Smiling, Dmitri turned his monitor so that Ted could see it. Ted compared the logo on the screen to the one on the key. “I think you may be right. It looks like part of the SovBank design.”
“Is medium to big bank; three locations in Moscow,” Dmitri said, tapping the addresses noted on the screen.
“Which location should we go to?”
“Central,” said Dmitri decisively. “Will have boxes at central, most likely. Bolshaya Dmitrovka Street.” He frowned. “But you will not be allowed access without proper identification, you know this? Even with key.”
Ted leaned back and crossed his foot over the opposite knee. “Ah, but this is where years of government bureaucracy come in handy. All we need is a convincing-looking power of attorney.”
“Dmitri, do you know of an attorney who could help us?”
The professor looked disapproving. “Tatyana, this is not ethical.”
“I understand your reluctance,” she said. “But was it ethical of that Nazi officer to shoot my father in front of his wife and children? Was it ethical of the officer to steal our belongings?” Her voice rose. “Was it
ethical
, Dmitri, for my mother to be violated or for her to starve to death in a concentration camp?”
She lapsed into Russian, the words tumbling from her now-trembling mouth. “Don’t talk to me about the ethics of this!”
“But, Tatyana, the box may not be that officer’s. You understand? He perhaps sold the necklace to someone else.”
“I don’t care,” she said bitterly. “I have to look.”
“He is probably living under assumed name. You cannot get blank power of attorney. You see?”
Tears from her impaired old eyes began to pour down her face. “Help me, Dmitri,” she begged. “Please. You know it is the right thing to do, even if the methods are wrong.”
He stood, went to her, and took her hands. “Is okay, Tatyana. Is more simple than you think, hmm?”
“Is it? What can we do?”
He cast a speaking glance at Ted and rubbed his thumb against his index and middle fingers.
Light dawned across Ted’s face. “Of course,” he said. “Tatyana, we don’t need a forged power of attorney. All we need is cold, hard cash delivered to a susceptible bank employee.”
“Everyone,” Dmitri said, a trifle embarrassed, “take the bribe in Moscow.”
Natalie clung to Eric’s hand, acutely conscious of each step she took on solid ground. There was nothing like being grabbed by a complete stranger and tossed around like a sack of oranges to make one appreciate liberty and autonomy.
What frightened her was how easy it had been for the thug to snatch an adult woman off the street. He’d stolen her as easily as someone else might pocket a package of beef in the grocery store, and God alone knew what he might have done to her.
She felt jittery, as if she’d just inhaled a tank of helium. She knew it was still adrenaline from the incident coursing through her system, but she literally feared that if she let go of Eric’s hand, her body might defy gravity and rise up into the clouds like a woman-shaped balloon.
“So you think two different people are after us?” she asked. “Obviously our Russian Mafiya friends are, but who else?”
Eric’s expression was taut and grim, his eyes shuttered. He shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t know. But what happened back there was way too damned close for comfort. I want you to stay in the hotel from now on.”
She tried to pull her hand out of his, but he’d laced their fingers together, and he refused to loosen his grip. If anything, he tightened it. “Stay in the hotel? And not find my grandmother or see anything of Moscow? You’ve got to be kidding me, Eric.”
He stopped and turned to face her. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
His eyes glittered an icy, sapphire-saturated blue. You could break rocks on that jaw and those cheekbones. The area just around his sensual, mocking mouth had turned white with rage. He looked intimidating, dangerous, and vengeful.
She shivered, and it hit her with full force that she did not know who this man was, not at all. He showed her the face that he wanted her to see. He turned charm on and off like a tap. But what was behind the charm and the sensuous sexual appetite? Did he look like he was kidding? No. No, he most certainly did not.
“Eric,” she said carefully, “I’m not going to stay locked in a room for the next few days. That is not on my agenda.”
He dropped her hand and took her by the shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “Is it on your agenda to be kidnapped? Is it on your friggin’
agenda
to be killed? Which part of what happened back there do you not understand, Natalie? Huh?”
