Beloved Enemy (28 page)

“Meaning he’s got nothing to spare for us.”

“That’s right,”
his father had said.
“And something must be done about it. I have no intention of embroiling us in whatever difficulties he is experiencing.”

Pyotr had bitten back the “I told you so” he so dearly wanted to utter. Gloating would get him only a moment’s satisfaction, especially when weighed against his father’s wrath. But his father would not always be the head of the company.
My time will come,
Pyotr thought, anxious to push the old man from his lofty perch.

He was replacing the bandage when he heard the particular knock on his door announcing Romy. Immediately his mood shifted. She was just the ticket. He could take his frustration out on every part of her. Choking her while he came was one of his favorite pleasures. Maybe, he thought, as he crossed to the door, he’d start choking her right away this time.

Jack shoved him back as soon as he flung open the door. Romy shut the door behind them.

“Who the hell—?”

“Jack McClure, Herr Legere.” Jack had him firmly by the front of his shirt. “Surely you know who I am.”

“Should I?”

“Your people tried to kill me in the spa an hour ago.”

Legere shook his head. “You’re mistaken. I have no knowledge—”

The sentence ended in a sharp squeak as Jack slammed the back of his head against the wall.

Legere’s eyes went briefly out of focus, then, clearing, his gaze shot past Jack to Romy.

“How could you? Jesus, who the hell are you?”

“Someone you’ll never know,” Romy said.

Legere’s gaze switched back to Jack. “What lies has the bitch been telling you?”

Jack slapped him hard across the face, and Legere howled as blood bloomed between his stitches. “Let’s cut the crap, Legere. I’ve been following your trail all the way from Bangkok.”

“Now I know you have the wrong person,” Legere said. “I’ve never been in Bangkok in my life.”

Jack grabbed his jaw. “Dr. Scheiwold does good work.” He caught Legere’s eye. “You were injured in Bangkok, where you met with Leroy Connaston. That’s why you came here.”

“I didn’t—”

“In a nightclub called WTF at Thonglor Soi 10.”

“You’re insane.”

“Shall I play you the tape of your debriefing with Dennis Paull?”

Legere’s hands were behind him, and Jack felt his intent just before he produced the Luger. Knocking it aside, Jack slammed the edge of his hand down on Legere’s wrist. He wrested the Luger away from him, checked that it was loaded, then jammed it into the waistband at the small of his back.

“Dennis Paull is dead,” Jack continued. “He was my boss and my friend. Now everyone believes I shot him.”

“How does it feel to be a fugitive, McClure? Not good, I imagine.”

Jack shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re coming with me, back to Washington.”

“With my men all around you, I’m not going anywhere with you.” Legere’s face broke out into a sly grin. “You’re a dead man, McClure, but your death will have more meaning—a terrible meaning—when I tell you that you were set up from the very beginning.”

Legere’s eyes were alight with a kind of glee. “I didn’t work for your boss, Paull. Well, I did, but only as a double for the Syrian.”

Jack felt his stomach clench. “Was there ever really a mole?”

“Oh, yes, but now everyone is convinced it’s you.”

Jack hit him. Blood spattered from Legere’s split lip.

“Having fun yet?” Legere said, as he spat out more blood. “Just wait until my men catch up with you.”

“I’m going to make sure they don’t.”

“Actually,” Legere said, “it won’t matter.”

“He’s right,” Romy said to Jack. “It will be your word against his. Taking him back without tangible proof of your innocence will only entangle you further.”

Jack felt the web of lies around him drawing in, leaving him no room to escape. He dearly wanted to get on a plane now and haul Legere home, but Romy was right. That wasn’t going to solve his problem. If anything, it might make his situation worse.

“What d’you suggest?” he said to her.

“That’s right,” Legere said, “ask the conniving bitch for advice.”

Romy stepped up to him, placed her hand against his cheek. “Poor, poor Pyotr.” Then she grasped his neck so hard he began to retch. “But surely this can’t be the first time you were lied to.”

He spat into her face. For a moment, something dark and convoluted squirmed behind Romy’s eyes, then she smiled wickedly. Taking a handful of his hair, she drew his head back, wiped his bloody spittle off her cheek.

“You’re such a little boy, Pyotr. You’re riding high as long as everything goes your way. But when you encounter even the smallest pothole you go to pieces. What kind of a porcelain doll did your mother raise?”

