Andy looked at the few brave souls walking on the Brighton Beach promenade. They were all wrapped up warmly, except for a shaggy haired teenager on a skateboard doing sloppy 360s. He’d fallen twice already, which was probably why he was out in this weather alone. Wouldn’t want epic fails on a bright, sunny day when the girls were out.
She turned to Isabelle, sitting next to her in the white van with its tinted windows, and big, blue print on the sides proclaiming that Jay’s Plumbers were in the neighborhood.
“Will you please wait here?” she asked.
“Why?”
“You know why.” Andy pointed to René sitting in the front before Isabelle could protest any further. “René? Up for some fun and games?”
René nodded. She jutted her chin in Marc’s direction, who was their driver for the day. “Will you keep an eye on Isabelle?”
Marc nodded.
“Why can’t we all come along?” Isabelle asked.
Andy glanced over the knee-high brown boots, the tight jeans tucked into them, the dark green top, revealing a triangle of smooth skin adorned with a simple, thin gold chain. “If we show up in numbers, nobody will believe it when we say we come in peace. It’s never good for negotiators to arrive in a posse.”
Isabelle scowled at her.
René nodded in agreement. “What Andy really means is that the Russians most definitely cannot realize that you are her soft spot. It would make her appear weak. Perhaps even make us vulnerable. We don’t need to give them that kind of leverage right now.”
Andy swore under her breath, looking at René as if she wanted to kill her.
Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. “But you guys be will safe, no? This is just a negotiation, not a gunfight?”
“Don’t worry,” René said in a calming voice. “We were born to do this. And nobody more so than Miss Personality over here.”
Marc chimed in. “And I’ll be on standby. Don’t worry. And Iona and David are also nearby.”
David had released Marat Sharapov just after this morning’s meeting, following him as he’d limped to home base. Andy had the payment to apologize to the Russians hidden in her coat. Two hundred thousand dollars in untraceable, used bills.
“Okay then,” Isabelle agreed reluctantly. She gave Andy a kiss on the cheek. “Be careful, please. And patient. Don’t lose your temper.”
Andy nodded. She exited the van, René on her heels.
They walked down the boardwalk, hands dug deep into their coat pockets. The day was clear, the air crisp, carrying the scent of the ocean in the slightest of breezes pushing against their bodies.
Andy turned to René. “Why do you keep on…” She sighed and let it go. “I’m going to save my energy for the Russians, but it’s time for you to stop interfering. I’ve just about had enough of your nonsense.”
“I kept quiet last time and look what happened.”
“Everyone kept quiet.”
“Exactly. You don’t think some of us feel guilty for not standing up to Kate? She’s the one who let you walk into that subway tunnel knowing full well what would happen. Who kicked Victoria out knowing what it would do to you.”
“Is that why you’re running for CEO?”
“That and other reasons. Kate’s been slipping lately. Pushing us further and harder than should be the case. The teams need to rest and recuperate, but it’s as if she’s got to prove to everyone and herself that we’re still relevant.” René sidestepped an old woman at a grocer haggling in some Eastern European language over the price of tomatoes.
Past a pharmacy—an anteka. The shops turned into a swimming academy. Restaurants.
“You know she’s turning sixty this year,” René said. “She’s been working since she was sixteen. I… A lot of us think it’s time she retired.”
Andy had forgotten about the big landmark birthday. Kate had had her late in life. She’d used some sperm donor and raised her with Elaine—gregarious, kind Elaine—for ten years before departing that relationship in a swirl of never-ending fights and incriminations.
The blue and white sign of Tatjana’s appeared.
Andy wasn’t looking forward to this, but there was no way out. She put her game face on, looked at René, nodded, and opened the door.
* * *
Natalya Kuznetsova was an attractive woman. Closing in on fifty, she had a runner’s body, lithe and trim, even if a bit too thin for Andy’s liking. She’d always liked her smile, though. When she smiled it was the smile of a younger woman, warm, open, and inviting, smoothing out her sharp edges, turning her into someone you could almost trust.
Almost.
She glanced up from her borscht as Andy opened the door, easing her frame into the door and adjusting her eyes to the dim light inside. She waited for René to follow, then closed the door.
