Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (5 page)

After distributing the remaining coffees to Frederica’s supporting agents, I shuffle off to the makeshift desk they gave me when I arrived: a card table with a laptop wedged between the copier and the fax machine. I have absolutely no privacy here—can’t so much as check my email without someone breathing over my shoulder. Twelve hours a week of office drone hell. I always stop off at my martial arts gym as soon as my internship mornings end just to work all the knots out of my body from being on public display.

After checking my email, I poke around aimlessly on the FBI’s internal network. Agency policy dictates that I’m supposed to report any unauthorized contact with non-U. S. citizens, to ensure we’re not having secret rendezvouses with foreign spies or the like. I pull up the reporting form and try to shrink the browser dimensions down so the people constantly walking past me can’t see what I’m doing. As invisible as I am, the last thing I need is for the sole thing my co-workers know about me to be: HEY! I HAD A ONE-NIGHT STAND WITH A FOREIGNER!

God. Forget a one-year plan. I need a plan for the next three hours of my life. And hopefully that plan involves escape.

Name of non-U. S. citizen (if known):
 

I type in Sergei’s full name. DRAKONOV, SERGEI ANTONOVICH. At least, I hope that’s his real name. It’s certainly the name everyone in DC knows by now. What if the person who receives the report starts laughing and thinks I made it up? Right. Like that loser intern in the Organized Crime unit could really score with the most famous hockey player in America right now.

“Hey! Pereira!”

I instantly hit the minimize button on my browser and nearly jump out of my skin. Frederica is rushing toward me, her sensible loafers swishing on the moldy old carpet. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Come take notes for me in this meeting.”

I grab my spiral-bound meeting notebook and fall into step behind Frederica. “Yes, ma’am!”

Meetings at the FBI are hit or miss. Okay, they’re mostly miss. Occasionally I’ll get a juicy tidbit about someone threatening to blow up a mall or a weird cultist compound in the Appalachians, but more often than not, it’s just a bunch of the Special Agents getting together and complaining about archaic software (rightfully so) or arguing over who’s to blame for the latest slip-up (never,
ever
one of them, naturally). So I’m expecting to waste the next hour silently jotting down minutes chronicling the latest database glitch or Agent Shannon talking about himself and how much better his office is than ours. And never, ever opening my mouth, no matter how valuable what I have to say is.

But I’m not expecting this.

Oh, god, am I not expecting this.

A giant photograph of Sergei Drakonov greets me when I step into the room, projected onto the smartboard at the far end of the conference table. The same twinkling blue eyes I looked into two nights ago while he nailed me against the wall are now staring me down inside the FBI.

I’m so screwed. For a minute, I’m utterly sure that the FBI knows I slept with him, and this is all an elaborate ruse to embarrass me as much as possible before kicking me out. But I glance toward Frederica, and her face is as calm as ever as she takes a seat around the conference table. She brushes at a nonexistent piece of lint on her blazer lapel and busies herself with tapping on her work phone while waiting for the other agents to arrive.

I take a deep breath and sit in a chair against the back of the wall, behind her, and await my fate.

The other agents stride in and assemble around the conference table, a few other interns in tow. One snorts to himself as he looks at Sergei’s picture on the wall. I arch one eyebrow at him, but I have to keep my mouth shut—I always have to keep my mouth shut.

Finally, the Chief of the Organized Crime Division, Roger Ha, enters the conference room and shuts the door behind him.

“Sergei Antonovich Drakonov. The new forward for the Washington Eagles. Everyone know him?” Chief Ha asks. A few heads bob around the room. “Well, get to know him now. His older brother, Vladimir Drakonov, immigrated to the United States in the late 1990s and has been involved in the American branch of the Bratva ever since.”

Okay, Roger, tell me something I don’t know. Every freakin’ news article written about Sergei has made some reference to his brother and alleged criminal enterprises. But Sergei was living in Moscow until a month ago. Certainly from the way he was talking the other night, he and his brother aren’t exactly close.

