Читать книгу The Spy Wore Red - Wendy Rosnau - Страница 8

Bjorn was left alone in the office with his choice of water or gin to keep him company while Merrick followed Polax out into the hall to take a walk. When the door closed, he reached for the gin, ignoring the early hour.

He hitched his ass back on the desk, sipped the gin and spent the next twenty minutes cooling his heels, watching and waiting, and keeping his ears on what was being said inside the sterile boardroom between the curvy femmes.

He was conscious of his eyes going back to Nadja more often than the others. That was understandable—he liked natural blondes with long legs and cleavage.

Quest’s bedroom assassin had the winning three. There was no reason to argue that point, nor would he. Q’s body type, her voice and the way she moved had already been logged into his subconscious.

A profiler’s best friend was his database memory, and he had one. Onyxx had, however, refined his talent. They had polished his telephoto memory and added instant-recall capabilities.

Like Q, he was at the top of his game, although he was willing to bet she was enjoying her work far more than he was his.

It was a god-given gift, Merrick had told him—Bjorn’s so-called database genius. But there were times when it didn’t feel that way. With his talent came the price of remembering everything—good or bad—and never forgetting any of it. Not his youth, his first mission, every man he’d killed, or every woman he’d slept with. It was all there, every bit of it crystal clear.

As clear as the past five minutes.

His greatest challenge at Onyxx had been keeping all the data organized so he could remain focused. And right now he needed to do just that. He didn’t want any old memories messing up this assignment, or his goal. And that goal was to put a bullet through Holic Reznik’s black heart—after he recovered the kill-file, of course.

So the question was, which femme did he choose to assist him? Based on the facts, the task should be simple.

Polax was right, an endurance mission required an endurance player. But not when they were going after a man with a fetish for beautiful women. And it was a known fact that Holic was partial to cleavage and tangle-me-up-in-a-knot long legs.

When Merrick and Polax returned, it was Bjorn who took a walk with Merrick. They rode the elevator up to the main level, and as they stepped out and headed for the art gallery, Merrick said, “You want the bedroom beauty, yes?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The look on your face when she stepped into the elevator.”

“I like blondes.”

“Casmir Balasi is a blonde.”

“Then I should have said I like blondes and cleavage,” Bjorn amended. “Balasi is too petite for my taste.”

“I got the feeling there was more to it than that. For a moment I thought you recognized Stefn.”

“Every man recognizes the woman in his dreams. She’s got looks, a helluva body and a mind.”

“And she’s good in bed,” Merrick added. “So what’s the problem? If Polax’s candy queen appeals to you, then pick her. The nights in Austria are going to be damn chilly and I know how you hate cold weather.”

Bjorn glanced at his boss. “Advocating I use a Quest agent as a bed warmer, Merrick?”

“If that’s the only way you can keep an eye on her every move, yes. The goal is to get our hands on Holic’s kill-file. Whatever you have to do to achieve that goal is acceptable.”

“What’s Quest’s interest in Reznik?”

“The same as ours. They’re worried that some of their agents have been sanctioned. That’s why it’s so damn urgent that we get that file. Who knows who’s all on it?”

“If this is so urgent, my first thought is we’re two days off the pace. We know Holic flew to Austria, so stopping off in Prague to pick up—”

“—your partner—”

“—only puts me further behind.”

“I know that, but the Agency—”

“Is kissing Quest’s ass for some reason,” Bjorn said. “I sure would like to know why that is.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that. They just feel this will be advantageous for a future mission.”

The “they” Merrick was referring to were the top brass in the upstairs office at Onyxx. The big boys who made the final decisions—right or wrong, smart or stupid.

“These spy games are never black and white, Bjorn. The Agency is still upset that the Chameleon’s death hasn’t slowed down the anarchy, and they’re feeling pressured to turn things around quickly.”

“Will we ever get rid of the Chameleon?” Bjorn mused out loud. “He’s dead, and yet he lives.”

“It’s certainly the truth. We have the son of a bitch’s corpse under lock and key in the Agency morgue and still we don’t know shit about who he is…was.”

“No confirmation yet?”

“No. And I’m told it’s going to be a while. We know the body underwent multiple plastic surgeries. His goal was to clone Paavo Creon. Our experts have even timelined those surgeries. But some things still don’t add up. We just have to be patient.”

