“It makes me uncomfortable,” Zahidov insisted, and he met her eyes, but didn’t say the rest.
Sevara threw back the covers and swung herself out of the bed, cursing him. The candlelight turned her skin to gold and shadow. He watched as she opened the closet, pulled on her robe. It was silk, green and black, one he had purchased for her on his last trip to Moscow, and he liked the way it clung to her, and he thought it made her even more desirable than when she wore nothing at all.
“I know what you’re thinking, Ahtya,” Sevara said. “The answer is no.”
“Why not? Because he’s your brother?”
“Precisely because he’s my brother. Think of how it will look, if nothing else. First his wife, then Papa, then my brother?”
He sat up in the bed. “It can be done with subtlety.”
“No, it can’t, my love, really, it can’t. Even were he to die of natural causes tomorrow it would not be subtle enough, not so soon on the heels of the others. It becomes overt—worse, it becomes obvious, and that would force Washington’s hand, because the media would report upon it, and they would have to respond to that pressure. Right now, they can suspect, they can even know in their hearts we’re responsible for Papa’s illness. But if we kill Ruslan, it takes things too far.”
“It’s not like you to be sentimental about family.”
Sevara returned to the foot of the bed, tying the sash of the robe about her waist with a jerk, and Zahidov knew he’d made her angry, even without seeing the expression on her face.
“He’s my brother,” she said quietly. “He is the father of my nephew. We helped my father along because it was his time to go, because his end was inevitable, and because he blocked our way. Ruslan has no power, Ahtam. He has nothing. No support, no funding, no connections, no allies, nothing. We don’t have to be savages.”
Zahidov leaned forward, matching her tone, speaking just as softly. “As long as he is alive, he will oppose you, Sevya. That makes him your enemy, and that makes him dangerous. You and I have enough to worry about already. Why allow for one more factor we cannot control?”
“If that is your concern, then control him. But that does not require killing him, Ahtam, and I will not allow it.” She ran a hand through her hair, pulling the strands in frustration. “Put him under guard, under house arrest, whatever you want to call it.”
“For how long? A week? A month? The rest of his natural life?”
She glared at him. “Until the announcement. Keep him in his home for the next two, three weeks, that will be long enough. By then, it will be too late.”
“Assuming everything is in place by then.”
“Everything will be.”
“I don’t like it.”
Sevara mounted the bed once more, walking to him on her knees, straddling him over the sheets. She put her hands on his shoulders, and he felt the thrill of her touch again, and again wondered how it was she could make him feel that way every single time her skin touched his own.
“You don’t have to like it,” Sevara told him. “It’s what I want. It’s what is best for us, Ahtya. Just like you, everything I’m doing, I’m doing it for us.”
If the words had come from any other woman, he’d have dismissed them utterly as fiction. But from this woman, he knew it was the truth, and Zahidov put his hands on her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through the silk, pulling her down on him more firmly.
“I worry,” he said. “Because I love you.”
She smiled, her upper lip curling with mischief, and unfastened her robe.
“Show me,” she said.
CHAPTER 13
London—Hyde Park—Lover’s Walk,
Park Lane Entrance
17 February, 1114 Hours GMT
Julian Seale was waiting for him, the CIA Station Chief holding a black umbrella large enough to shelter a family of three. Crocker saw him, stepped across a puddle, and offered his hand. Seale shook it firmly once, then released, and Crocker wondered how many more times they’d begin their meetings with a handshake before they were comfortable enough with each other to dispense with the pleasantry.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Crocker said.
“No, I like standing around in the rain.” Seale turned toward the west, then hesitated. “Which way?”
“South, then right. It’ll take us into the park.”
They began walking, Seale shifting the umbrella to his other hand to avoid hitting Crocker with the canopy.
“You and Angela did this a lot?”
Crocker finished lighting his cigarette, stowed his lighter, nodding as he exhaled. “She used to say she liked the exercise, but I think it appealed to the traditionalist in her.”
“Oh, the plots that have been hatched in this park.”
“And those are the ones we know about,” Crocker agreed. “You wanted to see me?”
“About two things, actually. One is a favor, the other is more an FYI point.”
“Is the FYI in exchange for the favor?”
Seale chuckled, a low rumble not unlike the sounds of traffic coming from the road behind them. “The FYI is free, actually.”
“Now I’m nervous.”
Seale chuckled again.
“What do you need?” Crocker asked.
“Wondering if you can offer any Special Section support for an operation in Casablanca.”
“Supporting what?”
“We’ve located two members of a GSPC cell we’d like to bring in for further questioning. Problem is, all of our Executive Action staff is tasked elsewhere at the moment. The soonest we’d be able to free up an agent would be tomorrow late, putting him in theater late on Sunday at the earliest.”
“By which time they will have jumped?”
“Or worse, gone and done whatever it is they’re planning to do.”
“Which members?”
“Mohammud Belkadem and Hamed Hamouche.”
Crocker raised an eyebrow. “Confirmed?”
“I wouldn’t be asking for your help if it wasn’t confirmed. We just need someone who knows the drill to help our Station with the snatch.”
“Moroccan authorities are aiding?”
“We’re leaving them out for the moment.” Seale flashed Crocker a grin. “You know how the Moroccans feel about the Algerians. We don’t want them getting overexcited.”
“No, I can see why not.” Crocker pulled on his cigarette again, squinting into the rain, considering. “All right, I’ll bring it to the Deputy Chief. She should approve it before close of play. One Minder should do it.”
“Poole or Lankford, if you don’t mind.”
“You don’t want Fincher?”
“Paul, you don’t want Fincher.”
Crocker didn’t bother to argue. “What do we get in trade?”
“Our continued goodwill in the spirit of cooperation during the Global War on Terror.”
“That’s nice, but it won’t sell it to the DC.”
“The goody bag is pretty much open on this one, Paul. Tell the DC to make her list, I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ve gotten that from Langley?”
Seale nodded. “We really want these guys.”
“I’ll tell the DC.”
“Lankford or Poole, not Fincher.”