Chapter Twenty-Seven
Quinn stood on the balcony of their opulent suite at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo and looked out at the bright, white yachts dotting the Mediterranean. Some cruised the water, leaving a wake of white foam behind them. Others were anchored and unmoving, like gleaming pearls scattered across a pillow of blue velvet.
Various intelligence sources confirmed one of the yachts crowding the coast of Monaco was Perun’s Chariot. And although those same sources couldn’t definitively confirm Borovsky was on board, she knew he was. She could feel it.
James stepped out onto the veranda and stood next to her. “Ovechkin will be here in a few minutes.”
A ball of nerves and excitement knotted in her chest. She turned and looked at his profile, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. His jaw and cheeks were covered with stubble. The several days of growth gave him a rougher edge, commensurate with his role as Cade Burton, Victoria Chamberlain’s bodyguard and right-hand man. “Darius and Sydney are in position?”
“Mm-hmm. Sydney has the fake Zieglopam ready to go. And Darius is down the hall with his room service cart.”
“Good.” She patted the French twist at the back of her head. “And I look okay?”
His gaze lingered over her white formfitting blouse, black pencil skirt, and black high heels. “You look great. Just the right balance of professional, polished, and sexy.” His tone turned snooty. “Very Victoria Chamberlain.”
“Victoria thanks you ever so much,” she said, mimicking him.
James held his arms out to the side. “How about me?”
She cast a critical eye over his shiny blue suit and open-collared shirt. “Mostly hit man with a little lounge singer thrown in for good measure.”
“So perfect for Cade the bodyguard.”
“Absolutely. But if that suit ever shows up in James Anderson’s closet, his wife will promptly remove it and kill it with fire.”
His smile was lopsided. “Noted.”
They turned and went inside. “Hey, Sydney,” Quinn said, leaving the door open to allow the warm sea air fill the room. “James says you’re all set.”
Sydney futzed with the vials and hypodermic needles on the table, adjusting them until they lined up in a tidy row. She glanced over her shoulder and said, “Oh, hey, Quinn. Yeah. I’m ready.” With an embarrassed, unsure smile, she added, “I hope I don’t blow it. I don’t get out in the field very often.”
Oddly enough, knowing someone was more nervous than she helped calm Quinn. She looked Sydney directly in the eye. “You’ll be great. You know more about Zieglopam than anyone. Just answer Ovechkin’s questions and he won’t have any other choice but to believe we’re in possession of Ziegler’s formula.”
At the knock on the door, the tension in the room ratcheted up. Quinn watched James as he went to the door. Before her eyes, his features hardened and gaze sharpened as he morphed into Cade Burton. At the same time, she felt her back stiffen and her chin rise. She took her place at the center of the room and clasped her hands.
James clutched the doorknob and looked at Quinn. In his eyes, she only saw Victoria’s bodyguard silently waiting for her to signal when to open the door.
Quinn’s nerves gave way as Victoria took over. She dipped her chin.
James opened the door.
Three men stood in the hallway. She assessed them instantly and came to the rapid conclusion the man in the center was Ivan Ovechkin. The two huge, beefy men of similar size and body style to Viktor and Anatoly were obviously the bodyguards.
Quinn smiled and took two steps forward. “Mr. Ovechkin, thank you for coming. You’re welcome to have your friends join you, although I must insist they surrender their weapons to Cade until our business is concluded. I wouldn’t want you getting any ideas about forcing me to give up the formula at gunpoint.”
Ovechkin nodded at his men. He walked into the room and the bodyguards filed in behind him. They removed their pistols from the holsters at their hips and handed them to James.
Quinn arched an eyebrow and said in a mildly scolding tone, “You too, Mr. Ovechkin.”
He stared at her for a moment, as if testing her resolve. When she returned it without a single blink, he slid a pistol from a shoulder holster and handed it over. With a suppressor attached to the muzzle, it was the most impressive and disturbing of the lot.
“Wonderful,” Quinn said and swept her hand toward the ornate light blue sofa. “Now, with that unpleasantness over, please have a seat.”
While Ovechkin moved to the sofa and sat, James carried the handful of weapons to where Sydney was set up. He removed the magazines and ejected the chambered round from each pistol. Then he meticulously lined up weapons and ammunition on the table.
“Cade, if you could call room service and tell them we’re ready for our refreshments, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
James went to the room’s telephone and picked up the receiver. As he murmured into it, Quinn perched on the edge of the sofa’s matching chair, angled her legs to one side, and crossed her ankles. Queen Elizabeth had nothing on her.