Bjorn glanced at Merrick, noting the conviction in his commander’s voice. If anyone deserved peace of mind where the Chameleon was concerned, it was Adolf Merrick. The Chameleon had killed Merrick’s wife years ago. He’d strapped C-4 to her curvy body and sent her to hell while Merrick had watched it unfold on the computer screen in his office.

Bjorn suspected his commander still blamed himself for his wife’s death, and it was that blame that continued to drive him where the Chameleon was concerned. Even though his longtime enemy had been killed weeks ago, he wanted the man’s entire international operation wiped out.

“Then you believe everything Eva Creon said?” Bjorn asked.

“Yes, I do. She said the Chameleon admitted to her that he had purposely stolen her father’s face. He admitted to cloning Paavo Creon’s likeness surgically, and slipping into his life for the sole purpose of revenge.”

“A lot of trouble to go through for a little revenge.”

“My question is, who is he and why? There are days when I think he’s laughing at me from the grave,” Merrick admitted. “It’s not over yet. Hell, maybe it’ll never be over.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Something Sly McEwen said before he took off to go fishing.” Merrick stopped and looked at Bjorn. “McEwen said I shouldn’t put off my surgery. I should have the operation because I was going to need to be a hundred percent soon. I think he was hinting that when we get the identity on that body, all hell is going to break loose.”

“You think he knows who it is?”

Merrick shook his head. “If he does, he’s going to have a helluva a lot of explaining to do when he decides to surface with Eva.” He rubbed his jaw. “I’m tired of this shit. I’ve been playing this game with the Chameleon for fourteen years and I’m ready for it to be over. I want to bury it along with him, and his identity, whoever he turns out to be.”

“Have you decided to have the surgery?”

“Not yet, but…” Unconsciously Merrick moved his hand to his left temple. “I haven’t had a headache in a week. Maybe once this assignment is in the bag I can take a month off. But right now I can’t afford to be on my back while you’re in Austria. I’ve decided that I’ll be your controller on this one. While you’re in the field you’ll report directly to me instead of to one of the technicians in the Green Room. Anything you need, I’ll see that you get.”

Merrick had been diagnosed with a brain tumor and had put off his surgery too long, Bjorn thought. Bjorn had noticed certain things in the past week, the way his boss blinked more and squinted in bright light. The temple massaging.

It all added up to one thing—the tumor was growing, and putting pressure on the retinal nerves behind his eyes. To tolerate the pain he had started mixing pills and booze. That wasn’t smart, but there would be no convincing Merrick to have the surgery until he was ready.

They started to walk again. “Ordinarily I’d remind you that personal contact with an associate or suspect is frowned upon at Onyxx,” Merrick said, “but on this mission anything goes as long as we recover the file and Holic Reznik ends up on a slab next to the Chameleon. There is some concern that Holic might contract out the assassinations in that kill-file. That is, if he doesn’t get the use of his hand back. You’ve profiled him. What do you think?”

“If there’s killing to be done, and he’s capable of doing it, Holic’s going to be the one pulling the trigger. The question is, will his hand be up for it? Multiple fractures and nerve damage…” Bjorn shrugged. “It doesn’t sound good. If there’s a God upstairs, Holic’s assassination days are over. If not, at least his victims will be up against better odds. Holic’s MO is taking out his victims with one shot.”

“He could decide to contract the work out.”

They had been strolling through the museum, and so far neither had looked at a single painting. Bjorn, still matching Merrick’s steps, said, “That would mean he would have to trust someone. From what I know about him, Holic trusts damn few. That’s why he’s been so elusive.”

“Then if he doesn’t hire someone to pull the trigger, what do you think he’ll do? A useless hand isn’t going to get the job done.”

“He’ll retire. He’ll find a buyer for the kill-file, sell it for a few billion, then enjoy his money and his myriad of mistresses until he’s too old to find his zipper.”

Merrick stopped in his tracks. “Sell the file? You think that’s a possibility?”

“That’s what I’d do. Holic’s life revolves around two things, killing and women. If he can’t do one, then he’ll bury himself in the other. No pun intended. His reputation is flawless, and if that’s all he has left then he’ll want to preserve his legend status. He’s got a big ego.”

“Then the sooner we locate him the better, before he starts shopping for buyers and the perfect getaway. Which brings us back to the question of the hour. Which lucky lady is going to keep you warm in Austria? It doesn’t matter to me who goes, so make your choice.”