“Don’t you say a word about my mother!”

“Not a man, surely.” Her voice was mocking, steely, cruel. “She fucked up, Pyotr. What did she do to you? Keep you at her breast too long? You liked her breast, didn’t you?”

Legere, growling, lunged at her, but Jack had a firm hold on him, restraining him from reaching Romy, though she remained near him, undeterred and unafraid.

“Now we come to the nub of things, Pyotr,” she continued. Her eyes were blazing, her expression triumphant. Some long-held emotion had been unleashed by his gesture of utter contempt. “You and your mother were closer than—what?” She snapped her fingers repeatedly. “I need a word to describe—”

“SHUT UP!” Pyotr screamed, struggling against Jack’s restraining arms.

“You have no idea how disgusting it was to feel you on top of me,” Romy said. “To feel you penetrate me made me gag.”

“That’s enough, Romy,” Jack said. “We need a next step.”

Romy was breathing as hard as Legere was. She stared at Legere like a gorgon. “The chimera is powerless without his body.”

Jack understood. “So we need to get Legere out of here.”

Romy nodded without taking her eyes off Legere. “They all work for him here—that is to say, they work for his father.” Her lips screwed up. “No one actually works for you, do they, Pyotr? No one respects a porcelain doll.”

“Let’s get him out of the building,” Jack said. “Fetch me a washcloth and surgical tape.” When she hesitated, he added, “Romy, now!”

Breaking her poisonous visual contact with Legere, she crossed to the bathroom, returning a moment later with the required items. Jack wadded up the washcloth and jammed it into Legere’s mouth, sealing it with a length of the surgical tape.

“Okay,” he said as he pushed his prisoner toward the door. “Ready.”

*   *   *

Caro was scanning for the intel that Jonatha had requested when her mobile buzzed. She picked it up and was about to answer when she got a hit.

“Gotcha!” she said, capturing the carrier e-mail on which the intel was piggybacking. She flashed off the raw data to Jonatha, along with a hastily typed note, while simultaneously answering the call.

It was Zukhov.

“I’ll buzz you in,” she said.

“Not necessary.”

“Wait, what?”

Hearing his sharp knock, she crossed the room, and threw open the apartment door.

“How did you—?”

Zukhov pointed up above their heads as he closed and locked the door behind him. “The Syrian knows where you are. He sent someone.”

“Is that blood on your coat?” She reached out for him, took his hands, which were also bloody. “My God, are you hurt?”

“Not my blood.” He smiled like a shark. “I’d better wash up.”

She followed him across the living room, stood in the doorway to the bathroom, watching him run the water in the sink.

“What the hell happened?”

“The less you know about it the better.” Zukhov scrubbed the splashes of blood off his jacket and hands.

“Looking at that blood I know all I need to know,” Caro said uneasily. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to move from here, but I guess I have no choice.”

“Oh, yes, you’re going to move.” Zukhov dried his hands. “Come on, we’ll do it together.”

Caro stepped back so he could exit the bathroom. She followed him to her laptop, put her hands on his meaty shoulders as he sat down, his fingers dancing over the keyboard.

“Physically, you’re staying right here,” Zukhov said, “but as far as the Syrian is concerned—”

Caro leaned over him. “You’re rerouting my IP address.”

“Indeed. You’ve just decamped to—hmm, where shall we put you?”

“Singapore,” Caro said.

Zukhov’s fingers were a blur as he worked. “Good one.”

“And then Beijing.”

He nodded, laughing. “Even better. That will keep his people running in circles.”

*   *   *

Romy stuck her head into the corridor first. After looking both ways, she gestured to Jack, who pushed Legere out the door. They encountered no one on their short walk to the service elevator at the back end of the corridor. Jack listened for the sounds of conversation or footfalls.

When the elevator door opened, Legere tried to lurch away, but Jack spun him around, slammed the side of his head into the edge of the door frame. Inside the elevator, Romy leaned forward, pressed the button for the basement.

“There’s a car park under the building,” she explained. “We can use my Audi.”

Legere struggled against his gag.

“Look at him. He’s nothing more than a thug.” Romy put her hands on her slim hips. “A thug with bad hygiene.”

Legere glared at her.