Quinn studied Ivan Ovechkin. The man didn’t look like a Russia mafia lieutenant. His sandy blond hair was parted on one side, cut shorter on the sides and a little longer on the top. His features were boyish, but the telltale squint lines radiating from the corners of his gray eyes suggested he was a little older than it seemed at first glance. Dressed in khaki pants, a white dress shirt, and a blue blazer, he looked like a wealthy businessman on holiday.
Ovechkin’s eyes strayed over to Sydney and her paraphernalia. “I am ready for demonstration to begin.”
“Of course,” Quinn said. “I’ve already secured a subject. He’ll be here momentarily.”
“Is it real mind-control drug?”
“Yes. When the drug is activated, the person will do anything you ask of them regardless of how distasteful, evil, or immoral they find it. There is no free will.”
After a knock, James held the door open while Darius, dressed in the hotel’s room service livery, pushed in a cart. Arranged atop it was a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket, accompanying crystal flutes, and a tray laden with crackers, fruits, and cheeses.
Quinn stood and gestured toward Darius. “This is Philippe. He has agreed to be our test subject, for which he will be compensated handsomely. Isn’t that right, Philippe?”
Darius offered her a stiff bow from the waist and murmured a deferential, “Oui, madame.”
“Nyet,” Ovechkin barked.
Quinn’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“How do I know he does not pretend and we pay money for drug that does not work?”
“Because I am not a liar.” Quinn gave the Russian an icy glare.
Unmoved by her feigned pique, he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at her.
Their first choice was to get through the op without having to inject anyone with the real Zieglopam. Sydney still didn’t know what the long-term effects on the brain were. But Ovechkin was forcing their hand. Fortunately, they had prepared for this exact objection.
She wasn’t about to abdicate control of the demonstration by negotiating with Ovechkin, so she went for a position of strength. “Fine. We’ll use one of your men here.” Neither flinched. “They would never pretend the drug worked if it did not, would they?”
Ovechkin’s glower ebbed as he contemplated her proposal.
She held his gaze and waited with a façade of cool indifference. This was in stark contrast to her internal strain, as evinced by the drop of nervous perspiration trickling between her shoulder blades.
“Da,” he said finally. The tension that had built whooshed from the room. Ovechkin pointed at the taller of the two thugs. “Dmitri. You will take drug.”
James slipped Darius a tip and sent him on his way with a surreptitious nod while Sydney sprang into action.
“Okay, Dmitri. Can I call you Dmitri?” Perspiration sprouted on Sydney’s forehead when a stone-faced Dmitri mutely stared at her. “Never mind. And don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Her next words were muttered under her breath. “I think.” In a louder voice, she said. “If you could take off your jacket, please.”
Dmitri did as instructed, revealing a muscular upper body reminiscent of the comic book Perun.
Sydney put her hands on Dmitri’s arm to guide him toward the designated treatment chair. She jerked them away like she’d touched a red-hot stove. “Wow. Okay. Muscles like granite.” She stabbed a finger toward the chair. “I just need you to sit down right there. Setzen Sie sich bitte.” Wide-eyed, she looked at Quinn and said, “I only know German.”
She gave Sydney a smile and said in a calming tone, “It’s fine, Marie.” Sydney had asked to use the cover name in honor of the two-time Nobel Prize winner Madam Curie. “I’m pretty sure he’s getting the gist of it.”
Sydney huffed out a breath. “Ah. Okay. Good.”
Dmitri sat and shot Sydney a dark look that said, You hurt me, I’ll kill you.
Quinn just hoped Sydney didn’t faint dead away on the spot.
To her credit, Sydney did not. If anything, the threat of bodily harm seemed to help her focus. She held up a thin rubber strip. “I’m going to tie this tight around your arm to get a vein in your elbow to pop. Then I’m going to inject the drug into the biggest one. It won’t feel any different than if you were having a blood test done. Verstehen Sie?” Sydney slapped a hand to her forehead and muttered, “Ah, crap. I did it again.”
Dmitri’s lips twitched, as if fighting off a smile. “Da.” He straightened his arm, rolled it, and braced it on the chair’s armrest.
A tattoo of Perun’s thunder mark was prominent on Dmitri’s forearm.
Sydney snapped on a pair of latex gloves and tied the tourniquet around Dmitri’s bicep. She hunched over the exposed inner elbow and poked at it with a finger. “Wow. Your veins are like ropes. I know people who would give their right arm, no pun intended, to have—”
Quinn cleared her throat.
“Sorry.” Sydney cleaned the target area with an alcohol wipe and picked up the syringe filled with the green solution. Holding it up in front of Dmitri, she asked, “Ready?”
“Yes.”
