Chapter Fifteen
A white surveillance van with VLAD’S PLUMBING in Cyrillic letters and a fake phone number emblazoned on the sides sat parked on a side street off Nevsky Prospekt. The wide boulevard lined with monuments, churches, shopping, a palace, and a cathedral was also the heart of the city’s thriving nightlife.
Groups of young people on their way to bars and dance clubs paid not one iota of attention to James and Quinn standing face-to-face on the sidewalk next to the van.
It was ten o’clock in the evening, and yet the sun wouldn’t set for another hour and a half. It allowed for plenty of sunlight for her to take in his disguise in all its glory. Earlier in the day, she’d helped him put a rinse in his dark blond hair. It was now, according to the box, espresso brown. And with it slicked straight back, a full fake beard applied, and brown contacts in place behind black-rimmed glasses, she hardly recognized him. Only his voice assured her the man was her husband.
She fiddled with the knot of his red necktie. Along with his dark blue suit and white dress shirt, he looked quite dapper. “I hate that I can’t go in there with you.”
“I know. But LT will be with me.” He hooked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And don’t take this personally, but he’s a little more believable as my bodyguard than you are.”
“Yeah, well, that’s only because he’s twice my size. And a former Navy Seal.” She smoothed a hand over his lapel and looked up into his face. “I could take them, you know. It’s all about leverage.”
“I know you could.” He waggled an eyebrow. “For the record, you always have permission to put me on my back.”
She shot him an arch smile.
“Besides, you don’t want to go inside a strip club, do you?”
With a scrunched nose, she said, “No, although I’m sure the Bronze Monkey Nightclub and Massage Parlor is the classiest of establishments.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said, matching her droll tone. A mischievous look overtook his face. “If you did come in with me, you could pick up some pointers and finally do that stripper librarian routine you’re always teasing me about.”
“Hey! I’ve already got all the moves. Remember how Nicole had my bachelorette party at that pole-dancing place?”
“I do remember that. But sadly, I wasn’t invited.”
“What?” she said with a smirk. “You wanted to learn to pole dance, too?”
He beamed at her. “Who says I don’t already know?”
“Maybe you should do the stripper librarian routine,” she said with a laugh.
“Maybe I should.”
“I so want to see that.” Talking about her bachelorette party jogged a thought loose in her brain. “Oh, wait a sec.” She grabbed his left hand, wiggled his gold wedding band over his knuckle, and slipped it over her thumb. Reaching up with both hands, she opened the clasp at the nape of her neck and unfastened her gold necklace. She transferred the ring from her thumb to the necklace. It now hung with her eagle pendant. “A married man shouldn’t frequent strip clubs,” she said and refastened the gold strand around her neck.
“Good catch.” Thin lines crinkled around his eyes when he smiled. “And don’t worry about this married man inside the Bronze Monkey. My only interest is in my stripper librarian wife.”
“I guess I’d better fashion some pasties from colored book repair tape and buy a pair of stiletto heels,” she said with a laugh. As she gazed into his handsome face, her smile waned. His beard felt strange on her palm when she rested her hand on his cheek. “You be careful.”
“I will.” He snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her to him, and gave her a quiver-inducing kiss.
From behind them, the sound of a throat clearing prompted them to part, albeit reluctantly.
“See you in a little while.”
“I’ll be here.” Her smile might have appeared confident, but a current of nerves rippled under the surface.
James kissed her once more before releasing her. He spun on his heel and acknowledged LT with a nod. She watched the two men stride off together and disappear around the corner.
She pushed back at the worry creeping in on her by reminding herself James was a crack operative and had been on many dangerous missions long before she’d ever met him. Anyone who messed with him and LT would quickly find out they’d made a terrible mistake.
Confidence restored, she turned her mind to the mission at hand. She marched to the back of the van, grabbed the handle, and pulled open the door. She hauled herself up and closed it with a resounding bang.
Hunched, she duck walked to the empty chair next to Yonatan and sat in front of a panel of monitors. His eyes never rested on a screen for more than a couple of seconds. He pushed one side of his headset off his ear and flipped up the microphone. “You know James’s comm was open the entire time, right?”
A hand flew up and over her mouth. “No,” she said through her fingers. “You heard all that?” She could practically feel the flames licking up from the tips of her burning ears. “Look, the stripper librarian stuff is a running gag with us. That’s all.”
Yonatan waited a beat before looking over at her. “I’m just messing with you. I didn’t hear anything.” A huge grin bloomed on his face. “But now I want to know more about this stripper librarian thing.”
She groaned. She’d walked right into it. She smacked him on the arm with the back of her hand. “You’re a jerk. You know that, right?”
His smile broadened. “That’s what everyone tells me.” He sounded inordinately proud of that particular accomplishment.
He sobered and pointed at the headset in front of Quinn. “Monitor One is James’s feed.” And just like that, they were down to business.
She settled the headphones over her ears and tugged the microphone down in front of her mouth. The video of people passing James on the street transmitted from the tiny camera secreted in his glasses was crystal clear.
