Geneva. Perched at the westernmost point of Switzerland at the tip of a territorial peninsula that juts like a finger poking into the ribs of France. The graceful city nestled in the mountains at the westernmost end of the crescent that is Lake Geneva, or Lake Leman, as the French call it.
Amanda stood under the stars and breathed the clean pine scent of the mountains. The frigid air burned her lungs, but it was invigorating. A stiff breeze blew off the lake tonight, reddening her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She huddled deeper into the turned-up collar of her coat.
For the first time in days, she felt half alive. After the disaster in Caracas, it was as if a dense fog had enveloped her, muffling sound and sense and reducing events around her to a slow-motion crawl.
“Why Geneva?” she asked Taylor. He looked out over the black lake beside her, stalwart and controlled, completely in command of the situation. The irony was not lost on her. They’d reversed roles, with her the voice of conscience and moderation after the horror of the Caracas massacre, and him focused fiercely on completing the mission and saving her life.
“Marina Subova is here,” he said succinctly.
“Ah.” Something she should have remembered. Thank God he was operating on all cylinders. She’d be lying dead in a ditch or rotting in a Venezuelan jail were it not for him the past two days. He’d orchestrated their anonymous escape to Switzerland with a smooth precision she could be proud of.
They walked another block along the lakeshore in silence. The moon bathed them in silvery, cold light, and distant mountain peaks flanking the lake glittered white. There would be good skiing already at the higher elevations.
“I got the report back from Devereaux on that wafer you picked up,” he said quietly.
His words jarred her back to the case at hand. “What is it?”
“Diamond. Just as I suspected. But synthetic.”
She frowned. That was significant, somehow. God, she wished her mind would get in gear. “I didn’t know diamonds came in shapes like that.” The wafer was nearly the size of her palm and roughly a millimeter thick. Polished smooth, it shone with crystalline purity.
“They don’t. Somebody grew a diamond crystal in a lab and then ground it to that shape. The Swiss jeweler who examined it was impressed with its exact precision of manufacture.”
She fought through more tendrils of fog in her brain and asked, “Why did Brodin have it?”
“The more pertinent question is, what is it for?” They walked a bit farther and then he turned to face her. He answered his own question. “Devereaux says it’s a blank computer chip.”
That startled her. A few more cobwebs tore away. “A computer chip? Made of diamond?”
“One of the biggest limitations on the speed of computer chips is heat. Silicon can only take so much before its performance degrades. But diamond can stand a great deal more heat.”
“Which means,” she said slowly, “that a diamond chip is faster than a silicon one?”
“Up to a hundred times faster.”
Amanda blinked. Every computer could be a hundred times faster than it currently was? Whoa.
“Diamond computer chips will also revolutionize the nano-chip industry. Medicine with robots the size of red blood cells will be possible.”
“And why did Brodin have a pouch full of these diamond computer chips?”
“He was going to deliver them to someone in Caracas,” Taylor replied.
She flinched at the mental images that single word conjured. She frowned up at him. “To whom? The American government, the Russian government, and the Russian Mob were there.”
He shrugged. “Good question.”
She turned over the three possibilities. Finally. Her brain felt like it was coming to life. “We know Brodin’s got access to synthetic diamonds, and the way he’s been throwing around gemstone rocks this past year, I’d say the odds are excellent he’s been using synthetic diamonds in all those arms trades he’s doing. And we think those arms trades are being set up by the Russian government and signaled to him via Marina’s music. My bet’s on the Russian government.”
“So the Russian Mob was there only to act as Brodin’s security, and the Americans were there because they got wind of the deal with him and Russia and wanted to stop it?”
The second part didn’t ring true in her gut. “The Russian economy is a free-for-all these days. So why wouldn’t the Americans just approach Brodin and/or his supplier and buy some for themselves?” she asked.
Taylor frowned. “Let’s ask Marina.”
“You think she knows something about the wafers?” Amanda asked in surprise.
“Only one way to find out.”
