“Look, the job isn’t over yet,” he pointed out, hoping to stave off an explosion.
“You’re right, it is not.” His voice was lethally quiet, the cultured accent making his words seem even more dangerous. “You still have to take out Fleming. I hope, for your sake, she knows where the papers are. Otherwise, I will take it out on you.”
Victor sucked in a breath. He had known the threat was coming, but it still hit him like a fist to the gut.
“That won’t be necessary. I think she has them.”
“What makes you say that?”
He set the knife aside, smoothing out the cloth as he spoke. “I found a package receipt in Novikoff’s office. He’d sent a collection of documents to her the day before I got there, if the customs form is to be believed.”
“You should hope it is. I don’t have to remind you what happens to associates who disappoint, do I?”
The images flashed through his mind, a horrific movie reel of pain and blood and a final, merciful death. The Russian mafia wasted no time in meting out retribution in creatively gruesome ways, and Victor had no intention of experiencing it firsthand.
“No. I remember,” he said, suppressing a shudder.
“You have three days.”
Victor flipped the phone closed, carefully placed it next to the knife and smoothed his hands over his face. He was walking a tightrope, to be sure. Killing Novikoff had been easy enough, and while he didn’t relish the thought of killing a woman, it had to be done. The papers were the real target—Novikoff and Fleming were just collateral damage. There was no guarantee Fleming would have the papers he needed, though, and he knew that if he didn’t get them, his mission would be considered a failure.
Failure was not tolerated by the Bratva. Failure was punished. The greater the failure, the greater the punishment. It was that simple. And since he would not tolerate failure, would not give his employer the satisfaction of punishing him, he had only one option.
Kill the woman. Find the papers.
Survive.
Claire sat on the sofa in the break room, arms wrapped tightly around herself in a vain attempt to control her shaking. Ivan was dead. Ivan, who had visited just two months ago, who had been so full of life and energy, tirelessly taking on the problems of safeguarding Russia’s nuclear material, was gone. And not just dead, but murdered in a horrific fashion. She blinked furiously to clear the tears that threatened to fall.
No crying. Not now. There would be time for that later, when she was home and could fall apart in private. But it just didn’t make sense. Who would want to kill Ivan? He was—had been, she corrected grimly—such a wonderful man. He had made it his mission to keep people safe, to ensure that the crumbling nuclear power plants in Russia were decommissioned safely, that their dangerous fuel sources were disposed of properly. He had been a force of nature, using humor, charm and sheer stubborn will to get the authorities to listen to him. He’d had his share of enemies, but in the years they’d worked together she’d seen that even those who disagreed with him respected him.
Or so she’d thought.
A uniformed police officer sat by the door, idly flipping through one of the Nuclear Safety Group’s newsletters. She didn’t understand why he had to stay with her—she’d much rather be alone right now to gather her thoughts—but the detectives had insisted on leaving someone here while they checked her office. They’d shooed her out the door, politely but firmly, giving her no choice but to retreat to the break room while they pored over her computer and files. Even though she didn’t keep anything personal in her office, she still felt a bit disconcerted by the knowledge that her things were being scrutinized by strangers.
You’re next.
Goose bumps broke out across her skin as the bloody image popped into her head again. Why? Who would want to target her? What had she done?
Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of a new face. A tall man stepped into the room, stopped to murmur something to the police officer who had looked up at his entrance, and then turned and walked over to the couch. He sat down, close but not crowding her, and gave her a small smile.
“Dr. Fleming, I presume?” His voice was deep and smooth, calming. She nodded.
“I’m Agent Thomas Kincannon, FBI.” He removed a badge from his jacket and held it out. She took it, inspecting the gold shield and picture ID. He looked so young in the picture, a fresh-faced boy probably just out of the academy. She glanced at his face as she returned his identification. The long nose was the same, but his cheeks were a bit leaner, and faint lines bracketed his mouth and feathered from the corners of his bright blue eyes. It would seem Agent Kincannon had grown up a bit since this picture was taken.
“Claire.” She relaxed her arms, stuck out a hand. Standing five foot eight, she’d never felt particularly small before, but when his large hand enfolded hers, she felt positively tiny. His skin was warm, and the brush of his fingertips against her wrist had tingles shooting up her arm.
What was she supposed to say to him? Nice to meet you was a lie, given the circumstances, but manners dictated she say something. He turned to glance at the officer by the door, and the light from the window caught Agent Kincannon’s hair, highlighting the mix of red, gold, amber and copper strands in the tuft that fell across his forehead.
“Your hair—it’s beautiful,” she blurted out. He turned to face her, eyebrows lifted and mouth twitching, and she wished desperately for the couch to open up and swallow her whole.
Where the hell did that come from?
“I always wanted red hair,” she muttered, knowing she sounded like a crazy person.
“Trust me, you don’t. I burn within five minutes of stepping outside. It’s like I’m a vampire or something.”
“I stay inside most of the time anyway, so it wouldn’t affect me.” Stop talking!
He merely stared at her with a faint smile, as if trying to determine if she was just socially awkward or if she’d skipped a dose of medication. Desperate to fill the silence, she rushed ahead. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I talk when I’m nervous, and I don’t really know what’s going on here. Ivan is dead, and I have no idea who killed him or why they would want to.” She paused to swallow, hating the tightness of her throat. It felt like a fist was squeezing her neck, making it hard to breathe or speak. Needing a distraction, she dropped her eyes to Agent Kincannon’s hands. His wrists were lightly dusted with red-gold hair, and a large silver watch peeked out from under his jacket sleeve. She focused on the blue watch face, tracking the second hand as it ticked around.
“And apparently someone is after me, too, but I don’t know why. It’s not logical. Why would anyone want to hurt me? I haven’t done anything!” She shook her head, still trying to make sense of the morning’s events. A small part of her hoped this was all a bad dream, that she’d wake up in her bed and start the day over again. Things would go back to normal. But as she raised her eyes back up to Agent Kincannon’s face, his expression of pity made it clear her life would never be the same again.
“I know you’ve had quite a shock this morning,” he said, his voice kind and soothing. “But right now I want you to let us worry about finding out the who and why of this situation.”
She nodded, knowing she wasn’t much help in that department. “Have you already talked to the other detectives? They may have found something on my computer—I think they were trying to trace the email.”
He shifted a bit, giving her the impression he was uncomfortable with her question.