Nikko Biryayev yawned and rubbed his eyes, which burned and were beginning to blur. He sipped at a tepid mug of coffee by his elbow and grimaced. These were the inglorious moments of his job—the price he paid for a plum assignment like the Russian consulate in New York. He scowled at the sumptuous view outside his window. Too much wealth out there. Too much power. Maybe he’d live long enough to see the whole damned American empire toppled. The thought cheered him. Nikko Biryayev was and always would be a man of the old order.
A knock on his office door interrupted his musings. “Come in,” he called.
The night desk clerk stood there, a manila folder in hand. “Sir, NYPD is downstairs. A man carrying a Russian diplomatic passport might have been kidnapped this evening from the dressing room of the pianist, Marina Subova. I’ve got the dossier on this man.”
As the station intelligence chief, something like this fell squarely under his jurisdiction. Biryayev reached for the folder. “Tell the police I’ll be down in a moment.” He glanced at the name on the dossier, then looked again. His jaw dropped. Grigorii Kriskin? Everyone from the old KGB days knew that name. He’d been the trusted henchman of Anton Subov—the brilliant chief strategist of the KGB Plans Directorate until the Komityet folded. Kriskin executed many of Subov’s diabolical schemes. What was the old warhorse doing in New York? Biryayev would have envisioned Kriskin and Subov sipping cognac and growing gray together in a Rublevka dacha. Biryayev pulled a stapled sheaf of papers out of his safe and thumbed through it. He found Marina Subova’s name and glanced hastily at the notations beside it regarding surveillance. He tossed the papers back in his safe and grabbed his coat.
Twenty minutes later, Biryayev stood in Subova’s dressing room. A team of men dusted the room for fingerprints while a detective beside him delivered a diatribe about bystanders contaminating crime scenes. Biryayev strolled over to the dressing table and unobtrusively pocketed the pianist’s silver hairbrush and the micro recorder concealed within it. As soon as he got that recording back to the office, he’d have a better idea of what had happened than the police would ever piece together. Anybody good enough to kidnap Grigorii Kriskin surely would not leave behind evidence for the police. Biryayev exited as soon as he could without arousing suspicion and headed for the consulate.
Amanda roused as their taxi pulled up in front of a gracefully aging brick home. She felt numb all over. Her rescuer leaned over and whispered in her ear as if to speak an endearment. His murmured words were more practical and sent a jolt of apprehension through her. “Our driver’s the curious sort. We’ll have to put on a show for him. Stay put. I’ll be around to help.”
She glanced up and met the driver’s intense gaze in the rear-view mirror. Why hadn’t she noticed his interest earlier? She must be in worse shape than she’d realized. Pull yourself together! She grasped to no avail at the bits and pieces of herself.
Her companion opened her door and offered his hand in a gallant gesture. Carefully, she swung her feet out and let him all but bodily lift her out of the cab. As he paid the driver, she watched him curiously. Ebony highlights glinted in his dark brown hair, and he flashed a toothpaste-commercial smile, even and white. As knights in shining armor went, he was doing fine so far.
An odd awareness of him thrummed through her. She felt his tiniest movement, caught every nuance in his expression, startled herself by anticipating the next time his gaze would light upon her. He wore a tuxedo strikingly well. Where had he been, dressed like that, before he’d been called in to help her? He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a fancy casino. He caught her gaze upon him and smiled intimately, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking. It took her aback and sent her heart racing before she remembered they were playing a scene for the driver. Sheesh. She returned the lover’s smile in kind.
He held out his arm, and for once, she found herself grateful there was a big, strong man around. She linked her arm through his and leaned on his rock-hard forearm, letting him bear almost her entire weight. He strolled casually up the sidewalk as if totally unaware of her fingers biting into his flesh. She concentrated on matching his even pace, clenching her jaw every time her injured foot made contact with the ground. If only the cab would leave so she could stop! They reached the front porch, and still the driver sat there, infuriatingly counting his money.