“Nobody else has been with her entourage nonstop for the past eighteen months. Kriskin’s gone, Brodin’s gone…she’s the only unbroken thread.” Hard to believe her old friend was tangled up in something like this. But then, look at her own life. Lord knew, Marina would have no moral compunction about dabbling in smuggling.
Amanda resumed walking, more briskly this time. Taylor’s long strides kept up with hers easily. They retraced their steps along the shore and crossed the Quai du Mont Blanc, which spanned the Rhone River where it joined the lake. Black, forbidding water swirled under the bridge.
This time it was Taylor who broke the silence. “Can you arrange for us to see her?”
“How private do you want our conversation to be?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Hmm. That means we’ll have to get her away from her bodyguard, and probably out of her room wherever she’s staying. I imagine somebody has it bugged. When do you want this meeting?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“That’d be fine. Can you do it?”
“Of course. I’ll appeal to her sense of adventure. She always did love to break the rules.”
They walked a little while longer before turning away from the waterfront. They headed for their accommodations in a lower-profile section of town. Taylor unlocked the door to their plain but spotless hotel room and ushered Amanda inside.
For the first time since they fled Venezuela, she felt like her old self. She had completely unraveled after the massacre. It had been all she could do to keep moving and let Taylor herd her out of the country. An all-nighter on the motorcycle had put them in Cali, Colombia, where they had boarded a flight for Paris on their fake IDs. The train ride to Geneva had been simple enough for Taylor to arrange, even with all the antiterrorism security these days.
While it had not been difficult to sneak across the border into Switzerland, they by no means underestimated the efficiency of the Swiss police. The less the two of them exposed themselves, the better. They stayed inside all the next day, eating a picnic of sausage, cheese, apples and crusty rolls he purchased just around the corner.
In the early afternoon, Amanda placed a phone call to the auditorium where Marina would be performing for two more nights. She introduced herself as a florist with a large flower arrangement to deliver to Miss Subova. Would the theater prefer that it be delivered to the pianist’s dressing room or perhaps to her hotel instead?
She hung up and smiled triumphantly at Taylor. “Thirty-nine Rue St. Berges.”
She placed a call to the home. “Hello. May I please speak with Miss Subova?” A pause. “I understand that she wishes to have privacy. I am a very old, very dear friend of hers. Please ask her if she’d like to take a call from Amanda McClintock.”
Another pause.
“You bitch! Waking me up from my beauty rest!”
Amanda laughed. “Marina? Is that you? You sound like hell. And it’s after noon.”
“Don’t talk so loud. I’m hungover.”
“Hungover! You sound recently raised from the dead. I’m passing through town, and I thought you might slip away from your prison guards for an hour or two of freedom. Maybe tonight? I thought we might check out the local talent. Can I entice you?”
“Done. Where shall we meet?”
Amanda grinned and named a small nightclub she and Taylor had walked past the night before that was perfect for their purposes. Dark, reasonably crowded and next to one of the many small parks dotting Geneva. She hung up the phone.
“Well?” Taylor demanded.
She grinned, feeling more and more like her old self. “I had her as soon as I mentioned slipping her prison guards.”
Max Ebhardt shifted his weight yet again. His rear end was going numb. The Mercedes he was sitting in was comfortable enough, but after six hours it was getting old. God, he hated surveillance. The dull ache in his posterior turned into tingling.
How did Biryayev do it? His partner hadn’t moved a muscle in over an hour. The man seemed completely oblivious to his surroundings. He ignored food except for what Max shoved under his nose. Hardly slept. Hell, hardly even spoke anymore. The older man had dark circles under his eyes, and his sagging skin held a sickly gray pallor. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his clothes were unkempt. Biryayev forgot to bathe more than he remembered to, and Max wrinkled his nose at the results.
There was an unholy glow in Biryayev’s eyes that made Max’s flesh crawl. Rasputin, the mad priest who’d dominated czars and helped bring down the Russian monarchy, must have had this same obsessed look about him. Max seriously considered the idea that his boss might be going mad.