“I’ll be sending detailed dossiers on both Drakonov brothers to you all later today. But the general idea is this: now that both brothers are in the States, we think it’s only a matter of time before Vladimir reaches out to his younger brother. He’s used other relatives before, pressuring them into aiding his criminal enterprise. And his powers of . . . persuasion . . . are unmatched. Everyone’s familiar with the Brighton Beach shootings two summers ago, right?”

Again, a few half-assed head bobs. I almost put my hand in the air. I wrote about the shootings in my profiling class, though no one had pegged Vladimir Drakonov as being responsible back then. Over the course of a few months, five different Russian families had been found slaughtered—the wife, the children, the grandparents—with the husband disappearing into the night. The leading theory had been it was a means of intimidation. That the husbands had failed to pay their debts to the Bratva, and the Bratva had taken revenge by killing their families. I had a slightly different theory that I expanded on in my paper: that it had been an initiation rite. A severing of ties.

Chief Ha explains the shootings to the group, then sighs. “The New York field office uncovered that all five of the missing men were related to Drakonov or his lieutenants by blood—third cousins, nephews-in-law and the like. Drakonov believes that family members can only be one of two things: an ally, or an enemy. So he ordered them to kill whichever family members might possibly get in the Bratva’s way.” Ha rubs at his jaw. “Chances are very good that Vladimir’s going to look at Sergei much the same way.”

One of the male agents, Steve or Jim or something I can never remember, leans forward. “What use could someone like Sergei Drakonov possibly serve the Bratva? He’s got paparazzi following him everywhere he goes. And the season just started—he’s not exactly full of free time between his busy schedule of playing hockey and chasing tail.”

I wince and bite down on my tongue.

Chief Ha, for his part, looks similarly unimpressed. He taps the end of his pen against his teeth. “What’s the Bratva’s main source of income?” he asks the man.

The man shrugs, but Frederica, my boss, answers. “Smuggling. Money laundering.”

“And how might an international hockey star be able to help with both those operations?” Chief Ha asks. “Think about it. Sergei could hire any number of Vladimir’s goons as consultants, personal security, valets, you name it. That’s an easy way to launder several million in cash. And smuggling? The Eagles cris-cross America and Canada all the time on a private plane. Sergei would have no trouble moving product for them, especially if he got, say, the team’s equipment manager on the take.”

I look down at my notepad and realize, with sudden horror, that I haven’t written down a single word. Because I’ve actually been paying attention in a meeting for once, instead of mindlessly transcribing. I start writing furiously.

“Read over the dossiers. I want proposals from each of you on my desk this afternoon. Propose to me the best way for us to approach Sergei Drakonov, and then either gather intel on him and his brother, or else convince him to inform on his brother for us.” Chief Ha claps his hands once. “You’re dismissed.”

I follow Frederica back to our wing of the office and slump into my fold-out chair. Fucking wonderful. I had a fling with someone who may or may not be central to a criminal investigation. I’d known what Sergei’s brother was, but I’d never in my wildest dreams imagined Sergei could end up involved in his brother’s business. It hadn’t even crossed my mind—certainly not after talking to Sergei, seeing what he was really like.

Was that because the Sergei I knew really wouldn’t do those things? Or had I been so desperate and horny that I’d overlooked the signs, just like I’d overlooked so much else about him for one night of delight?

I unlock my computer and stare at the unfinished reporting form. I had given up while trying to summarize who Sergei really is, both for the form and for myself. He’s a raunchy jock, yes, but he also quotes poetry and speaks softly about his past. He isn’t ignorant or entitled about his wealth—not like I’d initially thought. That huge empty house that he could never possibly fill—my basic profiling instincts tell me that speaks of someone looking to atone. But for past deeds? Or something he has yet to do?

Well. None of it matters now. Sergei and I had our fun, and I’m as good as a stranger to him now. I should finish filling out my form, and then maybe I can tell the special agents whatever they want to know about him from what little I’ve seen. But afterward, I’ll be back to making coffee runs and steam-cleaning the moldy carpets from the 1970s.

My phone buzzes inside my purse, so faint I almost miss it. I groan and fish it out, expecting a message chain from Beth and Monique. They probably want to grab lunch before we head to our Monday afternoon Russian classes. But it’s from an unknown number—DC area code.

