Текст книги "Blowback"

Автор книги: Emmy Curtis

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Blowback

Emmy Curtis

New York

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Table of Contents

A Preview of Over the Line

Newsletters

Copyright Page

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CHAPTER ONE

There was nothing like floating into an exclusive European cocktail party dressed in a beautiful Marchesa dress and borrowed Jimmy Choos, looking and feeling like someone in a James Bond movie.

Unfortunately, Molly would never know what that felt like. Still clutching the lost-baggage receipt the airline rep had given her, she shook her head and looked at her scuffed sneakers. Why, oh why, had she dressed like a bum to travel? She knew the answer. Archaeologists never wore anything they didn’t mind getting ripped and dirty—too many excavation directors made people work as soon as they arrived—it had just been force of habit. At least her nails were clean this time.

The Athens-bound taxi bounced over a pothole, and Victoria Ruskin, a stringer for some East Coast channel who Molly had been sitting next to in the plane, bashed her head on the roof of the cab.

“Sonofa…”

“Seatbelt?” Molly said pulling at her strap and raising her eyebrows.

Rubbing her head, Victoria said, “I think you should just skip the cocktail party and come hang out at the Media Club. At least jeans are the norm there. And the dirtier they are, the more hardcore you look.”

Molly didn’t know what to say. She wanted to go to the Media Club with her new friend and forgo the embarrassment of turning up at a black-tie event in jeans, sneakers, and a HISTORY ROCKS T-shirt she’d picked up at a geology conference. But she couldn’t. She was on a mission.

Not like a mission to seduce or a mission to stun. A real mission. A government-requested goddamn mission that she was about to completely flunk.

“I can’t. I have to at least show my face,” Molly said, staring out at the city lights wondering how everything could have gone so wrong so quickly.

“Seriously, you do not want to miss the war stories of the guys at the Club. And besides, there’ll be plenty more cocktail parties to go to during the endless freaking weeks of the G20 meetings. At least two every day. You’ll have plenty of time to wear your fancy dress.”

Molly sighed. She was only supposed to be in Athens for a few days, but it felt futile to explain. “I know.” She changed the subject. “So how long are you here covering the G20? What’s your main event?” Most of the week was boring meetings of international rules regarding antiquities, energy development, and banking. Nothing, Molly imagined, that made for exciting TV. Oh God, was she trying to think like a spy now? She mentally rolled her eyes at herself.

“Oh…I’m here for the fracking discussion in the energy development sessions,” Victoria said. “Three scientists are speaking for the first time about measured effects on the environment, and because we’re just about to do a major vote on it in our viewer area, my channel wants me here to see if someone’s actually figured out whether or not fracking is safe. Glamorous, right?”

Molly wiggled her toes in her shoes. “We sure are living the dream, aren’t we?” She gave a rueful smile. Victoria seemed nice, and she was happy to have met her on the flight and to have figured out that they were both heading for the same fancy hotel. She just wished that she could get this stupid mission-slash-favor out of the way so she could go back to panicking about the speech she was scheduled to give at the antiquities meeting. And since that wasn’t happening until Thursday, she also had plenty of time to hang out with Victoria at the Media Club, wherever that was. It sounded fun.

“So, the Media Club?” Victoria asked again, as the taxi ground to a halt outside the huge hotel opposite the government palace.

“I’d love to later in the week. Maybe I’ll catch up with you at breakfast tomorrow and we can compare our schedules?”

Victoria looked disappointed. “Sure, maybe I’ll see you later.” She slipped Molly some euros for the taxi and said, “It’s on me. I bet I have a bigger expense account than you.”

“That wouldn’t be hard, because I don’t have even a small one.” Molly laughed and watched as the journalist followed the porter carrying her bags into the hotel. She paid the taxi driver, hauled her paltry duffel bag on to her shoulder and walked into the ornate hotel. She had to learn to pack better. Jimmy Choo and Marchesa deserved carry-on baggage status, at the very least.

She checked her phone again, hoping she’d messed up on her time zone calculations. No, unfortunately not. And still no text. She bit her lip. Dr. Doubrov, the Russian antiquities minister, was only at the meeting for this one day. It had been made very clear to her that this cocktail party was going to be her only opportunity to slip him the note that she’d been given. And she was already two hours late.

She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to do this. When Brandon had first called her a week ago, she’d thought he wanted to ask her for a date. After all, he’d spent a lot of time with the team that had debriefed her for the State Department’s official report on her last trip to Iraq. But no, turned out he wanted a different kind of favor. Just a small task, he’d said. One that would help her country immensely.