Her companion turned toward her and murmured apologetically, “Pardon me for what I’m about to do.”
His arms went around her and his mouth lowered toward hers. Good Lord, he was going to kiss her. A thrill of excitement raced through her, wildfire running before the wind. It left her trembling in anticipation of she knew not what. His head slanted toward hers, blocking the cab from her view. His lips paused, barely an inch from hers, his breath caressing her cheek like warm velvet. She steeled herself for the invasion of his mouth, but it didn’t come. He remained where he was, nearly touching, nearly tasting, nearly possessing her. Anticipation built inside her, and she fought a sudden inclination to lean into him, take the kiss and be done with it.
She could imagine what his mouth would feel like—warm, alive and virile. He’d taste male and musky, perhaps with a hint of Scotch whiskey. He’d be gentle at first, then the kiss would deepen. He’d explore her mouth, and his arms would tighten around her, molding her to him. She’d feel the unyielding strength of his body; she’d sense the tension beginning to build in him, matching her own. Sparks would leap between them, and she’d melt against him. It would be a sensational kiss.
But nothing happened.
She peered up at him. His jaw was tense, and he seemed to be concentrating on whether or not the cab had left. The anticipation whooshed out of her in a rush. So much for that shortlived fantasy. Up close like this, his eyelashes were dark and thick, and his skin had the smoothness of vigorous health about it. His mouth was mobile, expressive. Emminently kissable. Beyond all that, there was steel in him, unbendable self-control.
“Is he gone yet?” Taylor asked in an undertone.
Amanda peeked past his ear. “Pulling out now, the bleeding Peeping Tom.”
His lips curved into a grin, although not another muscle twitched. “Gone now?”
“Yes.” The syllable was exhaled on a breath of relief.
He straightened. “Well, that was almost fun.”
For some bizarre reason, she was disappointed as his arms fell away. She retorted, “Indeed. That was almost lovely. Until you almost got to the part where I almost decided you were getting fresh and almost flattened you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I almost consider making advances toward you,” he replied wryly.
The cab’s red taillights disappeared around a corner. Now that the immediate danger was past, the pain in her ankle came surging back full force. She couldn’t stop herself from sagging against the arm of the man beside her.
“Easy does it,” he murmured. “Only a few more steps and you’ll be inside.”
“Not quite. This isn’t the house we’re headed for.”
He looked down at her, startled. “It’s not?”
“Certainly not. You wouldn’t want that cabbie to know our destination, would you?”
“Ah. A misdirection.”
Fabulous. They’d sent in a rank amateur to rescue her. A big, strong, gorgeous one, but an amateur, nonetheless. She needed Superman and Devereaux had given her Clark Kent.
“So where are we actually going?”
She pointed. “Three houses down and across the street. The one over there with the awnings and the yellow porch light.”
“Can you walk that far?” He sounded doubtful about it.
She shared his doubt but considered the idea. It would be best if she did walk in case the neighbors were being nosy. But waves of torment racked her whole body now, and she was starting to feel nauseous. That tipped the scales. She looked up at her rescuer and surprisingly, found herself vaguely embarrassed. “Do you suppose you could…well…?”
A smile crinkled the corners of his light, translucent eyes. “Want a lift?”
“If you don’t mind.”
He chuckled. “I don’t. It’d be my pleasure.” He bent down and placed an arm beneath her knees, then stopped abruptly. “This isn’t an advance, is it?”
“No. I won’t deck you.”
“Glad to hear it.” He straightened and swept her off her feet. Startled by the quick ease with which he lifted her, her arms went reflexively around his neck. He strode off down the sidewalk while she registered little things about him. The short hair at the back of his neck was silky soft against her fingers. His cologne was subtle and masculine. His chest was broad and muscular without being chunky—very solid. The hard strength of his arms supported her effortlessly, and his breathing was not increasing noticeably even though he was carrying her and walking at a fast pace.
