Heat detected neither motion nor an engine idling. Then she tried to envision the space as best she could with no light. “Do you know if these cars have inside trunk releases?”
“I don’t. Not sure whether French safety regulations mandate them or not,” he said.
“Let’s feel around for anything like a lever we can pull. Spare me the jokes, please.” They both tried to move their hands but were snagged. “Rook. Are we handcuffed to each other?”
He didn’t answer but paused. Then he gave her cuffs a jerk. “Awesome.”
She ignored him and ran her fingers over her wrists to assess the situation. “Feels like the chain of my cuffs is looped through the chain of yours. Is that biting into your skin?”
“A little, but not so bad. I had actually fantasized about a furry number with some leopard print, but I’ll take it.”
“Shh, listen.”
From outside came the sound of a car slowly approaching over gravel and squeaking to a halt. They heard footsteps and muffled voices then the chirp of a remote followed by the thunk of the latch popping. The sudden rush of fresh air smelled like grass and woods. Hands reached in to unlock their cuffs, and they got hoisted out by the same men who had captured them.
Standing on unsteady legs, Heat shielded her eyes from the high beams of the Mercedes and tried to build an escape plan. Rook got set down beside her and rubbed his wrists. She could sense him making calculations, too.
It didn’t look promising. Only two of them, unarmed and weakened by their injections, in some unknown woodland at night, versus four brawny thugs who had already demonstrated pro skills and were also probably carrying. Then there were however many more stood by in that idling car. Nikki waited there, inhaling the BO and cheap cologne of her captors, and decided to ride it out, hoping an opportunity would present itself—and that this wasn’t the same crew that handled Tyler Wynn.
She flashed a be-cool palm at Rook, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. Then both turned their attention as the passenger door of the Mercedes opened and another big fella got out. This one opened the back door for a shorter, thickset man in a snap-brim cap who moved around to stand in silhouette before the headlights while his bodyguard waited a yard to the side. The man removed his cap and said, “You wanted to talk to me, Boy-O?”
“Oh. My. God,” said Rook. “Anatoly!”
The man in the headlights took a step forward with his arms wide, and Rook rushed toward him, which made Heat tense up, but nobody tried to stop him. The two men embraced, unleashing a volley of back-clapping, laughing, and saying, “You dog” and “No,
you
dog,” repeatedly to each other.
When the effusiveness of their reunion settled down, Rook called out, “Nikki, it’s Anatoly. See? He really does know me.” He put an arm around the other man’s shoulder. “Come on, there’s someone I want to introduce you to. This is—”
“Nikki Heat, yes, I know.”
“Course you do,” said Rook. “Nikki, say hi to my old friend, Anatoly Kije.”
The Russian extended a hand that felt callused to her shake. The Mercedes driver killed the engine and dialed down to parking lights, and as her eyes adjusted, Heat got a better look at Kije. He had the squat, blocky physique and weathered bulldog face that would have fit well on the reviewing stand beside Brezhnev at a May Day Parade in Red Square. His hair, unnaturally black for a man his age, was fronted by a jelly roll lacquered by enough spray that his hat had not made a dent. Under a coarse hedge of artificially black brows his eyes were playful, those of a perennial ladies’ man. Nikki had seen many guys like him in the States, but instead of snatching people off city streets they installed custom pools and stone decks on Long Island and in Jersey. She wondered, did they also clean carpets?
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“You sure went to enough trouble,” she said. “If you had just called, we could have met you at a cafe.”
“I apologize.” The spy made a slight bow and then gently released her hand. “This is what you call abundance of caution. It is how, in my line of work, one lives to be sixty years old.”
She said, “You mean as an importer and exporter?”
“Ah,” he said with a laugh, pointing at her. “I like this one, Boy-O. She has some stones, yes?”
“Oh, yes.”
Anatoly checked his watch and made a quick survey of the woods. “Tell me, Jameson, so we don’t press our welcome here tonight. What did you need to discuss with me? Another article you will get a prize for and I get nothing?” He laughed.
