The thefts themselves represented no serious economic damage to him. His profitable company could absorb a hundred times the blow without blinking. What disturbed him was the thieves' timing, precision and choice of loot; they unerringly plundered the shipments destined for his most secret and demanding clients.
It had begun some years back as a quiet import sideline, developed for the sole purpose of entertaining himself,
smuggled art and antiquities and suchlike. His latest diversion was the traffic in famous murder weapons from high-profile trials, a hobby he'd fallen into almost by accident. People were willing to pay ridiculous sums for a stolen piece of violent, grisly social history. Perverse, yes, but he had always reaped big profits by taking advantage of perversity. Just another of those comforting constants in life.
One of his most recent deals had been for the hunting knife used by Anton Laarsen, the Cincinnati Slasher, on his ten-city, five-state rampage. Victor had auctioned off the Made for five times what the theft had cost him in planning and manpower. It had gone to the CEO of a local pharmaceuticals firm with whom Victor often golfed, a mild-mannered, genial fellow with a sizable paunch and a passel of grand-kids. Victor wondered if the man's wife was aware of the true depth of her husband's interest in deadly violence. It would be best for her if she never knew, no doubt.
Procuring such items gave him a delicious sense of having gotten away with something, a frisson of danger that kept the gray, empty feeling at bay for a little while. It was childish, perhaps, but he had reached a time in his life when he could afford to indulge himself. Or so he had thought. In each case, he and he alone had made the arrangements for these acquisitions. Which indicated that whoever had planned and executed the extremely professional raids had access to information that could only have been obtained by electronic eavesdropping devices.
Seth Mackey's damage control plan was going to cost him. His fees were outrageous, but Victor could easily afford them. The man himself was intriguing. He was sharp, cunning and surprisingly unreadable, but Victor was a grand master at ferreting out a person's weak points. Mackey had made his glaringly obvious that morning.
Victor laughed out loud and took another sip of whiskey. Enter Lorraine Cameron, stage left. Formerly little Katya Lazar of the white-blond braids. His long-lost niece. The timing was exquisite.
The girl had surprised him. Alix, her mother, had grabbed her and run like the contemptible coward that she was after Peter's death. She'd gone to ridiculous lengths to cover their tracks, but she need not have bothered; she was no match for Victor's informational network.
Victor had no further interest in Alix, but he had followed his niece's progress with great interest. She showed potential, but had suffered from crippling shyness for much of her girlhood; and he had long ago dismissed her as an attractive but insignificant piece of fluff, content to drift from place to place, committing to nothing, achieving nothing. The fact that she had the audacity to apply for a job at Lazar Import & Export with a falsified resume intrigued him. There might be something strong and vibrant simmering beneath that facade of clumsy naivete.
He wondered if Peter really was the girl's father. Given Alix's wide-ranging sexual appetites, the probability was not high, though the girl did resemble her paternal grandmother. Although now that he thought about it... he calculated for a moment... yes, it was quite possible. The girl could very well be his own daughter. Entertaining. Not that it mattered, at this point. He had sacrificed such sentimental considerations upon the altar of expediency long ago. Besides, if she were his, he would have expected more of her by now.
In any case, he would not make the same mistake with her as he had with Peter. No coddling, no spoiling. No mercy of any kind. He would temper her, bring out the proud Lazar core of her. The job had been his first test, to see if she had any stamina, and she was holding up well. She was strong in languages, a good writer, thought fast on her feet, was charming and well-spoken, and had adapted to a work schedule specifically designed to weed out the unworthy. Still, she was a nervous, cowering rabbit. Alix's doing. It would be interesting to see if he could turn her into a real woman of steel and twisting fire.
His new security consultant was certainly eager to do his part in that regard. What a piece of luck that the girl was beautiful. At least her intemperate, profligate bitch of a mother had been useful for that much. Alix had been a stunning woman in her day, and the girl surpassed her. Or would, if someone taught her how to dress.
And to think that he had actually offered her to Mackey as one of the perks of the job after the meeting this morning. Obliquely, of course, but the hungry flash of comprehension in the younger man's eyes told him everything he needed to know. He chuckled, feeling impish. Victor knew he was being a diabolical, manipulative bastard, but a man did what he must to keep things interesting; and besides, he was doing the girl a favor. Mackey was sure to prove a more inspiring sexual partner for her than the worthless specimens she had chosen so far for herself. She seemed to have inherited her father's abysmal taste in lovers. Poor Peter.
Tomorrow he would leave them to their own devices, and trust to lust There was no way to predict or control what would happen. Thank God for the element of chance. Without it he would have slit his wrists from boredom long ago.
He would have liked to film the seduction, but it would be more logistically complicated than it was worth, in addition to being in somewhat poor taste. The girl was his niece, after all. He would concede her a measure of privacy. At least for now.
The situation was fortuitous, even aside from pure entertainment value. He needed leverage with the mysterious Mackey before moving forward with such a sensitive project, particularly after the unfortunate events ten months ago that had culminated in the death of the undercover FBI agent Jesse Cahill. He had barely managed to salvage the situation, though not in time to avoid considerable embarrassment in certain business circles. Victor loathed embarrassment.
Kurt Novak, in particular, was still nursing a grudge—but the “heart of darkness” that Crowe was bringing to him right now would change all that in the blink of an eye. It was the final detail of the plan that would put Novak right back where Victor wanted him. He smiled dreamily at the thought, looking up at the ragged clouds that scudded across the moonlit sky.
The French doors clicked open, and the attendant cleared her throat. “Mr. Crowe is here,” she murmured respectfully.
The wind was picking up. Gusts of wind sent dead leaves and pine needles leaping and swirling across the flagstones like a display of naughty poltergeists, the perfect note for the transaction that was about to take place. “Send him out,” Victor ordered.
Moments later, a shadow materialized behind his chair. Crowe was not his real name. Victor didn't even know his real name, nor was he acquainted with anyone who did. He was the kind of man one contacted when one wished to arrange something complicated, discreet, and extremely illegal, such as the theft of a notorious murder weapon. He was the most reliable agent Victor had ever used—and the most expensive.
He was clad in a long, olive drab raincoat, his face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat and mirrored sunglasses, even at dusk. What little that could be seen of his face was cold and angular. He placed a steel carrying case by Victor's chair, straightened up, and waited. There was no need to check the authenticity of the item he was delivering. His reputation was enough.