Too Hard to Handle, page 13
“Fine,” Chelsea allowed. “A little tit for tat isn’t too much to ask. The answer to your question is we’re the ones who’ve been sent in to do what those before us haven’t managed.”
Kozlov lifted a brow and glanced around at the four of them. Dan had to admit they looked like quite the motley crew. Probably especially him. He took another swipe at the wound on his forehead and noticed the blood was congealing in his eyebrow. The cut was finally clotting. So…silver linings and whatnot.
“And what is that?” the Russian asked.
“Bring Winterfield down,” Chelsea finished with dramatic flair.
As if the whole of Cusco conspired to join her in her theatrics, a puff of steam belched from the vent near the trash bins, swirling into the cool air. Somewhere off in the distance a dog snarled and barked before falling silent. A dark cloud moved over the silver crescent moon, casting the alleyway into even deeper, more malevolent shadows. And damnit! There it was again! That creepy, crawly sensation.
Dan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and thought, Seriously? A cold, dark night in a foreign country, a dimly lit alley, and an American agent going head-to-head with a Russian agent while a muddy sense of gloom and doom hung in the air? If Dan was writing a bad spy novel, this is the exact scenario he’d describe. In fact, it was so clichéd it was almost trite. And he suddenly understood why Chelsea had said their new location was appropriate.
“Please,” Kozlov scoffed, the word sounding more like pliz. “That is nothing. The information I have is worth far more than your cryptic answers.”
“Well”—Chelsea shrugged—“the way I see it, you can either tell me what you know, or I’ll have Winterfield do it as soon as we apprehend him. If I have to go with option number two, I can assure you I’ll have my tech guys post your photo, name, and occupation on every social media site from Facebook to Twitter to Tumblr. It’s so hard to do this kind of work when the whole world knows about you, isn’t it?” she asked with feigned sympathy.
Dan shuddered at the mere idea and Kozlov regarded her for what seemed like an eternity, a muscle twitching fitfully in his bruised jaw.
“And if that doesn’t convince you,” Chelsea continued, “how about this? You either cooperate with me, or I’ll make it known to anyone who will listen—the president, the world press, whoever—that Russia was actively seeking to procure stolen information about foreign governments from a rogue U.S. spy. Given the trouble you guys are already in with the international community regarding that bad business in Ukraine and Crimea, I’d think you’d want to avoid another black eye on Mother Russia’s pretty face. You and I both know your country can’t survive another round of sanctions.”
Wow. As Aretha Franklin would say, “R.E.S.P.E.C.T.” Special Agent Chelsea Duvall had some serious props. Dan tipped an imaginary hat to her.
“Fine,” Kozlov hissed. “Ask your questions.”
Chelsea grinned. “See? It’s an easy decision when you think about it, isn’t it? So first things first. What’s your beef with Winterfield?”
Kozlov cocked his head, his one good eye narrowing. “I do not understand this expression.”
“Oh, sorry.” Chelsea shook her head. “Let me rephrase. We intercepted a phone conversation you had that led us to believe you’re here to kill Winterfield.” Something strange passed over Kozlov’s features, but it was so fleeting Dan wondered if it was anything or just the play of shadows. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“Ha!” Kozlov’s bark of laughter echoed down the alley. “So contrary to what you would have the world believe, you Americans are not gods. You do not see all and know all.”
If only he knew just how true that was, he’d be dancing in the street…uh…alleyway.
“Feel free to gloat with your cronies over vodka shots when you’re back at the Kremlin,” Chelsea growled impatiently. “For now, answer the damn question. Why are you here for Winterfield? What has he ever done to you?”
Kozlov reveled in his own self-importance for a second or two more. If Dan thought it would help move things along, and if his hands weren’t currently occupied with the Contender, he would have slow-clapped for the jerkwad.
Finally, Kozlov shrugged. “It is not what Winterfield has done. It is what he has.”
“And what’s that?” Chelsea asked.
“We have reason to believe Winterfield knows the location of Stanislav Rubashkin.” By the way he said the name, it was obvious he expected them to recognize it.