Tatyana’s was still closed, the tables empty, but a pleasant, homey smell wafted from the kitchen, indicating it would not remain so for long. Andy counted two men at the kitchen door and one standing to the right of them, his hand tucked inside his jacket pocket, as if resting on the butt of his gun.
She only recognized one of the men, the taller one of the duo at the kitchen door. It was Tea Guy, the lanky fellow she and Isabelle had seen in Greenwich when they’d followed Arlene and they’d captured Marat Sharapov.
He smirked at her, hoisting a middle finger in salute, the gesture shielded from Kuznetsova’s view by his body.
Kuznetsova had always insisted on good manners. As if please and thank you mattered when you killed and tortured someone.
Andy took pleasure in Tea Guy’s blackened eyes, the big white bandage covering his nose. She definitely broke his nose that day in the alley.
Andy counted three seconds before Kuznetsova gave her her trademark smile, pushed back her chair, and walked over. The smile was slow in coming, as if fighting another, stronger emotion. She wore it with equal grace as she did the wine-red dress and the black pumps with their silver stiletto heels. Andy waited to see if the smile reached her wide, pale blue eyes, punctuated by thin, elegant eyebrows held aloft by a touch of Botox.
It did not.
“Andrea Bouchard, welcome.” Her accent was decidedly British, betraying her Oxford education. “I could not believe my ears when your mother said she would be sending you over.” Her hands feigned surprise at seeing René. “And you brought a friend.” She held out her hand. “Natalya Kuznetsova.” She waved a finger in the air. “Not Talya. Ever.”
“I’ll remember that, ma’am,” René nodded as she shook her hand, then gave a small bow.
Andy had warned her to show respect to Kuznetsova, to make eye contact at first, and to then look down.
Today was not a day for fighting the Russians.
Kuznetsova remained standing in the middle of the room. “Normally, I would immediately invite you for tea, but in light of what has happened, I would require you to surrender your weapons first.” She pointed to the empty table next to her.
Andy hesitated for a moment, then lifted the Sig from her side. René looked at her as if she were mad. They were breaking her second rule: Never surrender your weapon.
Andy gestured to the table.
René shook her head, rubbing a hand through her cropped hair in a stubborn gesture. “If you don’t mind…”
Kuznetsova swung around on her heels and strode into Rene’s space, almost bumping into her. She looked her in the eye. “But I do mind, René. I mind very, very much.”
She smiled. This time it barely got past her mouth.
René looked at Andy, grimaced, and then took out her own Sig. She leaned past Kuznetsova to place it on the table.
Kuznetsova leaned in, touching René’s hip in an intimate gesture, as if she were pulling René toward her. “And your backup piece,” she whispered into her ear.
René didn’t move.
The men at the kitchen door shuffled closer. Tea Guy had something like joy etched on his face.
René stepped back, kneeled down, and took the Browning from her ankle.
Andy stripped the seven knives, held in a special pouch, from her back.
Kuznetsova turned to the table, fingering the barrel of the Sig. The array of knives. She looked at Andy. “And the other one, darling?”
How did she know about it?
“Sorry. I forgot,” Andy said. She bent and retrieved the knife from her boot, then handed it to Kuznetsova, still on her knee, as if handing over a gift.
If the object was to humiliate them, to get them on their knees in front of her, perhaps it was best to play along. Subjugation only truly existed in the body, never the mind.
She rose to her feet again.
Kuznetsova’s smile was a hint, a playful lift of her wide mouth, but her eyes revealed a deep satisfaction.
Andy wondered who kept her bed warm at night. She had a huge appetite for younger men, if the rumors were correct.
“Anything else hidden away?” Kuznetsova asked. “I would hate for our meeting to break whatever little trust still exists between us and Ma Soeur.”
René shook her head. Andy did the same.
“Let’s continue then.”
“How is your mother?” Natalya asked as they walked to her table in the back of Tatyana’s. She gestured for one of the men at the kitchen door to clear her plate and sat down, crossing her legs, smoothing down the short red dress showing them off to perfection. She pushed a lost strand of dark hair from her face, then checked a small golden watch on her wrist.
“She is well, thank you,” Andy said. “She sends her regards.”
She sat down opposite Kuznetsova, René remaining standing behind her, keeping an eye on the three men in the room.
