Beloved Enemy (19 page)

Redbird swallowed the capsules, put the vial away. “Bleeding, you said.”

Farmington nodded. “And I damn well meant it. I told you whoever was working the knife knew what he was doing. The wound is deep. If you use the arm too much—particularly violently, as in a hand-to-hand combat, or putting your fist through a wall—the stitches may tear apart the edges of the wound. The resulting blood loss would be disastrous.”

Ignoring the pain in his right arm, Redbird shrugged his shirt back on.

“I need you to focus,” Farmington said. “Having a high threshold of pain is all well and good, but that isn’t going to help you when blood loss or infection sap your strength.”

“Okay, okay,” Redbird said. “Message received.”

His mobile sang out, and he looked up at Farmington, who shrugged and went into the next room, closing the door behind him.

“You missed your update,” Dickinson said from the other end of the call. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Redbird said. “But Legere remains elusive.”

“That’s because he’s no longer in Bangkok.” Dickinson’s voice was as tart as a squirt of lemon juice. “And we just got a hit from the CCTV at Bangkok airport. McClure is on his way to Zurich, which means that’s where Pyotr Legere went.” His voice had turned dark and threatening. “How McClure discovered that and you didn’t is anyone’s guess.”

So McClure was the man with the Thai girl,
Redbird thought. “How McClure got out of D.C. scot-free is also anyone’s guess.”

“Just get the fuck over there yourself,” Dickinson barked. “Your commission now includes two people: Legere and McClure, who, I have been informed by Bangkok immigration, is using the name Edward Griffiths. Obviously a legend. I want you to bring Legere
and
McClure back to D.C.”

P
ART
T
HREE

E
NEMIES IN THE
M
IRROR
A
RE
C
LOSER THAN
T
HEY
A
PPEAR

T
WELVE

“W
HY HAVE
you done this?” Annika cried. “Why have you taken him out of his sanctuary?”

Iraj Namazi eyed her calmly. He was holding Rolan by the hand, as if he were a bewildered child. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I never lied to you,” she retorted.

“I thought Rolan was dead. That’s what you and your grandfather led me to believe.”

“Neither of us ever said—”

“Lies by omission,” the Syrian said, “are lies nonetheless.” His lips turned down in contempt. “And you grieving—”

“My grieving was—is—real. My husband was taken from me. By your raid, your men.”

“And yet—” Namazi raised Rolan’s arm, as if in victory “—here he is.”

“Do you think he’s the same as he was? Undamaged? My Rolan?”

The night wind, blowing in off the Black Sea, rustled the date and areca palms. To their right rose the immense bulk of the mountain, the fiery eyes of Sümela Monastery three-quarters of the way up. Above them all, the goddess face of the moon was wreathed in scarves of cloud.

Namazi lowered his arm with Rolan’s. “He was caught in the gears.”

“Collateral damage, yes.” She stood before him, legs at hip width, knees slightly bent. She could see him assessing her battle stance, wondering if she would move against him or if her posture was just an act. “Happens all the time in war, is that what you’ll tell me next?”

“It’s the truth,” the Syrian said, unblinking.

Annika bit back the invective that filled her throat and almost made her gag. “Iraj, let Dr. Karalian take Rolan back inside.” She despised the pleading tone her voice had taken on. “He needs—”

“I know what he needs, better than you,” Namazi said firmly. “He needs a purpose—we all do—otherwise life is meaningless. And, believe me,
chérie
, Rolan’s life was meaningless chained to his chair.”

Annika felt each word as if they were stones hurled at her. “This can’t be guilt talking. You don’t feel remorse.”

Namazi smiled. “No,
chérie
. I have liberated your beloved husband for one reason: to control you.” He took a step forward. “You see, as long as your grandfather was alive, he kept you on a tight leash. Now that he’s gone—” Iraj shrugged “—another means had to be found to leash you.” Stepping back, he clapped Rolan on the back. “It wasn’t easy to find a suitable one, believe me. But it was you who led me to him,
chérie
, so it’s you I must thank—”

“Fool! You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“On the contrary.”

“You don’t get it, Iraj,” she persisted. “In his current state, Rolan is dangerous.”