Dan glanced at Zoelner. Nope. The former CIA agent shrugged with his eyebrows. One quick look at Penni’s ya-got-me expression had his gaze landing on Chelsea. Bingo. She was blinking rabidly behind the lenses of her glasses.
“Is that why he’s here in Cusco? To sell you Rubashkin’s information?” The color was running high in her café au lait cheeks.
“No.” Kozlov shook his head. “Our sources say Winterfield is here to meet a man who goes by the name of Khalid al-Rahma.”
“Which sources would those be?”
“Those ones we have inside the AQAP,” Kozlov admitted. All Dan’s mental bells and whistles started clamoring at mention of Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. Not good. This is so not good. Fuckin’ Winterfield! “Al-Rahma is one of theirs. He has a reputation for procuring the unprocurable.”
“And what unprocurable thing is al-Rahma supposed to get from Winterfield?” Chelsea demanded.
Kozlov shrugged. “That we do not know. And we do not care.”
Dan blinked. Was it just him? Or was this thing getting ridiculously convoluted. Damn spies and their pretzel machinations and twisty, turny logic. He much preferred the kind of work that had clear parameters and precise objectives.
Chelsea started pacing back and forth, her brow furrowed in concentration. “So let me see if I have this right. You think that among the reams of Intelligence Winterfield stole from the CIA is the current location and alias of Rubashkin. You heard from your sources inside the AQAP that Winterfield would be meeting this al-Rahma character here in Cusco to do some kind of deal. So then you’re here to what?” She suddenly stopped pacing and turned to pin her golden gaze on Kozlov. “Wait a minute. You’re not here to kill Winterfield.” She blinked at Kozlov. “You’re here hoping to approach him to make a deal about Rubashkin.”
And that had been the shadow Dan saw pass over Kozlov’s face when Chelsea made that comment about him being here to take out Winterfield. She’d made a wrong assumption based on his side of the phone call. They all had.
“It is past time Stanislav Rubashkin pay for what he has done.” Kozlov spat on the ground like saying the man’s name left a bad taste in his mouth. Justice for Mother Russia… It suddenly made sense. Even though nothing else did yet. Who was Rubashkin?
“There you go dropping things again, Andrei,” Zoelner muttered.
Chelsea shot him an emphatic look that said, Cut it out. Again, Zoelner answered with a laconic shrug.
Kozlov’s expression turned sour. “And just so we understand each other, Russia does not pay good rubles for something she can get for free.”
“Meaning what?” Chelsea asked. “You just planned to catch Winterfield and beat the information out of him. And so the T/C Contender is for?” Kozlov opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “Let me guess. Al-Rahma.”
“One less radical on the face of the earth.”
Chelsea glanced up and down the alley. “So where are your friends, huh? Where’s your backup?”
“Please,” Kozlov scoffed. “Your government may have forgotten how to handle these matters, but Russia has not. When you want to catch a rat, you do not send in a whole regiment.”
And that had been Dan’s exact point to the CIA barely two days ago. Although he would not like to think he had anything in common with Kozlov, he had to admit they were of like mind in this one particular regard.
“You send in one very mean rat terrier,” Kozlov finished proudly, the V in the word “very” sounded like a W.
Chelsea checked her watch. “And the terrier was planning to capture the rat in Plaza San Francisco thirty minutes from now.”
Looking at Kozlov, Dan realized once again that the fate of the nation had come down to good ol’ DFL. Dumb fuckin’ luck. Which Zoelner’s happenstance spotting of the Russian in the square definitely qualified as. More often than anyone would probably like to concede, that’s how it happened, and he thanked his lucky stars every time it did.
“Is there anything more you can tell us about Winterfield’s meeting?” Chelsea asked.
Kozlov shrugged indifferently. “Nothing. You know it all. Now I would like my weapon back, please.” With a jerk of his chin he indicated the Contender still aimed at him.
Dan scoffed. “Not on your life, comrade.” Is this guy for real?
