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The sight of Vic, and then Turtledove, guns drawn and paper respirators on their faces, bursting through racks of costumes and leaving silks and satins in their wake, was something Lacey would never forget.
They were a little late, but she was thrilled to see them.
Nikolai Sokolov lay senseless on the floor, a toppled white mannequin in a suit of lights. An anguished Vic grabbed her and she held on fast. It was the best thing that had happened to Lacey all day. Tears stung her eyes above her paper mask.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Traffic was jammed by a freaking presidential motorcade, and all I could do was sit there and listen to that madman put the moves on you. I thought I’d lose my mind.” He gazed at the fallen Sokolov. “You know, when I came through that door I was ready to beat the hell out of him, but I see you got there first.”
“That was the longest and slowest damn motorcade I’ve ever seen,” Turtledove said. He deftly stepped over a pile of costumes to contemplate the man on the floor. “I thought Vic was going to jump out of the Jeep and run. I was afraid he’d have the entire Secret Service running after him.”
Kepelov showed up a moment later, pistol drawn, respirator on, and carefully treading through mounds of costumes. “Unbelievable. First, presidential motorcade. Then, no parking space. Gremlin is in a loading zone. Probably get a ticket.” He considered the deflated matador on the floor and grinned happily. “I told you it would work, Lacey Smithsonian. Good stuff, my secret juice, huh?”
For Lacey, things now seemed to be moving in slow motion, and the room was spinning. She sagged against Vic and he grabbed her before she fell.
“It’s the solution,” Kepelov said. “She needs air. Quickly. I will take care of our sleazy friend.” He whipped out a pair of handcuffs, flipped Sokolov over on his stomach, and cuffed his hands. He also took the precaution of searching him for hollow Lenin medals or other deadly weapons. “Interesting. Nothing. Perhaps he was serious when he said he didn’t plan to hurt our Smithsonian. He is unarmed. A tactical error for the famous Centipede.”
Vic picked Lacey up in his arms. Turtledove hoisted the unconscious Sokolov on his shoulders. Kepelov led the way out through the maze of costume racks, down the hall and into the second floor lobby. Vic set Lacey back on her feet and fished out his phone. Turtledove dumped Sokolov on the floor and sat down on him for safekeeping.
“I have to make some calls.”
“Call D.C. Homicide, Vic. Ask for Lamont.” She pulled off the mask, gulped the air-conditioned air, and steadied herself against the wall. Vic found her a chair and made sure she wasn’t going to fall out of it. “Seriously, Vic. Call Broadway Lamont first.”
Vic stopped tapping numbers on his phone. “I was calling the FBI. You know the Metropolitan police won’t get jurisdiction over this guy, sweetheart. The Feds will grab him.”
“I know, Vic. But calling the D.C. cops will delay the process. Long enough until my story runs. No Feds yet.”
“The Feds will not be happy about the District butting in,” Kepelov said. “Feds will deny everything, take all the credit. My guess, they will shut down all information about this before it sees light of day.”
“No! No way. No one is shutting my story down, or taking me into protective custody. Or trying to force me to reveal my sources. I’m not letting the friends of the Kremlin call this fake news. If we’re lucky, the Feds don’t know anything about him. If they did, they’d have already—” She stopped. “Or wait a minute. What if they’ve known all along that Nikolai Sokolov was the Centipede? Maybe they’ve been protecting him?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Lacey,” Vic said. “That’s Brooke’s job.”
“Right. But in the meantime, the D.C. police will snarl things up nicely and give me time to break this story. After that, I don’t care who gets the Centipede.”
“Lacey—” Vic didn’t look happy about this plan. He had friends at the Bureau. “Okay. I get your point. I’ll call Broadway’s cell and ask him to keep it off the radio. Last thing I need is DeadFed trying to confuse the issue.”
“Smithsonian is right, guys,” Kepelov said. “She must expose this scum in the sunshine so the Centipede can’t run and hide again. Or be traded back to Russia. We know foreign operatives are working against us. In this case, free press is best protection. Then everyone will know the Centipede is caught. And caught by a woman.”