Of course she’d said yes. After her time with various military and ex-military people the previous year in Iraq, she’d been proud to be asked. Of course, the only answer had been yes. They met on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, where he gave her a message to pass to Dr. Doubrov. “What on earth? Can’t you just send him an email?” she’d asked.

“The Russians moved back to paper and ink about five years ago to ensure none of their secrets could get hacked,” Brandon had explained. “The KGB—or the SVR as they are now—almost exclusively use typewriters now. He’d never take a thumb drive or anything that could compromise him. The only way for me to reach him is through you. You already know him, and you’re already scheduled to attend the only party he’s attending. No one will get suspicious about old friends chatting.”

“So what’s the message?”

He slipped her two plain, small envelopes, one with her first name on it, and one with her last name on it. “I’ll text you with one word before you get there. Just open the corresponding envelope, read it, and recount it word for word to Doubrov when you see him. Then destroy both the envelopes afterward.”

It all seemed so…Bourne Identity-ish.

But exciting though.

“Make sure no one overhears you talking to Doubrov. He usually has bodyguards, so get close enough for it to be a private conversation.” His voice was getting tighter and more clipped the more he spoke. He seemed stressed to her. A single drop of sweat trickled diagonally across his temple. It was warm, but it wasn’t that warm. His fingers danced on his leg as if he were playing an imaginary piano.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a low voice. “You look…tense?” Her mind raced, wondering what was so important that he would ask someone who could only really be described as a remote acquaintance to help him out.

He frowned at her. “What are you talking about? I’m just asking you to do a simple thing for me. For your country.”

“But last year, when I met you, you were—and please know I mean no disrespect—a fairly junior State Department officer, bringing tea and taking notes. This feels…strange.”

“I know it does, and I’m sorry. I’ve just become party to some information that needs to be passed on to someone in the Russian government without a big deal being made of it. I’m still trying to pin down the details, which is why you have two envelopes. I’m waiting for one last confirmation, but that won’t come until you are in the air. But don’t worry. You’re perfect for the job.” A smile reached his eyes briefly. “I know you, and you know Doubrov, and no one’s going to think twice about you talking to him. It actually works all around.”

It sounded absolutely reasonable when he put it like that. She did know Dr. Doubrov, and had found him to be a passionate scholar of archaeology and antiquities. He only ever had one speaking mode, and that was a full-on lecture. He’d lecture anyone about anything, but always with a twinkle in his eye, knowing full well that his imposing six-foot-plus stature intimidated people. As did his nationality and his alleged past in the KGB. But he’d always seemed to have a good sense of humor, and Molly liked what she knew about him. She also knew that he’d be happy to see her again, because he’d told her boss as much on the phone a month ago. Harry had told her to be sure to look to him for support during her speech if necessary.

Some of her early speeches had gone down less well, with academic heckling and private contractors trying to diminish her experiences. But as they went along, she’d become more adept at handling them. But at an event this important, she was happy to have someone very well thought of to have her back if necessary.

She’d tucked the two envelopes into her purse, tamping down the exhilaration rushing through her. Did this make her a spy? She’d really thought it might. She’d raised her eyes expectantly, silently asking if there was anything else.

“Good girl,” he’d said, which had made her bristle. Girl? She’d let it slide with the sudden realization that for a short couple of days, she’d be an agent. A real government agent. Excitement had coursed through her that her country—the US of freaking A—would trust her with such an important task. Her, a mere archaeologist.

“Remember. You have a four-hour window at that cocktail party. Don’t miss him. The consequences will be dire if you don’t get the message to him. Like two-superpowers-going-to-war dire.” And then he’d jumped up and walked away, without so much as a thank you or a good luck.

But Molly hadn’t cared. She’d sat there for a good ten minutes gazing out at the Washington Monument and reveling in the fact that she had been called to serve her country.

It was going to be epic. A story to tell her grandkids.

But for now, she was still late. She checked in and took the elevator to her room, pausing only to throw her small bag over the threshold into the room before running back toward the elevator. She checked her phone again. Still no text. Shit. She had both envelopes in her jeans pocket. She just needed to know which one to open. She followed the signs for the party and headed to the back of the hotel.

There was a security team, patting down guests and funneling them through metal detectors. When they came to Molly, the man in black’s eyebrows raised. “Lost luggage,” she said, giving him a rueful smile and flashing her “Guest Speaker” pass.

