Ditto, Casmir thought.
She uncrossed her long legs and played with the diamond on her finger. It really was beautiful. Flawless, Yurii had said. The diamond from Africa, the rubies from Brazil.
Flawless like my future bride, Kisa.
Polax was on his feet now, starting to pace, his pet chair trailing his flat ass. Or maybe it wasn’t all that flat. Maybe it only looked that way because his chubby tummy stuck out from his cinched belt like a balloon that had had too many injections of helium.
He stopped and faced her. “Are you hearing any of this? You’re sitting there as if you’re expecting me to invite you to lunch.”
Of course she was hearing him. He was shouting, and as spacious as his office was, the soundproof technology inside created a ping-pong effect. Actually she was hearing everything twice. As far as lunch was concerned it was too early, but breakfast would be nice. A glass of OJ, coffee and a little protein.
“We haven’t only lost Petrov. One of our best agents had her throat slit.”
It was understandable Polax would be upset about Pasha. She was an excellent agent, an agent who followed Polax’s orders to the letter.
Casmir had mourned her comrade in private, the Hungarian with the hot temper. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but they had respected each other.
Polax was back in his chair, the motorized wonder speeding him behind his monstrosity of a desk.
“The agency can’t afford to lose you, too, so pay attention to what I’m saying. I have a plan to defuse this ticking time bomb.”
Here it comes, Casmir thought. A new identity on a remote island. Crete sounded nice, or maybe she could spend the summer with Nadja in the Azores. It would be great to see the baby. Nadja had brought Bjorn’s child into the world a month ago—a beautiful blond baby boy they had named Dane.
After six months on a tropical beach she’d come back ready to go to work with an amazing tan, as a brunette or a redhead. No, not red, it would clash with her wardrobe. She’d probably have to cut the length. Not her best look, but doable. Gain a few pounds—oh, God, not that.
“I’ve contacted a friend of mine. Everything has been arranged. You’ll leave immediately.”
It was time to speak, make a few suggestions. “Someplace warm, I hope. Crete, or maybe I could visit—”
Polax looked over the top of his glasses, which were perched on his puggy, turned-up nose. They were new. Not the best choice for his face shape. Mini oval rims did nothing for his narrow temples. They made his cheeks look like his tummy—as if they had taken one too many hits of helium. A silver finish would have been better than gold, as well. He should have called her and she would have arranged to go with him to pick out something more flattering.
He pulled two passports from his top drawer. “You’ll be en route within the hour. No one will know where you are except for me and your bodyguard. He’ll pick you up.”
“You’re giving me a bodyguard? That’s generous, but not necessary. I’ve soloed on more missions than any other agent at Quest. I certainly don’t need a babysitter lying on the beach blocking the sun.”
“You need whatever I deem relevant. You’ve been assigned a keeper, and that’s that.”
“A keeper?”
“If you prefer bodyguard or babysitter, call him what you wish. Watchdog. Glue. Fungus. I don’t care.” He shoved two passports across his desk. “I hate to inform you of this, but there was a kidnapping attempt on your mother last night. I believe it was initiated by Petrov.”
“He went after Mama?”
“If he had been successful he would have used Ruza to lure you out of hiding. You would have probably gotten emotional and made some silly deal with him to free her. Of course that would have ended up with both of you dead. Since that is unacceptable, I’ve decided—”
“Was she hurt?”
“A bump on the head, and shaken up a bit. I took it upon myself to assign her a guard after the incident in Bratislava. An agent was staked out in front of her apartment. We interceded before she was taken.”
“Obviously not a very good one if someone was able to break in.”
Another austere look over his glasses. “Ruza is packed and ready to join you on your little getaway. She’s been given a story that parallels the bullshit you’ve been feeding her over the years about working for an international real estate agency. As your real estate boss—” he made a face “—I’ve told her that we’re sending you on a little business/pleasure trip. I sent someone to pack for you. You’ll leave straight from here and meet Ruza at the airport.”
“Our destination?”
“The U.S.”
Too vague. “Where exactly?”
“An out-of-the-way little place called Le Mystère.”
“Le Mystère? It sounds lovely. Which coast?”
“The Gulf.”
“Florida?”
“Louisiana.”
“What’s in Louisiana?”
“Alligators, snakes and…hot weather. It seems I’ve made one of your wishes come true.”
“Why not a sunny island in—”
“Because your bodyguard is familiar with Louisiana. He’s got a house there.”
“With alligators for neighbors.”
“Look at it this way. You won’t have to make an effort to be…nice. You can be yourself.”
At Quest, Casmir was known as the bitch with an attitude, the agent who got away with far more than Polax put up with from anyone else. She didn’t know why that was. She knew agents who had been suspended for speaking their mind. She, on the other hand, had simply gotten Polax’s famous look.
“Does my bodyguard have a name?”
“If I’m not mistaken, you’ve already met.” Polax opened the file on his desk and shuffled through a stack of papers. “Pierce Fourtier was the agent who helped out on the Austrian mission a few months ago. The one you played body double with.”
Not that arrogant jackass. No, Casmir thought. The gods wouldn’t be that sadistic. Give her anyone else. A seven-foot gorilla with body odor, a three-foot circus midget on crutches. A transvestite with a shoe fetish, and better taste than hers. Anyone, just not Pierce Fourtier.
“An excellent operative. I’ve never met him, but his file is quite impressive. Seven years as a rat fighter makes him the perfect troubleshooter to watch your backside.”
“The perfect asshole, you mean.”
“As I said, call him whatever you wish.”
“I can’t work with him. We didn’t get along in Austria.”
“I have no record of that.”
Of course he didn’t—she hadn’t made an issue out of it because she was sure she’d never see him again.
“I’m not asking you to like him. You’re a professional, and professionals put their differences aside. Bring your acting skills along and you’ll do fine. It’s always worked before. Until four days ago, that is. This time the only difference will be that instead of standing out in a crowd, and dining with royalty in a two-thousand-dollar miniskirt, you’ll be blending in to your surroundings. That should lighten your suitcase, and Quest’s expense account.”
That was mean. He knew damn well that she spent money out of her pocket for at least