The Syrian laughed. “Really,
chérie
, this is beneath you. Surely you can do better than spout dire warnings.” He turned. “Look at him! Rolan is as docile as a lamb.”

“You’re judging him by his exterior, Iraj. You—”

“This is how you speak of your husband?” The flat of his hand swept through the air like a scythe. “Not one more word from you, understand?”

Annika understood, and so, it appeared from the expression on his moon-kissed face, did Dr. Karalian.

*   *   *

“I trust this interview won’t take long.” Tim Malone sat down across a narrow table from Jonatha Midwood. “My duties as the director of the FBI leave me little time for frivolities.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Jonatha said. “A frivolity?”

“If what you’re asking is whether this mole hunt is useful, then the answer is no.”

Jonatha smiled like a sphinx. “You would say that if you were the mole.”

“I’m not Jack McClure.”

There didn’t seem to be an iota of humor to Malone. She made a note; lack of humor was often an indicator of certain other traits useful in building a profile. Now, looking down, at the hard copy of the psych test she had prepared, she pretended to read, waiting.

After a time, Malone shifted from one buttock to the other. His hands were clasped before him on the tabletop. They were in a room within CIA headquarters that Jonatha had designed, overseeing every detail of its construction. It was painted a dull battleship gray, and was absolutely neutral—no windows, pictures, or wall hangings of any kind to distract the subject from her questions. The overhead fluorescent lights had a deliberate liminal flicker, a tape loop of barely audible whispers and footfalls emerged from speakers hidden in the floor. A scent of hot metal and electronics, manufactured to Jonatha’s specifications, was pumped in through a vent to give the impression of a vast amount of machinery at work hidden behind the walls.

At last, Jonatha lifted her head, smiled at Malone, and said, “Tell me, Tim—do you mind if I call you Tim?”

“In fact, I do.”

“Resisting will only make the process difficult.”

“What process?”

“All right, Tim, let’s begin.”

It was always a good idea to ignore the subject’s questions. A specific hierarchical order existed in this room. It was her dominion, and the sooner the subject understood this the better.

“I told you—”

“When did you join the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

“Surely you know the answer already.”

She stared at him, silent, unmoving.

He shrugged. “Three years ago this March.”

“And where were you before that?”

He started at a whisper snaking through the room like smoke.

“Don’t you people insulate your offices?”

“Budget cuts,” Jonatha said.

Malone grunted and could not mask a smirk. “I came from the DoD,” he said.

“You had military training.”

“I was a captain in the Navy, yes.”

“And then?”

“I was asked to join the DoD as part of their antiterrorist task force.”

“Why did your wife leave you?”

“What?” Malone was clearly taken aback. “I’ve been happily married for seven years.”

Jonatha studied his face. “Your first wife didn’t leave you?”

Malone’s brows knit together. “That was a long time ago.”

“Why did she leave you, Tim?”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Ask that question or call you Tim?”

He stared at her for a moment, his lips pursed.

“Please answer,” Jonatha prodded.

“I…” Malone coughed into his fist. “At the time, I had a mistress.”

“Stella Rodnina.”

Malone’s cheeks colored. “Are you objecting to her being of Russian extraction?”

Silence.

“Her grandparents were White Russians. They—”

“Since, according to you, you’re ‘happily married,’” Jonatha broke in, “I’m questioning why you still see her.”

“We’re friends.”

“Friends who from time to time share a room at the Colonial Inn, on, let’s see, New Hampshire Avenue, in Takoma Park, Maryland.”

Malone glanced to his left for a moment, a sure sign he was about to lie. “It’s nothing.”

“Well, you see, Tim, that’s where we differ. I believe it
is
something.” She turned a page of dense typescript, scanning the next. “I’ll tell you why. You’ve kept on with the affair, even after you remarried. You’ve kept that a secret, Tim. That’s not good. But I’ll tell you what’s worse. You met while you were both in the Navy. She was a lieutenant, and not just any lieutenant, Tim, an officer in Navy Intelligence.”

“What of it?”

“If I have to tell you, Tim, you’re in the deep end.”

Malone bristled visibly. “Stella was fully vetted by the Navy. D’you think intelligence would have—”

“You tell me. You know Ms. Rodnina more intimately than anyone.”