“You are hurting me,” she said in cold, clear tones.
He released her immediately, but his furious face was still inches from hers.
“Why are you angry?” she demanded. “And at
me
? Do you think I put on a sandwich board that said, ‘At tention, thugs, please kidnap me!’ Well, I didn’t. So back off, buddy.”
He stood there staring at her for a long moment. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you, babe. I’m angry with myself. For leaving you at risk and unprotected like that.”
“Eric—”
“When I looked across the street and that guy had you, I dunno, Natalie. I freaked. For the first time in my life, I was . . . scared. No, scratch that—I was heart-in-my-throat terrified. Beyond all reason.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
“No. No, it’s not okay. I need to tell you this. Look, I don’t do fear. A guy like me, it’s not part of my vocabulary. You page to the F in the McDougal index, kiddo, and you’ll see maybe three words:
fast
,
fuck
, and
fun
. But
fear
? No way.”
“I get it.”
“No, you don’t.” Eric looked at her and shook his head. “Because
I
don’t get it. All I know is it made me mad to be afraid. But none of any of this is your fault. So again, I’m sorry.”
He looked so miserable that she stood on tiptoe, reached up, and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, so close that she could barely breathe.
“I would have killed that man,” he said, in bemused tones.
“What?”
“The driver. I would have torn open his throat without a second thought.” He drank deeply of the cold, clear air as if to cleanse himself. Then he shook his head.
“It was self-defense, Eric. A normal response to being attacked.” She’d laid her head on his chest, and his heart beat against her ear.
“No. This wasn’t about self-defense, Natalie. I’m not sure exactly what it was about, but it was something primal. Something that came from a deep, dark place that I don’t think I want to visit again anytime soon.”
Eric took her hand in his once again and held on a little too tight.
But Natalie liked it. “I don’t care what you say, Eric McDougal. You just saved my life—and that makes you a hero.”
An expression of deep discomfort crossed his face. “Don’t call me that.”
“I will,” Natalie said mulishly. “I
will
.”
Twenty-four
McDougal hated authority almost as much as he hated fear, but it was easier to hate authority because it was always external. Fear came from inside, from some hidden, filthy, primordial place in the bowels. Authority, however, usually came from an open and irritating location: the mouth of a boss.
Unfortunately, he had no choice now but to check in with Avy. He’d drop dead before asking for help on his own account, but today’s incident with Natalie had illustrated for him in full color that he had to ask for help in order to protect her. He could risk his own life guilt free, but not hers.
Calling Avy was akin to shrinking his balls in a hot dryer, but it would soothe his own fears for Natalie’s safety, so he’d suck it up. In the great scheme of things, Natalie’s life was more important than his own pride.
Shocking, but true.
Once they were back at the hotel, McDougal told Natalie that he had to make a private business call and stepped out of the room. He grimaced and cracked his neck before hitting the speed-dial number for his boss. He didn’t dislike Avy, exactly . . . but there was the inevitable head butting between two highly intelligent, rebellious, and competitive personalities.
Not to mention the perplexing fact that Avy was, and always had been, utterly impervious to both his looks and his charm. And, okay, maybe the fact that she’d out-earned him for the past couple of years got under his skin a little bit.
Avy was like another bossy, annoying older sister, and he didn’t relish explaining what was going on to her.
“McManWhore,” she said, by way of a greeting. “What’s up? How’s the noggin?”
He had been jumped and knocked unconscious recently by one of their own people, a rogue agent who was now in jail awaiting trial. “My head’s as hard as they come, Avy. You know that.”
“I’m glad. So to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”
“I’m in Moscow.”
Pause. “Are you? Why?”
“Following a strong lead. And you’re here, too. Don’t bother denying it—Gwen told me.”
“Let me guess. Our Gwennie is worried and asked you to check up on me.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, you can tell her that I’m fine.”
“Will do, Ave, but there’s something else we need to cover. You know that I’m on the hunt for the St. George necklace, right? The one that used to belong to Catherine the Great.”
