Secret Contract. Dana Marton

buildings, even the dorms where she slept, if he was with her and let her in. And she desperately needed to spend some time with a computer. Alone.

      “Deal?” he was asking.

      She was half regretting the first deal she’d made with him, with Law and Moretti. Agreeing to their mission hadn’t bought her freedom. She was still locked up, still couldn’t do what she wanted. All she’d accomplished had been trading the prison guards for Tarasov. For the most part, that didn’t feel like much of an improvement.

      “I can do it,” she warned him and was surprised when it hit her that she meant it. So far, target practice was turning out to be something she was naturally good at. Looked like all those video games she’d played in her younger years left her with pretty good hand-eye coordination.

      The past two weeks had been slowly building up the self-confidence that had eroded to nothing in prison. She had conquered whatever he’d thrown her way. And Nick Tarasov didn’t pull his punches.

      He held her gaze. “I never had a doubt.”

      “What time is it now?”

      “Six-thirty,” he said without glancing at his wristwatch.

      She knew him well enough by now to know that pleading or arguing with him would change nothing. She gave him a loathing look and dragged herself to standing, then off into the direction of her room for a five-minute shower and clean clothes, cursing Nick Tarasov all the way.

      Four FBI trainees, all men, were starting their dawn run on the track, coming toward her. They all wore the agency logo T-shirt, and had the same haircut.

      She looked them over and tried to be objective. Okay, so even in comparison to other fab examples of the male of the species, Nick looked pretty fine. In a lion-safari kind of way—a thrill to look at as long as you stayed in the safety of your vehicle.

      She glanced back at him and realized he’d caught her watching the men. He had an amused smirk on his face.

      He probably thought she was lusting after those guys. Not that it would have been any of his business if she did. She was an adult. Lust was a valid emotion.

      She looked away and tried to picture the kind of woman he would go out with. The song “Bikini Girls with Machine Guns” came to mind.

      

      TSERNYAKOV SCROLLED THROUGH the new e-mail messages on his cell phone as the helicopter banked to the left, circling the Moscow high-rise in front of them in preparation for landing.

      The background check on Cal was in, a monster attachment. That would have to wait until he had his laptop from the bag in the back. If it all checked out, he could tell Mamuska to put Anna at ease. He would help her son. He glanced out the window at the people who were waiting for him by the chopper pad, all trusted men.

      “Ready for landing, sir?” The pilot asked for his final decision.

      Tsernyakov paused. Everything looked okay, which didn’t amount to anything. Everything felt okay, and that was important. He trusted his instincts, so he nodded to the man to authorize landing.

      He traveled often and changed direction without warning, scheduled as many as a dozen meetings at the same time, deciding only at the last second which one he was going to attend. If his instincts prickled, he pulled out without hesitation.

      The chopper touched down, and he was jumping to the roof the next minute, heading for the elevator entry under heavy guard. His office, one of many, was on the forty-second floor, on the top, overlooking the city. He passed by it and headed straight to the boardroom.

      Dmitry waited outside, wearing an expensive suit and a Rolex, his tie pin glinting with a good-sized diamond in it. By the looks of him, he could have been the president of a small republic. Joseph waited with him. The same age and height as Tsernyakov, Joseph was dressed without flair but with precision in a suit that had gone out of style years before, cheap glasses, stack of papers in hand, giving the impression of a lesser clerk or secretary, the same unassuming look that Tsernyakov strove to project.

      “Zdrastvuite,” they greeted him and inclined their heads.

      His cell phone rang and after glancing at the displayed number, he took the call, listened to the man on the other side of the line. When he hung up, he dialed his broker, sold his stocks in a certain foreign-owned mine in Africa, bought double the stock in another.

      “Let’s go,” he said when he was finished, then opened the door to let Dmitry go in first, then Joseph.

      “I’m glad we could meet in person.” Dmitry walked to the leader of the group who waited inside and shook hands with a smile, greeted the others before sitting down. There were no introductions. No one offered their names.

      The visitors wore ill-fitted suits, the businessman image they sought to project further impeded by their long, scraggly beards that looked out of place in the boardroom. A bunch of fanatics trying to look presentable for the sake of the deal. Who did they think they were fooling?

      Joseph and Tsernyakov welcomed the men respectfully, Joseph sitting farther down at the table and putting his papers and pen in front of him, ready to take notes if asked. Tsernyakov went to the server and prepared the refreshments.

      “Are you able to deliver the goods we need in the requested volume?” The director of the School Board addressed his question to Dmitry.

      A more polite man would have complimented the impressive office building, waited for the tea and coffee being offered before jumping into business.

      “The order is unusual in its size,” Dmitry said with a winning smile. “Would you be acquiring it for resale?”

      “For personal use,” the director said, taking Dmitry’s measure. He paid no attention to those he considered lesser men.

      Tsernyakov brought a tray of tea and offered it around, set the sugar bowl and plate of sliced lemons where everyone could reach them, then went back for coffee. He’d wanted to see the man in person. The School Board and its director had checked out okay. But it was too big a deal, perhaps bigger than anything he’d ever done before, to agree to without seeing the man face-to-face.

      “I’m assuming the order is for worldwide distribution within your organization.” Dmitry dropped a sugar cube into his cup. He was tall and wide-shouldered, as charismatic as a TV star when he turned on the charm. People found it hard to notice anyone else when he was in the room—the perfect decoy.

      Tsernyakov worked with a couple of men like him. Certain meetings required personal contact, and he’d much rather show someone else’s face than his own. He preferred to remain in the background and pretend to be a lowly clerk. This way, he could still see face-to-face the people he did business with and get a feel for them, but they wouldn’t remember him. Who paid any attention to servants? If ever questioned, they would give a description of Dmitry or one of his other stand-ins. Besides his inner circle, there were a few dozen associates around the world who could boast having negotiated with him in person. If ever questioned, they’d all give different descriptions.

      “Correct.” The director sipped his tea.

      “I also have worldwide interests,” Dmitry said. “What is my guarantee that our activities won’t interfere with each other?”

      A few moments of silence passed in which Tsernyakov offered coffee to those who’d declined tea.

      “You will get one day’s notice and the name of the country,” the director spoke with measure.

      “One month’s notice and exact location,” Dmitry responded so cordially that no one would have guessed they were bargaining over the fate of millions.

      A few moments of silence passed as the director squeezed more lemon into his tea. “I might not know a month ahead. Plans change. I can give you two weeks and the name of the town.”

      Tsernyakov took the tray back toward the server and nodded slightly behind the delegation’s back.