Enigma (FBI Thriller 21)

Abram turned. “Come.”

Liam waved the Walther for Abram to precede them and limped behind Henley into a long narrow room with a full bank of wide windows facing the Potomac. He saw dark-stained wooden shelves on two walls, nearly empty, only a dozen or so hardcover books. At the far end of the room stood a big mahogany desk. He watched a man rise when he saw Elena unmoving in Henley’s arms and rush around the desk. His voice was sharp, with a clipped upper-class British accent. “What happened, Henley? Is she all right?” He turned quickly to Liam. “What did you do to her?”

“She’ll be fine, Mr. Petrov.”

“If you’ve harmed her, you’re a dead man.”

Liam smiled. “She’ll have a headache, but that should be all. You know as well as I do if I hadn’t knocked her out, she would have carved out my liver and trussed me up like a turkey for your pleasure. Why should I take a chance of your putting your foot on my neck or locking me up with no food or water until I tell you what you want to know?”

“I am not a barbarian, Manta Ray.”

“Call me Liam, Liam Hennessey. My old street name no longer fits me.”

Petrov ignored him, waved to Henley to put Elena down on the pale blue brocade sofa. So Elena really was Petrov’s Achilles’ heel. Liam felt the balance of power shift, and smiled.

Liam hated showing Petrov weakness, but Petrov already knew about his heel, Elena must have told him. He limped to a chair, sat down, and was glad the throbbing eased. He studied the boss. Petrov was in his midforties, not a big man, but he had presence, as if he understood power and how to wield it. Odd impression, that, but there it was. Petrov’s forehead was high, his dark hair spearing a thick widow’s peak in the middle of his forehead; his hair receding well back on each side. It reminded him of Nicolas Cage’s hair, the American actor Liam knew well, having watched his movies at the Old Goddard theatre in Belfast. He had Cage’s black eyes, too, but his nose was long and thin, his cheekbones high, and he had very white skin, like he’d never been in the sun. A vampire, the bloody Russian looked like a pretty vampire with Nicolas Cage hair.

Liam said, “I don’t speak Russian.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Petrov said, leaving Because you’re an ignorant Irish git unspoken but clear as day. Petrov turned to Abram. “Take Mr. Henley to the kitchen and give him a beer. And summon Dr. Michaelov. He will examine Elena. And Mr. Hennessey’s heel, of course. I will call if I need anything.”

Liam heard the two men’s voices recede into the distance. He realized he was unconsciously rubbing his heel, and stopped. Petrov was whispering to Elena, touching her face, obviously concerned she might be badly hurt.

“You said you weren’t a barbarian, Mr. Petrov. I agree. You are far beyond a barbarian. But for all I know you could promise me the moon for what you need from that safe-deposit box and then shoot me clean between the eyes. Abram could no doubt bury me in that dirt field where your helicopter lands. I took Elena’s gun and that means we both have a measure of control. Now we can negotiate.”

33

Petrov looked up from Elena’s face. He fanned his slender white hands. “You mistake me, Mr. Hennessey. Ours is nothing more than a straightforward business matter. I have held up my end of our bargain. I promised to free you from the federal marshals, and I’ve done so. I was required to take extraordinary measures to keep you out of the FBI’s hands, and I have done so. And now you are here, safe.” Petrov waved to Liam’s bound foot. “Your foot, the FBI, should I go on?” He paused, then: “And yet you are holding Elena’s favored Walther at my chest. I am making you a rich man. It seems to me you would wish to show me a measure of gratitude, Mr. Hennessey.”

Liam sat back in the chair, crossed his arms. He liked Petrov, but Liam knew he wasn’t a man he’d want to meet in a dark alley. “And what do you think this measure of gratitude should be?”

“Let us say, rather that it would be a simple courtesy for you to confirm for me the name of the person who hired you to rob my safe-deposit box.”

Liam cocked an eyebrow, said in full Irish, “My heel hurts, Mr. Petrov, makes me querulous. Sorry, I’m not feeling very courteous at the moment.”

“Even though my own personal physician is coming to take care of your heel?”

“And her, of course.” Liam waved the Walther toward the sofa. He heard Elena moan. “She’ll be back with you soon, Mr. Petrov. That is my courtesy to you—I didn’t kill her.”

Petrov gently pulled Elena upright into his arms. He whispered against her ear, “No, don’t move, you probably have a concussion.”

Elena whispered something Liam couldn’t hear as Petrov lightly touched a long finger to the side of her head behind her left temple. “You’ve got only a lump there. The skin isn’t broken. Does it hurt? Can you see me clearly?”

Elena nodded, said something in French, of all things, and Petrov pulled her against him again and slowly rocked her, his face pressed against her hair.

Liam said, “No, I did not kill her, and I am about to bring you your heart’s greatest desire. It is you who owes me gratitude. I’ve decided I want to have enough money to make a difference in my life, but not enough to make you want to hunt me down and cut my throat in my sleep.”

“And what do you suppose that amount would be, Mr. Hennessey?”

“Four million dollars and all the jewelry in the safe-deposit boxes.”

Petrov never looked away from Elena. “I can get that amount here by morning. I presume you have other demands to assure your safety?”

“In the morning, that’s fine. Only one more demand. After you’ve given me the four million, you will have Henley fly me, my money, and Elena to wherever I choose. Elena is for my own safety. We’ll fly over to collect what you want—I presume it’s whatever is in that metal box from one of the safe-deposit boxes I stole?”

“It is. You did not attempt to open the box?”

Liam shook his head, remembered too clearly the awful pain in his side from the bullet whenever he moved.