Читать книгу Fatal Fallout - Lara Lacombe - Страница 11

Chapter 2

Claire sat on the sofa in the break room, arms wrapped tightly around herself in a vain attempt to control her shaking. Ivan was dead. Ivan, who had visited just two months ago, who had been so full of life and energy, tirelessly taking on the problems of safeguarding Russia’s nuclear material, was gone. And not just dead, but murdered in a horrific fashion. She blinked furiously to clear the tears that threatened to fall.

No crying. Not now. There would be time for that later, when she was home and could fall apart in private. But it just didn’t make sense. Who would want to kill Ivan? He was—had been, she corrected grimly—such a wonderful man. He had made it his mission to keep people safe, to ensure that the crumbling nuclear power plants in Russia were decommissioned safely, that their dangerous fuel sources were disposed of properly. He had been a force of nature, using humor, charm and sheer stubborn will to get the authorities to listen to him. He’d had his share of enemies, but in the years they’d worked together she’d seen that even those who disagreed with him respected him.

Or so she’d thought.

A uniformed police officer sat by the door, idly flipping through one of the Nuclear Safety Group’s newsletters. She didn’t understand why he had to stay with her—she’d much rather be alone right now to gather her thoughts—but the detectives had insisted on leaving someone here while they checked her office. They’d shooed her out the door, politely but firmly, giving her no choice but to retreat to the break room while they pored over her computer and files. Even though she didn’t keep anything personal in her office, she still felt a bit disconcerted by the knowledge that her things were being scrutinized by strangers.

You’re next.

Goose bumps broke out across her skin as the bloody image popped into her head again. Why? Who would want to target her? What had she done?

Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of a new face. A tall man stepped into the room, stopped to murmur something to the police officer who had looked up at his entrance, and then turned and walked over to the couch. He sat down, close but not crowding her, and gave her a small smile.

“Dr. Fleming, I presume?” His voice was deep and smooth, calming. She nodded.

“I’m Agent Thomas Kincannon, FBI.” He removed a badge from his jacket and held it out. She took it, inspecting the gold shield and picture ID. He looked so young in the picture, a fresh-faced boy probably just out of the academy. She glanced at his face as she returned his identification. The long nose was the same, but his cheeks were a bit leaner, and faint lines bracketed his mouth and feathered from the corners of his bright blue eyes. It would seem Agent Kincannon had grown up a bit since this picture was taken.

“Claire.” She relaxed her arms, stuck out a hand. Standing five foot eight, she’d never felt particularly small before, but when his large hand enfolded hers, she felt positively tiny. His skin was warm, and the brush of his fingertips against her wrist had tingles shooting up her arm.

What was she supposed to say to him? Nice to meet you was a lie, given the circumstances, but manners dictated she say something. He turned to glance at the officer by the door, and the light from the window caught Agent Kincannon’s hair, highlighting the mix of red, gold, amber and copper strands in the tuft that fell across his forehead.

“Your hair—it’s beautiful,” she blurted out. He turned to face her, eyebrows lifted and mouth twitching, and she wished desperately for the couch to open up and swallow her whole.

Where the hell did that come from?

“I always wanted red hair,” she muttered, knowing she sounded like a crazy person.

“Trust me, you don’t. I burn within five minutes of stepping outside. It’s like I’m a vampire or something.”

“I stay inside most of the time anyway, so it wouldn’t affect me.” Stop talking!

He merely stared at her with a faint smile, as if trying to determine if she was just socially awkward or if she’d skipped a dose of medication. Desperate to fill the silence, she rushed ahead. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I talk when I’m nervous, and I don’t really know what’s going on here. Ivan is dead, and I have no idea who killed him or why they would want to.” She paused to swallow, hating the tightness of her throat. It felt like a fist was squeezing her neck, making it hard to breathe or speak. Needing a distraction, she dropped her eyes to Agent Kincannon’s hands. His wrists were lightly dusted with red-gold hair, and a large silver watch peeked out from under his jacket sleeve. She focused on the blue watch face, tracking the second hand as it ticked around.

