was visiting her neighbor, you know the one who used to repair bicycles? He broke a hip. Irina walked with me for a while. Her cousin, Anna, invited her to England and she’s thinking about going. You remember Anna’s boy, Calvin? He is a big businessman over there. Not as successful as you, but he’s made something of himself. He’s in trouble now, that’s why Irina mentioned him. The government is trying to get his money. They’re accusing him of something crazy, they say he traded inside. What does that even mean?”

His mother went on for a while, lamenting the misfortune that had befallen Anna’s family.

Insider trading. Tsernyakov understood the charge well, as he understood why Irina had told his mother, why Anna had told Irina. They all hoped that he would fix it.

“Maybe with your shops in England, I thought you might know someone,” his mother finally said.

“I’ll see, Mamuska.”

“I knew you would. I told Irina not to worry, that son of mine can fix anything anywhere.”

He promised a visit soon, said goodbye and hung up. Then he ran an Internet search on Spencer Holdings and Cal Spencer, a cousin so distant he’d only seen him once, when he’d been ten and Cal a newborn, visiting Russia with his parents to be baptized there.

Looked like Cal had made something of himself. Seemed he’d been amassing a fortune in real estate. And, most interestingly, he was getting into warehousing. A handful of strategically placed warehouses throughout England. Maybe they could be mutually beneficial to each other.

He sent off an e-mail and asked for a full background check on Cal from his trusted source. He never did business with anyone he hadn’t thoroughly investigated, family or otherwise.

“Come in,” he answered to a knock on the door.

Ivan, one of his secretaries, stopped on the threshold. “The School Board has contacted us to see if you would agree to deliver the requested amount of sugar, sir.”

He clenched his jaw. “When I do, I’ll let them know.” They insulted him with their impatience.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The man bowed his head. “They insist that it is urgent.”

What were they going to do? Go to another source? No one could get what they wanted, in the amount they wanted. He wasn’t even sure if it was possible. If it was, he was the man to make it happen, and they knew it.

The money they offered was substantial, but he wasn’t prepared to deal with them until he was one hundred percent sure that this wasn’t some kind of a trap. “The School Board” was the code name of a zealous new terrorist organization that specialized in training camps. They had ambitious intentions but barely a record. “Sugar” was code name for anything Tsernyakov sold these days, a necessary precaution in a world where surveillance had become an art form. No one had ever got anything on him, and he was determined to keep things that way.

“They’ll get my answer when I’m ready.”

A car pulled up outside and he looked at the familiar white SUV, then at Peter as the man got out. The passenger side door opened and his wife Sonya stepped to the gravel.

“Thank you, sir.” Ivan left and closed the door behind him.

His cell phone rang, and Tsernyakov picked it up as he watched Alexandra jump from the back. Peter’s daughter was a beauty at twenty. How fast time flew. He could remember her as a little girl, riding on his knee.

“He’s here, sir.”

“I can see,” he snapped into the phone. Peter had brought his family with him. Perhaps he’d thought he would not be punished then, that he could use them as a shield. He’d thought wrong. “Take them to the factory.”

“Yes, sir.”

He watched as his men pointed toward the back building and Peter balked, the women going forward without a second thought. Thousands of tons of sugar beets stood stacked by the conveyer belt that took them up to be cleaned then chopped to a juicy mush. Right now, they looked like small muddy balls. When he’d been a kid, he and his friends had sometimes played soccer with them in the back.

Once he had found two human heads as he’d picked through the piles to find a beet that was rounder than the rest. The heads hadn’t looked much different from the beets, all caked with mud as they’d come up the conveyor belt eventually. His father had been an enforcer for the man who’d owned the factory at the time. Tsernyakov had grown up understanding the business.

A good education was paramount to a man’s success. He believed in that. That was why his children, when they were grown, would attend the best universities of the west.

He glanced at his calendar and considered his schedule, the machines’ incessant rumble providing a soothing background noise. The chopper was a fearsome piece of equipment that could grind anything to pulp in minutes.

Peter shouldn’t have done business with Yokoff.

Tsernyakov rubbed the bridge of his nose. He believed in Old Testament-style revenge. When someone betrayed you, you didn’t just kill him, you killed his family, his animals then burned his fields.

He wanted his enemies to be crystal clear on this—nobody went against him and lived.