MasterStroke (30 page)

Tightly confined for the next few minutes, not a word was uttered. Although not normally subject to claustrophobia, Sandrine was aware of a rising panic.
It’s so hot in here, I need to breathe
, flashed through her head. She looked across at Jack who smiled bleakly, wriggled his eyebrows conspiratorially and squeezed her hand. The tension was palpable although the SWAT team were like statues, staring at fixed points. One monitored the display panel, calling out the numbers in a flat monotone as the elevator sped skyward.

A barely innocuous muzak version of
Girl From Ipanema
filled the chamber; the volume was just slightly above the level of recognition but it still took a while to identify it. When she did, the bizarre nature of the situation struck Sandrine like a splash of cold water. Here I am wedged into an elevator, with a bunch of men looking like something out of a science fiction movie, and there’s bad lounge music playing. She lightly but incompletely stifled a snort in an attempt to keep the harsh bark of laughter at bay. Jack looked across, his eyebrows arched.

“Like to dance?” she asked.

“That’s the trouble with these new places, they’re so crowded you can’t move,” Jack answered.

A mirrored visor inclined towards them.

“Reaching the target floor,” a voice said, just as the elevator slowed and the doors opened. At the end of a long corridor was a double set of doors, both of which were open wide.

The group maintained its formation for half the length, until one of the SWAT team in front held up a closed fist. They stopped. One of the officers swung to Jack and Sandrine.

“Please wait here. We’ll clear the apartment, make sure it’s safe. Harrelson, you keep these folks company.”

“Commander, don’t shoot Sergei. It’ll only piss him off,” Jack said.

If his joke came close to hitting the mark, there was no outward indication. The helmet swung back and five SWAT members silently advanced up the hallway, creeping along the thick carpet in their shin-high boots like ghosts, disappearing through the doorway. After a few minutes, they were beckoned.

“All clear.”

Sergei waited alone, sprawled comfortably across a gigantic over-stuffed sofa in a huge room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out across a night skyline of skyscrapers and apartment towers. On the coffee table before him was a highly-polished chromed handgun with a dark walnut grip. A SWAT team member stood off to one side, leaning against an armoire, his automatic rifle held at ease across his chest but his eyes vigilant and ready.

Sergei paid no attention to the guard. He stood up as Jack and Sandrine approached and shook both their hands.

“Thank you for the consideration. We’ve both been set up, made fools of. It appears I was to take the blame for the incident at your lady’s store. The truly annoying thing about this is that I trusted my employer. I thought I knew him well enough. I should have been more suspicious. This is the sort of thing that gives our business a bad name,” Sergei said wearily.

You have to be kidding
, Sandrine steamed.

“What? Mobsters, murderers and criminals?” Sandrine spluttered indignantly.

The big Russian thought for a moment.

“Exactly,” he said finally. “There’s no trust in the world these days.”

“Where are Boris and Viktor?” Jack asked.

A cloud crossed Sergei’s features.

“I’m afraid I don’t know. I heard about the bomb from a news report and sent them out to check on things. I haven’t heard from them since. Their calls go unanswered. I fear the worst.”

Jack briefed the SWAT member on the make, model and license plate number of Sergei’s car and suggested that a trace be run, then took up a spot on the couch. Sandrine was too wound up to relax. She couldn’t understand why Jack wasn’t out searching for Marcus.

What is going on? Why are you wasting time here? Marcus is in danger!
She felt like screaming. Instead, she stood in a corner and glared at Jack who steadfastly refused to pay attention.

“Who are we dealing with?” Jack cut straight to the point.

“My employer is named Sylvester. He’s Brazilian. An arms dealer who worked his way up from the favelas of Rio. Even for someone of his calling, he is indiscriminate. He’ll sell weapons to anybody as long as the price is right. Despite this, he has a thirst for legitimacy and he sees collecting art as a way of achieving that.

“I’ve dealt with him before and found him erratic but largely straight-forward. Not honorable, not honest, but such qualities are in short supply in this business. He’s been obsessed with your artwork for years, convinced it’s a Da Vinci and that it’s only a matter of time before it is universally accepted as such and thus worth a considerable amount of money. It was a harmless but lucrative side venture on my part to track it and I foolishly thought my team were the only ones on it.”