“A pity,” Kozlov sighed. “It was one of my favorites. But, then again, I have many favorites.” The warning in his tone was clear as he straightened his jacket, touched a finger to his busted lip, and smiled at Dan. The look on his face said, Until we meet again…
Dan made sure his own expression responded with Looking forward to it, fuckhead. And, ooooh! Wasn’t supersecret spy-guy stuff fun?
“Now”—Chelsea cocked her head at Kozlov, tapping a finger against her chin—“what to do with you?”
“What? This is a question?” The Russian glanced back and forth among the four of them. “I have given you what you want. I have no weapon. My mission is, as you say, in the garbage. So you will let me go, yes?”
Penni caught Dan’s eye and mouthed, Is this guy for real?
Under different circumstances he would have laughed out loud that she’d just put his thoughts into words.
Chelsea chuckled. “You’re funny, Andrei. I think I like you.”
Zoelner snarled something under his breath. But when Chelsea turned to him, he straightened and blinked innocently, like he hadn’t just threatened to have the Russian strung up by his balls. “Suggestions, Z?” she asked. “This is more your area of expertise than mine.”
“Take him to the rendezvous point, gag him, and hog-tie him until we see if his information pans out,” Zoelner said, as if the answer was obvious.
“Yeah,” Dan wholeheartedly agreed. “What he said…”
Chapter Ten
“I know I stumbled into this mission and it’s probably none of my business,” Penni said when Chelsea clicked off the phone with her supervisor after telling the man to alert the marshals about the mysterious threat to some guy Zoelner had never heard of, “but care to fill me in on what the heck all that business concerning Rubashkin was about?”
“Yeah.” Dan shook his head so fast Zoelner was surprised the move wasn’t accompanied by the cartoonish aye-eee-aye-eee-aye sound effect. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but what she said…”
Zoelner glanced over at Chelsea. Normally the woman had a face that promised heaven, but in the dim light of the street lamp shining in through the window, her current expression looked like hell. She might have put on a brave front while interrogating Kozlov, but it’d taken its toll on her. She was used to sitting safe and sound in a cubicle, not demanding answers from a Russian thug who would have happily killed her, given a chance.
The air inside the deserted building was as heavily scented as a South Side hooker. But instead of dime-store perfume, the smell was sawdust and plaster. It filled Zoelner’s nose and mouth when he sucked in a breath, preparing himself for whatever bombshell Chelsea was poised to drop.
“Stanislav Rubashkin is the former military intelligence colonel for the KGB,” she whispered. “He defected to the U.S. after the Soviet Union fell in ’91.”
Boom!
And there it was.
Zoelner glanced into the far corner where he’d left Kozlov after he duct-taped the Russian’s wrists and ankles—double duct-taped them actually; Kozlov was a big boy. “Cocksucking sonofabitch,” he hissed. “That jackass is real? I thought he was just a crazy rumor.”
“Nope.” Chelsea shook her head, glancing furtively in Kozlov’s direction. The Russian was nothing but a big, shadowy blob against the still darkness of the corner. “No rumor. Rubashkin is as real as it gets.”
“How come I never heard anything about that?” Penni asked. “I mean, I know it was way before my time, but it had to have been huge news and I—”
“You don’t know anything about it because it was never reported,” Chelsea said. “Rubashkin was a course unto himself in CIA Hush-That-Fuss 101.”
“Huh?” Dan’s intense scowl was visible even in the near-dark room.
“The CIA took him, held him, debriefed him for almost two full years, and then they handed him over to the U.S. Marshals Service, who have been hiding him ever since,” Chelsea explained.
Zoelner watched as Dan and Penni exchanged a look.
“You see, Rubashkin cut a deal,” Chelsea went on. “He gave us an unfettered peek into the lives, finances, and ties of the movers and the shakers behind the Iron Curtain, told us everything we wanted to know about how the Soviet Union operated and who was likely to rise to power after its fall. And in exchange, we agreed to give him full immunity, a new identity, and protection from the long arms of his former friends in the KGB.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. The glasses thing—half sexy, half nerdy—was too charming for words…usually. But not when the hand she used to do it with was shaking like an addict’s in the middle of detox.
