His head pulled up and back as he watched his hand on her breast. “Do they feel different?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“A little,” she whispered.

His hand moved from her breast, down to cover her belly. It rested there, warm and large. Right over where their child was growing.

Finally, Nick moved, pulling away to get the electronic paraphernalia.

The body wire was complicated to strap on, and required several pieces of tape. Nick worked slowly and carefully, face intent. He was sweating so hard a bead dropped down his temple.

He disappeared into her bedroom and came back with a black cardigan and dressed her, slowly, carefully. A tiny video camera took the place of one of the buttons.

“I’ll be watching you,” Nick said. “Watching everything.”

She nodded.

He ran her through the precautions. Her head swam with frequencies and audio cones and battery life, though he made her promise again, looking him straight in the eyes, that at minute twenty after entering Vassily’s house, she’d plead a headache and come home.

Finally, it was done.

Nick wrapped her in his arms and they stood there, both shaking, his head buried in her shoulder. She felt moisture on the bare skin of her shoulder. She pulled back, surprised.

Tears, not sweat.

She reached up to run her hands through his blue-black hair. Nick. Her husband. Who’d lied to her, who wasn’t what he said he was. But she loved him all the same, with everything in her.

A deep shudder rippled through his long body, then he straightened. He looked at her, not even trying to hide the tears streaking his cheeks.

“I’ll be close by,” he said starkly.

She nodded.

“Say as little as possible, get in, get out.”

She nodded again.

They looked at each other in the silence of the room. Nick was panting, as if he’d run a race. His fists clenched tightly, then opened.

“Go get dressed,” he said, “before I change my mind.”

Twenty-three

Parker’s Ridge

Vassily Worontzoff’s mansion

“My dear Arkady,” Vassily said, coming toward him. “My dear, dear friend.” They embraced, kissing each other’s cheeks.

“Vor.” Arkady’s voice was thick. He coughed to hide his emotion. He hadn’t seen his Vor in four years.

“Come my friend, you must sit down. You must be weary after such a long journey.” Vassily indicated a comfortable leather armchair next to what was obviously his desk and brought Arkady a glass of vodka himself, a sign of respect.

The Vor sat next to him, placing his shattered hand on Arkady’s arm. “You have done well, my friend. There will be many such trips, if you are willing to take them—” He paused while Arkady nodded.

No question. If the Vor needed him, he was at his service.

“Good.” The Vor nodded. “We will make much money and when we have finished, I will send you to look after my interests in Europe. Would you like to settle in Switzerland? France?”

“Italy,” Arkady breathed and the Vor nodded again.

“Italy it shall be. There will be work for you there. Our empire is growing. You will be my viceroy.”

Arkady bowed his head. “It would be a privilege, Vor,” he murmured.

The two men turned their heads at the sharp knock on the door. A man stuck his head in. A former zek. Arkady could tell. “He’s coming, Vor. We just got word. He’ll be here in less than an hour, in a three-car caravan.”

“He comes in alone,” Vassily said sharply. “Or not at all. Tell him I will be without bodyguards myself. There will only be the engineer in the room.”

The man looked uneasy. “Vor,” he said. “Is that wise? These are dangerous men.”

“Yes, they are. But we have something they badly want. And we have more coming. They won’t harm me.” He flicked his hand. “Now go and be prepared to greet him when he arrives.”

The man hesitated briefly, then bowed his head and withdrew. The heavy door made a soft whump as it closed.

Vassily gave a wintry smile. “This business will be over soon. Come, let us retire to the living room where we have tea waiting for us. And when this is over, there is someone I must introduce to you. You will be astonished, my friend.”

Outside Worontzoff’s mansion

Those were the last words they heard before Alexei pulled the plug. Nick knew Alexei had to—if you looked carefully, you could see the laser beam as a faint line in the gathering darkness—but he had to stop himself from banging a fist against the wall in frustration.

He and Di Stefano were hunkered down behind a bush, to one side of the study windows, unable to see into the room. Essentially blind and now that Alexei had cut them off, deaf, too.

They were clad head to toe in a special uniform and balaclava made of Nomex that repelled thermal imaging.

Worontzoff’s security was shot to shit tonight, all his guards milling about, offloading the truck that had driven in a quarter of an hour before. He and Di Stefano had been careful and they were good. They’d had zero trouble infiltrating.

Nick knew that the SWAT team was deployed, ready. They’d spent the past hour getting into position. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. The comms system clicked steadily every quarter of an hour, ticking off men in position.

He’d been expecting a knock-down drag-out fight from Di Stefano about being down here where the action was and not up in the van, watching Alexei pace in frustration. But Di Stefano clearly realized Nick wouldn’t let anything get in the way between him and Charity while she was in Worontzoff’s house. Di Stefano had simply told Nick to suit up and that was that.

Di Stefano pulled out a small LCD monitor, holding it so that no one could detect its faint glow. It was a little miracle of technology, programmed for thermal imaging and able to tune into the frequency of Charity’s microcamera.

He studied it carefully and signaled to Nick that everyone had left the room. To Nick’s surprise, he drew out a tiny drill and proceeded to drill a hole through the wall, at the level of the baseboard inside the house. It was high speed and utterly silent. As soon as the drill perforated the inside wall, Di Stefano threaded a combo microphone—fish-eye lens snake into the hole.

Di Stefano fiddled with the tiny handheld computer, and suddenly Nick had sound and could see inside the room. It was at foot level, but the camera had a good range. He knew it was a little miracle of optics.

Great, now they had eyes and ears in the room and could see and hear what Charity was seeing and hearing. Better than he’d hoped.

There was no one in the study, but there was music in the background. One of those sad Russian songs that had driven him crazy when he was on listening duty.

The comm system was piping sound to everyone on the loop, including Alexei. If Russian was spoken, Alexei would give a simultaneous interpretation.

Everything was good to go. Now all they could do was wait.

Nick was usually good at waiting. Stillness and darkness were his friends. Right now, though, his insides were racing at a thousand miles an hour. He gripped his MP5 tightly, glad for the gloves because his hands were sweating.

Two clicks from the SWAT team members. Nothing happening.

Iceman hunkered down to wait. There was nothing else to do.

Nick had carefully picked her clothes. The black cardigan was loose and didn’t show the tiny mike taped between her breasts or the battery pack taped to the small of her back. Even she had difficulty in seeing the microcamera, it was so well camouflaged. He’d also picked slate gray lightweight wool pants and comfortable boots. He hadn’t said it, but clearly he’d chosen her clothes not only to hide the camera and mike, but also for comfort if she had to move fast.