Chemical Burn (5 page)

My face finally turned serious. “Like I said, I have a lot of tools.” I smiled brightly again and took another bite of my omelet. “But don’t worry. I think we’re on the same side … well … sort of. You have nothing to worry about from me. Now eat up.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” she said quietly. Clearly defeated, she picked up the fork and took a small bite. I let her pick at her omelet for a few more minutes while I finished mine, chasing it with the sweetened orange juice.

“You know,” I started, “I took a pretty thorough look into your background as well.”

“Did you?” she said, her disappointment only lightly veiled.

“Yeah. Born Natalia Ludmila Voinovich in Tbilisi, Georgia, schooled at the University of Warsaw with a Bachelors and Masters in finance, both cum laude, and on to the Bank of Switzerland for three years. Then you had a two-year stint at Proviron as a Product Manager, four years at Fidea as a Senior Product Manager and now VP at SolCon. That’s an impressive career.”

“Thank you.”

“You know,” I continued, “it’s interesting.…”

“What is?” she asked, clearly not wanting to hear the answer.

“Every phone number listed in your resume … I was able to dig that up, too, by the way … they all seem to go to the same central office in Lyon, France. I think INTERPOL is based out of there, isn’t it?” I asked suggestively.

“That is interesting,” she said in a flat tone. She looked ill.

“Isn’t it? It’s a funny thing, too,” I continued mercilessly.

“What?” She didn’t look like she could take much more.

“There’s no mention of combat training,” I said in an overly confused tone. Then I looked her square in the eyes and was very serious. “You handled that Kalashnikov last night like the Spetsnaz … those are Russian special forces, but I’m pretty sure you already knew that.” She gave me a blank stare. The seconds ticked by.

“What size are you?” I asked out of left field, a smile lighting up my face.

“I beg your pardon?” She blinked in confusion. I could see her mind racing, trying to figure out what my game was.

“What size are you?” I repeated. “Say, for example, in a swimsuit.”

“What has that got to do anything?” she replied in a classic
are-you-a-pervert
tone.

“We have to attend a brunch,” I said as if it was the most reasonable answer in the world.

Baffled and frustrated, she blurted, “We just ate!”

“You hardly ate anything.” I pointed to her plate.

“You ruined my appetite!”

“Not my fault. Besides, we’re not eating brunch, we’re watching it.”

Her face went blank in utter confusion, and she blinked her eyes a few times. “We’re
watching
brunch?” She was clearly getting tired of feeling confused.

“Well, watching someone else eat it.”

“We’re watching someone else eat brunch,” she repeated, all hope for reason abandoned.

“Some
ones
, actually.”

“Who?” She gave me an
if-you-don’t-tell-me-right-now-I’m-going-to-shoot-you-with-my-Glock
look.

“Does the name Gino DiMarco mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does. Everyone knows about Gino DiMarco.”

“How about … Pyotr Nikolov?” and I got the accent right. “Does everyone know about him?”

Natalia’s eyes got wide, and I might as well have coughed up a rat and spat it on the counter top. “No,” she said quietly with a trace of fear.

“Well, it seems as if there’s a brunch meeting … today … between the SolCon folks, specifically one Pyotr Nikolov and the head of VeniCorp, namely …”

“Gino DiMarco,” we said together.

“How do you know all this?” she asked. “It’s ridiculous. You couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s not ridiculous. Like I keep telling you, I have a lot of tools. You’ll have to get used to that … and this is just hacking mail servers, mostly. Well … maybe a bit more than that … But still … easy peasy.”

“For you, maybe,” she accused, sounding almost jealous.

“Well, I do have a little help.”

“Such as?”

I paused, smiling that knowing little smile I have when people ask about my personal life. “That’s a long story … and we have to get going.”

“Where?”

“My boat. That’s why I asked you what size you were.”

“We’re going to watch other people eat brunch … from your boat?” she asked, sounding as if I was making less and less sense with each passing moment.

“Precisely!” I grinned like a madman, which I think she suspected was the case. “It’s perfectly simple.”

“I hate you Case,” she said. “I guess I’ll have to accept that I’m stuck with a lunatic, at least in the short term. I might as well make the best of it.”

Sighing, “I get that a lot.” I gave her a coy look. “And I liked it better when you called me Justin.” Coyness turned into a provocative grin, and I flexed my eyebrows at her like Groucho Marx.