“And apparently someone is after me, too, but I don’t know why. It’s not logical. Why would anyone want to hurt me? I haven’t done anything!” She shook her head, still trying to make sense of the morning’s events. A small part of her hoped this was all a bad dream, that she’d wake up in her bed and start the day over again. Things would go back to normal. But as she raised her eyes back up to Agent Kincannon’s face, his expression of pity made it clear her life would never be the same again.

“I know you’ve had quite a shock this morning,” he said, his voice kind and soothing. “But right now I want you to let us worry about finding out the who and why of this situation.”

She nodded, knowing she wasn’t much help in that department. “Have you already talked to the other detectives? They may have found something on my computer—I think they were trying to trace the email.”

He shifted a bit, giving her the impression he was uncomfortable with her question. “No,” he said after a few seconds. “I haven’t spoken with them. I’m actually here for you.”

What? That doesn’t make sense. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Why would the FBI send an agent for me? Shouldn’t you guys be looking for Ivan’s killer?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” he said. “We can’t interfere in the Russian investigation, which ties our hands a bit. Really, all we can do is wait and see if Ivan’s killer comes after you.”

Her stomach somersaulted as his words sank in. “So you’re saying I’m bait?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he assured her. “We’re not actually trying to lure the killer in. We just want to make sure you’re safe, on the off chance the threat to you does materialize.”

He made it sound as if she wasn’t in any danger, but his words did nothing to ease the leaden weight in her stomach. “I see.”

He stood, looming over her briefly before taking a step back. “There’s not really anything you can do here, so I can take you home or I can take you to my office. Your choice.”

Apparently, whatever she chose, she was now going to have a shadow. It might be safer for her at his office, but the thought of home was too tempting to pass up. She could brew a cup of tea, sink into her favorite chair and try to forget the image of her murdered friend. She may even be able to ignore Agent Kincannon and crawl back into bed, where she could cry for Ivan in peace.

“I’d like to go home,” she replied. Alone, preferably, but since that was not an option, she’d settle for his company.

Agent Kincannon nodded, holding out a hand to help her off the couch. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The drive to her apartment was quiet, with Claire speaking only to give him directions. It was just as well, because he didn’t know what to say to her. Sorry your friend is dead seemed a bit insensitive, even to him. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to be up for conversation, so he wasn’t forced to make small talk.

She held herself carefully, as though she was in pain or would break if jostled. Her brows were drawn together, lips pressed into a thin white line, and her eyes shone with that thousand-yard stare of shock he’d seen all too often on the faces of people who had suffered a life-changing blow. It was the same expression she’d worn when he’d entered the break room and found her sitting on the couch, lost in her own thoughts. He hated seeing that look on a woman’s face, hated the feeling of helplessness that rose up in him at the sight of her suffering. He was struck by the urge to act, to do something, but no amount of soothing words would fix what a killer had done to her.

Besides, it wasn’t his job to comfort her. He was supposed to protect her, keep her safe from harm. Well, physical harm, anyway. He couldn’t do anything about her emotional pain, and she likely wouldn’t welcome any of his clumsy attempts to make her feel better. She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, and it was easier for both of them if it stayed that way. He had his hands full helping Jenny, Emily and his mother deal with their grief. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to help Dr. Fleming process hers, too.

She directed him to an apartment building on Wisconsin Avenue, along a residential stretch of the busy thoroughfare. A wide sidewalk ran alongside the street, punctuated every few yards with small trees, the city’s attempt at beautification. It was a pleasant-looking neighborhood. The sidewalk was in good repair, if littered with fallen leaves, and a quick glance at the cars parked nearby confirmed his initial impression that this was a solidly middle-class area.

After taking a few steps into her apartment, Claire stopped and stared at the living room, shaking her head back and forth as if trying to figure out how and why she was there. Recognizing the signs of an imminent collapse, Thomas stepped forward, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? We can talk once you’ve had some time to process everything.”