Biryayev handed the binoculars to him and ripped open yet another pack of cigarettes. Max cringed. The reeking blue haze from the last pack still lingered in the car’s confined space. He cracked open his window and shifted his face closer to the opening. He lifted the binoculars and stared at the stage door of the concert hall where Marina Subova was performing. Biryayev had a hunch, so here they sat. Funny how everything had come full circle. They’d started by watching the pianist to pick up the McClintock woman’s trail, and here they were, doing it all again.
Marina followed her new bodyguard out of the dressing room. This one was good-looking, but a stolid family man. Too bad. He opened the exit and held it for her. As she stepped outside, Marina noticed a black Mercedes parked across the street. Hadn’t it been there last night, too? She frowned. She was getting too damn paranoid. Maybe she ought to see a psychiatrist.
As she stepped out of the car in front of her host’s home, she cast a surreptitious look around. No sign of the black Mercedes. She really had to get a grip on herself.
The bodyguard waited outside her bedroom until she was settled down for the night before he went to his own room across the hall. Marina gave him a half hour to fall asleep before she got out of bed. She grabbed a coat and tiptoed out of her room.
The taxi she’d ordered while still in her dressing room pulled up outside exactly on time and dropped her off in front of Chez Madeline. Marina sighed. She should’ve known Amanda would choose a boring little bistro with no action. With a sigh, she stepped into the dim interior.
A slight figure detached itself from the counter and turned toward her. Marina reached out and gave her old friend a hug. “Good grief, Mashka. Did you have to pick someplace so…dull? I’m out of my cage! Let’s go have some fun!”
Amanda laughed. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.” They stepped outside.
Marina said brightly, “I know a great bar across town where a bunch of ski instructors hang out. You ought to see the bodies on these Swiss guys! They may act dull in public, but they’re not so bad in the sack.”
Amanda laughed. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s take a little walk before we go there.”
Marina peered closely at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Let’s walk.”
Marina linked her arm through Amanda’s as she had when they were girls. “Talk to me.”
Amanda led her into the Jardin Anglais, the English Garden, a park on the banks of Lake Geneva. It must be beautiful in the summer. Even dried and brown, it was lovely. The two women walked for some minutes in silence. They neared the lake and passed into a long arched arbor. A shadow detached itself from the dark and glided forward. Marina gave a little shriek.
Amanda squeezed her friend’s arm. “It’s all right. It’s my friend, Taylor.”
“Hello, Miss Subova.”
“Taylor? It is you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I asked Amanda to arrange this meeting. I need to speak with you in private.”
Marina glanced uncertainly at Amanda. “I don’t steal men from my best friend.”
Amanda chuckled. “It’s nothing like that. He has a few questions he’d like to ask you. Please don’t be afraid to answer him honestly. I trust him completely.”
Taylor peered into the dark shadows hiding Amanda’s face. Did she really? He was inordinately pleased to hear her say it.
His attention snapped back to Marina as she demanded, “What questions could be so serious that you have to drag me to a secluded park in the middle of the night to speak of it?”
He looked directly into Marina’s eyes. “Diamonds.”
The Russian woman gasped. She swayed slightly and clutched Amanda’s arm before she recovered herself. “What are you talking about?”
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
“No. I know nothing about any diamonds.”
Taylor schooled his voice to a gentle tone. “I’m not the police. And I don’t work with or for the authorities. I have no intention of turning you in to anyone, Marina. But Amanda’s in danger and I need some information if I’m going to help her.”
“What kind of information?” Suspicion overlaid the fear in her voice. He wished this place was better lit. He could read her body language better if he could see her clearly. “We know about the diamonds. The big gemstones you’ve been selling. We also know about the musical messages encoded into your improvisations. Your government is making you play those, aren’t they?”
Marina staggered. “How…when…what do you want from me?” she stuttered.
He reached out to take her arm and she backed away from him. He let his arm fall. No need to frighten her further. “I mean you no harm,” he reiterated soothingly. “I just need to know where you’re getting the diamonds from that you’re selling to your patrons.”
“Why?” she spit.
“Because whoever’s supplying you is trying to kill Amanda.”
