I was then allowed into the backseat of the limo and we drove in silence until we reached Grinkov’s front gate, which opened smoothly and allowed us to enter without stopping.
Grinkov’s British butler greeted me at the door and led me deep into the house through a winding series of corridors. By the time we reached Grinkov’s study, I was a little disoriented, but I had a feeling we were probably somewhere at the back of the house, because there were large windows flanking the far wall that overlooked a beautiful and well-tended garden. “Abigail,” Grinkov said warmly when I was shown into his study.
“Maks,” I replied, just as warmly. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all?
Grinkov was dressed casually in a lightweight black sweater with matching dress slacks and wine-colored loafers—no socks. His wrist was adorned with a beautiful gold watch studded with sapphires, and I had no doubt it was a Rolex. He looked relaxed and sexy and tempting as heck. I tried to remind myself about the mission and to whom I was engaged.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
Now, I wanted that wine like you cannot believe, but I knew that if I had a glass, my defenses would start to peel away, and that was just too risky for obvious reasons. So I offered him a polite excuse that I hoped he’d accept. “Thank you, Maks, but I find that alcohol interferes with my sixth sense, and as you’ve asked me here in a professional capacity, I think it’s wise to remain completely sober.”
The corner of Grinkov’s mouth twitched. “Pity,” he said.
When he didn’t offer another topic for conversation, I made a show of looking around the room and noticed several photos of Maks engaging in various extreme sports. Curious, I walked over to a row of framed photos and examined them. One showed him midjump from a helicopter, wearing a set of skis and facing a very steep slope. In another he was mountain climbing, in a third he was skydiving, and a fourth showed him leaning against the hood of a race car in full racing attire. “I see you’re an adrenaline junkie.”
Maks came to stand next to me, allowing me a whiff of his cologne, which was, like the rest of him, sexy and dangerous. “I like to combine speed and risk, if that’s what you mean.”
I turned to him and flipped on my radar. “Is that how you hurt your hip?”
Maks’s eyes widened a bit. “Yes,” he admitted. “I injured it last year right after this picture was taken.” He pointed to the one of him jumping out of the helicopter to ski down the side of a very steep mountain. “It’s been bothering me quite a lot lately.”
I waved a hand in a circular motion around his right hip. “I can sense the pain.” Maks opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “Frankly I don’t know why you’re putting off the surgery. Your hip is shot, Maks. It’s time to replace it.”
Maks’s eyes got even bigger before he seemed to rein in his reaction and he considered me seriously. “You are a most remarkable woman.”
I smiled. “Thanks. Now, what was it you needed my help with?”
Maks waved me over to his desk and I followed behind, curious to see what he’d have me tune in on. On the desk was a rolled-up blueprint, and right away I started getting stuff off it. Maks began to unroll the paper and I said, “You’re building an ice rink?”
His hands froze. He stared down at the half-unrolled blueprint and said, “If I did not know better, Abigail, I would think you were a spy.”
Immediately sweat formed on my palms and at the small of my back and I barely managed to keep my wits about me. I forced myself to laugh lightly and turn it into a joke. “Ha! Oh, Maks, that’s rich. Yes, I’ve been sent here by CSIS to interrogate you about your ice rink. Give it up for the Crown, buddy.”
To my immense relief, Maks laughed too and continued to unfurl the blueprint. “What else are you picking up?”
“Well,” I said, thinking about it for a minute and attempting to sort through the mix of visual images entering my mind. “I can sense lots of sports-type things—hockey and figure skating—but also other stuff like classrooms and computers. There’s going to be a lot of kid energy focused here, right?”
Maks set two paperweights on each side of the blueprint and stood back to gaze at it with pride. “It will be a youth center,” he declared. “And I want to place it in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Toronto.”
I looked at Grinkov with a new perspective. Either he was very good at hiding some sort of ulterior motive, or he really did have a charitable good side. “You want to help disadvantaged youth?” I asked, my voice betraying my disbelief.