She nodded but made no move to head for a bedroom. He gave her a gentle push to get her started, and she walked mechanically down the hall until they reached her bedroom. The room was cool and dark and smelled faintly of lavender. He wasn’t surprised to find the bed neatly made, the pale yellow comforter spread smooth across the expanse of mattress. The quick glance he’d seen of her apartment had left the impression of a woman who liked organization, wanted everything kept in its place. Now that her life had been flipped upside down, the lack of control must be killing her.

He helped her pull the covers down, then knelt to tug off her shoes as she sat on the edge of the bed. The gesture was surprisingly intimate, and he felt a sudden flare of heat as he pulled off the sensible brown pump to reveal the graceful arch of her foot, the pretty pink of her toenails. He’d never considered himself a foot man before, but he couldn’t deny the good doctor was lovely. What else was she hiding beneath her professional armor? The thought drew him up short and he reared back, almost falling onto his ass in the process. Get it together, Kincannon. One look at her toes and you’re drooling? Pathetic.

He stood abruptly, hoping she didn’t notice the blush he felt creeping across his cheeks. He glanced down at her and realized he could have paraded a brass band through her apartment without disturbing her—she was beginning to shut down, withdrawing further into her shell in a bid to block out the world. He recognized the impulse, having done the same thing after Roger’s death.

Moving woodenly, as if every gesture required more effort than she could bear, Claire stretched out on the bed and turned to her side, giving him her back. Interpreting the gesture as a dismissal, he stepped toward her bedroom door but paused when he realized he still held her shoes. She probably wouldn’t want them just dropped on the floor, so he arranged them carefully next to the hunter-green chair that sat in front of a mirrored dressing table.

“Thank you.” The words were soft but distinct in the silence of the room. He stopped in the doorway, turned back to the bed. She was so still, a pale statue that blended in with the light sheets.

“I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” He pulled the door closed after him, leaving it slightly ajar, then made his way back down the hall. He stopped in the kitchen, noting the window above the sink before moving on to the main room. The large room was lined with windows along the far end, giving the apartment a bright, friendly air. He walked over and drew the blinds down, effectively shrouding the room in a muted gray light. He was probably being paranoid, but there was no sense in making it easy for someone to see in.

The front door was the only entrance, which wasn’t ideal. He walked back into the kitchen and leaned forward to see out that window, nodding in satisfaction as he caught sight of the fire escape railing. He unlocked the window and gave an experimental shove, wincing when it shuddered up with a creaking protest. He briefly debated oiling the tracks. On the one hand, it would be tough to make a quiet escape this way, but it would also provide an excellent warning if someone was trying to get in. Deciding the advanced notice of an intruder outweighed the need for a stealthy exit, he pushed the window back down, locked it and drew the shade.

Opening the cabinet next to the sink, he was rewarded with the sight of rows of glasses lined up with military precision. He pulled one down and filled it with water, shaking his head. While his collection of glasses was a mixed bag of free cups and hand-me-downs from his mom or sister-in-law, Dr. Fleming’s were clearly of a set, uniform in appearance and size and all spotlessly clean. Her underwear drawer was probably the same way—white cotton panties all neatly folded and stacked...

Whoa. Where the hell had that come from? He had no business thinking about Dr. Fleming’s underwear, or her underwear drawer for that matter. Pushing the unsettling thought firmly out of his mind, he walked back into the main room, pausing before the bookshelves. There were a few photos on display, mostly of landscapes or landmarks from past trips. His eyes caught on a picture of Claire, smiling and happy as she sat beside Ivan Novikoff on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The older man had his head turned and was pressing a kiss to her hair as she grinned up at the camera. Interesting. Had they been an item? He was old enough to be her father, but maybe she preferred older men. It would certainly explain her shock at his death.

If Ivan Novikoff had gotten entangled in something dangerous or illegal, would he have told his lover? Not likely, Thomas mused as he moved to scan the other set of bookshelves. He’d probably wanted to keep her safe, and had thought that keeping her out of the loop would protect her. But protect her from what?

