Limbo Man (30 page)

The old crone, whose wizened face was nearly lost under the folds of a black
hijab
, chuckled. “Ah! A woman of the people,” she declared in Russian. “My grandmother fought the tsar’s troops. My mother fought the Germans. And now, in my old age, God has granted me an opportunity to fight the Americans. Life is good. Allah be praised.”

The other women, evidently recognizing the old woman’s last phrase, echoed her words in Farsi.

“You are Russian?” Vee asked.

“Fifty years ago, before I traveled with a student group to study ancient Persian sites and met a dashing, dark-eyed tour guide named Javeed.” The old woman winked. “But I have not forgotten Mother Russia nor the language of my birth. Sit down, sit down, child. We are used to guns here. You there, Nazilla,” she said to a girl who appeared to be no more than fourteen, “give the Russian your seat.”

Sergei drew himself up to his full height, a head taller than most of the men around him. He crossed his arms, assumed his most arrogant stance. “Ignore anything Boris Leonov has told you. He is a greedy, self-serving bastard who thinks only of keeping all your money for himself. When I heard he planned to take the U-236, then kill me, I hid it. The man who created the isotope is dead, a suicide in America. Which makes me the only person in the world who knows where it is. I also have in my control the only man who knows how to arm the bombs, a man who worked on them when they were new.”

Sergei could almost swear Heydar’s black curls bristled under his gray
kufi
. Certainly, his mouth between his mustache and beard thinned to a straight line. “How else would I dare come among you?” Sergei continued. “I would be mad to come here if I had truly betrayed you. I am Sergei Tokarev, arms dealer. That is what I do. I stay in business only as long as I can deliver what I have promised.” He slowed his barrage of words, emphasizing each syllable. “Leonov cannot deliver. I can.”

Heydar’s face remained grim, but a general murmur swept the room around him. Approval?

“We have the isotope here.” The words, like small explosions, silenced the room. Something close to a smug smile tugged at the terrorist leader’s lips. “Our ancient land is forging a new path. We have friends here at home who can help us. We no longer need you.”

Sergei swallowed his profane reaction, ignored the death knell ringing in his ears. “When?” he demanded. “Next month, next year, five years from now? And what will you do with the isotope when you’ve got it? Do you know how to remove the spent U-236, replace it with the new? Or will your people fuck up, immolating Tehran instead of Washington?”

“You will be quiet!”

Keeping his arms crossed, Sergei widened the stance of his feet to parade-rest, and waited while the three terrorist leaders huddled. This was it, the moment that decided whether his gamble paid off. Whether he lived or died.

Whether the world, as he knew it, lived or died.

Bozhe moi
, but he was tired, so very tired . . .

“The U-236 is in America?” Heydar asked. “Enough for both bombs?”

“Yes.”

“And only you know where it is?”

“Yes.”

“And the bomb technician—”

“Is waiting for his orders. You have only to tell me where you wish him to go.” Sergei kept Tokarev’s confident bonhomie plastered on his face, determined not to reveal he was holding his breath.
Where, Godammit, where?

Heydar turned back to his advisors. Sergei had not been brought up to say his prayers, but it seemed an appropriate moment to make a fumbling attempt to speak to an entity he’d been assured did not exist. Yet at the very height of the Cold War, even Nikita Kruschev had publicly exclaimed, “
Bozhe moi!
” My God.

Well, hell, why not? Surely God still spoke Russian.
So no harm in asking Him to save the world from idiocy. And if Sergei Zhukov died here—please God—let Valentina live.

In front of him three heads were nodding. As well as the heads of those close enough to overhear the verdict. Sergei maintained his determined stance. Locking an unwavering gaze onto Heydar the Lion, he waited.

Vee had drunk two cups of tea, served in round, handleless bowls that looked like the ones used for rice in a Chinese restaurant. She had admired the children, smiled, traded a few remarks via their elderly translator, and eaten her way through enough sweet pastry to jar her teeth. Though the women were obviously wary of the stranger in their midst, they were polite, with no overt signs of hostility. So far, there hadn’t been a sound from the room next door. No shouts, no raised voices. No shots.