Images on Monitor Two from LT’s button camera were nearly identical.
Dave’s feed showed him already inside the Bronze Monkey. On Monitor Three, a young woman in nothing but black skintight shorts and spikey heels danced on a raised platform made of thick, clear plastic. With her back pressed against a pole, she widened her stance, slid down, and swished her hips.
Quinn blinked and marveled at how uninhibited the topless woman was. She would never be that uninhibited, at least not in public anyway.
She glanced at the remaining three screens. They showed the inside of the club from high angles and static positions. Yonatan had hacked into the Bronze Monkey’s security cameras.
Yonatan brought his microphone to his lips and punched a key on his keyboard. “Comms are hot.”
James and LT both responded with a muttered, “Copy.”
Thanks to voice-activated technology, the music that would have otherwise blared into her ear through Dave’s earpiece was filtered out. As a result, she clearly heard his cough of acknowledgement.
Quinn’s gaze remained glued to the monitor showing James’s feed. After walking another half block, he and LT turned right, opened a door, and climbed a set of stairs. Once they were inside the Bronze Monkey proper, her eyes flicked to one of the security camera monitors. As they were now in view, she watched them saunter across the room and sit on two of the stools lining the runway. The raised platform gave James and LT, as well as Quinn and Yonatan, quite a view of the dancers.
Quinn shoved her discomfort aside and concentrated on scrutinizing the inside of the club. The L-shaped stage was the center of everything, with poles installed at regular intervals.
The rest of the club was as Quinn expected. The walls were crimson and the decorative swags and floor-to-ceiling curtains hanging from a balcony were gold lamé. A statue of the eponymous primate sat like a Buddha in an alcove above the bar. To top it all off, the entire place was suffused with flashing blue and red lights.
A young woman with long black hair and makeup applied with a Spackle knife approached James and LT and asked them what they wanted to drink. In a short white dress, at least the waitress was fully clothed. Quinn wondered if to dress otherwise was a health code violation. Imagining herself in the same position, she decided it was more likely a matter of practicality.
“Sorry. Po-angliyski?” James said in a British accent. It was to his advantage that his cover didn’t allow for him to speak fluent Russian. People tended to speak more freely in their native language if they thought others didn’t understand.
“What do you drink?” Given her job in a cosmopolitan city like Saint Petersburg, it was a good bet she could ask that question in fifteen different languages.
“Ah. Yes.” James held up two fingers. “Vodka, please.”
She dipped her head and headed for the bar.
Quinn scoured the security camera feeds, studying the faces of the men scattered around the room. She spotted their target lounging on a cheetah-print sofa with a woman curled under each arm. “Yefimov is at your nine o’clock.”
Movement on James’s feed caught Quinn’s eye. The entire screen was filled with the face of a bottle blonde with thin, penciled-in eyebrows, thick mascara, and glossy red lipstick. Her face moved in closer and abruptly disappeared. Quinn turned to the security monitor to take in the full scene. The woman had leaned in, showing off her ample cleavage, and had her lips next to James’s ear. “I am Anya. I give you massage?” Her tone was as suggestive as it was sultry.
A tempest of fury raged behind Quinn’s sternum when Anya slid a hand up James’s thigh. Seething, she was seconds from smashing her fist through the screen to grab the woman by the throat. “Get your paw off my husband, you skank,” she said, low and feral.
James choked and coughed into the back of his hand.
“Steady, Quinn,” Yonatan said evenly.
James crossed one leg over the other, dislodging Anya’s hand. “No, thank you.”
Anya stuck her lower lip out in a pout. Her disappointment vanished the second she set her sights on LT. “Your friend, perhaps?” Her eyes lingered as she gave him the once-over. She licked her lips as if she were ready to devour him. “I show him very good time.”
The placid look on LT’s face never faltered, nor did he acknowledge the woman’s solicitation in any way. He excelled at his role as the bodyguard.
“Actually, Anya, we’re here to speak with Mr. Yefimov. I have a business proposition I’d like to discuss with him.” James looked at the woman and cocked his head. “Do you know, is he here?”
She sat back and narrowed her eyes at him.
He retrieved a thick wad of euro notes from the front pocket of his slacks, peeled off a hundred, and tossed it on the bar.
She picked up the bill and clutched it in her hand. “He is there.” She tipped her head in Yef imov’s direction.
“Thank you,” James said. He stuffed his billfold back in his pocket and turned his attention to the dancer in front of him.
Anya, apparently coming to the conclusion no additional funds would be forthcoming, took the hint. She stood and sauntered off. Her route was circuitous, but she eventually made her way to Yefimov. From the glances shot in their direction, James and LT were clearly the main topic of conversation.
The waitress returned with their drinks. James thanked her, paid the tab with a fifty-euro note, and told her to keep the change. Liberally handing out cash never failed to make friends and influence people.
James picked up his drink and tossed it back. He wheezed and managed to croak, “Tastes like kerosene.”
