“It’s after hours. You’re talking about a full-scale operation that requires extensive planning.”
“I have something to offer in exchange.” Acacia signaled to Olga.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Kuznetsov is stockpiling weapons, grenades, and bombs inside his compound.”
The agent paused. “How do you know?”
“We have video footage. I can send it to you.”
The agent rattled off an email address, which Olga quickly copied down.
“The address is secure,” the agent assured Acacia. “Send it over.”
Acacia locked eyes with Olga. “Email the weapons footage,” Acacia instructed in English. “Send the stills from inside the vault, too.”
“Can you see the images?” she asked the agent in Russian, nervously tapping her foot on the floor.
“Opening now.” The agent swore. “These are in his house?”
“Yes. I’ve also sent images of stolen artwork and antiquities from his vault. One of the pieces is very important to Pierre.”
The agent exhaled heavily into the phone. Then Acacia heard a furious tapping sound and a low expletive.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Hold on.” The agent seemed to put the phone down. Acacia heard footsteps and the sound of what could have been a filing cabinet opening.
She heard papers rustle through the telephone line, and then the agent spoke again in her ear. “There’s something else of interest in that vault.”
“What?”
“There’s an Imperial egg.”
“A Fabergé egg. Yes, I saw it.”
“It looks like the Third Imperial egg, which belonged to the Tsar and his wife. After the revolution, it was seized by the Bolsheviks and placed in the Kremlin Armoury Museum.”
“I don’t follow,” Acacia confessed.
“The egg is a national treasure. It was on loan to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg a number of years ago when it was stolen. Law enforcement all over Russia has been looking for it.”
“So you’ll help us?” Acacia held her breath.
“Everything takes time. But this, coupled with the weapons, should be enough for me to get some support. The Russian President is friendly with the Director of the Hermitage Museum. He pledged the stolen treasure would be found.”
“What can you do?”
“Let me speak to your head of security. I’m going to approach my superiors.” The agent paused. “And thank you.”
“Any help you can offer will be appreciated, Agent. But you know time is of the essence.” Acacia tried to keep the emotion out of her voice.
“I understand.”
“In case your superiors need further motivation, I should mention that in addition to the stolen Degas and the Imperial egg, it looks as if the missing Matisse from the Musée d’Art Moderne is in the vault as well. I have the contact information for the BRB agent in Paris who is in charge of the investigation.”
“Send it over.”
Acacia placed her cell phone on the table next to Wen’s laptop and gestured to the screen. Since Luc had been unwilling to help, she would pass along Philippe’s contact information herself. She pulled up his profile from her cell phone, silently grateful she’d met him.
“I will. I’m turning you over to our head of security.” She murmured her thanks and handed the phone to Rick.
“Thank you, Olga.” Acacia touched the agent’s arm.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, removing her headset. “We’ve been working with that contact for some time, but the boss wasn’t able to get anywhere with him. Lucky for us, the weapons and egg seemed to have swayed him.”
“Kuznetsov must have a lot of influence if Interpol was willing to turn a blind eye for so long.”
“He has an incredible amount of influence,” Olga agreed. “He rose to power by killing his rivals and anyone he felt was a threat. They call him Serge the Terrible.”
Acacia shivered. Serge the Terrible had Nicholas. They had to find him as soon as possible.
“What’s happening?” She turned to Wen.
He pressed a few keys and a black and white video popped up on his laptop. “The incursion team cut the power to the compound.” He pointed to some movement on the lower part of the screen. “They started a bonfire outside the walls of the estate. Kuznetsov’s men opened the gates to check out the fire.”
“So the compound is without power?”
“They must have a backup generator, because the lights came back on.” Wen gestured to an image of the mansion, which was illuminated. “As you can see, he’s got the equivalent of a small army in there. He was waiting for us.”
“Send the footage to our Interpol contact.” She pulled on Rick’s arm.
“One minute,” Rick said into the phone. “Yes?”
“Wen is sending over footage of Kuznetsov’s men leaving the compound. Interpol will be able to see how well armed they are.”
“Copy that.” Rick returned to his phone call.
“What about Nicholas?” Acacia asked Wen.
“Dave, status,” Wen ordered.
“The van got off the M-9 and onto the A-109, which is taking the long way round to Barvikha, if that’s their destination,” Dave replied. He projected an image of a flashing light traveling on a roadmap of Moscow onto the large screen.
Wen stared at the screen. “The incursion team is on the move. Is there a possible intercept point?”
Dave studied his laptop. “The A-109 turns into the A-106, which is the road into Barvikha. If the incursion team hops on the A-106, they may run right into them.”
“What about Kuznetsov? Any sign of the convoy?”
“Negative.” Dave shook his head. “I’ll keep looking.”
“Copy that.” Wen spoke into his headset, passing information on to the leader of the incursion team.
“Wait a minute,” said Dave. “The boss has stopped. It looks like he’s in a forest.”
A hush fell over the room. The light on the main screen continued to flash, but it had moved off the A-109.