His position gave him access to lots of nuclear material, both spent fuel from aging reactors and potent radioactive fuel. There was quite a demand for radioactive supplies on the black market, and Ivan was the ideal supplier. As one of the people who kept track of nuclear material, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to fudge the records, divert a little bit of fuel at a time in exchange for money or power. And if he’d been in the business of selling radioactive materials, the kind of unsavory characters who were buying wouldn’t think twice about coming after his lover if he’d betrayed them.

If that was the case, the Russians wouldn’t work too hard to find his killer. If Ivan was part of an underground, black market arms trade, it would be hugely embarrassing for the Russians to admit that the man they had entrusted with the safe disposal of nuclear fuel had been selling it to terrorists and rogue states.

No, better for them to characterize his death as a random, horrible act, brush it under the rug and move on. Which meant it would be that much harder to figure out who had targeted Dr. Fleming.

Running a hand through his hair, Thomas set his glass on the coffee table and reached for his phone. Just as he flipped it open to dial Harper, Claire’s terrified scream rent the air.

* * *

Claire sat across from Ivan, enjoying his company as they drank coffee and talked. His daughter was a musician with the Moscow orchestra, and he was telling her about Anya’s latest performance, his eyes glowing with fatherly pride as he bragged about her violin solo.

“She was so beautiful,” he gushed, patting his pockets in search of something. “My phone—you must see the pictures.”

Claire nodded, sipping her coffee as Ivan pulled out his cell phone. His head bent in absorption, he carefully pressed buttons on the keypad, his bushy eyebrows drawing together as he searched for the images. While he fought with his phone, she let her gaze drift past the table, frowning when she noticed a dark, amorphous mass creeping forward. What was that?

She shivered as the smoky cloud drifted closer. There was something about it that seemed...malicious. As it drew nearer, she could see sparkles in the black fog as it glided across the ground, glints of light winking off something solid and metallic inside. It moved with such purpose that she knew it was heading for their table, and her heart began to pound, alarm sending spikes of adrenaline shooting through her limbs.

Ivan remained oblivious to the threat, still searching for the pictures of his daughter. She tried to speak, to warn him, but her throat closed up and she couldn’t get the words out. Ignoring her frantic gestures, Ivan merely sat while the shadowy mass enveloped him, hiding him from view. Suddenly, his pained shrieks pierced the fog. She strained forward, reaching out her arms to grab him, but came up with nothing. After a breathless moment, the shadow disappeared to reveal Ivan, slumped over the table, his normally pale skin coated in blood from the thousand shallow cuts that crisscrossed his face and hands.

Claire screamed, fighting against an unseen force that kept her from reaching him. He was still and unmoving, the red pool on the table growing steadily with each breath she took. “Ivan! Ivan!”

“Claire!” There were hands on her arms, shaking her, pulling her away from the table, away from Ivan. “Claire!”

She opened her eyes, breathing hard. “Ivan,” she whimpered. “I have to help Ivan.”

“I know.” The voice was deep and soothing, and she was pulled into a warm chest while a hand stroked down her hair. “I know.”

She sniffled into the starched shirt, her awareness gradually returning as strong arms rocked her back and forth and a deep voice rumbled, low and comforting, in her ear. Ivan was dead. Her friend, her mentor—the man she loved like a father—was gone.

She’d lost her adoptive father almost twenty years ago. While she thought of him every day, the loss was no longer as raw as it had once been. She’d learned to cope, moving through life with the assumption that she would never again experience that kind of relationship.

Until Ivan came along, slipping under her defenses and becoming so much more than a professional colleague. He shared his family with her, and she’d reveled in his stories, basking in the reflected glow of the love he felt for his family. His wife had embraced her, as well, in what had been a welcome surprise, given Claire’s strained relationship with her adoptive mother. Dena had remarried shortly after her husband’s death, and hadn’t wasted any time in starting a “real” family, one that Claire was decidedly not a part of.

Ivan was—had been—such a good man. How could this have happened?

