Now that he was in work mode, the relaxation he’d felt when they were rolling around on the bed like puppies was gone, as if it had never been. He’d clawed a few hours out of the face of the rock for them, but now it was time to start putting things into action. One misstep and they were gone. He knew his face reflected that.
“Come with me.” They walked into the study, where it looked like Shota had outdone himself. There were two piles of boxes plus a folded easel leaning against the wall. One pile was of plain brown cardboard boxes with the logo of the art supply shop; the other pile was of elegant boxes in every color of the rainbow, with enormous ribbons and bows. He was amused to see that her attention went immediately to the art supplies.
Sitting on the arm of a chair, he brought her to stand between his legs. She looped her arms around his shoulders. Taking her cue from him, her face was sober as she looked down at him.
His hands spanned her narrow back. He could feel the delicate rib cage, the sharp indentation of her waist. Against the stark black of his gi, her skin was pale, fine-grained. She was so damned…vulnerable. In every way. The world isn’t kind to the vulnerable, not even to artists with the gift of the gods in their hands.
It was a miracle she’d survived the firefight outside Feinstein’s. It was by no means certain that she would survive the next. And there would be one. If it was Rutskoi teamed up with Cordero, Cordero was too stupid to quit and Rutskoi knew Drake, knew that he wouldn’t rest until Rutskoi was down, so he’d have to go on the attack. This wasn’t going to go away.
And if Drake survived their next attack, there would be the next one and the one after that to deal with. They’d never gotten him, up until now. They never would, as long as he was alone. But now there was Grace and they would get her, oh yes. No question of that.
There was nothing in Grace’s beautiful head that would help her defend herself. No survival instincts at all. There was kindness, a unique way of looking at the world to discern its shapes and colors, a constant striving to reinterpret the world in her work. But she had no strategy for survival, no idea of the treachery of the world and how to combat it. To a certain kind of man, Grace had target written on her forehead.
With her to worry about, he’d be off balance. He already was. Just the thought that Rutskoi and Cordero might be planning her kidnapping right now, and with some inside help, too, drove him a little crazy.
He tapped the small dent in her chin and breathed her in. “I knew you’d probably go nuts without being able to paint or draw, so I got you as many art supplies as I could. If anything’s missing, or if you want more, all you have to do is ask. The other pile over there is clothing. Again, just let me know what you need and it’s yours.
“For a while, you’re going to have to stay here, so I want you to be as comfortable as possible. I have books, music, movies. Anything you want that I don’t have, ask me, or press the intercom and you’ll get it within the hour.”
“Drake…”
He grabbed a quick kiss. “Yes?”
She looked troubled and he tried to wipe away the small frown between her eyebrows with his thumb, wishing he could wipe away the threat as easily.
“How long do you think I’ll have to stay here?”
Forever. Or until we disappear.
“Let me worry about that. I’m going to start work on that right now. You just relax.” He stood, because if he stayed, he’d walk her straight back to the bedroom, and he couldn’t indulge, not with all that he had to do this morning.
Reluctantly, he stood, breaking her hold, and walked across the room, hating it that he had to leave her. He stopped at the door, then turned. She hadn’t moved. He pointed to the brightly colored pile of boxes. “There are several boxes of underwear there. But Grace?”
Her face was a pale oval, eyes glittering. “Yes?”
“Don’t wear any.”
Rutskoi had had a mistress many years ago. An actress. Though she’d been beautiful beyond compare, she’d been a lousy lay. Much too preoccupied with herself to think of pleasing him. Rutskoi had kept her well past her sell-by date because of her beauty, thinking that sooner or later things would warm up in bed, but they never did.
He could barely remember her name now and he considered the three months she’d lived with him a failure. But one good thing came out of all that sexual frustration. She’d given him a professional course in the fine art of disguise.
He’d watched, fascinated, as she made up for the theater, explaining all the tricks of the trade as she did. How to change skin color and the shape of the nose, the cheekbones. How a change in hair color—whether by dyeing or a wig—and hair length altered perceptions. How to call attention away from identifying characteristics by emphasizing other traits. How to appear taller, shorter, fatter, thinner. He’d watch, fascinated, as she dropped a decade, aged twenty years, became a nun, a streetwalker, a peasant woman.
So the doorman didn’t blink twice at the handyman who announced his presence at ten A.M. A leak on the twenty-first floor, causing electrical shortages and blowing out the computers of a travel agency.
The doorman saw a man of medium height, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, light brown skin, wearing stained workmen’s overalls and carrying a big aluminum case. The man spoke with an accent, but then most repairmen did these days.
The doorman pointed out the elevator and turned back to look out the huge ground-floor windows in time to see the first snowflakes fall.
Rutskoi was certain the doorman had already forgotten his existence by the time he swiveled back to his monitors.
He went up to the fifteenth floor, got out and took the stairs to the thirtieth. He knew what sniping was, what it entailed. It was perfectly possible that he’d have to wait, prone, unmoving, for days. He welcomed the tiny toll fifteen flights of stairs at a run took on his muscles.
Never get soft, he reminded himself.
He drifted along the corridor of the thirtieth floor, head down, big-billed cap hiding his features. The lock took only a few seconds more than if he’d had a key. A few movements hidden by his back, and he was in.
It was a studio apartment, some 80 square meters, with two bedrooms and a modern kitchenette in the corner.
Carpeting, which was nice. He’d spent more hours of his life than he could count lying on the hard, stony ground, waiting for a shot.
Working quickly while there was still daylight, Rutskoi pulled on latex gloves, then opened his case and took out the pieces of the broken-down Barrett from their foam cutouts. Snap snap snap. His hands assembled the pieces without any conscious thought, performing the task automatically, perfectly, the fruit of thousands and thousands of repetitions. The tripod was next. Several efficient twists and snaps and there it was—the stable platform for his rifle.
He placed a plastic tarp on the carpet and carefully smoothed it down. A wrinkle could feel like a mountain after a couple of days. That tarp was going to be his home for however long it took.
He was going to get one chance at this, one. He had to do it right. He had to wait until the opportunity arrived, then use it. He couldn’t afford the least distraction.
This was like any military op, he reminded himself, only better paid. He had an enemy to observe and then take out. All the military rules for urban sniping held here, too. In Manhattan, as in Grozny, the principles were the same, only this time he wasn’t holing up in the rubble of a building destroyed by tanks, or behind an abandoned vehicle or on the rooftop of the tallest building around, but in a comfortable studio apartment with heating.