Andy had worn her usual black jeans for today, but with a button-down shirt under her black leather coat and checkered scarf.
René looked as if she’d stepped from a combat zone, with light brown fatigues and layer after layer of white T-shirts, long and short, underneath a dark brown coat.
Andy did not waste time. She slowly reached inside her jacket pocket, taking out $100,000 in a brown paper bag. She placed it on the table and pushed it over to Kuznetsova. It was only half the money she had on her, but she’d never been tempted to reveal her hand in the first round.
“Kate expresses her sincerest apologies for detaining one of your men beyond his desire to stay. She would have never kept him if she knew that he was…family of yours.”
Kuznetsova rested her hands on her lap, leaving the money untouched. She turned to the man who’d cleared the table. “Please ask Olga for some tea and honey cake.” She pointed to Andy and René. “Our guests must be thirsty for some Russian hospitality.”
Tea Guy’s stocky companion disappeared into the kitchen.
The silence grew.
Andy knew it would be impolite not to drink with Kuznetsova. “Again, our apologies,” she said, locking eyes with Kuznetsova in an attempt to determine what she was thinking.
“Marat said you were rather unkind during his stay,” Kuznetsova said. “That your hospitality lacked…warmth.” She emphasized the last word.
Andy nodded. “It did perhaps, yes. We did not realize he was with you, otherwise we would have treated him much better,” she lied. “He, however, as you can imagine, refused to speak with us.”
“He did?”
Andy straightened her coat. Was Kuznetsova worried about what secrets Marat Sharapov could have possibly spilled while in their basement?
“Indeed, he didn’t say a word. It was quite admirable, actually. One would almost hope he worked for us.”
The tea arrived. Kuznetsova pointed to the fine china. “Shall I pour?”
Andy nodded. “Please. Milk, no sugar for me.”
Kuznetsova looked at René who stood scouting her surroundings.
“Hmm?” René lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Black, with honey. Please, ma’am.”
“A woman with taste.” Kuznetsova smiled appreciatively, glancing over René’s body with something like admiration, inching to hunger the longer it lingered.
René cleared her throat and shuffled a step back.
Andy smiled. René talked a hundred miles an hour with her fists, but she knew little about the bartering it sometimes took to survive as a keeper. The subtle diplomacy, role-playing, and strong-arming demanded to navigate a number of often fraught relationships.
The rules were less clear here than on any battlefield. Less black-and-white. Less honorable.
Kuznetsova offered Andy the teacup. She held on to René’s before relinquishing it, making sure her fingers touched hers.
She was trying to throw René off balance, and Andy feared it might be working. Even worse, the delicate teacups also kept her and René’s hands where everyone could see them. You only needed one hand for a mug of coffee.
Andy looked at René, her eyes asking if she remained present, aware. René’s eyes widened a bit, but then she nodded.
Kuznetsova sipped from her teacup. The early afternoon light was seeping through the windows, yellow and gentle, illuminating the dust in the air.
“Marat told me something interesting,” she said.
“Yes?” Andy asked.
The $100,000 rested on the table, untouched.
“He told me about a redhaired woman. A dreamer, I think your colleagues called her.” She studied Andy over the rim of her cup.
Andy wanted to keep quiet but realized Kuznetsova would only persist until she gave her something. Anything.
“He must be mistaken. We don’t have a redheaded woman in our employ in New York. As for the dreamer—what a strange word. Are you sure your colleague heard right?”
“Andrea. You were with the redhead. She was gorgeous, smart. And she insisted on touching Marat as if she held some power. It was almost as if she was an important asset to Ma Soeur. And it seemed she meant something to you as well.” She gave a coy smile. “It’s about time. After Victoria.”
Andy said nothing.
“You know.” Kuznetsova put down her tea. She stuck a cake fork into the slice of rich, layered honey cake in front of her, breaking off a piece and placing it in her mouth.
“Hmm. Delicious. You should have some.”
She pointed to the other two slices on the tray.
Andy didn’t move. René stepped forward, placed her cup on the table, then stepped back again.
Kuznetsova smiled. “You know I’ve always wondered what Ma Soeur really does. I’ve never really believed that it’s merely a charity focusing on women’s issues. I’ve persistently encountered you in places where you don’t belong.”