She pulled back to wipe her face, her gaze connecting with the bright blue eyes of the man who held her. Agent Kincannon, that was his name. He smoothed her hair back with a soft hand, then gently stroked her arm. He probably meant the touch to be reassuring, but one of his fingertips had a small callus, and the rough patch dragged across her skin with a tickling friction that shivered through her body.

She was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were in her bed, and she wanted nothing more than to lie back and pull him over her, to surrender to his weight. His lips were so close—she had only to tilt her head forward to touch her mouth to his...the urge was almost overwhelming. She could lose herself in sensation, postpone the need to think for a little while longer.

The wild impulse must have showed in her eyes, because he leaned away, putting more distance between them. The cooler air of the room replaced the heat of his body, making her miss his warmth. She almost raised her hand to pull him back but stopped before she embarrassed herself. It wouldn’t be right for her to touch him; he was here to act as her bodyguard, not her boy toy. Besides, she shouldn’t be having such inappropriate thoughts in the wake of her friend’s death.

“What happened?” She remembered lying down to rest, him leaving with a promise that he’d be in the living room. Why was he here now?

“You screamed,” he said, scooting back to give her even more space. His shirt was blotchy with wet spots from her tears, and she flushed in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gesturing to his shirt. “For that, too. I’m quite a mess.”

He looked down, shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t the first time I’ve come to the rescue of a damsel in distress.” He shot her a sly grin, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Nightmare?”

The smile faded from her lips as she nodded. “A bad one.”

“Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to think about it.” Those horrible images, both from the dream and the picture she’d been sent, were running through her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff them into a box. Talking about them would only keep them fresh.

“Fair enough.”

She moved to get out of bed, knowing she couldn’t go back to sleep now, wondering if she’d ever sleep peacefully again. Would she be able to close her eyes and not see Ivan, lying dead in a pool of his own blood?

Agent Kincannon stood as she got up, stepping back to give her room. “Did you want to talk to me?” she asked.

“Yes, but we can wait if you’re not up for it yet.”

She shook her head. “Let’s do it now. Just give me a minute to splash some water on my face. I’ll meet you in the living room.”

Her body ached as she moved stiffly into the bathroom, flipping on the light as she entered. She winced at her reflection, the bright lights revealing pale skin, mussed hair, tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Not a pretty sight.

She turned on the faucet, holding her fingers under the stream as she waited for the water to warm up a bit. She had no idea what kind of information she could provide that would help catch Ivan’s killer, but she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

Agent Kincannon seemed like a nice enough man, but she didn’t like having a stranger in her home, especially not when she was grieving the loss of Ivan. She wanted privacy so she could fall apart without fear of being overheard. The last thing she needed was for him to hold her again. She was hanging on to her self-control by a very thin thread, and further temptation would cause her to break, a reaction that would only make things worse.

After a few splashes of water, she patted her face dry and then quickly brushed her teeth. She ran a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a serviceable ponytail. Her shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, but she couldn’t summon the energy to change it. She didn’t really care how it looked anyway. Taking a deep breath, she turned to head out into the living room. I can do this.

She settled onto the sofa, tucking her legs up so she was curled into a ball. Agent Kincannon took the recliner, leaning forward to place a glass of water on the table next to her. She blinked back the sting of sudden tears, absurdly touched by his thoughtful gesture. Not wanting him to see her emotional reaction to such an ordinary event, she reached for the glass, taking a small sip of water to wet her throat. “So, Agent Kincannon, where do we start?”

“How about we start with you calling me Thomas? We’ll be seeing a lot of each other for the foreseeable future, so I think we can dispense with the formalities, if that’s all right with you?”

Keeping her fingers wrapped around the glass, Claire nodded. “Okay,” she said carefully, feeling her way into this new conversational territory. “Where do we start, Thomas?”

He leaned forward, and she caught a whiff of his soapy-starchy scent as he moved. He rested his elbows on his spread knees and clasped his hands together in a loose fist, expanding his imprint in the chair.

He’s so big, she thought, taken aback by how much space he occupied. She wasn’t used to having a man in her apartment, especially such a large man. Ivan had been slight of stature, whereas Thomas was tall and broad. She could reach out a hand and touch his shoulder without having to stretch. The room seemed to shrink around her as he focused on her face, the space collapsing until only the couch and chair remained.

“Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Ivan?” His tone was friendly, belying the intensity of his gaze.

“What do you want to know?”

“Were you two close?”

She nodded. “I think so. We worked together for several years, so we got to know each other pretty well.”

He cocked his head to the side. “How well?”

She frowned, searching his face for a clue as to what he was really asking. His eyes were flat, expressionless—the blue of a quiet sea. No help there. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms across his broad chest as he cast a meaningful glance toward the bookshelf. She followed his gaze to the picture of herself and Ivan, taken two months ago during his last visit.

“I am so happy, milaya, my dear girl!” he’d said, using his favorite pet name for her. “The project is going very well, and I have you to thank for it.”

She smiled up at him, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. “It seems like we’re finally getting through to the government—they can’t just leave these sites unattended and hope for the best.”

“They are learning,” he replied, patting her shoulder. “They listen when a pretty woman talks, eh?” He winked at her, and she couldn’t help but laugh at his expression, as if he took personal credit for her successful presentation.

“Were you romantically involved with him?” Thomas’s voice interrupted her memories, pulling her back to the room. He was watching her carefully, like a stalking cat, waiting to pounce on any weakness. Focus.

“No.”

He raised a brow, his doubt plain.

“No,” she said, this time with an edge. “We were not sleeping together.”

Thomas stood and walked to the bookshelf, picking up the photograph and studying it as if seeing it for the first time. “You seemed rather close,” he remarked, extending the frame to her, his tone oh-so-reasonable.

“He was my mentor,” she bit out from between clenched teeth. “He was like a father to me, and I won’t have you twisting that into something dirty, something it’s not.” Her hands tightened around the glass, fingers pressing into the sides so hard she could see the tips turn white as they flattened against the smooth, wet surface.

“Okay.” He set the frame back on the shelf, turned and walked over to the recliner, settling himself into the chair again. “Tell me about it.”

She shook her head, unsure of where to start. “We met five years ago. I had just started at the Nuclear Safety Group, and one of my first assignments was to provide support to the international decommission team, Ivan’s group.”

“What does his group do?” His voice was soft and unobtrusive, steering the direction of her story without distracting her. She kept her eyes focused on the water glass, tracing the lines of condensation while she spoke.

“They advocate for the safe and effective disposal of nuclear material from decommissioned nuclear power plants. There are a lot of plants in Russia that are crumbling in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union, which is a huge security risk. In some places, it’s so bad that anyone could walk in and steal radioactive fuel. Ivan’s group pressed for greater security, tried to coordinate with the government to secure the money needed to provide it.”

“And you worked with him?”

“Yes. The first time I met him was at an NSG dinner. He was in town to drum up U.S. support for the latest round of talks with the Russian government, and I was seated next to him at the table. He turned to me, looked me up and down, and said, ‘My dear, you are too pretty for this job. No one will take you seriously. You should get out while you’re still young, find yourself a husband.’” She smiled wryly at the memory. “He was so...charming about it that I couldn’t get angry at him. Over the next few days, I sat in on the meetings and eventually convinced him that I knew what I was talking about. After that, he decided to take me under his wing and introduce me to his contacts in Russia.”

She paused, glancing up to find Thomas watching her, his gaze steady as he listened. He nodded encouragingly, so she took a deep breath and continued.

“That’s how we started working together. He was always very kind to me, making sure I was comfortable and included. He went so far as to introduce me to his family, take me to his daughter’s concerts, his wife’s dinner parties. I returned the favor when he was stateside, showing him around D.C. and keeping him fed and entertained when we weren’t in meetings. Not that kind of entertainment,” she said darkly, seeing his brows rise slightly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Thomas replied, eyes wide with false innocence. She glared at him, but he merely smiled in return. “Was there ever any indication he was involved in something...shady?”

She shook her head forcefully, denying the question before he’d even finished asking it. “No. No way. Ivan was a good man—he’d dedicated his life to keeping these dangerous materials out of the wrong hands, and there’s no way he would have compromised that.”