His eyes were extraordinary. They glittered like ice-blue chrome in the light of the street lamps. His jaw was strong, a little on the square side. Nose—straight. Brow—a smooth plane. All in all, a face with character. Handsome as sin.
She had no more time to observe him because they arrived at Dr. Hammill’s front door. After they rang the glowing doorbell there was a lengthy delay, and her companion began to fidget. “Do people show up on this doctor’s porch often?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I doubt he bothers to operate a practice during daylight hours.” The door cracked open, and she saw the familiar twinkle of bright blue eyes in a wrinkled face. “It’s me, Doc Hammill.”
The door swung open quickly and they moved inside. Fondly, Amanda inhaled the peppermint smell that always seemed to pervade this house.
“Bring her in here, young man.”
Her rescuer followed the doctor’s brisk instructions and set Amanda down on an examining table in a tiny office. She almost missed the feel of his strong arms cradling her close. Whoa. Missing was not authorized. Not in her line of work.
Dr. Hammill derailed her shocking train of thought. “Hoist that foot on up here, young lady. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He peeled off her shoe and cut off her stocking.
She sucked in her breath as gentle fingers probed the swollen joint. She actually had to grab the edge of the table when he rotated her foot slowly. God, that hurt.
The doctor glanced up at her. “Now you move it.”
She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths and counted backward from ten to one, willing herself to utterly relax and let her mind go blank. In a state of partial self-hypnosis, she separated herself from her lower leg and foot. Observing from a distance, she slowly rotated the ankle, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. She followed the doctor’s vaguely heard instructions to point her toe, flex her foot and wiggle her toes. Dr. Hammill’s voice registered approval, and she opened her eyes. She blinked while the sense of detachment from her body faded and pain replaced it.
“Well, child, you’ve sprained your ankle, and substantial swelling has developed. But you’ll live,” he pronounced. His blue button eyes twinkled. “You may be inclined to slug me for saying this, but the pain is good. It means you probably haven’t broken anything. If you had, your foot would tend to be numb and immobile.”
“Great,” she managed to grit out from behind her clenched teeth.
The doctor stood up. “I’m going to treat your ankle with heat and cold before I wrap it. Let’s see if we can bring that swelling down a little.”
While her ankle soaked, the doctor looked at her tongue and decreed the cut minor. It would be fine in a couple days. Dr. Hammill kept up a steady stream of small talk the whole time. He’d told her once that he did it so his unorthodox patients wouldn’t feel obliged to explain how they’d come by their injuries. She was grateful for the distraction. It was disconcerting having a tall, gorgeous stranger standing like a dark sentinel in the corner observing her every move and expression with hawklike alertness. She had the uneasy feeling he was reading her in far more detail than she’d like him to. More than once, she almost asked him to leave the room, but then he’d know how uncomfortable he was making her. And that wouldn’t do at all.
The doctor made her swallow a couple pills he said were painkillers. After a few minutes, she started growing unnaturally drowsy and limp. Painkillers. Right. Through an enchanting, rose-hued haze, she watched the doctor nod at her protector, who swooped down on her like the hawk he resembled and lifted her from the table. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, which was ever so comfortable. With mild interest, she watched as he followed the doctor upstairs, down a hall and into a dark bedroom. She could definitely get used to this business of being carried around like a pampered princess.
He lowered her onto the bed and she smiled fuzzily. “Thanks for the ride.”
Her rescuer flashed her a heart-stopping smile. “Anytime. Sweet dreams.”
It felt sinfully delicious to let her eyelids drift closed. Darkness enveloped her.