Sydney removed the cover from the needle and positioned the sharp tip just above Dmitri’s skin. “Okay. Here we go.”
Dmitri’s impassive expression never changed when Sydney jabbed the needle into his vein. The guy was a badass.
Quinn watched Sydney depress the plunger and snap off the tourniquet. As nanoshells filled with a mind-control drug invaded Dmitri’s circulatory system, she wondered if he believed he could beat its effects. Did his nonchalance stem from the idea that his sheer size would overcome it? Their play had turned into an actual test of Zieglopam’s efficacy. If Dmitri beat the drug, they’d have to get out of Dodge. Fast.
When the syringe was empty, Sydney removed the needle, pressed a cotton ball to the injection site, and folded Dmitri’s arm back to hold it in place. “The next part is the trickiest,” Sydney said. She pressed the tip of her finger to a small paper square and held it up. “You have to stick this little doodad onto the SIM card in the person’s cell phone. It’s kind of like an RFID tag that transmits and receives. Ziegler was a genius at nanotechnology. The stuff he was able to get onto this tiny—”
“Marie, if you could show Mr. Ovechkin where to put it on the phone, that would be great,” Quinn prompted. She didn’t mind having to refocus Sydney when she occasionally derailed. Because Sydney’s nerves were both genuine and appropriate, they served to lend credence to her being nothing more than a scientist, not a smooth con artist or covert operative.
“Right. Sorry.”
Sydney took Dmitri’s iPhone and pointed at one side edge. “See this? That’s where the SIM card lives. All you have to do is pop it out and stick the tag to it.” She poked the end of a bent paper clip into the small hole and ejected the tray holding the SIM card. She attached the tag to the card and returned it to the slot. “No one will ever know it’s there.” She handed the phone back to Dmitri and picked up her own. After a few taps on her screen, she said, “The tag just sent me Dmitri’s phone number. Isn’t that cool?” Sydney held up her phone and grinned. “There’s an app for that.”
“Very impressive,” Quinn said. “Are we ready to proceed?”
“Yes, ma’am. I put the app on your phone, too, so you have Dmitri’s number stored as well.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Marie.” Quinn handed her phone to James. He took it and left the suite. “I’ve asked Cade to leave the room so as not to influence the test in any way, and to show how it works remotely.”
Thirty seconds later, Dmitri’s phone rang. He didn’t get a chance to answer since it chimed only once.
“Would you like some champagne while we wait?” Quinn asked Ovechkin. “Some fruit, perhaps?” She wiggled her fingers in a wave at the second bodyguard. “Something for your friend?”
“I will have fruit,” Ovechkin said. “Nothing for Yuri.”
Thankful for something to do, Quinn busied herself with serving him food and drink. She tried to engage him in small talk, but his uninterested grunts ended it quickly.
The silence stretched until Ovechkin spoke unexpectedly. “If the drug is working on Dmitri, can I make him do something now?”
“Let’s find out,” Quinn said. “Dmitri, I want you to hit Mr. Ovechkin in the face with your fists so hard, you break his jaw.”
Dmitri crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her in defiance.
Ovechkin frowned. “It does not work.”
“If I may,” Sydney said. “The tag on the SIM card has to be engaged by a phone with the app for it to work.”
That exchange fed into Ovechkin’s obvious and growing skepticism. As time dragged on, he grew more fidgety and the strain in the room grew almost to be unbearable.
Through it all, Dmitri showed no outward signs he was affected by the drug in any way.
Quinn’s adrenaline spiked when Dmitri’s phone finally rang. If the drug didn’t work, the whole thing was about to get ugly. The steps of their contingency plan raced through her mind as Dmitri put the phone to his ear.
Just as the young woman in Ziegler’s video had done, Dmitri listened in silence. Then he set the phone down on the table, stood, and picked up Ovechkin’s pistol.
All eyes watched with fascination as he slapped the magazine into the grip, and pulled back on the slide.
He whirled around, pointed the pistol directly at Ovechkin’s chest, and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.
Eyes wide with terror, Ovechkin jerked with each spit of the gun.
Yuri lunged for Dmitri.
Quinn leapt up and stopped him with a knee to the groin. His face turned the color of an eggplant as he clutched his nuggets and gurgled.
“I’m so sorry about that, Yuri. But I can’t let you interfere with the demonstration,” she said.
By the time Quinn returned her attention to Dmitri, he sat unperturbed in his chair with his fingers laced together and resting on his lap.
The shock on Ovechkin’s face transformed to confusion when he glanced down and frantically patted his chest. There were no bullet holes in his blazer, no spots of dark blood blooming on his white shirt.