“Case it is then,” she said.

“Eight,” I blurted, pointing at her.

“What?” She simply couldn’t keep up with my style of conversation, although, thinking about it, I hadn’t met anyone besides Rachel who could.

“I bet you’re a size eight,” I clarified.

“Yes. Good guess.”

“Educated one. You’re a little taller and somewhat better endowed than my assistant. Back there,” I pointed down the hallway leading to where she had slept. “Last bedroom on the left this time, with the waterbed in it … There’s a shower and some women’s things. Get cleaned up and check the closet for a swimsuit that will work. You’ll find some wigs in the walk-in as well. See if there’s one you like.”

“You’re out of your mind, Case. You know that?”

“You won’t be the last to say so,” I said grinning as she walked off. “Oh, and quickly. Brunch is at ten-thirty, so we have to be out of here by nine-thirty.”

“Whatever you say,” she said, standing up and grabbing the sneakers.

“You don’t mean that,” I said and winked. “Wear regular clothes. Take anything from the closet you like. You can change into the suit on the boat.” I smiled at her retreating legs and swinging butt. “I promise I won’t look.”

“You’re right on all counts,” she said flatly, and kept heading down the hall.

While she got ready, I went back to my bedroom and took a fast shower. When I finished, I pressed a door-sized wall panel just inside the bedroom door. The panel moved in slightly and swung out revealing a walk-in closet. I grabbed a black, skin-tight t-shirt from the closet and a baggy pair of blue jeans, putting them both on.

I walked to the bedroom door, but paused with my hand an inch from the handle. I returned to the closet and opened it again. A black touch pad decorated the back wall. I placed my palm on it and lifted my fingers and thumb in a sequence to unlock the safe. A small, hidden door set at face level swung outwards. Among an assortment of gizmos and data drives lay a sheathed, edged weapon—a combination of combat-knuckles and two blades. Closing the safe, I pulled the weapon out of the sheath and slid my fingers through the holes in the combat knuckles.

The dull, black hilt felt smooth and natural in my hand. As my fingers wrapped around it, the weapon made a high-pitched humming sound that increased, quickly going beyond the audible range.

It was called a
vlain
, a combat vibrablade common in the military where I come from. Made from a single piece of ceramic polymer, it’s harder and lighter than titanium and impervious to metal detection. A six-inch, stiletto blade with a serrated edge along the back protruded from the end of the hilt closest to my thumb, a blood-runnel etched down both sides. Another six-inch blade curved out from the end closest to my pinky and extended forward in line with the knuckle spikes, which were each about an inch long.

I slid the blade back in its sheath, the whine spinning down when I released it. I hooked the sheath over my belt, securing it tightly. I walked back to the kitchen, collected everything from breakfast, and dropped it casually into the sink. Then I went to the living room and waited for Natalia to finish getting ready.

Natalia finally walked out. She had selected black, loose-fitting gaucho pants with a black belt and a light, baggy green blouse. She’d slung a small red purse over her shoulder—one of Rachel’s favorites, I recalled, which made me feel a little guilty. Xen’s sneakers were back on her feet, and a short, red wig topped off the ensemble.

“You look great,” I said. “C’mon, we’ll take my truck.” I stood up and put on my coat, making sure she didn’t see the vlain. “Do you still have the Glock?” She pulled it out from the back of her belt and held it up. “Good. The truck is through there,” I indicated a door to the left of the foyer. With Natalia in the lead, we walked into the garage. Natalia headed towards my beat up, blue ’03 Ford F-250 4x4. It was raised about six inches, had oversized, off-road tires, a roll-bar, and bumper guards. Grabbing a beat-up, straw cowboy hat and pair of Ray Bans off the shelf just inside the door, I got into the truck. Natalia clicked in her seatbelt as I sat down.

“Careful, that thing sticks sometimes,” I said as I pushed a pair of swim fins and diving mask off the seat and onto the floor at her feet. “Don’t mind the dive gear. I don’t normally have passengers.”

She unbuckled the belt easily and clicked it back in. “Seems fine to me,” she replied. I shrugged.