“Come on, come on,” Biryayev groused as the phone rang in his ear. “Pick it up.” He’d dialed the home phone number of the junior agent he’d taken under his wing during the past year. He wasn’t the type to voluntarily take on a protégé, but when the source of his paycheck spoke, Nikko Biryayev jumped. Grudgingly, but he jumped. Max Ebhardt was his assistant’s unfortunate name. Biryayev actually liked him despite his blond good looks. The talented young agent posed no threat to him since a person of German descent would never progress very far in the Russian power structure. Biryayev could afford to like him. Besides, the kid’s expertise with computers could come in handy on this one.
The receiver clicked in Nikko’s ear. An annoyed voice grumbled at the other end of the line, “Hello.”
“Max. Nikko Biryayev here. I need you at the office right away.”
“Now? It’s Friday night. It’s…midnight, for God’s sake. Can’t it wait until tomorrow? Or Monday?”
“No, it can’t,” Biryayev growled. Damned kids. No sense of duty these days. “How soon can you be here?”
A female voice giggled in the background. “Stop it, Candy,” Max said away from the receiver. “Uh, I guess I can be there in a half hour.”
Biryayev growled, “Make it fifteen minutes. Screw the bimbo on your own time. Right now I need you.”
“Fine,” Max bit out.
The phone slammed down in Biryayev’s ear. He hung up, grinning at the receiver. He took perverse pleasure in messing up Max’s love life. The guy’s penchant for the ladies was an ongoing source of friction between them.
He was roundly surprised when Max actually did show up in fifteen minutes on the nose. Because he’d been punctual for once, Biryayev cut him some slack and ignored Max’s grumbling about bosses with no life of their own messing up everybody else’s. The blond agent looked tousled and wore a wrinkled New York Yankees T-shirt that smelled like sex. But he was alert and all business when Biryayev told him what was up.
The two men descended into the bowels of the consulate to the encryption room. Biryayev jerked his head at the lone clerk on duty, who left silently. Biryayev’s ears popped as the door sealed into its airtight, soundproof lock. He watched Ebhardt pry the back off the hairbrush and carefully extract a microchip smaller than his thumbnail. The kid loaded the tiny wafer into a special player plugged into a computer console, and typed a series of commands. The machine hummed to life.
Several minutes of silence played, and then the room suddenly reverberated with the booming sound of a hoarse voice. Ebhardt snatched at the volume control and turned it down. Tuneless humming came and went for a couple minutes, then there was the sound of a door opening and a person entering. Biryayev and Ebhardt looked at each other and grinned.
Jackpot.
They listened to Kriskin greet his visitor. Biryayev’s eyebrows shot up as a female voice responded. There was a bit of conversation, then a thud and the brief sounds of a struggle.
Several minutes of complete silence followed. The next sounds were faint noises of someone entering the room, then a muffled grunt like a heavy object was being lifted. A door clicked shut and the tape played on in ominous silence.
“Play it again, Max.”
This time Biryayev listened for the name Kriskin had uttered. Amanda McClintock. Amanda McClintock?
Had the daughter taken up where the father left off? The walls abruptly went blood red as his gaze blurred with fury, and his eyeballs ached as if they were going to burst out of his head. Rage pulsed in his veins until it became difficult to breathe. The need to put his fist through a wall, to break something, was almost overpowering. He paced the enclosed space like a caged tiger. Oh, he knew Amanda McClintock, all right. The daughter of his arch nemesis had the temerity to kidnap one of Russia’s most loyal sons? How dare she?
So. The McClintock legacy continued. Very well, then. So would his vengeance. He’d track her down and make her suffer, and then rip her intestines out and wrap them around her eviscerated body. He’d tear her face off. He’d break her neck. He’d…
“You okay, boss? You look a little overheated.”
He snarled incoherently, “I’ll kill the bitch.”
Max’s eyebrows shot up. “Who? This McClintock woman?”
He whirled around and advanced on Max as if he’d strangle the young Russian. “Find her for me. Tell me where she is so I can obliterate her!”
Max looked taken aback. “Damn! What’s got your knickers in such a twist?”