“You heard the man, Vic,” Lacey said, getting to her feet. “A free press is our only protection.”
“You two sound like a recruiting poster,” Vic said, but he tapped his phone. “I’m calling Broadway Lamont.”
While Vic talked to Lamont, Lacey watched Turtledove cinch Sokolov’s ankles securely together with a pair of plastic cuffs and then sit back down on him. At the sight of the Centipede, she felt her stomach turn over. Standing up might not have been a good idea either. She staggered to the restroom and threw up.
When she felt better, she dared a look into the mirror. Yikes. Her makeup had melted. Her hair was a damp mess. There was a knock on the ladies’ room door. It was Kepelov. He handed over her tote bag.
“I was thinking you might need this, Smithsonian. Also I retrieved the little bottle. Is safe. Not good to leave such things laying around. Glad you found it of use.”
“Thank you, Gregor.”
She took remedial action: her hair, her face, foundation, blush, and mascara. She re-tucked her top into her skirt before heading back to the lobby. Nikolai Sokolov was just coming to. He stirred beneath Turtledove’s considerable mass and lifted his head an inch to take in his situation.
“I am flattered by your precautions, gentlemen. Even I didn’t know I was this dangerous.” His eyes searched for Lacey, squinting up at her from the floor. “Lacey Smithsonian. You have redone your makeup for me. Very nice. Thank you.”
“It’s war paint.” War paint was one of Aunt Mimi’s favorite expressions. And Lacey was ready to do battle.
“How very appropriate,” he replied. “I appreciate your spirit.”
Turtledove volunteered to retrieve her laptop from her car so she could start writing. She threw him her car keys, never taking her eyes off Sokolov. White makeup streaked down his face in tracks of sweat. His eyes were bloodshot from the spray of Doctor Kepelov’s secret formula. The effect was startling. He looked like a tragic-comic harlequin dressed up as a matador. The mask from The Masque of the Red Death still hung around his neck, its scarlet feathers now tipped with white.
Freed from Turtledove’s weight, Sokolov struggled to sit up. Kepelov lifted him into a sitting position and steadied him against the wall. He locked eyes with Sokolov.
“One bad move,” Kepelov said, “you’re a dead man. You breathe wrong, you’re a dead man. I get tired of looking at you, you’re a dead man.”
“I know the drill, comrade,” Sokolov said.
“Call me comrade again, you’re a dead man.” Kepelov pulled up a chair and sat still as a snake.
“Forgive me, Lacey. I have not had a chance to make myself more presentable. My feelings for you made me—impractical.” Sokolov tried to look down at the mask, still hanging around his neck. “The feathers are tickling my chin.”
“You said I could see the mask.”
“So I did. I want you to have it. However, I’m afraid you will have to take it from me. I am tied up at the moment.” Even tied up and surrounded by enemies, Sokolov could try to be droll. Kepelov shook his head at Lacey in warning, but Sokolov gave him a look. “Not you, Kepelov. Lacey Smithsonian must do it. Or believe me, you will have to kill me.”
Kepelov turned to Vic, now off the phone. “What do you think, Donovan? Trust me, there is nothing this creature can do to us now.”
Vic was as tense as a panther on the prowl. “We’ll take it off him, Lacey. You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” Lacey looked at Vic. “I’ve come this far.”
“If you must.” Vic stepped in closer and put his hand on Lacey’s back. He pulled his pistol and held it down at his side. Kepelov moved in tight.
She knelt down close to Nikolai Sokolov and put her arms behind his neck to untie the mask’s ribbons. Her hands were shaking.
“How close you are.” He breathed in deeply. “I can smell your perfume, your distinctive scent. I will never forget it.” He started to cough.
She took the mask and leaned back on her heels. Vic and Kepelov stepped back. “Thank you. Gregor, can you get him something to drink? Like a soda? There must be a straw at the bar. And one for me, too, please.”