“Yeah. Why?”
Damn, but he hated doing this. “Look, I’m going to need some backup. I seem to have the Russian Mafiya on my tail, and they’ve left at least one dead body in their wake. I’m also worried that they may come after a source of mine.”
After an appalled silence, Avy whistled, long and low. “McDougal, we don’t need this kind of trouble. You don’t need it personally, and ARTemis sure as hell doesn’t need it on a corporate level.”
“I agree, believe me, but I’m already in it, and up to the neck. They were on the source’s trail in the U.S., which was bad enough, but now somehow they’ve found u—” Christ! He’d almost said
us
. The last thing he wanted to do was let Avy know that he was here with Natalie.
“Now somehow they’ve found me here in Moscow,” he continued. “I had an unpleasant incident this morning, a little matter of being narrowly missed by a car.”
“A car almost ran you over? But you don’t have the piece yet. That doesn’t make any sense,” Avy said.
“I didn’t know the Mafiya was required to make sense.”
“Funny. What else?”
“Okay . . . what else is that not only do I have these Russian thugs after me, but someone entirely different was taking photographs on the street.”
“It’s ’cause you’re such a stud muffin, McDougal.”
“No. Trust me, these pictures were not meant for a caviar advertisement. I’m being double-teamed.”
“Okay, look. I can give you some insight into the photographer. He may have been hired by an old man here in Moscow who claims the St. George necklace was stolen from
him
.”
“What? But the necklace was stolen from a restoration outfit in Manhattan, and the care and custody policy was written through Hiscox. So how would he know that I’m on the trail?”
“You tell me. What have you been up to? Is this source of yours pretty and female? Did you bring her with you to Moscow?”
He didn’t say a word.
“Okay, play coy, but do the math, McDougal. Seems likely that the Russians stole the necklace from the old man, funneled it to New York, and then someone else stole it from the restoration outfit.”
“And in the meantime, the Russkies had faked a provenance on the insurance paperwork,” Eric murmured.
“Yeah. Happens all the time—you know it and I know it. Listen,” Avy said brusquely. “I want you off this case.”
“Excuse me? No, I—”
“This isn’t up for debate, McDougal. Drop the case. We do not need the Russian mob after us. That’s a problem that I doubt even Kelso could solve.”
“But I’m so close that I can practically reach out and touch the damned necklace. Come on, Avy. Don’t overreact, here. You weren’t this worried when you knew the Greek mob was after you.”
“That’s different.”
“Oh, yeah? How?”
She muttered something under her breath. “I’m not having you killed for this thing, understand? We may not always see eye to eye, Eric, but I’m still kind of fond of your tattooed ass.”
He winced. “How the hell do you know about
that
?”
Avy laughed. “Sheila.”
“And how does
she
know?”
“She probably talked to one of your bimbos. Maybe your mysterious ‘source.’ You’ll have to ask her. Anyway. Go tour a vodka factory and then go home and get a different assignment, McDougal. I’ll deal with the insurer.”
“Damn it, Avy—”
Her voice changed from friendly to frigid in milliseconds. “You want to cuss and argue with me, or you want to hang on to your job?”
“Fine.” Disgusted, he ended the call. This was what he got for asking for help and keeping his boss in the loop: thrown off the case. And what galled him even more was that unless he ditched Natalie, his quitting the case wouldn’t do any good. He had a bull’s-eye on his forehead, and they wouldn’t stop until they hit the target.
Avy wasn’t stupid. She’d sensed that he’d been carefully editing what he told her. And she was ordering him to distance himself from the Mafiya’s real target, even if she didn’t know precisely who it was.
A smart man would do exactly as she said. A smart man wouldn’t jeopardize his job or his life. But McDougal had been steadily losing brain power since he set out to get Natalie drunk in Reif’s. He felt responsible for her.
Walk away now and leave her defenseless against the mob in a foreign city halfway across the world? He couldn’t do it. Besides, that necklace was going to finance his deepwater fishing boat.