Page 19 of Ford
The entire thing was a blur, really, from the moment she’d met with Roy in Prague to that awful moment when she stood on Arbat Street watching in horror as General Stanislov himself emerged from the Tuxedo.
She was supposed to meet her contact, the one Roy had set up for her. The counterpart to Roy, only operating in deep cover in Moscow. The guy who couldstopthe assassination.
She’d waited under the lights, as instructed, outside the entrance to a gentleman’s club, all her instincts telling her to run.
Worse, she didn’t know how she’d ended up with a gun in her bag but as she stood just feet away from the general, two shots sounded. One brought one of the general’s bodyguards down, the second finding its mark.
And she’d simply frozen, shock turning her body numb as the general fell. Then Stanislov’s agents had made everyone—including her—get down.
She did, and when her bag flung out onto the pavement, the gun tumbled out.
She’d stared at it in horror.
If it hadn’t been for—
A key grated in the lock, and the dead bolt slid open. She stiffened and turned from the window. She should find a weapon, but frankly, other than a bread knife and a throw pillow, she had nothing. No Jason Bourne hand-to-hand combat skills, no Lara Croft knife-wielding prowess. She was just an information gatherer, athinker.
She didn’t know why, but she picked upThe Brothers Karamazov. Held it in both hands in front of her as she stood dressed in a pair of black pants and a grimy white blouse, semi-sensible flats, her hair finger combed after her shower, feeling like something that took up residence under a dumpster as death came through the door.
A rather attractive version of death, maybe. Tall—over six foot—dark blond hair cut short on the sides, but with enough tousle left on top to suggest stress, and a square, fierce jaw with dark scruff roughening his face. He wore an olive green field jacket, a pair of dark jeans, and the effect of it only added to his lethal aura as he locked the door and turned to her.
She hadn’t noticed the scar at first, the one that ran from his ear and halfway across his neck, but now it stood out, a dissection of white through the dark blonde hair on his neck.
As if someone had tried to slit his throat.
Oops, she was staring because he said, “It wasn’t as bad as it looks.” He had a deep voice and a hint of a British accent.
Her mouth opened.
“So, are you gonna club me with Dostoyevsky?”
Oh. “Maybe.”
“I would have gone with Tolstoy, personally.” A tiny smile jerked up one side of his mouth.
Right.War and Peacehad about four hundred pages more heft.
“So, you okay?” He carried two plastic bags and brought them into the kitchen.
Huh. So maybe he wasn’t here to kill her. She followed him, still gripping the book. “You left me here for a week without even a word. Took my cell phone. And locked me in. I had no idea if you were coming back.”
“The phone could have been tracked—I dumped it. From now on, we’re cell phone lite. Even me. I’ll pick up a burner phone in case of an emergency.”
“I had no food!”
“I left you water, bread, sausage, eggs, cabbage, oil. What more do you need?” He pulled a hunk of hard cheese, tea, butter, and another loaf of bread from one of the bags.
“How about some idea if the FSB is going to show up at my door?”
“You’re not in the gulag yet, right?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Felt like it.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’re safe. And not dead.” He glanced at her over the upturned collar of his field jacket. “Right?”
She stared at him. Put down the book
He nodded, his mouth pursed. “I’m on your side, but you should be careful. The entire world is looking for you.”