“I’m sure no one will notice,” he said with an utterly charming Greek accent. She looked at his nametag.

“That’s so sweet of you, Platon Asker. Thank you.” She felt better already. Especially since Platon was tall and good looking. Very good looking. That didn’t hurt.

The party was everything she’d hoped for—glamorous women floating in long dresses and smart men in tuxes. Champagne flutes and night sky. Tall arrangements of flowers arching toward the stars. Breathtaking. It seemed as if the restaurant had retracted its whole roof and allowed the entire area out to the balcony to be open air. She wished so hard that she were wearing her dress and sexy high heels.

Her butt vibrated. At last. She dug out her phone.

Molly.

She grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray and circled the guests to locate Dr. Doubrov.

David Church eyed the people talking to his principal. Close protection was a bitch, but the company he worked for had saved him from self-destruction, so he basically owed them his soul. And this week, his soul was guarding a very important scientist. He had no idea who would want to hurt a scientist, but his boss had assigned him to Athens, and here he was.

Although his attention was on Professor Rankin, he was also scanning the room for someone special, the other reason he hadn’t complained at taking this job: Molly Solent was on the week’s schedule, and he wanted to see her.

Badly. Like blue-balls badly.

He’d kept track of her for nearly a year, since they’d met, briefly, in Iraq. At the time he’d been in no shape to choose a tie color, let alone date someone as…unique as Molly.

From the second he’d laid eyes on her, he knew she was trouble. Trouble for him, anyway. His eyes rested for a second on the far wall, which was adorned with a mosaic picture of an ancient Greek warrior. In some way he was like that mosaic. A fine illustration of a fighter, but when you got up close, you could see the cracks. Millions of cracks. Good for no one, especially someone like Molly. Hell, he was barely in good enough shape to have this job. But his CEO had seen something in him—or so he’d said—something that David couldn’t see himself, and had sent him on a series of low-risk jobs. It had been almost enough to take his mind off Molly.

She had haunted his days and nights with her eyes that were full of promise, full of a future than he couldn’t see. She’d seen him at his worst, and it didn’t seem to faze her at all. Her eyes. He closed his own as he thought about her again. Innocent and totally open. She’d wanted him and hadn’t been afraid at all of making it clear.

Her image had kept him going through the long, dark nights of recovery. The single chink of light in his life. He was scared to lose that. Scared to see her.

The one thing that he was proud of, pretty much the only thing, was walking away from her before he sucked her into his downward spiral.

He had to keep his mind on that one point if he saw her here. He wasn’t fixed yet. Wasn’t entirely right. He still looked longingly at liquor, remembering the peace that came at the bottom of the bottle. He still dreamed that he’d fallen off the wagon. When he woke up, all he could remember is how good it felt. And the hallucinations. Nope. He definitely wasn’t ready for Molly. And she definitely didn’t deserve the shitstorm that seemed to always revolve around him.

The professor moved to speak to someone else, and David snapped back into alertness. He scanned the immediate crowd around him. No threats. But he couldn’t relax. She could be here. Molly could be right here, in the same room as him. He ran a finger under his collar as his temperature rose.

He’d known she would be here, but he still hadn’t decided whether to speak to her. And he’d had two months to think about it. Seeing her would be enough, he was sure. Just to rest his eyes on her again, even without her knowing, would fulfill nearly a year of longing.

He hoped.

Because he was knockdown sure as shit convinced that if he spoke to her, looked into her eyes, felt her soft skin again, he would be a goner. And he knew very well that he would stop at nothing to get her into his arms, his bed, and his life. So it was by far the best bet that he not draw attention to the fact that he was there. He could see her, yet she wouldn’t see him. Distance was his friend. Distance and the lotion back in his room.

He took a sip of the ice water he was cradling. The professor was talking to two old guys who were almost busting out of their dress shirts. They seemed to be exchanging stories and laughing, one of them puffing on a cigar. He allowed himself a glance around the room.

And then everything went still.

Molly.

He closed his eyes momentarily. It was a hallucination. He was wise to them by now. She was in jeans and a T-shirt, which were the only clothes he’d ever seen her in. If she were real, she’d be in a beautiful cocktail dress. He shook his head and focused on his principal. He breathed in and out, in and out. Concentrated on the professor. Mentally he recited the things he knew about him.

His wife’s name is Cathy.

His office is on University Boulevard.