Rook said, “I’m looking to verify some details about an old network that may have been run here in Paris. Now, you know my rules, Anatoly. I won’t compromise national secrets or jeopardize anyone’s life, but that shouldn’t be a problem because I believe this particular operation is inactive.”
“Let me make a guess.” He smiled at Heat as he spoke to Rook. “That it might have something to do with the work done by the mother of your friend here.”
“Wow. Clairvoyant,” Rook said.
“I had some idea. And why waste time dancing when we can get right to business.” There was a noise in the woods, probably just a branch falling, but Kije caught the eye of one of his bodyguards, and a pair of them slipped into the night to investigate.
“So my mother was involved in clandestine work of some kind,” said Nikki, trying to bring him back to the subject.
“Most definitely. I first became aware of her when I was stationed here in ‘72 as an agricultural liaison at the Soviet embassy.”
Rook fake-coughed, “KGB.”
“Always a wise guy, this one. I love it.” He shadowboxed at Rook’s gut, then turned back to her. “Does that answer what you wanted to know?”
“Depends. On how much you’re willing to tell me.” She held his gaze in a way that said I want more and you know it. “And seeing what you put us through getting here …”
“Everything’s a trade-off, isn’t it? The price of my peace of mind is to help you find yours. What else would you like to know?”
“My mother was murdered.”
“I am truly sorry.”
“It was ten years ago in the USA. But you already know that, don’t you?” He didn’t reply. She said, “I’m trying to find out if it was connected to her spying.”
“Nikki Heat, let us not insult each other’s intelligence. You already believe it is connected. What you want from me is to tell you how.” He paused and said, “I honestly don’t know.”
“Anatoly Kije?” she said. “Boy-O? Please do not insult my intelligence. You know.”
“I know rumors. That’s all. And, if true—if,” he said, pointing a finger in the air for emphasis, “it could have come back upon her in a very unfortunate way.”
Rook said, “Come on, what did you hear?”
Anatoly became distracted momentarily as the two bodyguards returned from their perimeter check and signaled all clear. Slightly more relaxed, he said to Nikki, “There were rumors that your mother became a double agent.”
Heat was already shaking her head emphatically. “No. She would never do that.”
“Well, she wouldn’t do it for me, and believe me, I tried.” A twinkle shined in his roguish eyes. “But people do turn. Some for ideology, some for revenge, some are blackmailed. Most, I find, simply do it for the money. The real answer is always found not in the heart but in the bank.” Heat still shook her head in denial, but he pressed on. “You asked the question,
dorogaya moya
. The perception, true or not, about your mother hinted that she had some ‘extracurricular’ contacts and activities.”
“But I’m telling you,” said Nikki, “she never would have gone to work for anyone but the United States.”
“People don’t always align with another government. There are other entities, you know. The last decade has become a new era for tradecraft.” The gruff Russian spook, who had no doubt ordered (and probably even administered) his fair share of back alley beatings and terminations, took on a wistful look at the mention of this new era. She could envision how an old-school spy like him would be an inconvenient fit among the more outwardly refined operatives who ate sushi, did yoga, and hacked what they needed from underground computer nerve centers.
But Kije survived, if uncertainly. The bloated hide of his face told her he coped with his unsure future in the world order by cracking open a bottle of Stoli. Heat was more interested in the information she needed. “What do you mean by other entities?”
“I would say, ask Nicole Bernardin. But you can’t, can you?”
“What do you know about Nicole Bernardin?”
“I know that, just like your mother, Nicole became involved with people outside the strict margins of her government’s scope.”
Rook jumped in again. “For argument’s sake, what if her mother had turned?” He could almost hear the adrenaline rising in Nikki’s veins, so he added, “Or if it just looked like she had—would CIA act on that?”
“Not likely,” said the Russian. “Well, not on American soil.”