“This intrusion is outrageous.”

“This evaluation has Atlas priority.”

“Fuck that shit; this is Krofft flexing his muscles. I’m going to have him reprimanded and you fired.”

“This isn’t school, Tim.” Jonatha continued to scribble notes in the margins of the test sheet, even while she kept a sharp watch on Malone, who was trying to see what she was writing. “Do what you feel you must.”

“You can be sure. As soon as I return to my office.”

She gave him a perfectly neutral smile in return.

“We’re done here.” He rose, crossed the room to the door.

“Tim, we’re not.”

He ignored her, pulled open the door, and vanished down the hallway.

Humming Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower,” Jonatha made some more notes in Malone’s file, closed it, took it off the low stack, and set it aside.

“Next victim,” she said into her mobile.

*   *   *

“No,” Fareed said curtly, “you cannot see him.”

“He’s my husband,” Annika said. “Iraj cannot keep Rolan from me.”

“I have orders.” Fareed crossed his arms over his burly chest. “Your husband is under Namazi’s protection.”

They were in the salon of their hotel suite. Beyond Fareed’s broad back was the locked door to the bedroom in which Namazi had locked Rolan while he was out on business. Normally, Annika would have gone with him, but now matters between them were anything but normal.

“Protection from me? His wife?”

“He is asleep,” Fareed said. “Namazi has seen to it.”

“Namazi the god.”

Fareed regarded her with dumb curiosity, as if she had spoken in a language he could not understand.

Annika turned, went across the thick carpet, and sat down on a chair facing Fareed. She had changed into a short sheath skirt of champagne-colored shantung silk that hugged her hips and butt and a black low-cut knit pullover.

“Fareed, you must get bored.”

“I do not.” He had the deep-throated growl of a wolf.

“But Iraj works you eighteen hours a day.”

“I’m used to it.”

“I’d never get used to it,” she said. “So much time, so little to do.”

“There’s always something for me to do. Often, many things.”

“Yes. Driving.” Her full lips curved in the arc of a smile. “And watching.”

“I watch all the time.”

“Really. Like this?”

When she crossed her legs, the skirt rode up farther, revealing the taut, shimmering flesh of her thighs. Fareed contrived not to look, but she saw that he could not help giving her a furtive glance, so she bent over to remove her high-heel shoes, exposing the perfectly tanned tops of her breasts. She was not wearing a bra, and despite his best efforts Fareed’s increasingly heated gaze was caught by the slow revealing of her lush body.

“And this?”

She raised one leg to massage her foot, her thighs opening just enough for him to see that she wore no underpants, either. She heard the tiny catch of his breath. His black eyes seemed to burn like coals beneath the ridge of his formidable brow.

“You like to watch, don’t you, Fareed?” She rose and, on bare feet, picked her way across the carpet to where he stood, a stolid sentinel keeping her from Rolan.

He stared over her head. “I do what Namazi orders me to do.”

“But you
do
like to watch. I see it. I
feel
it.”

“Feel what?”

“Your eyes on me like hands.” Her lips curved again. “You have large hands.”

She moved close enough for him to inhale her scent. “What else about you is oversized, Fareed?”

His nostrils flared as he breathed her in, then his gaze dropped to her glistening lips. She turned her back to him.

“This sweater is irritating me, Fareed. I need to take it off.” She raised her arms over her head, her voice rising to that of a little girl. “Will you help me? Please?”

When he made no move to put his hands at her waist, she spun back and said, “Come on, Fareed. We both have needs.”

Unable to engage his eyes, she held out her hand. “Let me have your knife, Fareed. I know you always carry it, I’ve seen it often enough.”

His gaze came down to her level. “I’m not going to give you my knife.”

“Fair enough,” she nodded. “Just take it out then.”

He did as she asked, even though she could see he was dubious. Curiosity had got the better of him. Curiosity along with the sight and smell of her.

“Now open it.”

When he did, she slowly wrapped her fingers around his wrist, drawing his fist and, with it, the tip of the naked blade, toward her. She could feel him resisting, but now she had locked up his gaze. He could not look away. Beautiful, she thought, relaxing fully.