“In preparation for our little demonstration, Cade swapped out your magazine with one loaded with blanks. He’s quite the magician.” During their various run-ins, James had noted all of Borovsky’s henchmen carried the same kind of nine-millimeter pistol, one used by Russian military. When the time came, he was well prepared to make the swap.
Ovechkin leapt to his feet, his face mottled with rage. “You bitch!” Spittle flew from his mouth as he advanced toward her.
She snatched a pistol from the table, inserted a magazine, and chambered a round. “That’s far enough.” She leveled it at his chest and cocked the hammer with her thumb. “Cade didn’t touch the bullets in this gun.”
The door to the suite swung open. James was by Quinn’s side in an instant, having covered the distance in three strides. His voice cracked like a whip when he asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
“Apparently Mr. Ovechkin didn’t take too kindly to his unexpected participation in our demonstration. I’m not sure why, since we’ve clearly shown the drug works.” She angled her head to one side and asked, “Or do you believe Dmitri would willingly put three bullets in your chest?”
Ovechkin’s eyes darted from Quinn to James to her finger on the gun’s trigger.
Her tone turned steely. “Sit. Down.”
When he didn’t move, her jaw clenched in frustration. “I can assure you if you don’t sit your stupid ass down, I will fire this gun. Or are you waiting for Dmitri to jump to your defense?”
Ovechkin looked over at Dmitri. The big man watched the goings-on in absolute disinterest.
James spoke up. “The drug is still active in his system. I told him he was not to come to your aid under any circumstance.” He glanced at Yuri. He was clearly unsure what to do now that he had sufficiently recovered. “Or your buddy’s. You should also know he will snap your necks with his bare hands if either of you lay a finger on Ms. Chamberlain.”
One of Ovechkin’s eyes twitched closed and winced as if in pain. He raised his hands in surrender and backed up. Once he was seated again, Quinn decocked the hammer and lowered her arm.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Sydney slump and drag her sleeve across her forehead.
“Mr. Borovsky will pay double highest bid from competitors,” Ovechkin said.
The demonstration had been a smashing success. But it still surprised her that Ovechkin made the offer without checking with his boss first. “He should know it’s currently at fifteen million euros.” Ziegler’s documentation indicated he was originally asking ten million, so fifteen wasn’t that big of a stretch.
Ovechkin paused, looked down at the floor, and then raised his gaze to her face. “He will pay thirty million euros now. He will wire transfer money to any account you wish. I take formula and drug with me.”
Holy crap. They hadn’t expected it to happen this quickly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Quinn said. “I haven’t agreed to sell it to him yet.” The whole point was to meet with Borovsky in person. “My father taught me to never do business with minions. I meet with Mr. Borovsky in the flesh and hammer out a deal, or it doesn’t happen at all.”
“Mr. Borovsky only makes deals through his—” Ovechkin broke off.
Quinn’s brow lowered, puzzled by his midsentence stoppage. She cut her eyes toward James, who squinted at Ovechkin. Something was up.
She reviewed their interactions with Ovechkin since the moment he’d walked in: the prolonged pauses, the sudden questions, the distant stares.
She stifled an “aha!” when the answer came to her.
Borovsky was there. Somewhere. If they thoroughly searched Ovechkin, they would likely find he wore an earpiece and perhaps even a minuscule hidden camera.
“Do you gamble, Miss Chamberlain?” Ovechkin asked.
That was an odd question. “I’ve been known to play a few hands of Texas Hold’em.”
Now that she understood what was going on between Borovsky and Ovechkin, the hesitation before Ovechkin spoke made perfect sense. “Mr. Borovsky invites you to the private poker game he is hosting tomorrow night at Casino de Monte-Carlo.”
“I’m not going to gamble with Ziegler’s formula.” He had to be caught buying it, not winning it.
“No. You asked to meet in person. He agrees.”
“To negotiate the deal, not play poker.”
“You intrigue him. He wants to know you better.”
She bit back a snort. I bet he does.
“He also offers you gift of buy-in of fifty thousand euros. No strings attached.”
There are always strings attached, she thought. A man like Borovsky always wanted to be in a position of power. What better way than to have her in his debt? Plus, he probably thought she would succumb to his charms and beg him to allow her to sell him the formula for next to nothing.
And beg him for other things as well.
Gross.
If playing poker meant they would finally bust Borovsky, make him pay for his crimes, and dismantle his empire, then she would jump through whatever flaming hoops necessary. Except one. Leading him to believe she would fall into his bed was an entirely different matter.
“That’s very generous. Tell Mr. Borovsky I accept his invitation and look forward to meeting him.”