Vee accepted a second bowl of tea, willing the pads of her fingers to accept the heat and not disgrace her Russian persona in front of women more accustomed to handling hot earthenware. She caught a gleam or two in teenage eyes that appeared to be wishing she would douse herself with a waterfall of hot tea.
Too bad, kids. Ain’t gonna happen.

Surreptitiously, Vee studied the room. She’d been so busy trying to stay in character as Sergei Tokarev’s bride and business associate that she’d caught only a flicker of a red flag before she’d been forced back to juggling cultures and exchanging cautious smiles. How did she sneak another look at the little boys playing in the corner without anyone noticing? Nodding and smiling to show her appreciation of the women’s hospitality, Vee reached for a pastry rather larger than others. With her mouth full, no one would expect her to talk for a moment or two.

Very carefully, she raised her eyes just high enough to peer at the floor where the boys were playing. Their toys appeared to be hand-carved. Three airplanes and  two separate groups of small wooden buildings. The boys were happily dive-bombing the buildings with their miniature air force. Occasionally, Vee could catch typical boy noises as they blew up the miniature wooden cities, scattering the finely detailed pieces.

Typical kids. The red flag, Vee realized, was the cities themselves. Even from across the room she could recognize the shape of the Pentagon, the dome of the capital building, the exquisitely rendered rectangle of the White House. And—dear God!—the other city, the one that had first caught her attention, featured a castle surrounded by tiny figures.

Vee blinked, straining to clear her eyes. Were those mouse ears? The flowing gowns of Disney princesses? Swiftly, she brought the now cooling tea bowl to her lips, hoping to cover her expression. She was leaping to conclusions. What she was seeing was merely some adult’s version of famous American symbols—government and indulgence. Nonsense to read significance into it.

The door swung open. The women’s chatter abruptly ceased. Sergei, from his position behind the stalwart Heydar, barked to Vee, “Get dressed. We go now.”

In thirty seconds Vee’s
burqa
and veil, reappearing as mysteriously as they had vanished, were back in place. Taking care not to look toward the boys’ play area, she made her farewells. And then they were in the corridor, descending the stairs, feeling the target on their backs every step of the way.

They needed to talk, and their hotel room wouldn’t do. Stopping only long enough to pick up their suitcases and pack away their guns, they headed for Iman Khomeini International Airport. A very long twenty miles. Vee could only hope the taxi driver didn’t notice how many times Sergei peered out the rear window. She still had no idea what happened at the meeting, but Sergei was too grim for it to be anything good. Yet they were still alive, definitely a major accomplishment.

Staying in character, Sergei booked an early morning flight to Moscow. Then, attempting to look as inconspicuous as a Russian businessman and a
burqa
-clad female could, they found an out-of-the-way corner in the sparkling new terminal and sat down to wait out the night.

“Well?” Vee hissed the moment they were settled. “What happened?”

“I am live.”

“I can see that!” she hissed from beneath her veil. “And, believe me, I am glad. Infinitely so. But this is not the time for stoic calm. Tell me!”

Sergei stared past the seats in the waiting area, past the airplanes parked on the other side of the plate glass windows, their loading corridors attached like giant umbilical cords. Slowly, he shook his head, making no effort to suppress the anguish he’d hidden for the last two hours. “They played games with me. Cat and mouse. Only when I thought I had won did they admit I had come too late. The bombs have been shipped.”

Vee’s fingers closed around his arm. She didn’t care who was looking. Seryozha needed comfort. “Did they say where?”

He snorted in derision. His voice, usually so confident and alive, had taken on a bitterness Vee had never heard before. “I was informed I am still alive only because, in the end, they believed me. But since the bombs are in play, I must settle my differences with Leonov so the attacks may go ahead as planned. In short, I must cooperate with Leonov or eliminate him. Then, and only then, will I receive instructions about where to arm the bombs.”

