Chapter Six

Petre Vasiliev was dead.

Nikolai Orlov reverently replaced the phone in its cradle as though the very act would disturb Petre’s ghost. The warm Miami breeze that blew through the open balcony doors of the thirty-first-floor penthouse did nothing to chase away the chilling news. Nikolai gazed through the billowing curtains, barely making out the dozens of watercraft bobbing along the South Beach shoreline. So many people enjoying the finer things. But so few had an inkling of the frailty of life.

He turned away from the ostentatious view and looked at the framed photograph propped on the glass-topped desk beside the phone. His wife, Yelena. A beauty by any standards, but captured as she was for eternity, she remained as exquisite as the day he’d married her. On that day, her love belonged to him. As should have her life—had she not fled from him. And yet, if what he was told was true, then he was one step closer to finding both Yelena and his daughter.

He glanced at the phone again and considered the news about Petre. Interference from the hurricane was unavoidable, but this incompetence…Petre’s death…was Solonik’s fault. When this ordeal was over—when the girl was on her way to Russia—Solonik would pay for his brash actions. Nikolai would put another in charge to keep tabs on his American contacts and supply of black market goods.

No one should have died. Yet, Petre was dead and now Nikolai’s presence in the United States might soon be discovered. An unfortunate turn of events.

As Nikolai crossed to the bureau, he surveyed his guest with distaste. Dr. Kosov sat quietly sipping his vodka. There were several reasons to dislike the man. Sipping his vodka like a novichok, a greenhorn, was only one of those reasons. That the man was a traitor was another. Loyal to the highest bidder. Today, that happened to be Nikolai.

He had demanded to meet Dr. Kosov the moment he’d arrived in the States, but Solonik claimed he’d been unable to locate the doctor right away. Nikolai had waited in frustration for nearly three days before Kosov was sent to him. Finally, the doctor was here, in Nikolai’s penthouse. Now, he would have the long-awaited answers he sought.

Nikolai splashed vodka into a glass and tossed it back in one gulp, washing the acrid taste from his throat. Schooling his expression, he stepped beside the doctor’s chair. “Excuse the interruption.”

“No excuse necessary,” Dr. Kosov replied. “You are an important man in our beloved country. I am grateful you had time to meet with me.”

To the doctor’s credit, he groveled well. Especially since he was on borrowed time.

“That call was about Petre.”

The doctor straightened—a hopeful look on his face. “He has found the girl?”

“He is dead,” Nikolai said coldly.

Dr. Kosov paled, and the hand that lifted the tumbler to his lips shook so violently the glass chattered against his teeth. Clear liquid sloshed over the edges, causing Kosov to set the tumbler on the low table. “I…I don’t understand. What about Katya?”

“Tell me again about this girl you are calling Katya.” Nikolai demanded. “Tell me exactly why you believe she is my daughter.”

“But I already told Viktor Solonik,” the doctor said. “He is your American partner, yes?”

“Tell me,” Nikolai demanded. “I wish to hear the words from your mouth.”

The doctor’s eyes widened as he cleared his throat. “I was there at her birth. Byron O’Neal himself drove me to the cottage to deliver Yelena Orlov’s child. You know of Byron O’Neal. He worked for the CIA, yes?” The doctor’s watery eyes pleaded with Nikolai.

“I know of O’Neal,” Nikolai confirmed. He didn’t expound on his personal knowledge of the man who’d been his American counterpart for the better part of twenty years. “However, that doesn’t tell me how you knew this woman was my wife.”

The doctor betrayed his nervousness with a lick of his lips. “Before I left Russia, I heard of your marriage and promotion.”

“The KGB did not publicly announce such information.” Nikolai’s voice was frigid.

“I was the Defense Minister’s physician’s assistant. I learned many things not reported to the people.”

The doctor’s reasoning made sense, but it didn’t quell Nikolai’s revulsion at the blatant display of pride. “You defected.”

The doctor’s face fell. “It…it was such a long time ago”

“Yes. It was,” Nikolai said dryly. “Perhaps you should speak of more recent events.” He sat opposite Kosov and leaned toward him. “Tell me how you can prove this girl is my daughter.”

“I…I told you. I was there on the day of her birth.”