Marina lurched at that one. And then laughed. Loudly. Like a braying donkey. “That’s ridiculous,” she guffawed. “He’d never hurt Amanda!”
“Who’d never hurt her?” Taylor pressed. “Tell me!”
She opened her mouth to speak.
“Max, wake up.”
Foul breath wafted across Max’s face. He turned his head away from the rotten smell and roused himself. “What is it, Comrade Biryayev?” His boss had gotten violently angry at Max the day before for accidentally dropping the Communist title.
“The little piano whore is sneaking out of the house.”
Max groaned and sat up behind the wheel of the car. Why couldn’t she stay in her room for once? It was after midnight, and Marina Subova was just heading out on the prowl. It was going to be another long night. He waited for the taxi to pull away before starting the Mercedes’s powerful engine and steering quietly out of the shadows. “Twenty rubles says she picks up a blond tonight.”
Biryayev growled. “She can fuck a Mongolian for all I care. Just don’t lose her. The McClintock woman has got to come to the bait soon. I can feel the bitch getting close.” Biryayev lifted his nose and sniffed the air like a dog. “I can smell her.”
More likely he smells himself. Max drove on in grim silence, staying well behind the taxi. It was late and there wasn’t much traffic to camouflage them. He was surprised when Marina got out at a quiet little club. This was certainly a departure from her usual style. He parked halfway down the block. Max was just making himself comfortable when their quarry emerged again from the cafe. And she wasn’t alone. He leaned forward, squinting at her companion.
Biryayev, using the binoculars, hissed, “It’s her. Amanda McClintock. She’s taken the bait!”
The women crossed the street quickly and headed for the wooded park on the opposite side.
“I knew it! I knew she was here. Let’s go, Comrade:” Biryayev leaped out the car in barely contained excitement.
Max followed with less enthusiasm. He slid into the plentiful shadows behind his boss and followed Amanda and Marina as they walked rapidly across the lovely gardens. The pair of women ducked down winding paths, circled back twice and stuck to the darkest shadows, but he and Biryayev were better at surveillance than that.
The women’s clumsy attempts to lose them failed. Of course, if the McClintock girl had been by herself, it could’ve been more of a challenge. But with an amateur like Subova in tow, there was only so much McClintock could do. The women neared the lake and disappeared into yet another long, covered pathway.
Biryayev stopped and hand signaled that they’d separate and tail the women down each side of the arbor. He signaled that he’d shoot the McClintock woman before they exited the far end and Max should shoot Subova.
Max rolled his eyes and signaled back emphatically in the negative.
Biryayev scowled and repeated the signal to kill.
Max whispered urgently, “We have no permission to kill anyone. We’re in Switzerland, for God’s sake. It’s neutral ground.”
“Bullshit!” came an explosive whisper in reply.
“But…”
“Silence. I order you to kill Subova if you get the chance.”
Max rose from his crouch without another word. Arguing with Biryayev was useless. The guy was completely unhinged.
He turned away. A strong hand gripped his arm, spinning him around. Biryayev snarled, “Don’t forget, Comrade. McClintock’s daughter is mine.”
“Fine already.” Jeez.
“Go.”
Max ran silently along the wooden arches, encased in dead leaves. He heard the muted sound of voices and halted abruptly. He bent over low from the waist and continued forward carefully. He neared the dense foliage and dropped to his knees. There they were, just ahead. McClintock’s boyfriend, Taylor Roberts, had joined the two women. Why this clandestine meeting? It felt as if it was more than a simple escape from Subova’s bodyguards to go party.
Max rose to his feet and eased forward once more. He was only a few meters from them now. Another step. And another. He could practically touch the McClintock girl. Had a clear shot at Subova over her shoulder. He raised his pistol. And hesitated. He wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer. Did he dare disobey Biryayev’s order? Would the sick bastard turn on him?
With a quick flip of his wrist, Max reversed the pistol in his hand, grasping it by the barrel. He brought the butt of his gun down sharply on the back of Amanda’s head. And heard the spit of a silenced pistol.