It was Vee’s turn to use Sergei’s favorite expletive, which she did with a heartfelt, “
Govnó!
” They still didn’t know the target cities, and Sergei was being forced to go head to head with the man who had nearly killed him. “Time to call home?” she breathed just loud enough to pass through the veil of black cotton.

“In Moscow. Not from here.”

“Did they indicate
when
the bombs were shipped?”

“No. But it can’t be long.”

“It’s a little over three weeks since you were found in the East River.”

“Time enough for Leonov to consolidate his power, but not enough to find replacement U-236 or a tech expert. At least it took me a lot longer, and I’m a damn sight better than Leonov.”

Vee couldn’t help but smile. Sergei Zhukov was coming back, with a strong dash of Sergei Tokarev for spice. “So we’re headed back to New York?”

“Brighton Beach. And, yes, I remember how I felt that night in the subway when you wanted to head for Coney Island, right next door.”

Vee shut her eyes, willing away the image of the man called Nick, his face distorted with horror, though he had no idea why. “Will Uncle Arkadi have your back?”

Sergei took his time, obviously considering his reply with care. “Probably. If nothing else, Arkadi will know that my mother will kill him if he fails to help. And I mean that literally. My mother was a highly successful field operative for the KGB for many years before she ‘retired’ to management in the GRU.”

Diverted, Vee had to ask. “Your mother works for the government, yet her brother is a mobster. How is that possible?”

Sergei shrugged. “In Russia, we are flexible. Is the only way we survive. Uncle Arkadi moved to America. You could say he, too, was a government operative. Undermining American high principles, creating havoc, spreading wealth among the criminal classes—”

“Enough! I get the point.”

Sergei retreated behind the glum mask he’d worn since his meeting with Heydar the Lion. Vee clutched the enveloping folds of her
burqa
and wondered if she should confide what had been nagging at her for the last few hours. Would he laugh at her? Dismiss her suggestion as the maunderings of overactive female imagination? He was the big-time arms merchant, after all, she nothing more than his lowly
burqa
-clad shadow.

He was going to think she was nuts.

“Seryozha?” No answer. “Seryozha . . . I saw something odd tonight. When I was with the women and children.”

“
Shto?
” He sounded about as interested as he was in the view outside the broad windows.

“There were three little boys playing war in the corner of the room. Their toys were hand-carved, with fine detail. The work of a skilled carver. They were dive-bombing two cities. One had a pentagon-shaped building and a domed building that could have been the Capitol. The other had small figures centered around a castle. Two of the figures had mouse ears. The others looked like Disney princesses. I know it’s a stretch, but . . .” Vee’s voice trailed away as she felt Sergei go on alert, like a hunting dog on point.

“Valentina, my love, if we were not sitting in the midst of Khomeini International Airport, I would kiss you!”

“The Embassy.” Vee firmed her chin, crossed her arms over her chest.

“No!”

“Yes!”

“The flight to New York leaves in one hour.”

“Embassy. Now.”

Sergei waved his satellite phone under Vee’s nose. “If you do not like my phone, use yours, but we cannot waste time on a detour to your embassy.”

Vee glared. “You know perfectly well my cell doesn’t have global access, and if you think I’m going to call Homeland Security on a phone provided by the GRU, you really are crazy.”

Sergei straightened, looking scornfully down past his now only slightly crooked nose. “Fine. You go to Embassy. I go to New York.”

Damn! He had her
. Same old, same old. Bodyguards couldn’t let their clients out of their sight. And in Sergei Zhukov’s case the matter was a lot more personal than that. Vee held her hand out for the supposedly secure Russian satellite phone, which undoubtedly had a direct connection back to Misha. No need to make a separate call to let him know what was going on. He was about to find out. Vee longed to swat the flickers of humor that flitted across Seryozha’s rugged features. Miserable man. His way or the highway.