“Really?” LT picked up his glass and stared down at the clear liquid. “Vodka here is supposed to be the best.” As James had done, he downed it in a single gulp. He grimaced and said, “But not when it’s distilled in a bathtub.”
“Quality stuff.” James cleared his throat. “Time to get this show on the road.”
“Copy that.” LT rose to his feet. Mountainous and intimidating, he scanned the room like a good bodyguard should. After an all-clear nod from LT, James stood and the two men started toward Yef imov’s table. LT went first and cut through the crowd like the prow of a ship slicing through water. Seeing the way people gave them a wide berth helped alleviate much of Quinn’s anxiety. She may have wanted to be there with James, but LT was the better choice.
Before they reached Yefimov, his bodyguard stepped in front of them and blocked further passage.
“Oh crap.” She instantly recognized that scowl and bald head. It was Anatoly. James’s disguise better hold. It was unclear whether or not Anatoly had seen James’s face the night of their encounter on the Honeycutt estate. Either way, he would certainly recognize James from dinner at The Grove.
Anatoly glowered at James, their faces only inches apart. “No guns.”
Tingling with nerves, Quinn pressed her fingertips to her temples and watched James stare him down. In a voice loud enough for Yefimov to hear over the thumping dance music, James said, “Tell your boss if he insists on retaining that policy my staggering amount of money and I are walking away.”
Anatoly didn’t move and continued to glare at James. At least there wasn’t a glimmer of recognition on Anatoly’s part. Quinn dropped her hands to her lap and blew out a breath.
“Let them pass,” Yefimov ordered in Russian. When Anatoly stepped to the side, Yefimov waved James and LT over. He pointed at two matching zebra-print chairs across the low, round table from him. “Come. Sit.” He puffed on a cigar several times. A cloud of blue smoke shrouded his head. Quinn could almost smell the noxious odor through the monitor.
James sat. LT stood behind him with his hands clasped in front of him. The two stoic bodyguards stood motionless and engaged in a staring contest.
Quinn got a good look at Yefimov through James’s feed. No more than forty, he had a wide face and a nose flattened by more than a few fists. His black hair was elaborately coiffed to camouflage his male pattern baldness. The bristly mustache sprouting under the busted-up nose held flecks of gray. She observed a shrewdness in his hazel eyes.
Exuding a relaxed and confident air, Yefimov leaned back and returned his arms to rest behind his two companions. Quinn hoped the young woman with the burning cigar embers inches from her head hadn’t used a lot of hairspray. Otherwise, a spectacular conflagration was in the offing. “Anya tells me you have business proposition. I do not know what this could be.”
“My employer will be arriving in Saint Petersburg in a few days. He’ll be hosting a large number of friends at his summer home for a week and would like to procure a fairly substantial amount of a particular product for his and their enjoyment.”
Yefimov gestured with a hand. The cigar moved precariously closer to the woman’s hair. “Why come here to buy alcohol?”
“I’m referring to a substance not available from the Bronze Monkey’s menu.”
Yefimov took several puffs from his cigar and squinted at James through the smoke curling up from his mouth. “Why do you come to me?”
“You come highly recommended by an acquaintance who has more than a passing interest in the use and distribution of your commodities.”
“And who is this person?”
The more Yefimov dodged and parried, the more the acid in Quinn’s stomach gurgled.
James crossed one leg over the other and brushed at something on his slacks. “It would be rather uncouth of me to name names, don’t you think?” He laced his fingers together and dropped them on his lap. He stared at Yefimov with a bland look. “He is, after all, a well-known actor.”
Yefimov’s eye twitched. He knew exactly whom James meant. “Who is your employer?”
“I cannot tell you that either. Given that he is a minor member of a very prominent family in the UK, it is critical his identity remain anonymous. You understand.”
“Of course.” Yefimov filled the air with more smoke as he stared back at James with a steely gaze. “I can supply what he requests. How much does he want?”
“One kilo.”
The Russian’s head snapped up. “It will be expensive.”
James batted away the comment with a hand.
“I can give to you tonight,” Yefimov said.
“No, I would prefer it stay in your possession until my employer comes to town. We’ll make arrangements to pick it up.”
Yefimov took a puff from his cigar. “I want payment up front. One hundred eighty thousand euros.”
“One hundred sixty thousand. You will get a down payment today, after I have checked the inventory at your distribution center for myself.”
“No,” Yefimov said with a frown.
“My employer will not tolerate inferior quality. No cutting it with baking soda or laundry detergent.”
“My product is excellent quality,” Yefimov said with an edge in his voice, clearly affronted at being suspected of anything else.
“As per the instructions from my employer, my inspection of the product and your premises is nonnegotiable. Take it or leave it.”
Yefimov’s nostrils twitched. “We will not go anywhere until you show me you have money with you.”
James reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and removed an envelope thick with bills. “Twenty-five thousand.” He lifted the flap and pulled the stack out partway before returning it to his pocket.
After a moment of quiet contemplation, Yefimov told the women he would be back soon and stood. He indicated a door at the back corner of the room with a jerk of his head. “Come.”