Zoelner didn’t realize his feet were moving until he’d already closed the distance to her. “Hey.” He lifted a hand, then faltered. Touching Chelsea was never a good idea. She was so soft, so immensely touchable. And putting his hands on her, even in the most innocent ways, always reminded him that what he really wanted to do was put his hands on her in very un-innocent ways.
Which was a problem. Only partly because Chelsea had never given him any indication she’d welcome his touch, innocent or otherwise.
Or maybe you’re just a big ol’ pussy.
Allowing for that possibility, he forced himself to grab her shoulder. “You okay?” He gave her a little squeeze.
Soft. So unbearably soft…
“Yeah.” She nodded, standing a little straighter and lifting her piquant chin.
And tough too. A dichotomy that worked on him like pasties and thongs worked on other men.
“Sounds like Rubashkin was a real winner,” Penni muttered, disgust lacing her tone. “And by winner, I mean a rat scurrying from a sinking ship.” She took Dan’s hand, threading her fingers through his. And when Dan dragged her close to his side, Zoelner wondered if the two of them realized they were already acting like a couple. He envied their ease with one another. How they just seemed to naturally fit together. Two pieces of a puzzle clicking. No pretense. No bullshit.
Which reminded him…What the hell am I supposed to do with my hand now? Do I drop it? Do I leave it on Chelsea’s shoulder? “Easy” and “comfortable” certainly were not words he would ever use to describe his relationship with her. Choosing the first of his two options, he hoped to cover up any awkwardness by rubbing his hands together like he needed to warm them.
It seemed to work. Chelsea didn’t appear to notice anything amiss as she agreed. “You said it. But we gave our word to protect him in exchange for the information, so that’s what we’ve done. What we’ll continue to do. I’m sure the marshals are moving Rubashkin as we speak. Just as a precaution.”
“What a phenomenal waste of taxpayer money,” Dan grumbled, shaking his head.
“Can’t argue with you there,” Chelsea agreed. “But hey, let’s look on the bright side here. If it weren’t for Rubashkin, we never would have stumbled across Kozlov.” She hooked her thumb toward the corner. “And without Kozlov, we never would have known about al-Rahma. And without al-Rahma, we never would have known when and where to expect Winterfield.”
Her face brightened, a grin suddenly stretching her lips. Chelsea had the best smile. Her teeth flashed white, her cheeks plumped, and her happiness shined in her eyes, making them glint like polished gold. “Hey, guys, you do realize we’re finally about to bring Luke Winterfield down, right?”
Zoelner took a page from Kozlov’s manual and spit on the ground in punctuation. “It’s way past time.”
“Right.” Dan bobbed his chin, releasing Penni’s hand to wrap an arm around her shoulders. Penni’s arm went around his waist just as naturally as you please. “So, then, what’s the plan?”
“If Kozlov’s Intel proves correct”—Zoelner glanced at his watch—“we could have our hands on Winterfield in fifteen minutes.”
“Which means we need to call the ground crew at the airport and tell ’em we need the plane gassed and ready to go on the tarmac,” Dan said, already digging in his hip pocket for his phone.
“And we need a way to get to the airport,” Zoelner added, exchanging a look with Dan. After three months together, they no longer needed to say anything to come to an understanding. Dan nodded, just a quick jerk of his chin that said, Roger that.
Zoelner turned to Chelsea.
“Uh-oh.” She frowned. He wondered if she realized it made the freckles across her nose stand out. “I know that face. I’m not going to like what comes next, am I?”
No, she probably wasn’t. But of the four of them, she was the least qualified for what might happen next. Which meant they needed to put her to work on something she was qualified to do. And then there was the added perk that he would able to concentrate a lot better knowing she wasn’t in the shit. Chelsea might be the bane of his existence most days, but he also happened to care for her. “How are you at hot-wiring a car?”