Upon the brink of a wild stream,
 

He stood, and dreamt a mighty dream.
 

My heart leaps up into my throat. Aleksandr Pushkin’s famous epic,
The Bronze Horseman.
No. This can’t possibly be happening.

Then a second text appears:

Hope you don’t mind that I tracked you down. Headed to Winnipeg, then Buffalo, but will be back in DC Wed night. Daring to dream a mighty dream that you might have dinner with me then. –s
 

What in the actual hell is happening? Is renowned playboy, star athlete, and—let’s not forget, Jael—possible ally of a known mob boss trying to
date me
?

I shut off my phone without responding and practically run toward Frederica’s office. She glances up from her slow, measured typing to stare at me. “May I help you, Miss Pereira?” she asks, a little too carefully—like she thinks I’m a wild animal she might need to calm.

“Um. Yes. I was . . . wondering if I could talk to you for a minute. About the Drakonov case,” I add hastily, when her eyes narrow. Like she might be allergic to the very thought of discussing something personal with me.

“Ah. Yes, of course.” She eases her shoulders back and beckons me to sit. I shut her office door behind me and settle into the chair opposite her. “That’s right. You’re a . . . a Russian scholar as well, aren’t you.”

“Yep, that’s me.” I almost smile at that—most days I feel fortunate that she remembers my name. “So, um . . . here’s the thing . . .”

Frederica folds her arms across the desk and reaches for her coffee. “Please, Miss Pereira. I’ve been investigating organized crime murders for twenty years. Nothing you can say or do will surprise me.”

“Right. Sure. Umm, so, I might have had . . . intimate relations with Sergei Drakonov.”

Frederica nearly chokes on the sip of coffee she’s taking, but recovers quickly. “Might?”

“Okay. Did. It was this past weekend.”

“And why haven’t you submitted a foreign persons contact form yet?”

“I was just starting to, before the meeting,” I say. “I’ll get it finished, promise. But I wanted to talk to you first. Because of . . . the Drakonov case.”

Frederica nods slowly. “You think you might have an edge with persuading the younger brother toward our cause.”

“Might,” I stress. “He, uh . . . he just invited me to dinner Wednesday night.”

Frederica presses her fingers to her temples. “All right. Well, then. Let’s think about this.” Her gaze flicks toward me. “You’re an intern, a junior in college—”

“Senior,” I say. “Uh—ma’am.”

“A senior in college, and have had zero training in field work, firearms, undercover operations, or—well, or
any
of our basic techniques, really.”

“I put in a request.” I wince. “Two months ago. When I started.”

Frederica waves one hand at me. “We don’t approve any of that for interns.” She eyes me warily. “What exactly is it that you hope to accomplish, Miss Pereira? In your career here. In your life.”

Isn’t that the question of the year? “I wanted to be a special agent, ma’am. Finish my criminal justice degree, go through training, save lives.”

“And how does having a one-night stand with a hockey player figure into that plan?” she asks.

I grit my teeth. “It doesn’t, ma’am. But under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t
not
fit with that, either.”

Frederica smiles, but it’s all frost, not even close to touching her eyes. “Very well. This is what I’d like to do.”

I lean forward in my seat.

“I would like you to serve as an informant for me in our ongoing investigation of the Bratva criminal organization, led here on the East Coast by Vladimir Drakonov. I expect you to use your, ah,
unique
access to his brother, Sergei, to gather information on the Bratva’s plans. You will be acting as a confidential informant,
not
as an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nod.

“Your duties in your internship will be the same as they’ve been before. I will try to limit the number of agents who are aware of your identity, but I must tell Chief Ha, of course, and a few others.”

I grimace.

“In the course of your work as a confidential informant, I may call on you to snoop on the Drakonovs, to include allowing our surveillance teams to access their private homes to install bugs, should we receive warrants to do so. Are you amenable to this?”

Ex-fucking-
scuse me
? She wants me to bug his house? “Persuading Sergei to inform on his brother is one thing,” I say. “But I’m not—I shouldn’t be the one snooping on him—”