Biryayev stared speculatively at his partner. If Ebhardt was going to help him on this case, he might as well know what he was up against. “Christopher McClintock spied for Mother Russia, and I was his control officer until the bastard turned on me. He stole the whole goddamned Udarsky cache and put a black mark on my flawless record. Russia has a score to settle with the name McClintock.”
Max turned around to face a state-of-the-art computer terminal. “Well, uh, okay then. Let’s see what we can find.” He cracked his knuckles and started typing.
Biryayev hovered restlessly, kibitzing over Max’s shoulder as the agent surfed the Internet, extracting secure credit card information, banking documents, even medical records with impunity. “Where’d you learn to do this stuff?” he asked, put off as always by the technology at Max’s grasp.
The younger man shrugged. “This is nothing. Just a little garden variety hacking. There’s this guy in St. Petersburg—you can’t believe the systems he can get into. Scares even me.”
After a pregnant pause, a search engine made a match. The printer began to spit forth information on Amanda McClintock. Biryayev snatched up and scanned the sheets of paper almost as quickly as the printer disgorged them. She was the daughter of an art dealer—Biryayev scowled. A lousy art dealer who only managed to stay in business because of handouts from Russia. And the ungrateful bastard turned out to be a double agent. A traitor. Christopher McClintock had betrayed him.
The daughter’s current age was twenty-nine, her present location unknown. Her primary schooling took place in Scotland, and there was no record of university education. With her father’s death, she’d inherited a small estate. Biryayev’s gaze narrowed. Really? Or had she, in fact, inherited the fabled Udarsky diamond cache? It was rumored to be worth billions on today’s market. He read on greedily. Several years ago, she started turning up in various world capitals. Her appearances were usually linked to the activities of a Devereaux operative code-named Phoenix. “Run the code name Phoenix through our collection of spy dossiers and see what you get,” Biryayev directed.
Max did as he was told and a single sheet printed out. Name unknown, location unknown, activities unknown. Physical description unavailable.
“Unavailable, my ass,” Biryayev growled. “Get it for me.”
The younger Russian shrugged. “That may take some time. I’ll need to contact my buddy in St. Petersburg.”
“Do it.”
Max nodded and turned to the computer screen. He typed out a message and sent it. The electrons flew out into the gargantuan limbo of the Net, waiting to be snatched by Max’s contact at some other exit point in the jumble of the information highway. The kid looked up and asked, “So, is she this Phoenix person?”
Biryayev shrugged. “Entirely possible. Her father was a trained covert operative. He could’ve taught her the tricks of the trade.” And the bastard had been crazy enough to do it, too.
Max speculated, “So, she went into the dressing room and took down this Kriskin guy, and then someone else came in and helped her carry him out?”
Biryayev frowned. Kriskin was a large man, not to mention one of the most dangerous unarmed fighters the KGB had ever trained. Even old and out of shape, he’d have been a formidable opponent for a much smaller, weaker female. “Maybe she went into the room first and distracted Kriskin. Then an accomplice came in and took him down,” Biryayev postulated.
Max shrugged. “Sounds reasonable.” He referred to the computer. “Assuming she’s not lying on her driver’s license, she’s only five foot five and 115 pounds. A hair over fifty kilos. Not very big to be taking out anyone in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Print me a picture of her.”
The younger agent’s fingers clattered on the keyboard. The printer disgorged a black-and-white photo of a quietly beautiful young woman, staring calmly back at the two men. She had the look of her father about her. The refined features that spoke of good breeding, the dreamy tilt to her eyes, the romantic shape of her mouth—full of lies. Just like her father.
“Hubba, hubba,” Ebhardt commented, grinning.
Biryayev glared. She was the enemy. Like a bloodhound picking up a scent, he hungrily memorized her features. He would find her and eliminate her soon. Very soon. “Is it possible to check the airline passenger lists to Toronto for the next couple days for her name?” he asked.
“No sweat.” As Max’s fingers flew, he asked, “Why Toronto, boss?”
