The 14th Colony (Cotton Malone 11)

His favorite café was a whitewashed building with a peaked roof and wide wooden veranda that sat not far from Lenin’s bust. A low wall of mortared boulders separated it from the bazaar. Sturdy wooden tables sat atop an earthen floor below dark wooden beams. Framed calligraphy dotted the inside. Dim lighting and discreet corners offered privacy. In spring and summer flowers topped the outer wall. Occasionally, you’d even hear the clatter of horse hooves on pavement.

Anya had come in for some cold water, dressed in the uniform of the local police. She had a clean, natural face unspoiled by makeup and a delicious laugh that burst deep from the back of her throat. Freckles dusted her pale skin. Her teeth slightly protruded from thin lips with a tiny gap in the middle. Nothing about her signaled dumb or distant, nor had she seemed preoccupied with dreaming of her youth. Quite the contrary. Her eyes stayed filled with mystery and excitement. He’d introduced himself and she spoke to him with a candor and sincerity he never doubted.

Everything about her signaled strength.

Several times he’d seen her around town, and inquiries had informed him that she was a respected member of the police. People told the story of how a gang had burst into a local club, driving right through the doors and windows, then beating everyone up. Anya had been one of the first on the scene and took four of the men down, nearly killing two of them. People spoke her name with respect.

As they had his once, too.

He recalled the pungent aroma of barbecued beef wafting from skewers on a metal grill. The flesh had been tender and succulent with a delicious smoky flavor.

Together, they’d enjoyed a meal.

“My father was a party leader,” she said to him. “He was an important man in this city.”

“Is he still?”

She shook her head. “He drank himself to death.”

“And your mother?”

“She is still alive and wishes her daughter would marry and have babies.”

He smiled. “And why doesn’t her daughter do that?”

“Because I want more than that from life.”

That he could understand.

“When I was little,” she told him, “in our house was a poster, from the Great Patriotic War. Mother and child clutching each other before a bloodied Nazi bayonet. And the slogan below. WARRIORS OF THE RED ARMY, SAVE US. I remember every detail of that poster and I wanted to be one of those warriors.”

He, too, recalled a poster from where he was raised. The image of a tall, powerful woman, her head wrapped in a kerchief, her mouth open in a shout of alarm with a timeless plea. THE MOTHERLAND CALLS YOU.

“I was but a teenager when the fall came,” she said. “But I remember the days before Yeltsin. Most people in this town still remember those, too. It’s why I live here. We have not forgotten.”

He was intrigued. She seemed to be in extraordinary physical shape and conversed in a calm, calculated way that drew his attention. She knew nothing of him. They were strangers, yet he felt a connection. So he asked, “Do you know of Chayaniye, by the lake?”

“I’ve heard of it. Is that where you live?”

He nodded. “Perhaps you’d like to come for a visit.”

Which happened, and led to more visits until eventually Anya quit her job and came to live with him. On those occasions when he’d taken work for the syndicates in Irkutsk, she’d gone with him. Together they’d earned the money. His fight became her fight. With him she’d found that “more from life” she’d been seeking. And he’d found a partner.

He forced himself free of his thoughts and slowed at an intersection to turn. The airport lay only a few kilometers ahead.

He checked his watch one last time.

10:25 P.M.

50 hours left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Luke rushed left toward a long staircase that hugged an interior wall, its wide risers lined with red carpet. He leaped up two steps at a time, one hand gliding along a polished wood railing, the other reaching for his Beretta. He’d meant what he said. He owed Anya Petrova and he planned to pay his debt.

He came to a landing that right-angled to another shorter set of red-carpeted risers. At the top stretched a second-floor gallery that matched the one directly beneath, this one also leading to the far side of the H-shaped villa. The dark-paneled walls were trimmed with molding, the ornate cream-colored ceiling a startling contrast. Large canvases dotted one side, tapestries the other. Three crystal chandeliers hung unlit. He noted more sculptures, flags, and swords, and a clear Asian influence. He knew only what Stephanie had said, that the security office sat adjacent to the serving pantry, which had to be close to the dining room—which he now spotted to his left through an open doorway.

He readied his weapon and entered the dining room, its walls also dark paneling, the floor an intricate inlay of stone. More tapestries were displayed, and a fireplace dominated the exterior wall. A shiny mahogany table lined with elegant chairs occupied the center, above which hung another crystal chandelier.

An open door to his left led out into a room outfitted with simple white cabinets, dark counters, and lots of drawers. A placard just inside identified it as the serving pantry. He entered and spotted another door at the opposite end, ajar. He rushed over and found a short hall that led to a small, windowless space stuffed with video monitors. A man lay sprawled on the floor. He bent down, saw no obvious wounds, and tried to rouse him.

“You okay?”

The guy came around, blinking his eyes, orienting himself. “Yeah. The bitch coldcocked me.”

“She’s gone?”

The eyes seemed to regain focus. “Yeah. She saw you on the screen, then smacked me.”

No one was outside, and no one had been near the staircase he’d used. But in a house this big there had to be many ways up and down. He could only hope that Petrova knew as little about this place as he did.

“Stay here,” he said.

He left the security room and stepped back to the serving pantry, halting his advance at the doorway to the dining room. He could feel it. She was here. Waiting for him. Like last time, thinking herself one step ahead.

He crept to the exit to the second-floor gallery.

All quiet.

Another impressive inlaid stone floor stretched from one end of the gallery to another. Maybe fifty feet. Suddenly. Anya appeared in a doorway at the far end. She aimed a gun and fired. He retreated into the dining room. A bullet tore into the wood only a few inches from where his face had been. Another round came and did more damage.

Then another.

He was waiting for a chance and decided that the other side of the room with the dining table between them would be better. This woman was bold. She liked offense. She’d purposefully waited to joust with him. So if she was coming for him at least he could be ready. He rounded the table and assumed a firing position, his gun trained on the doorway.

“What is it you say?” Anya called out. “Come. Get me.”

He shook his head.

Did she think him that little of a threat?

He told himself that may be the whole idea, to taunt him into making a mistake. What would Malone say? Walk, don’t run, into trouble. Damn right. He fled his position and approached the doorway to the gallery.

No sight of dear sweet Anya.

He eased out, gun leading the way.

Quickly, he determined that there were four ways in and out of the gallery. The stairway he’d first negotiated, the dining room where he’d been, the doorway at the far end where Anya had appeared, and a final portal ten feet away.

He approached and saw that it opened to a narrow gallery that overlooked a ballroom below. Another long staircase hugged an interior wall and led down to a polished wood floor dotted with tables devoid of linen or ornaments. What had Strobl said? They were preparing for an inaugural event. Glass doors below and windows high above allowed the sun to flood the cavernous space, made even brighter by glossy white walls. A decorative ir

on railing protected the outer edge of the semicircular balcony that stretched before him.

She was here.

No question.

So come and get it.

Anya appeared.

To his left, from behind a glass-paneled door.

The sole of her boot slammed into his right hand, jarring the Beretta from his grasp. He reacted by spinning just as she leaped out and faced him. She held no weapon. Apparently, she wanted to settle this hand-to-hand. Fine by him. He recalled what the SVR man had said earlier, how she’d been formally trained.

Again, fine by him. So had he.

She lunged and pivoted off one leg while driving the other his way. The balcony was narrow, maybe four to five feet wide. Not much room to maneuver. But enough. He dodged the blow and readied one of his own, planting a solid kick into the pit of her stomach, reeling her backward where she fell across a row of wooden chairs along the wall. She quickly rolled and recovered, but he could see she was a little shocked at her clumsiness.