Grinkov looked sharply at me. “Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”
I remembered what I’d read about this man from the file Frost had provided earlier in the day, how he’d been orphaned at a young age and raised on the streets in Chechnya, surviving by his own wits and cunning. He’d left his homeland abruptly ten years ago, and I wondered if it’d been because he was running from the murder of his wife and her lover.
Still, I imagined much of who he was had been formed on those rough streets when he was a boy, and it wasn’t hard to see why he’d want to help other young boys and girls avoid the same hardships. “No,” I told him honestly. “It’s not hard to believe when I think about it.”
“What do you mean, when you think about it?”
I shrugged. “It fits your energy. There’s a side of you that’s very conscious of how difficult life can be for those from more humble beginnings. I can sense that much of your own youth was spent in hardship.”
Grinkov’s stance relaxed, and I could tell he accepted my explanation. “Yes, this is true,” he confessed. “I would like to save even one child from a similar experience.”
I turned my attention back to the blueprint, waiting for Grinkov to tell me what he wanted to know about the project, but I was already picking up lots of political and quarrelsome energy around it, so I just dove right in. “There are some big issues to overcome before you can break ground—am I right?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes and felt my way through the ether. “You’ve got some major opposition, Maks, both political and social. People have heard of you in those circles where individuals with your connections are whispered about, and I know you’ve been working to establish some legitimate contacts, but the rumors persist and let’s face it—they’re true anyway.”
I opened one eye to check his reaction; to my relief he appeared only curious, so I closed my eye again and continued. “You want people to trust that this youth center will be good for Toronto, and while the people who could allow you to build this thing know that, what they’re afraid of is being linked to you during their next run for office. It’s a huge obstacle you’ll have to personally overcome and it isn’t one that will be resolved quickly if you go it alone. I see it taking many years to win these people over, in fact.”
“What would you recommend I do?” Grinkov asked me.
I opened my eyes again and shrugged. “You mean if I were you and I had all this facing me?”
“Yes.”
“I’d get a partner.”
“A partner?” he repeated.
“Yes. Someone with impeccable credentials, someone who could be the face of this youth center and help buffer the fallout for the politicians. You need a champion, Maks. Someone to help you gain access to the building permits currently eluding you, along with the extra funding you’ll need to finish the project and keep the youth center going for the long term. This can’t be the Maks Grinkov youth center. It has to appear to be someone else’s.”
The hard set to Maks’s mouth told me that he didn’t like that idea at all. “But it’s my idea,” he insisted, as if he could argue with me to change the outcome.
“It is your idea,” I agreed. “And it’s likely to stay just that—an idea—if you don’t consider bringing in someone else and making them the face of the youth center. So, Maks, the choice is yours: You can have a great idea that you’ll continue to try to get off the ground for years and years until you’re out of time, energy, and patience, or within the next two years you can have a fully functioning youth center where hundreds, perhaps thousands, of underprivileged youths will benefit and one day be hugely grateful for it, even if they don’t know the
real
person to thank.”
Maks adopted a pensive pose. I considered that although he was willing to finance this incredibly generous act, he was having a hard time letting go of the fantasy of being seen as a great man by so many adoring youngsters. With a sigh he lifted off the paperweights and began to roll up the blueprint again. “Your advice is very good,” he told me. “I will look for someone to partner with tomorrow.”
“Make it a sports hero,” I told him, already seeing a hockey jersey in my head. “And if you can find anyone who made it all the way to the NHL from that particular neighborhood, you’ll have a partnership made in heaven.”
A sly smile spread across Maks’s face. “I am beginning to envy Rick more and more,” he told me, and when he looked up at me, his eyes were smoldering with desire.
I felt a blush hit my cheeks. “Can I have some water?”
Maks pushed a button on his desk and within seconds Eddington the butler appeared. He was sent to get me some water, and Maks led me over to a group of chairs, where we sat and were soon served my water and a plate of cheeses and fruit. I nibbled at the cheese while Grinkov and I made small talk. He was very curious about my radar and asked all the usual questions: When did I first realize I was psychic? And what goes on in my head when I get an intuitive feeling?
