The Spy Wore Red. Wendy Rosnau

things still don’t add up. We just have to be patient.”

      Bjorn glanced at Merrick, noting the conviction in his commander’s voice. If anyone deserved peace of mind where the Chameleon was concerned, it was Adolf Merrick. The Chameleon had killed Merrick’s wife years ago. He’d strapped C-4 to her curvy body and sent her to hell while Merrick had watched it unfold on the computer screen in his office.

      Bjorn suspected his commander still blamed himself for his wife’s death, and it was that blame that continued to drive him where the Chameleon was concerned. Even though his longtime enemy had been killed weeks ago, he wanted the man’s entire international operation wiped out.

      “Then you believe everything Eva Creon said?” Bjorn asked.

      “Yes, I do. She said the Chameleon admitted to her that he had purposely stolen her father’s face. He admitted to cloning Paavo Creon’s likeness surgically, and slipping into his life for the sole purpose of revenge.”

      “A lot of trouble to go through for a little revenge.”

      “My question is, who is he and why? There are days when I think he’s laughing at me from the grave,” Merrick admitted. “It’s not over yet. Hell, maybe it’ll never be over.”

      “What makes you say that?”

      “Something Sly McEwen said before he took off to go fishing.” Merrick stopped and looked at Bjorn. “McEwen said I shouldn’t put off my surgery. I should have the operation because I was going to need to be a hundred percent soon. I think he was hinting that when we get the identity on that body, all hell is going to break loose.”

      “You think he knows who it is?”

      Merrick shook his head. “If he does, he’s going to have a helluva a lot of explaining to do when he decides to surface with Eva.” He rubbed his jaw. “I’m tired of this shit. I’ve been playing this game with the Chameleon for fourteen years and I’m ready for it to be over. I want to bury it along with him, and his identity, whoever he turns out to be.”

      “Have you decided to have the surgery?”

      “Not yet, but…” Unconsciously Merrick moved his hand to his left temple. “I haven’t had a headache in a week. Maybe once this assignment is in the bag I can take a month off. But right now I can’t afford to be on my back while you’re in Austria. I’ve decided that I’ll be your controller on this one. While you’re in the field you’ll report directly to me instead of to one of the technicians in the Green Room. Anything you need, I’ll see that you get.”

      Merrick had been diagnosed with a brain tumor and had put off his surgery too long, Bjorn thought. Bjorn had noticed certain things in the past week, the way his boss blinked more and squinted in bright light. The temple massaging.

      It all added up to one thing—the tumor was growing, and putting pressure on the retinal nerves behind his eyes. To tolerate the pain he had started mixing pills and booze. That wasn’t smart, but there would be no convincing Merrick to have the surgery until he was ready.

      They started to walk again. “Ordinarily I’d remind you that personal contact with an associate or suspect is frowned upon at Onyxx,” Merrick said, “but on this mission anything goes as long as we recover the file and Holic Reznik ends up on a slab next to the Chameleon. There is some concern that Holic might contract out the assassinations in that kill-file. That is, if he doesn’t get the use of his hand back. You’ve profiled him. What do you think?”

      “If there’s killing to be done, and he’s capable of doing it, Holic’s going to be the one pulling the trigger. The question is, will his hand be up for it? Multiple fractures and nerve damage…” Bjorn shrugged. “It doesn’t sound good. If there’s a God upstairs, Holic’s assassination days are over. If not, at least his victims will be up against better odds. Holic’s MO is taking out his victims with one shot.”

      “He could decide to contract the work out.”

      They had been strolling through the museum, and so far neither had looked at a single painting. Bjorn, still matching Merrick’s steps, said, “That would mean he would have to trust someone. From what I know about him, Holic trusts damn few. That’s why he’s been so elusive.”

      “Then if he doesn’t hire someone to pull the trigger, what do you think he’ll do? A useless hand isn’t going to get the job done.”

      “He’ll retire. He’ll find a buyer for the kill-file, sell it for a few billion, then enjoy his money and his myriad of mistresses until he’s too old to find his zipper.”

      Merrick stopped in his tracks. “Sell the file? You think that’s a possibility?”

      “That’s what I’d do. Holic’s life revolves around two things, killing and women. If he can’t do one, then he’ll bury himself in the other. No pun intended. His reputation is flawless, and if that’s all he has left then he’ll want to preserve his legend status. He’s got a big ego.”

      “Then the sooner we locate him the better, before he starts shopping for buyers and the perfect getaway. Which brings us back to the question of the hour. Which lucky lady is going to keep you warm in Austria? It doesn’t matter to me who goes, so make your choice.”

      It would matter, Bjorn thought. If Merrick knew that he and Nadja Stefn had a history and he decided to take her along, there would be a dozen questions. Questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. He’d never mentioned her in his report five years ago when he’d gotten back from Vienna. She’d had no bearing on his mission while he was there, and he’d wanted to forget her.

      But that had been impossible for a man with a telephoto memory and instant-recall capabilities.

      Normally Nadja wouldn’t have minded cooling her heels. She could use the time to pull herself together. But nature was calling and she needed to use the rest room because her morning routine had exploded into chaos the minute she’d opened her eyes and realized she had overslept.

      She stood and glanced at Pasha Lenova across the room, then down at her friend, Casmir. “I’m going to the little girl’s room. If I’m still gone when our almighty commander decides to show himself, tell him I went for coffee. Still take two creams, Cass?”

      “Two creams, no sugar. I don’t get paid for being super-sweet like you do. I’m the ruthless bitch, remember?”

      Nadja smiled. Casmir was good at playing a ruthless bitch, just like all the other roles she had perfected in the name of Quest. But that’s not who she really was. Out of character, she had a beautiful smile, was extremely generous and had impeccable manners, thanks to her Russian mother, Ruza.

      “I thought that was Pasha’s job,” Nadja teased. “Presenting attitude.”

      Pasha blinked open her eyes and gave Nadja and Casmir the finger. “I do my talking behind a gun, that’s a fact. I don’t play dress-up, or straddle my victims. Being a hard case suits me just fine.”

      Pasha’s words had Casmir on her feet and on the defensive. She was the slightest of the three, but fiery nonetheless.

      Nadja stepped in front of her friend before she did something stupid—like knock Pasha off her chair. They were all friends, but sometimes the pressures of the job put Cass and Pasha at each other’s throat, and they took things too far.

      If Polax walked in and found a monkey pile on the floor…again…they were all going to be sitting this one out.

      She said, “Sit down, Cass. You two have already been caught fighting once this week.”

      Casmir touched the faint bruise on her cheek, the last bit of evidence that there had been more than words exchanged with Pasha, then settled back in her chair. “Why aren’t you wearing your jacket? Polax is going to say something.”

      “It’s missing a button.”

      Nadja glanced at Casmir’s crisp white shirt beneath her immaculate black