Romy leaned against the padded wall. “Herr McClure, do you know anything about Pyotr’s mother?”

Legere made desperate grunts.

Romy paid him no mind, which infuriated him all the more. “Galina Yemchevya, chief translator at the Kremlin, a position she enjoyed from the time she was nineteen years old. Any idea why she was elevated to this lofty post at such a tender age?”

She stared at him without pity. “She was a prodigy. She had a brilliant talent.”

Romy’s smile was cruel. “Oh, she was talented, all right,” Romy said, “with her mouth, her hands, and her vagina. The men she pleased. The powerful and the wealthy knelt before her, argued over her, fought over her, purge after purge.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “Galina Yemchevya, chief translator at the Kremlin, the most notorious courtesan of her time.”

She turned to Jack. “You see the truth of it, Herr McClure. Poor Pyotr has no evidence to prove he’s Giles Legere’s son. There are so many possibilities, so many famous and infamous men who could be his father. I very much doubt if even Galina Yemchevya knows.”

At that moment, the elevator lurched to a stop. It hung, a sealed cage, shuddering on its cables.

Then the lights went out.

S
EVENTEEN

N
EEDLESS TO
say, Detective Gensler was not happy to see Inspector Florian Birchler, Federal Criminal Police, Einsatzgruppe TIGRIS step into his office. He hid his anxiety well, Redbird thought, give him that. In person, he looked even more like a potato—ovoid, leathery, and green-eyed.

Mustering a smile, even after Redbird had produced his credentials, Gensler gestured to an uncomfortable-looking chair. Redbird pointedly ignored him.

“What can the Zurich police do for you, Inspector?” he said, massaging the backs of his hands, which were raw and red with a nasty case of eczema.

“Not the police, Detective,” Redbird said with icy venom. “You.”

Gensler sat down as if Redbird had pushed him. “I … I don’t understand, Inspector.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.”

Redbird stepped to the desk, picked up a glass paperweight, put it down in a different spot, then did the same with a brass-and-leather letter opener, and every other item on the desk. Gensler eyed him with what looked like mounting alarm.

“Gensler,” he said at last, “you have a thoroughly undistinguished record.” Redbird looked up sharply to see the potato holding its breath. He almost laughed. “On the other hand, your extracurricular activities show initiative.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Gensler’s face had turned the color of ash. Redbird wondered whether he was going to lose his lunch.

Looming suddenly forward, Redbird jammed his knuckled fists onto the desktop. “Don’t fuck with me, Gensler. I can take you into custody this minute if I choose to. Do we understand each other?”

Gensler swallowed convulsively.

“Answer me, damnit!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Redbird stood up straight. “I’ve come to Zurich to find two people.” He held out his mobile screen-first, so the detective could get a good look at Jack McClure and Pyotr Legere. “Either of these men look familiar?”

“Actually, I know that one.” Gensler pointed to Legere.

Redbird frowned. “How’s that?”

Gensler wiped sweat off his broad brow. “I mean I don’t
actually
know him. I know
of
him.”

Redbird’s brows knit further together. “That’s not the same, Gensler. You’re not helping me.” Intruding on the following silence, he said, “Tell me, how much do you treasure that summer chalet of yours on the lake?”

Gensler made a stricken animal noise in the back of his throat.

“Or the Mercedes convertible you keep hidden up there?”

“All right, all right,” Gensler blurted out. “I know where this man—Pyotr Legere—is staying.”

“What are you not telling me?”

Gensler blew air out of his pursed lips. “He’s a big spender—a payday whale, as it’s known in my world. He comes to Zurich three or four times a year. When he does, he avails himself of my services—gambling and the girls. He’s pretty tough on the girls, but he leaves them big enough tips that they don’t complain.”

“Listen, Gensler,” Redbird said, “if you withhold anything from me, I’ll shut you down and put you away so fast your wife will have a stroke. I’ll strip her of everything—the chalet, the Mercedes, the lifestyle she’s become used to. If you don’t cooperate fully, you’re looking at your own personal Armageddon.”

Gensler nodded. “When Legere got into town, he had a wound on his cheek. It was bad enough for him to seek out a skin job doctor. Following the procedure, the doctor stashed him at a hotel by the lake set up for his patients. So far as I know, that’s where he is now.”