Ovechkin rose to his feet and buttoned his jacket. “Nine o’clock tomorrow evening.” He looked at Dmitri and asked, “How much longer?”
Sydney stepped forward. “It should be completely out of his system in about four hours.”
“Cade, the phone please,” Quinn said.
James placed it in her upturned palm.
She called Dmitri’s phone. When he answered, she touched the screen once and said, “You will now go with Mr. Ovechkin. He will take you directly to Le Bar Améri-cain here in this hotel. There, he will ply you with drinks and food until the effect of the drug wears off. If you leave without stopping at the bar, you will break both of his arms.” Her gaze fell on the other guard. “And you will share all food and drink with Yuri.” She ended the call and said to Ovechkin, “I think they both deserve treats, don’t you?”
Dmitri stood from his chair and looked at Ovechkin expectantly. Yuri blinked at Quinn in astonishment.
From the nasty sneer he shot her, it was clear she’d not made a friend in Ivan Ovechkin. So be it. If things went the way they were supposed to, his ass would be in jail, along with Borovsky and the rest of his crew, within a few days.
Ovechkin and Yuri silently gathered their pistols and magazines. As the three men filed out the door, Quinn called out, “Ciao!”
An acknowledgement of her farewell was not forthcoming.
Once the door shut, Quinn dropped into a chair and stretched out her legs. Arms hung loose over the armrests, she rested her head back and said, “That was exhausting.”
James replied with a formal sounding, “Yes, miss. May I pour you some champagne as refreshment?”
She gave James a funny look.
He touched his index finger to his lips, informing her and Sydney to stay quiet. James lowered to his knees beside Quinn and put a cheek against hers. “I need to sweep the room to make sure they didn’t leave any bugs,” he whispered in her ear.
She nodded. “Thank you, Cade. Champagne would be lovely.” It made sense. If Borovsky was willing to spy on her via Ovechkin, what was to say he wouldn’t keep trying once he was gone?
James rose and headed for the bedroom to get the listening device detector.
Quinn went to an obviously befuddled Sydney and relayed to her James’s concern in a whisper.
Sydney’s mouth made an O, and she nodded slowly. “I’ll get started cleaning up.”
“That would be great,” Quinn said. She went the cart and made a point of clinking the bottle to the glass as she poured the champagne.
James returned to the sitting room and began to sweep it with a handheld device.
Keeping a conversational tone, Quinn said, “I think the demonstration went well, don’t you, Marie?”
“Yes, ma’am, other than the hiccup at the beginning where we had to change test subjects.” Sydney carefully returned everything she’d laid out back into the appropriate slots cut into the gray foam inside a hard-sided protective case.
“If anything, it made it all the more compelling,” Quinn said, keeping her eyes glued to James as he worked.
James moved the detector along the couch where Ovechkin had sat. He stopped and left it hovering in front of the end table. He went down on all fours, poked his head under the table, and craned his neck to get a look at the underside. He backed out, sat on the floor, and pointed at the front edge of the table.
Quinn nodded and said, “Cade, I’m going to go use the powder room. I’ll be back in a moment.” She crooked her finger asking him to follow.
“Yes, ma’am.” He climbed to his feet and trailed her to the bathroom.
Safely away from prying ears, Quinn asked, “What do we do? Do we bust it, jam it, or play along?”
He ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his head. “If we play along, we could use it to feed him bad intel.”
“Like what? We’re playing this straight until we bust him when he pays us for the drug.”
“Good point. We could hedge our bets and jam it. He would just think it’s not transmitting for some reason.”
“True,” she said doubtfully. “What if the jammer fails and he hears the real us by accident? That blows everything.”
He rested his hands on his hips. “But if we bust it, he’ll know we went looking for it and found it.”
“Is that a bad thing? If I’m a criminal selling a mind-control drug I stole from another criminal, he might actually think more of me if we do find it and crush it. It gives me street cred.”
“I love it when you get all gangsta,” he said with a grin. “But yeah, I get it. It’ll make you a worthy opponent and not some naïve pushover.”
She gave him a coy look. “Some guys like a challenge.”
“This guy sure does.” He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss. “Let’s hope Borovsky does, too.”
They left the bathroom and Quinn headed straight for the bug. She reached under the table and felt around until her fingers touched the small electronic component. She pried it loose and held it up to her lips. “See you tomorrow night, Mr. Borovsky.” She dropped it on the floor. It popped and snapped when she crushed it under the heel of her pump.
“That should get his attention,” James said.
“Speaking of attention, Victoria needs a kickass dress.” She chucked him under his chin and said, “Come on, Cade. We’re going shopping.”