“Not even for money? It sounds like securing these sites takes a lot of cash. Is it possible he was selling a bit on the side, not enough to be suspicious, but enough to fund some other operations?”

Claire blinked at him, not following this line of thinking. Was he serious? “Why would he do that? Why would he sell off spent fuel, only to turn around and use the money to keep spent fuel from getting into the wrong hands?”

“Maybe he didn’t think he was selling to the bad guys,” Thomas said, shrugging a shoulder as if he didn’t care either way.

“That’s not logical,” she pointed out, needing Agent Kincannon to understand the fallacy of his argument. “Anyone who wants spent fuel has questionable motives, and Ivan knew that better than most. He wouldn’t do that.”

Thomas leaned forward again, mouth drawn as he regarded her. “You have a bit more faith in Ivan than I do.”

“It’s got nothing to do with faith.” Exasperation made her voice shrill, and she paused to swallow the emotions tightening her throat before continuing. “It’s logic, plain and simple. Ivan wouldn’t do something so unreasonable.”

“You like things to be logical, don’t you?”

Was she seeing things, or did the corner of his mouth twitch upward? She arched an eyebrow, sending him what she hoped was a cool look. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Okay, that really was a twitch.

“Not at all. I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate,” he said.

“And this is funny to you?”

The hint of a smile vanished from his face. “Absolutely not. I just want you to consider the possibilities.”

“But you’re wrong.”

He stared at her for a beat, then sighed, a teacher disappointed in his student. “You just told me that you and Ivan were close, that he took you under his wing and made you part of the family. Do you really think he would have included you in something like this?” When she didn’t respond, he pressed a bit more. “Or would he have tried to protect you, keep you out of the loop because he knew that it was dangerous and he knew you wouldn’t approve?”

Claire stared at her lap, her thoughts swirling like flakes in a snowstorm. Could he be right? If Ivan had been involved in something illegal, she knew he would have kept it from her. But...why would he do that? What would compel him to toss aside his values and morals and his entire career? He’d spent his whole professional life trying to keep this material out of the hands of people who would use it for evil, so why would he join forces with them now?

He’d been so excited during his last visit, so hopeful for the future. She refused to believe he’d been selling spent fuel on the side.

As if sensing her turmoil, Thomas leaned back in the chair, giving her space. He didn’t speak, but she could feel his eyes on her, watching her face as she worked through his hypothetical scenario.

“I suppose what you say is possible,” she allowed, knowing she had to at least acknowledge the chance he was right, even though in her heart she knew it wasn’t true. “But I don’t think that’s what happened here.”

Thomas nodded. “Fair enough. I just need you to consider the possibility that Ivan was not what he seemed.”

Claire opened her mouth to respond, but Thomas cocked his head toward the door, holding up a hand to keep her quiet. Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer to her apartment. He rose silently from the chair and padded over to the door, sliding up to the peephole to watch. Claire shrank down into the couch, huddling into a small ball, her palms slick from sweat and condensation. Her heart thumped hard in her chest when the footsteps stopped outside her door. She jumped when the doorbell rang, eyes glued to Thomas’s broad back as he stared out into the hall. Who was at the door? Someone dangerous? Why wasn’t he moving?

She heard a faint beeping sound, then a thud. Whoever it was walked back down the hall, and as the sound faded, Thomas relaxed. He opened the door, bent down and turned back into the apartment, an express mail package in his hands. She sighed as she realized the visitor had been nothing more than a deliveryman, shaking her head at her over-the-top reaction.

“Are you expecting something?” He set the package on the table with a frown.

“No.” She scooted forward to examine it, reluctant to touch it while Thomas regarded it with such open suspicion. “Oh!”

“What?” He held out an arm to keep her from getting too close, alarm evident in his voice.

“I know that handwriting.” Ignoring his grunt of displeasure, she reached out to trace the letters of her name. She looked up at him, his face blurry as she blinked back tears. “This is from Ivan.”