“But you weren’t,” Jack interrupted.

Sergei shook his head with a rueful expression.

“So it seems. Last night I discovered there is another group, Brazilian former paramilitary enforcers who have worked with him since the old days, running a parallel operation. Sylvester was using them to keep an eye on me. He doesn’t trust anybody. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has someone else watching them.”

“Where are they holed up? Wherever they are, it’s a pretty fair bet Marcus will be with them.”

“As far as I knew, this was their base.” The big Russian spread his arms wide. “This evening, when I heard about the bomb, I came straight here but it was empty, cleared out. Filthy, rubbish everywhere. They won’t get their security deposit back but your people might have some luck with the forensics,” he said drily.

For the first time in hours, Sandrine noticed Jack was smiling.

“Good idea, Sergei. Thanks, I’ll get it rolling.” Jack spoke quietly into his cell phone, his voice so low she couldn’t hear what was said. His attention returned to Sergei. “The techs will be here soon. What else can you tell me?”

“I’ve been trying to think where Sylvester will be. He didn’t give a hint of any other locations but I know that, as a businessman, he’s very nationalistic. Doesn’t trust foreign banks and works almost exclusively with a Rio institution with long-time links to favela gangsters. I’d suggest your people look for transfers between that bank and any in this city; he wouldn’t have used a black Amex for his accommodation.”

Jack was back on the cell phone.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, most important,” Sergei leaned forward. Determination was now etched deeply into his features. “I don’t want to be sidelined. I want the chance to get Sylvester myself. I owe him, especially if Boris and Viktor don’t come back.”

Jack gave it some thought and nodded.

“OK. Fair enough. But on the proviso that I call the shots. You know him so it could be handy to have you along. But you take orders from me.”

Sergei brightened up considerably.

“Of course. It will be interesting to work together rather than at odds.”

Jack suggested he didn’t get too carried away. Sergei stood, collected the handgun from the coffee table and slipped it into a holster nestled under his left armpit. On a nearby sideboard were several bottles of liquor, glass and an ice bucket.

“A beverage, as you Americans say? Jack? Miss Chalmeaux?”

They both declined. It was time to leave. Jack stood and told Sergei he’d be in touch in the next few hours, hopefully with the information they needed. Sandrine followed him out the door, past a couple of lounging SWAT team members to the elevator. In the lobby, he took the commander aside for a hurried conference then joined her in the street.

A dark SUV was waiting, its engine running quietly. They climbed into the back seat, onto cushiony leather seats, and the car pulled away from the curb.

“I don’t understand. What was that all about?” she asked heatedly. Her scalp prickled with heat and her temper was dangerously close to exploding. “Up till now, the Russians have been working against us. Now, they’re your friends.”

“In this game, you form alliances when the opportunity suits,” Jack appeared reflective. “That doesn’t necessarily mean I trust Sergei. I think he’d sell his mother to white slavers if the price was right. It’s just better having him close where I can keep an eye on him rather than rolling around the deck like a loose cannon. Besides, he may come in handy.”

Sandrine didn’t quite know what to think.
A game? A game? What are you thinking, Jack?

“A game?” she pressed. “Is that all it is?”

“I’m sorry. A poor choice of words.”

“What do we do now?”

“Rest. You’ve been through a lot. You’re exhausted. There’s nothing else we can do until we get some more information.”

It was at times like this that Sandrine’s natural stubbornness came to the surface.
We can’t sit around waiting for something to happen. Poor Marcus. He’s being held somewhere, a prisoner, injured, terrified. All alone.

“We need to find Marcus.”

“Yes, we do but we’re no good to him in this state. It will take a couple of hours to get enough good intel to work on. We can better use that time getting something to eat, a shower, clean clothes and some rest.”

She sat in silence as the street flashed by.
Jack’s right,
she thought sourly.
But it’s just so frustrating.

“Where are we going?”

“Your place will be fine. Security won’t be a problem and we’ll pick up my car from behind the store. I have a change of clothes in it.”

Sandrine was glad they weren’t going to a safe house as Jack had earlier suggested. Being home would make so much difference. It would certainly go some way towards feeling human again. Now that her adrenalin was ebbing, fatigue was setting in. She tried hard to stifle a yawn but resistance was no good. Her jaw opened so wide, it cracked. Her eyes felt like sand had been rubbed in them and her thinking was starting to get fuzzy.