“A fairytale without proof.”

“Proof?” the doctor whispered. “Surely my word is…”

“Irrefutable proof.” As much as Nikolai wanted to best O’Neal, he drew the line at kidnapping a girl who may legitimately be O’Neal’s daughter.

Dr. Kosov gulped. “But the mother’s name was Orlov. I saw her pendant…”

Nikolai’s heartbeat stuttered. Solonik hadn’t reported this. “Pendant?”

“Yes. On your wife’s body.”

Nikolai pinned the other man with a stare. A sense of foreboding darkened his vision. “Her body?”

It seemed impossible, but the doctor’s face paled even more. “You did not know,” Kosov whispered, his eyes widened at the unwelcome news he’d just delivered.

“Know what?” Nikolai’s patience grew thin.

“Your wife died in childbirth.”

Nikolai’s breath stalled. So many years after Yelena’s betrayal…to learn she was not living in America with another man. What strange twist of fate that he should learn of her death and confirmation of their child at the same moment. “You did not try to save her?” Nikolai demanded.

The doctor seemed to shrivel. “She…she was already dead when I arrived.”

“And the baby?” Nikolai asked. “How do you know my wife named her Katya?”

“O’Neal’s wife was there when Yelena died. She spoke of the birth with me and her husband. Your wife lived long enough to see the infant and give her a name.”

Nikolai leaned back in his chair and contemplated this new bit of information. “What happened next?”

“The O’Neals took the infant as their own, giving her an American name,” the doctor said. “They helped me relocate and swore me to secrecy.”

“A secret you did not keep, I see.”

“I did. Until now. When I learned of my sister’s illness, I applied for passage to Russia. The paperwork…” Dr. Kosov licked his lips again. “My sister’s time is short, so I sought out Solonik. I told him what I am telling you. He assured me you’d be grateful—that you could get me home without papers.”

“You defected!” Nikolai spat the distasteful words at the sniveling doctor. “Russia is not your home.”

“Please, Comrade Orlov. I have money to pay.” The doctor seemed to shrink even more. “My own wife’s death was unexpected. I must return before my sister—”

Nikolai cut off the doctor’s protest with a look. “Describe the pendant.”

“I…I only saw it briefly when O’Neal removed it from around Yelena Orlov’s neck.”

“Describe it.”

“It was silver—the royal crest…” The doctor’s voice faded, and his eyes grew wide with fear.

“I am no longer KGB. I’m not going to arrest you for speaking of royalty,” Nikolai assured him. There was no proof any royalty still lived, although Yelena had believed her family were descendants. She’d kept the crest hidden in a small chest. It was the only thing she took when she left. “Tell me more.”

“It was the Byzantine eagle.”

“And the eyes?”

“Made of gems. They were r…red. Blood red.”

“You are certain?” Nikolai asked.

The doctor nodded.

“Da, that was my wife.”

The doctor slumped in his seat. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

“She was a traitor.” Nikolai slammed his fist on the table, reliving the anger and loss all over again.

“But it proves the girl is your daughter.” The doctor continued, “I have provided the information you wanted. Now…now you can arrange for me to return to Russia?”

“Not until I have the girl.”

“But…my sister…”

“When I have the girl. Not before.”

Nikolai stood, stoically walked over to the mini bar, and poured himself another drink. The doctor was right, the pendant was proof, but he believed in absolutes. It wasn’t enough to take the word of a man who’d defected from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. He was as much a traitor as the woman who’d died giving birth on foreign soil.

Nikolai studied his drink for a long moment.

So. Solonik had spoken the truth, and Nikolai had a daughter. Stolen by his old nemesis, and raised as an American.

Hatred for O’Neal filled his chest. While Nikolai had worked for the Party, O’Neal had slipped through every trap the KGB set to capture the CIA agent. After the Iron Curtain fell, Nikolai thought he was finished with western spies stealing from the Russians. The news he’d learned today confirmed that O’Neal’s deception ran deeper than Nikolai could have imagined.

When Yelena defected to the West, suspicion had fallen on Nikolai. Instead of the prominent appointment he had earned within the KGB, he was imprisoned. Shortly thereafter, the entire Soviet regime crumbled, literally saving his life.