It would matter, Bjorn thought. If Merrick knew that he and Nadja Stefn had a history and he decided to take her along, there would be a dozen questions. Questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. He’d never mentioned her in his report five years ago when he’d gotten back from Vienna. She’d had no bearing on his mission while he was there, and he’d wanted to forget her.

But that had been impossible for a man with a telephoto memory and instant-recall capabilities.

Normally Nadja wouldn’t have minded cooling her heels. She could use the time to pull herself together. But nature was calling and she needed to use the rest room because her morning routine had exploded into chaos the minute she’d opened her eyes and realized she had overslept.

She stood and glanced at Pasha Lenova across the room, then down at her friend, Casmir. “I’m going to the little girl’s room. If I’m still gone when our almighty commander decides to show himself, tell him I went for coffee. Still take two creams, Cass?”

“Two creams, no sugar. I don’t get paid for being super-sweet like you do. I’m the ruthless bitch, remember?”

Nadja smiled. Casmir was good at playing a ruthless bitch, just like all the other roles she had perfected in the name of Quest. But that’s not who she really was. Out of character, she had a beautiful smile, was extremely generous and had impeccable manners, thanks to her Russian mother, Ruza.

“I thought that was Pasha’s job,” Nadja teased. “Presenting attitude.”

Pasha blinked open her eyes and gave Nadja and Casmir the finger. “I do my talking behind a gun, that’s a fact. I don’t play dress-up, or straddle my victims. Being a hard case suits me just fine.”

Pasha’s words had Casmir on her feet and on the defensive. She was the slightest of the three, but fiery nonetheless.

Nadja stepped in front of her friend before she did something stupid—like knock Pasha off her chair. They were all friends, but sometimes the pressures of the job put Cass and Pasha at each other’s throat, and they took things too far.

If Polax walked in and found a monkey pile on the floor…again…they were all going to be sitting this one out.

She said, “Sit down, Cass. You two have already been caught fighting once this week.”

Casmir touched the faint bruise on her cheek, the last bit of evidence that there had been more than words exchanged with Pasha, then settled back in her chair. “Why aren’t you wearing your jacket? Polax is going to say something.”

“It’s missing a button.”

Nadja glanced at Casmir’s crisp white shirt beneath her immaculate black suit jacket, then at Pasha who was wearing a similar outfit. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be satisfied with seeing it. If he does say something, I’ll complain about being too hot.”

Casmir’s gaze shifted to Nadja’s chest. “I wish my blouse fit me half as good as yours fits you.” She made a show of sticking out her chest, her modest 32B no match for Nadja’s full-figured 34C. “Maybe I should have implants. What do you think?”

“Men like petite women.” Nadja pushed Cass’s long honey-colored hair off her shoulder and it rippled down her back to tease her waist. “You have gorgeous hair, and rescue-me-please eyes.” She fluttered her own to emphasize the fact. “Just look what that combination accomplished with Yurii Petrov, a man rumored to have no heart. He fell in love.”

“He wasn’t in love with me,” Casmir argued. “He was in lust. Anyway, I want to forget that mission. Him.”

“I’m sure you do, but he will never forget you. I’m sure of that.” Nadja pointed to the diamond-and-ruby ring on Casmir’s finger. “I see you’re still wearing the ring he gave you. Why is that? If you’re trying to forget—”

“I don’t ever want to forget.” Casmir held up her hand and studied the priceless bauble on her slender finger. “This reminds me of what can happen when you start to enjoy your work too much. Luckily I came to my senses in time. Yurii was not a nice man.”

“There are no nice men, Cass. They only exist in a weak woman’s mind.”

“I’m beginning to believe that. Who do you think will be going to Austria?” Casmir asked, changing the subject. “I hope it’s not me. I just got back from Munich and I’m still trying to catch up on my sleep.”

“Unlike you, I was hoping it would be me,” Nadja admitted. “But I overslept this morning, and you know how Polax feels about scheduled appointments. He’s probably already crossed me off the list for walking through the front door late.”

She gave Casmir an oh-well shrug, though in her heart she felt sick about the lost chance. She needed to be on that plane bound for Austria. It was the only way to find out what had happened to Ruger.

“I’ll be back with the coffee,” she said.

It had been five years since he’d seen her. But Bjorn remembered that night in Vienna like it was yesterday.