The last three words came out flat and angry, the British accent falling away to reveal an almost guttural Russian undertone.
“Again,” Andy said calmly. “We apologize. Sincerely. If what we offer is not sufficient an apology, I can negotiate with Kate to increase the number to your desire.”
Kuznetsova stood up. She came to sit on the edge of the table, as close to Andy as she could manage. The men in the room inched closer.
“What I desire, Andrea Feraud Bouchard, is to meet this redhaired woman. I want to understand who Ma Soeur is. Perhaps we can be of assistance to one another, you never know.”
“We are exactly who we say we are,” Andy said, her hands in the air. “We were merely responsible for Arlene Hampton’s safety, as per her request, and saw that your men were following her. We thought they were thugs intent on hurting her and intervened. We meant no harm. We didn’t know that you were keeping an eye on her to ensure Phillipe Lautrec paid his gambling debts.”
She looked up at Kuznetsova, glad for the opening to test Lautrec’s story.
Kuznetsova blinked, slightly surprised at Andy’s words.
“We were, yes,” she snapped. “But we wouldn’t have hurt her. Never.”
“I believe you.” Andy didn’t flinch, only gently signaled with her hands for Kuznetsova to calm down. “I just need to be certain. The night of Arlene Hampton’s death I saw two men leave her apartment in a hurry. I wondered if they were your men. I would like to be able to tell the police the truth when they interrogate me again.”
Andy could see her body tense, the gentle pulse in her neck accelerating. She crossed her arms and looked to Tea Guy, who shook his head in a clear warning: No.
Kuznetsova stared at him, then shrugged as if offering an equally silent apology. “Hypothetically speaking, they could have been my men.”
Andy betrayed no emotion.
Tea Guy looked to his left, fists clenched in front of his body, disgust on his face. He made a strange noise in the back of his throat.
Kuznetsova ignored him. “Perhaps these men were too late,” she said. “Perhaps they were on their way up to deliver a message to Ms. Hampton for Mr. Lautrec. It would seem that Mr. Lautrec was very, very fond of Ms. Hampton, even though she did not return the sentiment. Perhaps someone imagined that he would respond best to a…request from her to pay his debts, rather than from us. Perhaps these men arrived just after the shooter had left, long enough for you to come across them.” She lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps.”
“The men I saw had security tags for the building.”
“Could be that a security guard sold it to them. It’s plausible. This guard seemed as if he’d done it before.”
Andy mulled over her words.
“You know there are no absolutes in our world, Andy,” Kuznetsova said.
“I see. But you are willing to vouch for this to be the truth? Hypothetically speaking.”
“Yes.”
That was big, Andy knew. “Did these men perhaps see anything of interest? Anyone of interest?
“No. Whoever it had been, was gone when they arrived.”
“How disappointing.”
“Indeed.” A slight pause. “Do the police think we are involved in Ms. Hampton’s death?”
Andy did her best not to smile. Kuznetsova’s information came with a price then, after all. “Not as far as we can see, no.”
“And you are certain of that?”
“At this point, yes.”
Kuznetsova returned to her seat. “As you can see, we had no hand in what happened to Ms. Hampton. None whatsoever. Mr. Lautrec owes us almost half a million dollars in gambling debt. We only wanted to ensure he understood the gravity of his situation.”
“We understand. Fully. I assure you.” Andy hesitated for a moment. “And I will convey this to my mother.”
Kuznetsova nodded. She looked at the bag containing the money, then pushed it back in Andy’s direction. “As I said, Phillipe Lautrec had a thing for Arlene Hampton. Tell Kate that too. He was fascinated with her sex life. And mightily upset that she wasn’t interested in him. In men.”
She inhaled deeply, as if regaining her composure and flashed Andy a cold, hard smile. “Tell your mother that I’ll arrange a meeting with her. One hundred thousand is simply not sufficient to cover the mental damage Marat suffered at your hands. The man-hours lost to my business. And bring the redhead with you. I’d like to meet her.”
“I can arrange the meeting. I don’t, however, know about the woman.” There was no way in hell the Russians would ever know about Isabelle. Andy would die before they got their hands on her.
Kuznetsova stood up, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. “I don’t think it’s up to you. This is between me and your mother.”