The rest of the garage was empty, save for a motorcycle along the far wall of a type I’m sure Natalia had never seen. Her eyes lingered on it, but I said nothing. It didn’t have a motor at all, just a solid block of silvery metal and black bodywork all around. I put on the hat and sunglasses, adjusted the weapon hooked into my belt, and started up the truck.

“Nice hat,” she said grinning.

“Yee haw,” I said calmly.

Pulling down the sunshade, I pressed the door remote, and the garage door slid quickly open. I pulled the truck out, and closed the door behind me. We travelled in silence. I had no more questions for the time being. I think she wanted to avoid getting that confused look she got every time I spoke. Fortunately, traffic was light, so we passed through downtown quickly and headed towards Marina Del Rey. At the marina I pulled into a large parking lot, found a spot close to the docks, and turned off the truck.

“Did you remember the swimsuit?” I asked.

“In the purse I took.”

“Good.” We got out and walked to the third pier, stopping at the last boat on the end. On the left stood a muscular, ebony-skinned man of middle age, bare-chested and not a trace of fat on his frame. The sun shone off his bald head as he untied the ropes of a large, cabin-cruiser fishing boat moored to the dock. We could see a small group of mostly overweight men drinking beer and laughing with each other. On the right was a thirty-foot, black, Velocity VR1 powerboat.

“Hey, Boom-Boom!” I called. “How’s my boat?”

Boom Boom Llanos had been a friend since the Green Orca case. He’d taken me out in his boat for a sneak-and-peak, and we’d been buddies ever since. He turned, his face lighting up when he saw me, and he waved at us vigorously. He spoke with a light Caribbean accent. “Justin! Good to see you man. And the boat’s fine. They were here yesterday scrubbing hulls. They got yours and mine at the same time.”

“Taking another charter out?” I asked.

He nodded. “Studio execs. ‘Gone fishin,’” Boom-Boom said imitating them. “I heard one of them tell his wife that he would be working late.”

“Typical,” I said smiling. “We’re only going to be gone an hour or so. By the way, this is Carla,” I added motioning to Natalia. “Carla, Boom-Boom Llanos.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Boom-Boom said, nodding his head in her direction.

“Hi, Boom-Boom. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Don’t have too much fun while you’re out there,” I called from the side of my powerboat.

“Yeah, right,” Boom-Boom said sarcastically. “You either,” he added, raising an eyebrow in Natalia’s direction ever so slightly. “Catch ya later, man.”

“See ya,” I replied, waving. I helped Natalia into the boat. “Go change downstairs. I’ll pull us out.”

She wordlessly went down into the cabin and closed the door.

I untied the mooring lines, hopped back in the boat and took off my coat, throwing it on the bench behind me. I plopped down into the driver’s seat and pulled out the key from under the dash where I kept it. The boat fired up on the first turn, and the powerful engines grumbled to life. I easily backed it out and pulled into the bay. The email from Pyotr’s assistant to DiMarco had included directions to where Nikolov kept his yacht. It was about a half-mile across the bay on the south side, near the Mason Yachts International facility. I idled out of the inlet and slowly pulled into the bay on relatively calm waters, so I pushed the throttle up to run at about ten miles an hour. Leaning back in my chair, I took a moment to simply enjoy the sunshine.

“Natalia?” I called below deck after a few minutes.

“Yes?”

“Before you come up, can you open that hatch to the right of the door and bring up the black nylon bag that’s on the top shelf? And bring a towel with you, same compartment.”

“Of course!” she yelled. “I’m almost done.”

After a couple of minutes, Natalia opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine. It took everything I had not to whistle.

“Excellent choice,” I said, grinning like a teenager as I took in Natalia’s bikini. I knew perfectly well that Rachel kept one-piece suits in the closet, but Natalia had gone for a fairly revealing selection in crimson that highlighted both her full tan and red wig—among other things.

She glared at me. “Don’t say a word, Case. This is business.”

“Of course,” I said still grinning like an idiot. “Mum’s the word.” Then something strange happened—in my head. I saw Natalia, and there was no doubt she was a sight to be seen, but I could only think about Rachel. And as I thought about her, I got this funny feeling in the middle of my chest, like a spark or an ache. I’d never felt it before, and I really had no idea what it was.

Natalia handed me the nylon bag, breaking me out of my reverie, and stood next to me. She looked where we were headed. “Got any sunglasses?” she asked, holding her hand over her eyes.