Dave tapped on his computer, and an aerial view of the area appeared on the screen. “He isn’t in a forest; there’s a house.”
“Could be one of Kuznetsov’s safe houses,” Wen observed.
“So close to his compound?” Olga interjected.
“That could be why we lost the convoy,” Dave suggested. “Maybe the house was Kuznetsov’s intercept point.”
At that moment, Rick stood behind Acacia’s chair. “Okay, everyone. I want everything you can get on that house, including property registry, security systems, and schematics. Go!”
The team scurried into action.
“How far away is the incursion team?” Rick walked over to Dave.
“They’re about five minutes from the safe house,” said Dave.
Wen gestured to Rick and pointed to his laptop. “The secondary incursion team just entered the lobby. They’re on their way up.” He pointed to images from hotel cameras on the ground floor.
“Good. Send everything you can get to the primary incursion leader.” Rick straightened and rubbed a hand across his mouth.
Acacia looked up at him. “Now what?”
“Now we pray.”
She touched her hamsa pendant. “That isn’t good enough. I want to go after him.”
Rick rounded on her. “After who? Kuznetsov?”
“No, Nicholas.” She stood, clutching her cell phone. “I want the backup team to take me to wherever Nicholas is.”
Rick stood over her, hands on his hips. “No. No way. The incursion team is going to handle the extraction. The backup team is here for our safety. You aren’t going anywhere.”
“I’m not asking for permission.” She held up her
wristwatch. “Wen will be able to track me. But I’m not going to sit here and wait.”
Rick scowled. “This is the safest place for you. We have no idea if Kuznetsov has other agents in the building or nearby. They could ambush you.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m with a group of professionals.” She moved toward the door.
Rick followed. “Once the incursion team has Nicholas, he’s going to want to see you. You don’t want to be stuck in traffic in the middle of Moscow.”
“It will take time for the incursion team to study the schematics and plan their attack, correct?”
Rick nodded.
“If I want to see Nicholas as soon as possible, I’d better get going.”
“God damn it.” Rick scrubbed at his face. He turned to Wen. “I’m going with her. I want constant updates.”
“Copy that.” Wen looked from Rick to Acacia. “Stay safe.”
“I will.” She opened the door to the hall and Rick passed through it. She followed and closed the door.
Chapter Sixty-Two
THE MEN DRAGGED NICHOLAS from the van in handcuffs. He’d suffered a split lip and bruised jaw, but luckily hadn’t lost any teeth.
Two burly men carrying automatic weapons—who Nicholas had seen take down his security team at the hotel—now held him by the arms. The security guards remained unconscious, lying in the back of the van.
He knew better than to take on his assailants. He was outnumbered and without a weapon. But he wasn’t outsmarted. They hadn’t scanned him for tracking devices. He flexed his wrist against the handcuff. His Rolex was still there.
As the men pulled him into an opulent, three-story villa, he thought of Acacia. It was possible his attackers had captured her as well. He prayed she was still alive.
He marched down a long hall and into a massive library. At the far end of the room, next to a black marble fireplace, stood a man.
Nicholas recognized him immediately. “Kuznetsov.”
The man turned. He held a crystal glass in his hand. He took a sip of amber liquid. “Cassirer.”
Serge Kuznetsov was of medium height and appeared to be in his fifties with a shaved head and peering blue eyes. His barrel chest and squat physique reminded Nicholas of a bulldog. He wore an expensive-looking tailored navy suit without a tie.
He gestured to his men, and they settled Nicholas in a leather armchair near the fireplace.
“Would you mind removing the handcuffs?” he asked in English, lifting his arms behind his back.
Kuznetsov nodded to one of the men. He produced a key and undid the cuffs.
Nicholas rubbed his wrists.
“A drink?” Kuznetsov approached the bar that stood in front of a large window.
“Vodka,” Nicholas replied.
Kuznetsov retrieved a bottle from a small freezer and poured two fingers of the spirit into a glass. He handed it to one of his men, who delivered it to Nicholas.
Nicholas sipped the liquid, but he didn’t take his eyes off his enemy.
“This is all very unfortunate.” Kuznetsov sat opposite Nicholas, his men standing nearby.
“Since I am your prisoner, I would have to agree.” Nicholas’s tone was wry.
Kuznetsov’s eyes grew sharp. “You attacked my home.”
“You murdered my sister.”
“No.” Kuznetsov lifted a finger and wagged it in Nicholas’s direction. “A Bosnian named Luka murdered your sister.”
Nicholas threw back more of his vodka. It tasted expensive but still produced heat in his throat. “You gave the order.”
Kuznetsov raised his shoulders. “I placed an order for rare artwork. I didn’t give an order to kill. Luka got carried away.”
Nicholas began to argue, but Kuznetsov spoke over him. “I’ve killed before, and so have my men. This is not a secret. But I did not kill your sister.”
Nicholas’s hands began to shake, he was so angry. “Where’s Luka?”
“He gave you that scar.” Kuznetsov made a slashing motion across his face. “I wonder, why didn’t you have it removed?”