His party position and reputation in ruins, Nikolai escaped the political upheaval and embraced the capitalist opportunities. Establishing a black market trade came easy with his knowledge of areas ripe for exploitation. With Viktor Solonik in America, Nikolai had the means to supply the Russian black market indefinitely. He had wealth and power in Russia—the likes of which he had never achieved as a member of the KGB.

What was it the Americans said? Revenge is best served cold. Da, bitter cold, like a Siberian winter. Nikolai would finally have his revenge on O’Neal and his wife’s treachery. And soon, he’d have his daughter.

Solonik had sent Petre after the girl, knowing that taking her would hurt O’Neal and gain favor with Nikolai. A strategic move on Solonik’s part, but stupid.

The police would certainly link Petre’s death to the missing girl. O’Neal would be drawn into the investigation. Nikolai’s hope was that the police would remain unaware of Petre’s connection to him. As long as his arrival in the States remained secret, he had the advantage.

However, it was likely O’Neal would connect the pieces. Nikolai had never underestimated his old enemy. It would be foolish to do so now.

First, he must deal with the doctor. Tossing back the last of his vodka, he carefully replaced the glass on the sideboard. A discreet nod brought forward a bear of a man from the shadows beside the spiral staircase next to the alcove.

With shoulders like an American football linebacker, Marcos never failed to intimidate. “Sir?”

“Marcos,” Nikolai said. “Please show the good doctor to his room.”

“Of course, Mr. Orlov.” Marcos turned to the doctor, who stood. “Comrade Doctor. Come with me.”

In soothing tones, Nikolai said, “Marcos will take good care of you. You will be my guest until my daughter arrives.”

Dr. Kosov looked warily at Nikolai, then glanced at the confiscated cell phone on the sideboard. “May I have my phone to stay in touch with my sister?”

Nikolai considered the risk, and dismissed it. Kosov wasn’t leaving this apartment until Katya was by his side. “Of course.” He handed the phone to the doctor.

“Thank you.” Kosov’s head bobbed on his scrawny neck, making the man look like a duck. Nikolai couldn’t help but think Marcos would have no problem dispatching the doctor. All Nikolai had to do was give the word. But not yet. The doctor might still prove useful.

After the men left, Nikolai poured another drink and sat in his chair. Solonik had been sloppy. Even as a Colonel in the Red Army, Viktor Solonik was a vor, a common thief, better suited to the mafia than the military. The idiot should have used his head and waited. If he had, Petre would still be alive.

But who had killed Petre? O’Neal? Or perhaps the girl. To escape one of his best, the girl must have shown spirit. In spite of the fact she might have killed one of his men, pride swelled his chest.

Nikolai swirled the last of this drink. When Petre hadn’t returned, Solonik assumed the hurricane had interfered. So Solonik offered a weapon and car to Petre’s brother, Oleg Vasiliev, to search the evacuees for the girl. Nikolai had been encouraged that Oleg had located Katya so quickly, using only a copy of Yelena’s picture. He had been on the girl’s trail for a day now. And although she was not yet in Oleg’s possession, she would be soon. But now Nikolai faced the unpleasant task of telling Oleg about Petre. Perhaps it would work in his favor. Oleg was a tiger on the hunt and would thirst to avenge his brother’s death. When he gave Oleg the word to grab Katya, there’d be no hesitation.

Nikolai smiled to himself. Soon he’d have his daughter and defeat O’Neal at the same time. Revenge and family—nothing could be sweeter than these things. It was time to take back what that zhulik, that cheater O’Neal, had stolen from him.

****

After Egan listed his set of rules, Kellee sat frozen on the car seat. Late afternoon sunlight glinted on the cars in the department store parking lot as she stared out the SUV’s window. She didn’t notice the plush leather she was sitting on, nor the cool air as it brushed across her skin. His words had literally brought all her senses—every thought—to a standstill.

She’d been scared after the hurricane when she awoke with no memory. The long hours before connecting with Tresha had been fraught with a hopelessness of ever finding her way home after the evacuation. But Egan’s warning of a greater danger was a hundred times worse than any of those things.