He went to Cornell.

He looked briefly for signs of Molly again but couldn’t see her. The focus technique had worked its magic.

He caught sight of Malone Garrett, his partner in crime on this job. A British son of a bitch who never took anything seriously and was perpetually ready with some smartass comment. He had his eyes on his own principal, an oil guy who’d been a target of some environmental activists, but he was drinking what looked like bourbon on the rocks. He’d heard rumors that Mal was ex-SAS—Special Air Service, the regiment that Delta Force was modeled on—which made him pretty damn hardcore, but David also knew he had his own rumors doing the circuit in his new company, and not all of those were true.

Mal grinned and raised his drink when he caught David’s gaze on him. David raised his water glass back and rolled his eyes. Even drinking, Mal was on top of his game. Lucky bastard, being able to function like that. And he looked annoyingly crisp in his tux. David felt hot and uncomfortable in his. He couldn’t wait to take it off. The Brit must have some James Bond gene. God, that pissed him off.

His principal moved out onto the terraces, where gas lamps offered a yellow glow to complement the brutal heat of the evening. He pushed nearer to the professor so that he could clearly see the hands and posture of the people around him.

He noticed a few bodyguards who were obviously packing weapons. With their bulging shoulders and virtually shaved heads, he tagged them as Russian. In the private security world, it paid to be able to identify other bodyguards. It was always good to know who you could go to for assistance if necessary. And it was good to know who you definitely couldn’t go to. The Russians were in the latter category.

Their principal seemed to be an older man who was ignoring them. David didn’t blame him. His bodyguards seemed to be scaring off anyone who might have wanted to talk to him. He just puffed his pipe and looked around hopefully. David saw his eyes light up. Good for him. He’d found someone to talk to.

David’s attention snapped back to the professor, and then back to the Russian. He blinked. Molly-in-jeans was kissing him. He blinked again. It really was her. He was sure of it. A warmth washed over him, tempered only by a tightening in his stomach. Even in jeans, and a T-shirt that had seen better days, she put the glamorously dressed women there in the shade.

But what was she doing? Both Molly and the Russian were looking down at their clasped hands. One of them was obviously being overfriendly. He smiled. David bet that the Russian was so happy to have someone talk to him, he didn’t want to let her go. But then he seemed to pull his hand free and something dropped to the ground. Molly swooped down to pick it up, and as she did, David saw a red flower bloom on the Russian’s chest.

Before even mentally registering what was happening, David stepped toward the professor and grabbed his arm. He saw Mal moving toward his principal too. Neither of the Russian bodyguards had even flinched.

But David hesitated, eyes on Molly as she started to pull herself upright.

Someone screamed, and the guests looked at the source. He had about two seconds until mass panic. But he couldn’t leave Molly. He spoke into his cuff mike to Mal. “Take the professor.” He knew that would piss Mal off, but he’d still do it. As David stepped to Molly, who was looking blankly at the Russian as he slumped to his knees, he saw Mal yanking the professor behind the bar in his peripheral vision. Another shot splattered one of the huge vases close to Molly. The cracking glass made more noise than the gunshot. He flung himself at her and brought her down to the ground, covering her with his body. The noise of the shattering glass brought the crowd from a polite murmur to shrieks of panic in about a second and a half.

Instead of lying prone, she tried to wriggle away from him, closer to the dead Russian. “Molly. Molly. Stop,” he said. But she acted like she didn’t hear him. She reached for something and stuffed it in her pocket.

“Come on. We have to get out of here.” He jumped up and dragged her behind the bar. There were no more shots, but people were running in panic. He looked to the entrance of the party and saw Mal with his oil exec and Professor Rankin speeding back through the metal detector. As Mal walked them through the doorway, he grabbed a bottle of Kristal champagne from a table. Typical. A couple of seconds later the entrance was a bottleneck of people pushing and shoving to get away from whatever was going down.

He grabbed Molly’s hand and pushed her toward the emergency exit door into the kitchen. It was deserted except for one cleaner, who was looking bemused. “Go!” David said, pointing at the exit door. The man dropped his mop and disappeared.

“David? David?” Molly said breathlessly, as they burst through the service entrance.

“Hang on,” he replied, not wanting to have that particular conversation here. He peered around the corner of the corridor and saw police running past a door at the end. He waited until the steady stream of white riot-helmets passed, and then he ran to the door and checked. No one.

“Molly!” he called.