Jack pulled her close. Her nose wrinkled from the smell of Jack’s clothing, a sharp mixture of sweat and smoke and other things she didn’t want to think about. Almost as soon as she snuggled into him, her breathing slowed and she drifted off to sleep. He noticed how quiet she’d become, smiled and kissed her lightly on the forehead, smoothing her hair, oily and dank, from her face. It occurred to him that she looked quite angelic and at that moment his heart lurched.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Dinner was scrambled eggs folded through smoked salmon with buttered slices of toasted sourdough. Both Jack and Sandrine had showered and were fresh in clean clothes, Jack’s from a small bag he kept in the back of his SUV. Sandrine was too tired to dry her hair and simply combed it back from her forehead, giving her a wholesome, clean-scrubbed look. Jack, with his wet hair towelled roughly dry, had merely run his fingers through it. Although messy, Sandrine considered it sexily provocative.

Hard choice which is more appetising. Dinner or Jack? I might have to eat both.

They climbed into bed soon after dinner, Sandrine uncharacteristically happy to leave the dirty but rinsed plates in the sink for further attention in the morning. She was wearing an antique wrap in the palest apricot silk. Slipping the knot at the waist, it flowed off her shoulders and pooled on the carpet at the foot of the bed. She was naked and Jack, standing fully clothed in the doorway, silently eyed her body. Her beautifully pale skin was now blotching with bruises, especially across the thighs and buttocks, but she seemed unconcerned as she climbed between the covers. The medication had taken the edge off the pain but it would return, Jack considered. Tomorrow morning won’t be so blissful.

Nestling into a soft feather pillow, she eased onto her side and almost immediately appeared to be asleep. Jack turned out the bedroom light and undressed by the soft glow diffused from the bathroom. His own bruises were not as raw as Sandrine’s, the legacy of his thick jeans and leather jacket cushioning the blast. He did have a sharp, grating pain in the lower back; being thrown across the room by the blast had aggravated an old football injury.

Fatigue was setting in. His eyelids were heavy and his body sore, despite the painkillers he’d taken earlier. He left his clothes on the floor and climbed heavily into bed, careful not to disturb Sandrine. Jack wanted to pull Sandrine close to him and feel her body heat but was concerned he’d disturb her. Instead, he lay his head on the pillow and, like Sandrine moments before, allowed sleep to overtake him.

Sandrine woke slowly and, while still wrapped in a warm drowsiness, was aware that parts of her body were tender. She winced as she moved out of her sleeping position. The room was half-dark, light filtering in from the bathroom, and it took her a while to realise she’d been awakened by the movement of Jack leaving the bed. His side was warm, the sheets ruffled and his aroma still achingly evocative.

She lay on her back and looked across at the bathroom door, slightly ajar, the doorway edged with a slice of light staining the darkness. She was drowsy, hovering between a languid dream state and emerging consciousness, suspended in a cocoon that she wasn’t ready to shake off. If she closed her eyes, she knew she would easily sink back to sleep so she focused on the doorway instead, imagining Jack inside. Was he naked? The thought intrigued her and a flood of sensation seeped across her. She pushed the discomfort of her physical being, of the twinges of emerging pain in her legs and hips, to one side and concentrated instead of the picture that was forming in her mind and that was beginning to exert a powerful influence within her.

Jack was naked, she was sure, and she pictured him standing in front of the bathroom mirror, examining his reflection. In her mind, he was unmarked and unconcerned, and her eyes caressed his powerful body and the curves of his well-muscled chest, shoulders and arms, his flat stomach, his tightly proportioned legs and, she’d tried hard to leave this until last, the dangling solidness of his half-erect penis hanging purposefully between his legs.

From her mind’s-eye position, she was behind him and could also see his beautifully-defined back, his shoulders wide, narrowing down to a firm waist and his delicious bum. She had no idea what the muscles in his back and shoulders were called but recognised them as works of art and loved watching them move under his skin. Sandrine had never been attracted to the over-pumped bodybuilder type but Jack worked out, took good care of his body and was proud of it. This was all new to her but, she thought, that was so true of many things these days.