“Who would?” asked Heat, aware of the possibility it could have been the man standing right in front of her.
“Kill her?” He shrugged. “As I said, these are changing times. It wouldn’t have to be a government at all, would it?”
“Could it be the same as whoever hit Tyler Wynn?” asked Rook.
“Who knows? Either way, it’s a sad lesson about the nature of the trade. You can never really retire. I, myself, tried retiring once. It went poorly. That is why I have to meet people like this.” He gestured to the forest and the night.
“Even old friends?” asked Rook.
“You kidding, Boy-O? It is old friends who can be the most lethal of all.”
Nikki said, “You must know some of the projects my mother was working on. Nicole, too.”
She had conducted enough interrogations to tell by the way his eyes rose in his lids, to ponder, that he did know, and he was weighing how much to reveal to this friend of Jameson Rook—and daughter of a CIA operative. Then she lost his attention.
Kije cocked an ear to the darkness. Soon the bodyguards did, too, straining at the horizon as wolves did for signs of food. Or danger. Heat and Rook also listened, and soon heard them muttering, “
Beptopet.
” Rook translated for her, but by then, Nikki heard it herself. Helicopter.
She tried to draw Kije back to her, but the ignition of his Mercedes was already turning over. “What are some of the extracurriculars you’re talking about?” His bodyguard opened the back door of the car and held it open for him.
The little bear pumped Rook’s hand and gave him a fast back slap. “Boy-O, until next time, right?” And then he bowed to her. “Nikki Heat.”
Doors started slamming on the two Peugeots behind them as the other guards saddled up. Nikki’s frustration mounted as the clock ran out for the second time just when she was so close to getting an answer. Kije hurried to the side of his car. “Anatoly, please. At least give me a direction.”
“I told you. Check the bank,” he said and ducked to get in the backseat.
“I already got that. Give me more to go on. Please?”
He stopped and his head rose up over the open door. The Russian said to her, “Then think of what else I told you. Ask yourself about the new era.” That would be all she got.
The bodyguard shut Anatoly’s door and took the shotgun seat for himself. All three cars drove a semicircle around them, kicking up a rooster tail of dust. The trailing Peugeot slowed to leave a gap for Kije’s Mercedes to fill in the hammock spot of the convoy, and then they sped away with their headlights doused.
Heat and Rook tasted the fine cloud of dirt that swirled around them, illuminated by moonlight and shrouding them in a radiant fog. When it began to vanish, Nikki saw a reflection on the ground near them and found their cell phones stacked there, each with the battery removed to disable GPS tracking. As they reinstalled them and powered up, the helicopter passed and continued on, seeming uninterested and unhurried. Nikki paused to watch it fly, eclipsing the Paris moon. She noticed that at least it was half-full.
Nikki Heat saw the next night’s half moon rise behind Terminal 1 at JFK when she and Rook piled into the backseat of the town car he had ordered for their ride to Manhattan. In spite of Nikki’s misgivings about leaving New York for Paris, Rook had been right. The brief trip had moved both cases forward. Not enough for Nikki—never enough for Nikki—but the tantalizingly incomplete information she’d gotten over there would fill critical spaces on both Murder Boards. What nagged at her was where to go next. One avenue Heat knew she needed to explore pained her, but she took the step to address it right that moment.
“Hey, Dad, it’s me,” she said when Jeff Heat picked up. To put a cheerier spin on things she added, “What are you doing at home on a big Saturday night?”
“Screening my goddamned phone calls so I don’t get any more ass-hole reporters calling for interviews.”
“Oh, no. Has it been that bad?”
“All hours. Worse than the freakin’ telemarketers. Hang on.” She heard ice cubes tink against glass and painted the mental picture of her father situated in his easy chair command post taking the edge off it all with another Cape Codder. “Even that bimbo from the
Ledger
showed up at my front door the other morning. Must have snuck in behind one of the residents before the gate closed. Those jerks have no regard for privacy.”