“It’s the next stop on Marina Subova’s concert tour. If Amanda McClintock has business to conduct with her, that’s where she’ll go. If we’re lucky, her accomplice will go along, and we can bag them both. I wouldn’t mind putting a dent in Devereaux while we’re at it.”
“Who’s he?” Max asked.
Biryayev shrugged. “Nobody knows. References to him started turning up after 9/11. Some sort of rich, reclusive, vigilante type who pokes into delicate situations around the world.”
“Whose side is he on?”
Biryayev shrugged. “Hard to tell. He’s been a royal pain in the ass to just about everyone at one time or another.”
“Criminal?” Max asked.
“If you would call it criminal to seek justice outside the law by whatever means, then yes, this guy’s a criminal.” As Max started to type into the computer, Biryayev added, “You can check your precious Internet, but he won’t show up on it. Devereaux’s too cagey for that.”
Max quit typing. He asked, “Why would this McClintock woman kidnap or kill Kriskin?”
“Good question. Kriskin’s been out of circulation a long time. It’s accepted practice to leave retired intelligence agents to their consciences and old age to find what peace they can. I think it’s highly unlikely that she was actually after Kriskin. I think he got in her way.” Biryayev frowned. “But this Subova girl’s been a problem before. Maybe she’s gotten herself into trouble again.”
Ebhardt frowned. “What kind of trouble could a concert pianist get into with someone like Devereaux?”
“That is a good question, Max. A very good question.”
Taylor awoke to an unpleasant feeling of disorientation. The first thing he saw was an oversize, 1940s-style cabinet radio. Morning sunlight streamed through yellowed Venetian blinds into an old-fashioned sitting room. Motes of dust danced in the zebra streaks of light. For a moment he didn’t know where he was or how he’d come to be here in this room out of time. And then memory of the previous night returned, of carrying a lovely wounded woman here in his arms. With the memory came a vision of her smile and a hot flood of desire.
A voice murmuring somewhere nearby brought him to his feet. He stretched out the kinks of sleeping on a couch several inches shorter than he was and tracked the voice toward the rear of the house. He met Doc Hammill coming toward him down the narrow hall.
“You’re awake. Good. Phone’s for you, son. You can take it in the office.”
Taylor followed the doctor into the same room where the young woman had been treated last night. An ancient rotary telephone sat on the oak desk. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Taylor. Harry Trumpman.”
His Devereaux contact. “What can I do for you, boss?”
“I’m afraid I have a stupid question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What did you do with the lady?”
“You mean from last night?”
“Is there another one I should know about?”
Taylor laughed. “No, sir. There was just the one. Last I saw of her, she was tucked into the good doctor’s guest bed and was out cold before her head hit the pillow. She’s still sleeping off whatever Doc Hammill gave her. Why?”
“We, uh, don’t like to lose track of her. She’s been in a…”
Taylor waited while his boss searched for a word.
“…rather delicate frame of mind recently. Well, I’m glad that mystery’s solved.”
“Glad I could help. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Meet me for lunch. Both of you. Say noon at Shecky’s Deli down near Fifty-seventh and Fifth Avenue?”
“Just a minute.” Taylor lifted the receiver away from his mouth. “Doc, is the lady going to be awake by noon?”
Dr. Hammill grinned. “She ought to be waking up any time now.”
Taylor pulled the receiver back down to his mouth. “We’ll be there at noon.”
Amanda stopped at the top of the stairs to watch her rescuer as he paced Doc Hammill’s living room. He looked as nervous as an adolescent waiting for his prom date to come downstairs. Like some gorgeous guy had ever waited nervously for her. Between her mad father and the rigid rules of her boarding school, she’d barely spoken to boys in her youth, let alone gone out with them.
He noticed her just then and rushed to the foot of the stairs in a whirlwind of restless energy. “Stay right there,” he called.