No answer. He looked over his shoulder. Shit. Racing back to around the corner, he promised God everything if she was still alive. She was, but she was crouched down, arms wrapped around her knees. “Molly? We have to go.”

She didn’t look at him, and didn’t reply. Fuck this. They didn’t have time for hysteria. He picked her up in his arms, and only then noticed a patch of blood on the wall where she’d been sitting. Her face buried in his neck, he looked at his hand. It was red too.

Three minutes later she was in his room. He laid her on his bed and rolled her over on to her side. Her T-shirt was soaked in blood.

A coldness rushed through him. Had she been shot too? He was just about to lift her shirt, when a voice spoke in his ear, scaring the shit out of him.

“So who’s Molly?” Mal asked through his earpiece.

“A woman,” he said tightly.

“No shit, Sherlock. Anyway, I’ve got your principal. Nuts of steel that guy’s got. My oil exec, on the other hand, has fled for his private jet.”

“Thanks for that. How’s the Kristal?”

“Delicious. So who was the dead dude?”

David’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. I’m waiting to ask Molly, but she’s bleeding and maybe catatonic or something.

“Am not,” she mumbled.

“Bleeding from what?” Mal asked.

“Her skin.” His voice rose in exasperation. “Shut up. I’m looking.”

“No need to get your knickers in a twist. Wait. Is she conscious? Are you feeling up an unconscious woman?” He could hear that bastard’s grin.

“Shut the fuck up,” David said.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” Molly said, a little more strength behind her words this time.

“A little testy, mate, aren’t you?”

Shit. David pulled his earpiece out and threw it in the trash.

“Molly, you’re bleeding from something, I’m just trying to see where from. Do you remember being shot?” he asked, feeling a bit stupid for asking.

“I think I’d remember that,” she replied, rolling back to look at him. “David. It really is…Ow!” She sat upright nearly head butting him in the process. “Something’s stabby there.” She gestured around her back.

“Lie back down and let me see. And yes, it’s really me.”

She mumbled something into his pillow as he pulled up her shirt all the way to her shoulder. He grit his teeth. Molly had a line of glass shrapnel down her back. Nothing that he couldn’t deal with himself, maybe five shards, but still, he couldn’t believe she wasn’t screaming the hotel down. He needed to take advantage of the adrenaline while it was numbing her to the injury. “What did you say?”

She pulled herself to her elbows and turned to look at him over her shoulder. “I said, ‘You said you’d come for me.’”

“What?” He grabbed his first aid kit out of his bag and lightly pushed her back down. Grabbing a pair of forceps and gauze, he set about removing the glass.

She just groaned. Good job too. He’d heard what she said, and it bit him to his core. When he’d last seen her at the airport in Iraq, he’d told her that he’d come for her. They’d had such an intense connection, albeit totally platonic, that he’d been sure that he would be looking her up as soon as he got stateside. But his sober, in-recovery head had prevailed. He’d struggled when he got back stateside. He was hauled over the coals by the Feds and then became instrumental in bringing down the black-ops company he’d worked for.

He’d left the dark side, and maybe he should have found Molly, but something had held him back. He’d realized that she was better off without his fucked-up self hanging around. Now she was here, he couldn’t imagine how he’d convinced himself of that. How he’d stayed away for so long. She was still…perfect. Well, bleeding, obviously, but perfect nonetheless. He had to keep his head in the game. The original plan: stay away from her. He didn’t deserve her, and she definitely didn’t deserve a broken, ex-military guy with no foreseeable future. Especially since he’d just effectively deserted his post.

No. He had to keep her at arm’s length. The level of his attraction to her in Iraq had shocked him, rattled him to his core. But he’d been involved with such shady activities, he’d barely spoken to her. Barely spoken to anyone. Now, for sure, he was better. But the darkness still lurked. The memories of the deaths of friends, the nightmares, and cold sweats that came from nowhere. She’d never understand what he’d done. No one could.

He barely could.

The last of the glass was out, and he sprayed an antibiotic ointment over the little cuts, and fixed a makeshift bandage with gauze and tape. “There. Good as new. Kind of.”

She sat up. Shit, her face was so white.

“Are you going to pass out?” he asked, concerned.

He shoved her head between her legs and held her down with his hand between her shoulder blades. She relaxed beneath his hand, and he found himself stroking her shoulders.

Her head popped up. Followed by the rest of her. She was at the door before he had time to react. “Dr. Doubrov. I have to find him. It’s important.”