33
Petrov looked up from Elena’s face. He fanned his slender white hands. “You mistake me, Mr. Hennessey. Ours is nothing more than a straightforward business matter. I have held up my end of our bargain. I promised to free you from the federal marshals, and I’ve done so. I was required to take extraordinary measures to keep you out of the FBI’s hands, and I have done so. And now you are here, safe.” Petrov waved to Liam’s bound foot. “Your foot, the FBI, should I go on?” He paused, then: “And yet you are holding Elena’s favored Walther at my chest. I am making you a rich man. It seems to me you would wish to show me a measure of gratitude, Mr. Hennessey.”
Liam sat back in the chair, crossed his arms. He liked Petrov, but Liam knew he wasn’t a man he’d want to meet in a dark alley. “And what do you think this measure of gratitude should be?”
“Let us say, rather that it would be a simple courtesy for you to confirm for me the name of the person who hired you to rob my safe-deposit box.”
Liam cocked an eyebrow, said in full Irish, “My heel hurts, Mr. Petrov, makes me querulous. Sorry, I’m not feeling very courteous at the moment.”
“Even though my own personal physician is coming to take care of your heel?”
“And her, of course.” Liam waved the Walther toward the sofa. He heard Elena moan. “She’ll be back with you soon, Mr. Petrov. That is my courtesy to you—I didn’t kill her.”
Petrov gently pulled Elena upright into his arms. He whispered against her ear, “No, don’t move, you probably have a concussion.”
Elena whispered something Liam couldn’t hear as Petrov lightly touched a long finger to the side of her head behind her left temple. “You’ve got only a lump there. The skin isn’t broken. Does it hurt? Can you see me clearly?”
Elena nodded, said something in French, of all things, and Petrov pulled her against him again and slowly rocked her, his face pressed against her hair.
Liam said, “No, I did not kill her, and I am about to bring you your heart’s greatest desire. It is you who owes me gratitude. I’ve decided I want to have enough money to make a difference in my life, but not enough to make you want to hunt me down and cut my throat in my sleep.”
“And what do you suppose that amount would be, Mr. Hennessey?”
“Four million dollars and all the jewelry in the safe-deposit boxes.”
Petrov never looked away from Elena. “I can get that amount here by morning. I presume you have other demands to assure your safety?”
“In the morning, that’s fine. Only one more demand. After you’ve given me the four million, you will have Henley fly me, my money, and Elena to wherever I choose. Elena is for my own safety. We’ll fly over to collect what you want—I presume it’s whatever is in that metal box from one of the safe-deposit boxes I stole?”
“It is. You did not attempt to open the box?”
Liam shook his head, remembered too clearly the awful pain in his side from the bullet whenever he moved.
Petrov whispered something against Elena’s ear, in Russian. “Don’t worry, I will let you kill the Irish bastard.”
She nodded, smiled up at him.
Liam didn’t like that smile, the sudden pleasure in her dark eyes. What had he told her? It didn’t matter, Liam had the Walther. He thought he might go to Morocco. He’d seen movies shot in those vast stretches of barren desert, tribesmen riding camels in their strange clothes. Fez, they called the big town, with its ancient streets and marketplaces. Who cared if the heat could seer off a man’s eyebrows? He’d turn up the air conditioning or hire some of those sloe-eyed girls to fan him with palm fronds.
Liam looked over at Petrov and Elena again. He was caressing the back of her hand, speaking quietly to her in Russian. Liam called out, “Elena will be staying in this room with me tonight. Anyone tries to come in and she’ll be the first to die. Is that understood?”
Petrov squeezed Elena’s hand, nodded. “Neither I nor Abram will give you any problems. But I will give you a warning. If you harm Elena, I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and your death will be more unpleasant than Jacobson’s.”
Liam laughed. “A fine threat, but you know, Mr. Petrov, I doubt that’s possible.” He shrugged. “But it’s fair enough. All she has to do is be good, give me no trouble.”
Petrov turned back to her. “Don’t let him upset you, moy golub. You must rest and regain your strength.”
“What is moy golub?”
Petrov turned dispassionate eyes to him. “My dove.”
“Very sweet, mate, but this one a dove? She’s more like a viper. I thought for sure she was going to shoot Jacobson. He was a right proper muck-up, that one. I hope you didn’t pay him much.”
Petrov shrugged. “He was recommended by a contact in Metro, fresh out of jail, needed money. His death was punishment enough for his incompetence. Luckily, there is no way the FBI can trace him to me or to you.
“Tell me, Mr. Hennessey, why are you so distrusting of me? I respect your skills. You did an excellent job hiding the goods. I have done everything I promised to do for you. Yet you still treat me like an enemy rather than as your business partner.”
Elena spoke up, her voice sharp. “Sergei is a man of honor. His word is never questioned. There is no reason for you to distrust him.”
“Ah, yes, honor among thieves, is that it? I’m glad your boss didn’t tell you to pull out my fingernails in that forest, but I’m not going to let either of you give it a go now. What did Petrov call you? His dove? Moy golub.”
“Don’t you call me that, you Irish trash!”
“See, more a vulture.” He shook his finger at Elena. “That was rude. I could have thrown you out of the helicopter after Jacobson, opened that little metal box and used it myself, cut out the middle man. But Sergei and I had a deal. So, girl, make nice so I won’t have to lock you in a closet. Hey, Sergei, since we’re partners and all, tell me what this has to do with Putin.”
Petrov went poker stiff. “It has nothing to do with him directly, but Vladimir Putin is a fine man, a great man, exactly the man Russia needs in this time of turmoil. It is your Western press who paint him as a monster, your Western governments that try to slander him, and all those who are loyal to him.”
“Guy can’t even put on a shirt,” Liam said.
By the time Dr. Michaelov arrived, Liam had eaten Abram’s lentil soup and a huge hunk of black rye bread, and taken three aspirin. He was tired, but it didn’t matter, he could deal with that. He’d learned long ago in prison to keep alert, or get his throat slit.
Dr. Michaelov was a dapper little man, older than Petrov, solidly in his fifties, like Abram. Like Petrov, he was beautifully dressed, in a pale blue pin-striped suit, tasseled Italian loafers on his small feet. Liam thought he looked like a Belfast politician whose house he’d robbed, a smug, smooth-tongued liar who tossed around promises he’d never keep. Liam had made sure he’d cost the lying bugger dearly.
“It took you long enough to get here,” Liam called out.
Dr. Michaelov drew himself up, looked down his nose at Liam, and ignored him.
He gave a sharp bow to Petrov. “I was unavoidably detained, Sergei. My apologies.”
Liam said nothing as the doctor immediately sat beside Elena and examined her, asked her questions, tested her coordination, and gave her some pills. He stood, again bowed to Petrov, and said in beautifully fluent English with only a whiff of an accent, “Ms. Orlov will be fine. I’ve given her something for the headache. But she must rest.”
Liam called out, “Will she be well enough to travel by tomorrow morning?”
Michaelov turned cold eyes to Liam, looked back to Petrov, his eyebrow raised. Supercilious sod.
Petrov said, “You may answer him, Timur.”
“Very well.” Michaelov stood stiffly, then said in a voice colder than a Moscow winter, “Ms. Orlov will be well enough by tomorrow to travel, but no more than two or three hours, then she must rest.”
Liam gave Timur his heartbreaker smile. “Good to hear. Now come here, mate, and take care of my damned foot.”