She blinked in surprise as he bounded up the stairs three at a time. He reached the top, abruptly looming over her. “Dare I ask what you’re doing?”
“I’m coming to the assistance of a damsel in distress, of course.”
She lifted one eyebrow and asked, “How’s that?”
“Your ankle’s still killing you, right?”
It was, but she certainly wasn’t about to admit it. Her eyebrows came together and she drew breath to deny it, but he cut her off breezily. “You don’t have to impress me with your toughness. You did that last night. ’Fess up, now. It’s hurting, isn’t it?”
“A bit,” she answered reluctantly.
“Let me carry you downstairs.” Without waiting for her permission, he stepped forward and picked her up.
Desire flared, hot and bright, at the feel of his strong, safe arms around her. Lord, he was pretty. Cover-model material all the way. “I’m going to have to start walking on it sometime, you know,” she grumbled.
His voice was low and sexy in her hair. “I know. Although, I rather enjoy hauling you around like a bride.”
For a moment, she was too startled by his forwardness to react. Belatedly, she frowned at him. He met her stare head-on, unapologetic. She had to give these American men credit. Their directness had a certain appeal. Even if it was a bit intimidating.
He broke the silence casually. “By the way, if I’m going to keep carrying you around like this, I probably ought to introduce myself. My name is Taylor. Taylor Roberts.”
A good name. Strong. It had character. Definitely fit him. “I’m Amanda McClintock,” she managed to squeeze out without sounding breathless.
They reached the ground floor and he set her down carefully. “Pleasure to meet you, Amanda.”
Doc Hammill bustled out of his office, a welcome distraction. “Don’t go running off, young lady. The swelling in your ankle should be down this morning, and I want to tape it before you go tearing around on it again.” He herded her into the examining room and forced her to swallow a couple painkillers he swore wouldn’t knock her out. Then he taped her ankle and pressed a brown plastic bottle of pills into her hand. She thanked Doc Hammill for his help and hospitality, and they were on their way.
The day was heating up fast, promising a hazy afternoon of brown skies and clammy humidity for New York City. Although the steam heat of late summer had not yet arrived, the air carried a certain oppressive weight. It dulled the usual vivacity of the city’s sounds, reducing it all to a methodical repetition of the weekday’s weary routine. The streets were relatively unclogged, and the taxi dropped them off in front of Shecky’s Deli on time.
Boisterous noise greeted them as a half-dozen employees shouted orders good-naturedly and tossed yeast rolls at each other behind the counter. Harry Trumpman waved at them from a vinyl booth in the back corner of the crowded restaurant. Good location for a meet. So much background noise no parabolic mike could isolate their conversation and record it. They waded through the line of people waiting for take-out orders and joined him. She couldn’t help but admire the way Taylor’s broad shoulders cleared a swath through the crowd for her.
Harry waved them into the seat opposite him and said little until the waiter had delivered their sandwiches and left. Then he stared intently at Amanda. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how strung out she really was after last night’s disaster, and she met his gaze dead-on.
He asked with quiet significance, “How are you feeling today?”
Like he really cared so long as she got the job done. She answered coolly, “Fine, thank you. Dr. Hammill says my ankle should be as good as new in a few weeks.”
Either oblivious to her hostility or unconcerned by it, Harry turned to Taylor. “And how did last night go? Did the pianist signal anyone?”
Taylor shrugged. “Maybe. You might want to have a cryptography expert listen to Subova’s improvisations. He may find messages encoded in the music.”
Harry raised his brows. “That’s an interesting idea. I’ll pass it along. Actually, Taylor, that’s why I asked you to come along to this meeting. I’ve decided to bring you in on the full details of the case we’re working on regarding Marina Subova.”
Amanda stared in undisguised shock. That was her case. Why hadn’t she been consulted about this? She always worked alone. Always. Why in the world would Devereaux bring anyone else in on this one, of all cases? If Taylor messed it up, he could trigger global violence. Literally.