Conscious of how anxious Dutch and Frost likely were about my absence, I kept many of my answers short and sweet and it wasn’t long before I was able to steer the conversation back to why I’d been brought here. “So, is the youth center the only thing you wanted to ask me about?”
Before Grinkov had the opportunity to answer, Eddington came into the room. Bowing slightly for the interruption, he said, “Would you care for more cheese and fruit, sir?”
“No, William, but I would like to ask Ms. Carter something in your presence, if you don’t mind?”
My radar
bing
ed the moment Grinkov began speaking, and the shift in energy was so abrupt that it caught me a bit off guard. Maks’s tone had not changed in pitch or pleasantness, yet I detected some subtle and immediate danger. “Of course, sir,” said Eddington with another bow.
Grinkov turned to me and I could feel my heart beating like a wild bird in my chest. Something bad was on the verge of happening and I couldn’t identify quite what it was. “Abigail,” Grinkov began. “With regard to my butler, William, do you suspect, as I do, that he might be stealing from me?”
The breath caught in my throat much the way I’m sure it caught in Eddington’s. I chanced a very quick glance at the butler and saw the immediate fear in his eyes and how the color faded from his cheeks. I forced myself to swallow and remain calm. “Why do you suspect your butler?” I asked, stalling so I could think on how best to answer.
Grinkov’s manner was still completely relaxed, but I knew that he was much like a coiled snake, ready to pounce on his servant the moment I said go. I also knew that I likely held Eddington’s very life in my hands.
“I would rather not reveal what has caused me to be suspicious,” he said curtly. “Please, observe his energy and tell me what you can glean from it.”
I hesitated. Grinkov was a masterful poker player with his own terrifically honed intuitive sense, and I wondered if he suspected his butler just because Eddington appeared to have something to hide. I focused my radar at Grinkov and found that same signature wave of energy I’d hit on a few nights before when he had a bad hand and was trying to bluff his way through it.
“Now, please!” he snapped, which pulled me immediately away from focusing on him.
I flinched but swiveled in my seat and lifted my eyes to meet Eddington’s. The elder gentleman stood rigid, with his chin held high, but there was a slight tremble to his lower lip, and he was gripping his walking stick so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. He was radiating fear through the ether and I felt awful for him. “Fine,” I said to Grinkov. I closed my eyes to shut out the haunted look from the butler, attempting to work my way first along Eddington’s energy and then along very carefully chosen words.
“I can see why you’re suspicious,” I told Grinkov as in my mind I could see a tangle of images that were somewhat complex given their context. I saw my symbol for jail, and for justice and also a crown. I could feel Eddington’s past might be coming back to haunt him, and I thought I knew a way out for him.
“Tell me what you see,” Grinkov insisted.
“Your butler has a past,” I told him. “One that he’s not exactly proud of. As you know, he comes from Britain, but what he hasn’t revealed to you is that he once spent time in prison.”
I opened my eyes to look at Eddington again. His expression practically begged me to keep quiet, and I wished I could somehow convey to him that he could trust me.
“What was he in prison for?” Grinkov asked.
I tapped my finger on the sofa, trying to figure that part out. I’m usually really good at stuff like that, but I was a bit nervous and feeling pressured. I focused on Eddington, who was doing his level best to try to conceal his energy, and subconsciously he was fairly adept at hiding himself from my radar now that he knew what I could do. In desperation my eye roved to the far wall and lit upon one of Grinkov’s many oil paintings. There had been a hint of an artistic element in Eddington’s energy, so, as I was running out of time, I decided to improvise and make something up. “I believe it was forgery. Art forgery, isn’t that right, William?”
The poor butler opened and closed his mouth, words failing him.
“He has the energy of an artist,” I told Grinkov. “I believe he was quite a talented painter in his youth, and if I had to guess, I’d say that he was copying some of the masters and passing them off as the real thing.”