He’d been on Onyxx business, and Nadja was most likely on similar business for Quest. Although at the time, who she was or where she worked hadn’t been important. The only thing he had cared about when he’d seen her was celebrating the end of a long four-month field mission by getting laid.

He had gone out to a keller for a bite to eat and had just finished his meal when she’d entered the small restaurant wearing knee-high black boots, snowflakes in her wild blond hair.

She was breathless, her nose and cheeks as red as her wool cape. It wasn’t the same wool cape she was wearing when she stepped into the elevator today, but the similarities had been uncanny. So much so that it had put him back in Vienna in a blink of an eye.

That night she had made a quick search of the keller, located the rear exit, then left as quickly as she had appeared. He’d read the signs, knew she was on the run. He’d paid for his meal, then followed her, his plan self-serving. Help her out of her tight spot—whatever it was—then later, if she was willing, out of her clothes.

With that in mind, he’d stepped out the back door just as gunfire erupted in the alley. As bullets ricocheted off the brick walls, he had grabbed her hand and raced for cover.

On the run, she had pulled her .45 from her thigh holster and returned fire. Her smooth moves and unruffled response had assured him that she was no novice at dodging bullets and getting out of tight spots.

It had been cold as hell that night, and after they had eluded the gunman, he had hot-wired a car and driven them to an inn on the outskirts of the city. Inside a spartan room, safe from the outside world and the nasty weather, Nadja had expressed her gratitude as she had pulled the red cape from her shoulders.

He’d suggested a hot shower to warm her up—she was shivering—and when she’d agreed, he’d gone into the bathroom and turned on the water.

On his way out, and on her way in, she had given him a look. Her sexy soft-brown eyes…the door left ajar…

An invitation?

No man would have seen it differently.

From the bedroom he’d enjoyed the show as she removed her boots, then the custom-made Springfield along with the red leather holster strapped to her thigh. He’d watched her slip off her silk stockings and red garter belt. Then her panties and bra.

With each piece she dropped to the floor, his blood had surged hotter and hotter, until… Until he’d stashed his two .38’s under the mattress and entered the bathroom.

His plan of sweeping her off her feet hadn’t been necessary. He had stripped and stepped into the shower, and had been backed up against the wall immediately. She had put his cock inside her so damn quick that he hadn’t lasted three minutes the first time. But then, neither had she. She’d gone off like a firecracker.

The second time had been almost as quick.

But the third…

Polax was wrong about Nadja’s endurance.

Looking back on that night, she had never broken a sweat. Not while they had been on the run, or after an hour in the shower. When she’d stepped out, he’d stayed inside. He’d needed a minute to recover from the most amazing sex he’d ever experienced.

He’d shut the hot water off and stood under a blast of cold to clear his head, then emerged from the bathroom minutes later determined to start round two. But to his surprise and disappointment, she was gone. Gone but not forgotten.

With his gift for remembering details, the woman in red had been engraved in his memory for all eternity.

They continued to stroll the museum now, Bjorn in tailored navy blue pants and a navy Henley sweater, his flaxen hair brushing his shoulders. His look—that of a man who had seen more in his thirty-eight years than most men twice his age. Merrick was dressed in his usual all-black attire. A stark contrast to his silver hair and neatly trimmed steel-gray beard.

On the way back to the elevator, Bjorn stopped in front of a narrow window. There, overlooking the River Vltava, he silently considered the situation. He could think of a hundred places he’d rather be in January. It was snowing again, and the temperature was a bone-chilling twenty-two degrees. Austria would be no better.

He hated cold weather. As a kid in Copenhagen, he’d spent too many nights freezing his ass off in dark alleyways. Worse, he hated what those cold nights had forced him to become.

Still, this chilly trip had proven to be interesting. It really was good to see her again. To see that she was alive and looking so well.

He had never met a woman who could match his sexual appetite. But that night she had more than done so. She had driven him over the edge, and followed after him without any hesitation or reservations.

Normally he didn’t care about conversing with the women who fell into his bed. But over the years he had never been able to forget the lady in red and the wild, hot sex they had shared in that shower in Vienna. And often he had wondered what she would have said the next morning if she had stayed to wake up beside him.

They were in an elevator headed back into the underworld of the Vysehrad when Merrick said, “It’s settled then. We’ll tell Polax you’ve made your choice, and you want the—”

“Brunette,” Bjorn injected. “My choice is Pasha Lenova. Polax’s rain-or-shine femme.”