“Sometimes, Smithsonian, your humanitarian instincts are too kind,” Gregor said. “He does not deserve it.” The subdued Centipede was still coughing.
Vic retrieved drinks for them. He handed one to Lacey, and one to Kepelov with a straw. “I’ll cover you.”
Gregor took the soda and let Sokolov drink. He sucked on the straw, swallowed, and breathed deeply.
“Much better.” He coughed again, never taking his gaze off Lacey. “Thank you, Lacey. I suggest you put that artifact out of sight before the police get here. They can be grabby.”
“That’s evidence, you know,” Vic said.
“I can turn it over later,” Lacey said. “After I examine it.”
“Not to worry, Donovan,” Kepelov said. “Things will be busy here very soon. No one will miss one little costume item. It might even be valuable, if only for its associations with evil.”
“Kepelov, your reputation precedes you,” Sokolov said. “Practical and avaricious.”
“And I am up here and you are down there.”
“For now.”
Lacey examined the mask. Vic lifted an eyebrow at the idea of concealing evidence, even something like a prop.
“I know what you’re thinking, Vic, but I’ve earned a closer look at this thing,” Lacey pointed out. “I found the Lenins in the dress, and I know we’ll have to turn that over. But this may be a crucial part of the story. He loaned out the dress, but he held on to this mask. Maybe it’s even more valuable to him. Why?”
“Only you, my darling Lacey, could begin to understand,” Sokolov said. “After all we have shared.”
“Say that again and I punch your lights out.” Vic lifted a fist.
“No need. I can’t fight back. You must be the fiancé.”
No matter what Sokolov said, Lacey could never forget that he killed the last woman he loved. She considered the brilliant red mask. The backing was made of thin leather, and it had held its shape well for a dozen years. The front was covered with several layers of red fabric. She traced with one finger the jeweled gold braid outlining the eyes and mouth. Did he make it in Saige’s image?
“For the longest time, I could smell Saige’s scent on it,” Sokolov said. “Now, forevermore, I will be reminded of you. On the side, there is a little catch. Try it.”
She felt for the catch, found it, and pulled the outer mask away, revealing the inner mask, the death’s head, the skull beneath the skin that shocked audiences at The Masque of the Red Death. She glanced up at the Centipede.
“This must have been an amazing moment on stage every night, Sokolov.”
He bowed his head slightly. “I am honored.”
She turned the skull mask over. On the smooth leather of the back, the side that would hug the wearer’s face, she saw symbols and writing in Cyrillic.
“And on the back. A record of your kills?”
“Assignments perhaps. Perhaps other assorted achievements. Or perhaps not.”
It’s the key to his code, she thought. The coded marks on the backs of the Lenins. He stared at her as if reading her thoughts. He gave her the slightest nod.
“Your face gives everything away, Lacey Smithsonian. Very expressive. You would make a fine actress. And one who could learn her lines.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not a poker player,” she said.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs and they turned at the sound. It was Turtledove, returning with her laptop and her car keys. Lacey put the inner and outer masks back together and tucked the thing into her tote bag. She opened her laptop on one of the café tables in the lobby. While her computer booted up, Lacey called Mac’s cell phone. When he answered, children were squealing in the background and there was the sound of cheering.
“Hey Mac, I’m filing that story today,” she said. “The one we talked about. Things developed quickly. I suppose the weekend editor can take it, if you don’t want it. How’s the game going?”
“What do you mean, things developed?”
“It’s a bit of a situation. But it’s under control now.”
“Tell him you caught the notorious Russian assassin, the Centipede!” Sokolov yelled, loud enough for Mac to hear him. “Only Smithsonian could have done it.”
“Who’s that?” Mac asked. “You caught him by yourself?”
“I had a little help.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s tied up and we’re waiting for Broadway Lamont.”
“You had to do this on a Saturday? We’re at the girls’ soccer game.”
“News never sleeps, Mac. You know that.”
“I’m calling Claudia. And our attorney. Keep me apprised.”
“Spread the joy. Gotta go.” Lacey hung up and began to type.