Nicholas curled his hand into a fist. “I’ll have it removed after I have justice.”
“Justice.” Kuznetsov gazed at him. “I’m afraid you’ve traveled a long way, only to be disappointed.”
Nicholas ground his teeth together. “What do you mean?”
“Luka is dead.”
Nicholas stared daggers at his enemy. “What?”
Kuznetsov sipped his whisky, purposefully delaying his response. “After you found Luka and the others, they came to me. I dealt with them.”
Nicholas stared at the Russian in shock.
In a haze, he lowered his head to look at the glass in his hand. It was heavy and probably crystal. The vodka was expensive. And he and his enemy were sitting across from one another, calmly discussing life and death.
It was possible Kuznetsov was lying. But the fact the Bosnian and his crew had disappeared seemed to lend credence to the Russian’s account.
This was not an outcome Nicholas had anticipated. He had envisioned confronting Kuznetsov and moving on to confront the Bosnians. Now the latter might never happen.
He felt as if he’d been marched onto a scaffold, only to have the floor give way under his final step. He was falling through space and time, entirely adrift.
And Riva…
He choked back his anguish. He’d never be able to look her killer in the eye and demand retribution.
Nicholas stared at the vodka in his glass. The clear liquid taunted him. He was somewhere outside Moscow, having a drink with a man who referred to the Bosnian thieves as if they were an annoyance—a group of flies he’d swatted, not a group of human beings he’d murdered.
Nicholas blinked. In his mind’s eye, his free fall came to an excruciating halt at the bottom of an abyss. He felt the impact as if it were physical, and his heart thumped irregularly.
The absurdity hit him with all the force of a fall from a great height. Kuznetsov showed absolute indifference to human life as he sat in the large villa drinking thousands of Euros of whisky.
“It will never be enough,” Nicholas muttered, looking at his enemy. He could kill Kuznetsov, if he was able to escape and get hold of a weapon, but it wouldn’t take away his grief for Riva. It wouldn’t heal his loss. If anything, it would sink him even further into darkness. He would become the man he hated, the figure who had haunted his dreams and the lives of his parents since Riva’s murder.
“The man who scarred you is dead,” Kuznetsov continued. “The other members of his team are dead. The dead bury the dead.”
“Perhaps.” Nicholas’s voice was hoarse. “But you’re still in possession of my family’s artwork.”
“And you think you can take it back?” Kuznetsov chuckled. “Advice is wasted on the young, but let me give you some. You need to know your enemy better than you know yourself, if you want to win. I’ve followed you for years.”
Nicholas’s eyebrows lifted. “Years?”
“When you went after Luka, I knew you wouldn’t rest until you found me. I followed you. I watched your progress. I monitored your aliases and trailed your mistresses.”
Nicholas’s face grew alert.
Kuznetsov smiled. “The model was interesting enough, but your latest mistress is far more compelling. You agree, don’t you? You seem to be willing to do anything for her.”
Nicholas unclenched his fist. Kuznetsov’s attempt to rattle him had succeeded, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“You have the Matisse from the Musée d’Art Moderne,” Nicholas changed the subject. “The government of France is very interested in recovering it.”
Kuznetsov stood and returned to the bar. “France is used to disappointment.” He refilled his glass with whisky and brought the bottle of vod
ka to Nicholas. Kuznetsov poured for him.
“Have you checked your house recently?” Nicholas watched his enemy as he placed the bottle in the freezer and regained his seat.
Kuznetsov’s eyes darted to Nicholas. “Another piece of advice, my young friend. Never attempt to invade Russia. Your people cut the power to my estate, but it was back on within minutes.
“Ivan,” Kuznetsov beckoned one of his men.
The man stepped forward. He hadn’t removed his mask.
“Ivan, have there been any reports of a security breach at the estate?”
“Just the power outage, sir,” Ivan replied. “And a bonfire outside the gates.”
“A bonfire.” Kuznetsov smiled smugly. “Your team has failed.”
Nicholas tensed. He didn’t understand why the incursion team hadn’t followed orders and breached the compound. Unless…
He redirected his attention to the man who was smiling at him. “Did you order the attack on the concierge at the Hotel Victoire in Paris?”
“I know of no such attack. I did business with a dealer in Paris. He ran into some trouble and handled it clumsily. But his trouble was not from me.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what to believe. “What are you going to do now?”
Kuznetsov tasted his whisky again. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to send someone to retrieve Yasmin from Greece. She kept her mouth shut when she left, so I let her go. Now she’s going to be punished. Since Yasmin will be unavailable, I’ve decided to take your latest mistress as my own. I’ve never fucked a Brazilian.”
Involuntarily, Nicholas’s fingers curled into a fist.
“That will never happen.” He looked into the eyes of his enemy.
Kuznetsov laughed. “In Russia, I am king. Why should today be any different?”
Nicholas smiled.
Kuznetsov’s expression darkened. “Why are you smiling?”
“Have you studied Russian history?”
“What do you mean?”
Nicholas’s smile broadened, and he leaned forward in his chair. “What do you think happened to the kings of Russia?”