His position gave him access to lots of nuclear material, both spent fuel from aging reactors and potent radioactive fuel. There was quite a demand for radioactive supplies on the black market, and Ivan was the ideal supplier. As one of the people who kept track of nuclear material, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to fudge the records, divert a little bit of fuel at a time in exchange for money or power. And if he’d been in the business of selling radioactive materials, the kind of unsavory characters who were buying wouldn’t think twice about coming after his lover if he’d betrayed them.
If that was the case, the Russians wouldn’t work too hard to find his killer. If Ivan was part of an underground, black market arms trade, it would be hugely embarrassing for the Russians to admit that the man they had entrusted with the safe disposal of nuclear fuel had been selling it to terrorists and rogue states.
No, better for them to characterize his death as a random, horrible act, brush it under the rug and move on. Which meant it would be that much harder to figure out who had targeted Dr. Fleming.
Running a hand through his hair, Thomas set his glass on the coffee table and reached for his phone. Just as he flipped it open to dial Harper, Claire’s terrified scream rent the air.
* * *
Claire sat across from Ivan, enjoying his company as they drank coffee and talked. His daughter was a musician with the Moscow orchestra, and he was telling her about Anya’s latest performance, his eyes glowing with fatherly pride as he bragged about her violin solo.
“She was so beautiful,” he gushed, patting his pockets in search of something. “My phone—you must see the pictures.”
Claire nodded, sipping her coffee as Ivan pulled out his cell phone. His head bent in absorption, he carefully pressed buttons on the keypad, his bushy eyebrows drawing together as he searched for the images. While he fought with his phone, she let her gaze drift past the table, frowning when she noticed a dark, amorphous mass creeping forward. What was that?
She shivered as the smoky cloud drifted closer. There was something about it that seemed...malicious. As it drew nearer, she could see sparkles in the black fog as it glided across the ground, glints of light winking off something solid and metallic inside. It moved with such purpose that she knew it was heading for their table, and her heart began to pound, alarm sending spikes of adrenaline shooting through her limbs.
Ivan remained oblivious to the threat, still searching for the pictures of his daughter. She tried to speak, to warn him, but her throat closed up and she couldn’t get the words out. Ignoring her frantic gestures, Ivan merely sat while the shadowy mass enveloped him, hiding him from view. Suddenly, his pained shrieks pierced the fog. She strained forward, reaching out her arms to grab him, but came up with nothing. After a breathless moment, the shadow disappeared to reveal Ivan, slumped over the table, his normally pale skin coated in blood from the thousand shallow cuts that crisscrossed his face and hands.
Claire screamed, fighting against an unseen force that kept her from reaching him. He was still and unmoving, the red pool on the table growing steadily with each breath she took. “Ivan! Ivan!”
“Claire!” There were hands on her arms, shaking her, pulling her away from the table, away from Ivan. “Claire!”
She opened her eyes, breathing hard. “Ivan,” she whimpered. “I have to help Ivan.”
“I know.” The voice was deep and soothing, and she was pulled into a warm chest while a hand stroked down her hair. “I know.”
She sniffled into the starched shirt, her awareness gradually returning as strong arms rocked her back and forth and a deep voice rumbled, low and comforting, in her ear. Ivan was dead. Her friend, her mentor—the man she loved like a father—was gone.
She’d lost her adoptive father almost twenty years ago. While she thought of him every day, the loss was no longer as raw as it had once been. She’d learned to cope, moving through life with the assumption that she would never again experience that kind of relationship.
Until Ivan came along, slipping under her defenses and becoming so much more than a professional colleague. He shared his family with her, and she’d reveled in his stories, basking in the reflected glow of the love he felt for his family. His wife had embraced her, as well, in what had been a welcome surprise, given Claire’s strained relationship with her adoptive mother. Dena had remarried shortly after her husband’s death, and hadn’t wasted any time in starting a “real” family, one that Claire was decidedly not a part of.
Ivan was—had been—such a good man. How could this have happened?
She pulled back to wipe her face, her gaze connecting with the bright blue eyes of the man who held her. Agent Kincannon, that was his name. He smoothed her hair back with a soft hand, then gently stroked her arm. He probably meant the touch to be reassuring, but one of his fingertips had a small callus, and the rough patch dragged across her skin with a tickling friction that shivered through her body.
She was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were in her bed, and she wanted nothing more than to lie back and pull him over her, to surrender to his weight. His lips were so close—she had only to tilt her head forward to touch her mouth to his...the urge was almost overwhelming. She could lose herself in sensation, postpone the need to think for a little while longer.
The wild impulse must have showed in her eyes, because he leaned away, putting more distance between them. The cooler air of the room replaced the heat of his body, making her miss his warmth. She almost raised her hand to pull him back but stopped before she embarrassed herself. It wouldn’t be right for her to touch him; he was here to act as her bodyguard, not her boy toy. Besides, she shouldn’t be having such inappropriate thoughts in the wake of her friend’s death.
“What happened?” She remembered lying down to rest, him leaving with a promise that he’d be in the living room. Why was he here now?
“You screamed,” he said, scooting back to give her even more space. His shirt was blotchy with wet spots from her tears, and she flushed in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” she said, gesturing to his shirt. “For that, too. I’m quite a mess.”
He looked down, shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t the first time I’ve come to the rescue of a damsel in distress.” He shot her a sly grin, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Nightmare?”
The smile faded from her lips as she nodded. “A bad one.”
“Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to think about it.” Those horrible images, both from the dream and the picture she’d been sent, were running through her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff them into a box. Talking about them would only keep them fresh.
“Fair enough.”
She moved to get out of bed, knowing she couldn’t go back to sleep now, wondering if she’d ever sleep peacefully again. Would she be able to close her eyes and not see Ivan, lying dead in a pool of his own blood?
Agent Kincannon stood as she got up, stepping back to give her room. “Did you want to talk to me?” she asked.
“Yes, but we can wait if you’re not up for it yet.”
She shook her head. “Let’s do it now. Just give me a minute to splash some water on my face. I’ll meet you in the living room.”
Her body ached as she moved stiffly into the bathroom, flipping on the light as she entered. She winced at her reflection, the bright lights revealing pale skin, mussed hair, tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Not a pretty sight.
She turned on the faucet, holding her fingers under the stream as she waited for the water to warm up a bit. She had no idea what kind of information she could provide that would help catch Ivan’s killer, but she wanted to get this over with