Who had died in her apartment? What if the man had died because of something she did—or didn’t do? What if she could have saved him, but instead, just left him there? She’d been injured during the storm. The same could have happened to him. If he died because she didn’t help, maybe the authorities were looking for her. Was Egan trying to keep her from being arrested? Her palms turned clammy, and a bitter taste rose from her throat. The more questions that swirled in her brain, the worse she felt. She hated that her life was one big unknown.

“Kellee, this is important.”

She swallowed hard, pushing down the foul taste in her mouth.

“Kellee!”

Her head jerked, and she looked at him.

“Tell me you understand the rules, and will do exactly what I say.” Egan’s tone was serious and commanding.

This couldn’t be happening. His directives were restrictive, almost barbaric, and coupled with the last few days it was too much to comprehend. “Okay,” she finally said. “Okay. I’ll do as you say, but I need to know why.”

He stared at her for a long moment, seeming to consider the sincerity of her answer. Something in her face must have satisfied him because he nodded and brought his sunglasses up to his face. “I promise I’ll tell you.” He stared out at the parking lot for a moment and then put the car into gear. “But not here. We need to leave this area.” After looking over his shoulder, he revved the engine and drove onto the street and into the flow of traffic.

“Where are we going?” she asked, buckling her seatbelt.

“It’s late. We’ll find a hotel for the night, and start early tomorrow. That should put us on the coast close to noon.”

Kellee watched the shops fly past her window. Nothing looked familiar. “Where are we?”

“Just outside Macon.”

“I was evacuated out of Panama City. Isn’t that where I live?”

He nodded. “You have an apartment there, but I doubt you’ll want to live there again.”

“Because of the body,” she said with a shudder.

He glanced at her. “Do you remember something?” His tone was expectant, as though everything depended on her answer.

Kellee shook her head, knowing her amnesia disappointed him. It disappointed her, too. “Only what you told me earlier.” The prickling cold that raced down her skin wasn’t the air-conditioning. If she could forget something as horrific as a dead man in her apartment, what else had she forgotten?

He turned his attention to the road. “Don’t push it. It will come.”

“Easy for you to say. It’s not your head, your memories…your life.” She bit back a sigh. She’d thought once she got away from the storm, she’d feel safe. Her time with Tresha had been limited, but she had appreciated the relative safety of their companionship. She’d even protected herself and Tresha from the attacker in the restroom. Now that she was with Egan, she should feel secure, not confused and frightened. Nothing made sense. Nothing felt as though it would ever be right again.

Her stare fixed on Egan’s hands as they rested on the steering wheel. He guided the car along the streets with steadfast confidence. Confidence she envied.

“Relax,” he said, after a moment. “You’ve been through some extraordinary circumstances. Be patient.”

He must have sensed the tension building in her. “How do you expect me to be patient? I didn’t even know my name until today. I still don’t remember my last name. How weird is that? I have a first name and no last name.”

Egan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “O’Neal.” His reply was brusque.

“What?” Was there a problem with her name?

He glanced at her and then back at the road. “Your last name is O’Neal,” he repeated, before taking a deep breath and stretching his fingers open.

“Kellee O’Neal.” She tested the syllables on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine her life before the storm. Something at the edge of her memory tried to surface, but disappeared in a fog. The two things she could recall were her martial arts training and Egan.

Why couldn’t she remember anything else? She sighed and laid her head against the seat.

“Are you okay?” Egan asked.

At his gentle question, tears welled behind her eyes, making them ache. Tresha had been the only other person who’d bothered to ask. Doctors had inquired about her health, but when they’d determined she didn’t have a life-threatening injury, they’d assigned her to a group of evacuees with less immediate needs. That’s why it had taken longer for her to evacuate from the storm-damaged areas and, in the process, she’d encountered some of the very best and the very worst of human behavior. Kellee had tried to help others when she could, but no one could provide the assistance she’d wanted—clues to her past.

“Kellee?” Egan prompted.

She blinked away the tears. “I’m fine.” She would be fine, too. She didn’t know when or how, but she would find a way out of this void of self-pity.

“We’re almost there. You’ll feel better once you’ve cleaned up.”

“Sure,” she mumbled, as a sudden depression threatened to overwhelm her. She stared out the passenger window so Egan couldn’t read her face.