Satisfied, Monagas returned the RF sweeper to his pocket and nodded at his boss.
“What did you find?” Zamora asked, the coal of his cigar casting an orange glow across his face.
“They have someone in the race,” Monagas said.
Quinn’s breath caught in his throat.
“Who?” Zamora said, his face falling into a dark frown.
“I do not know yet, patrón,” Monagas said.
Quinn felt as if he’d been kicked between the shoulder blades. If Zamora found out who he was there was nothing left to do but pick him up and risk losing the bomb.
“We think it’s someone on one of the British teams,” Monagas continued. “Or maybe even one of the racers themselves. Daudov went to university in the U.K. He has many contacts there who would kill if he paid them well enough.”
The doors opened again and one of the gap-toothed twins came out with a glass of wine, begging Zamora to return to his party. The doors shut behind them, throwing the garden into silence again.
Quinn began to breathe easier. So that was it. The Chechen had someone in the race. That certainly added a new wrinkle. It also meant Quinn needed to keep Zamora alive long enough to find out where he had the bomb.
A movement in the shadows closer to the house caught his eye. Behind a plaster statue of a winged angel a woman crept toward the chalet. Dressed in black, she wore her hair in a sensible ponytail. Even in the shadows, Quinn recognized her as the Russian agent, Aleksandra Kanatova — and she was completely unaware of the bearded man moving through the shadows less than twenty feet behind her. Quinn was too far away to get to her in time — with no way to warn her without alerting Zamora’s men.
He was over the wall in a matter of seconds, lowering himself silently to the soft grass. Picking up a small stone, he tossed it into the bushes behind Kanatova.
On the ground now and separated by hedges, statuary, and darkness, Quinn heard a muffled thump as Kanatova turned to defend herself. There were two distinct pops of a suppressed weapon, then silence. Quinn caught the unmistakable odor of cordite on the breeze.
The door to a detached garage apartment suddenly swung open, spilling a swath of light and the clatter of voices into the garden. Quinn dropped to the ground beside his unconscious opponent and froze. The door squeaked shut and he heard the snick of metal in the darkness. At first he thought it was the safety of a pistol, but a whiff of burning tobacco told him one of Zamora’s men had just stepped out for a smoke. That was good. A smoker would be unlikely to smell the cordite.
Everything seemed fine until the bushes beside the winged angel began to rustle. The movement stopped almost immediately, but the damage was already done.
“Quién es?” Zamora’s man stepped away from the door and into the garden. Quinn heard the unmistakable rattle of a pistol sliding out of a holster. A flashlight flicked on and the beam began to play back and forth among the trees. It was only a matter of seconds before he would see something he didn’t like and call for help.
Quinn pulled a cotton sock from the pocket of his running shorts. It was small, unobtrusive, and easy to carry. Stooping quickly, he scooped up a handful of stones before moving through the shadows. Better than a fist and easy to dump, a sock full of rocks made an excellent and relatively silent weapon.
Zamora’s man moved forward, holding his light in one hand and the pistol in the other. The cigarette hung loosely from his lips and he padded through the darkness muttering to himself as if he didn’t really expect to find anything. The sock full of rocks hit his temple like a lead sap.
Quinn caught him as he fell, lowering him softly to the grass.
“You again?” a female voice said from the shadows. Alexandra Kanatova stepped out, red hair framing her scowling face. “Why do you follow me?”
Quinn pointed at the guy on the ground. “I’m pretty sure he was about to ruin your evening. Who’s the guy with the beard?”
“A Chechen pig.”
“I’d like to ask him some questions,” Quinn whispered.
“Too late for that.” Kanatova’s eyes flicked between the back door of the house and the wall. “He is dead. Someone will come to check soon. We should go.”
Quinn shot a glance at the door. It wouldn’t be long before someone missed the unconscious security man. With any luck they’d chalk it up to an intruder who’d been scared away by the confrontation — so long as they didn’t find a dead Chechen in their garden.
“Do you ever take anyone alive?”
“Rarely,” she said.
Quinn and Kanatova carried the Chechen out the back gate and half a block away to deposit him unceremoniously in the Dumpster behind a wineshop. He had no identification on him and Quinn reasoned that, with all the international media attention, Argentine police would want to keep such a murder quiet until the race festivities were over.
Three streets away, with the safety of added distance, Quinn turned to look at Kanatova in the darkness. She walked with her head bent, hands in the pockets of her jacket, ponytail bobbing with each step.
Kanatova had very likely guessed he was a government agent by now, but giving up the fact that he even knew who she was would make her certain of it. “At the risk of getting kicked in the nuts again,” he said. “I believe we may be after the same thing.”
“Is that so?” She walked on without looking up. Her small shoulders were slightly stooped and she bent forward as if she was pulling a heavy load. For the moment they were heading in the general direction of his rented flat.
Quinn stopped. “Hear me out.”
“Okay,” she said, turning to face him. He stood over her by almost a foot, but she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. Her hands remained in her pockets and it occurred to Quinn that she had the same gun hidden in there she’d just used to kill the Chechen. All she had to do was pull the trigger now that he knew her identity.
Thankfully, she just stood there, staring up at him, blinking in the darkness while New Year’s Eve revelers shot fireworks in the background. Her English was excellent, but held the hollow slur of a Russian accent Quinn found pleasant against his ear.
“And what is it you think I am after?” she asked.
“This is the second time we’ve run into each other near Valentine Zamora.” Quinn narrowed his eyes. “I know he’s an arms dealer and I also happen to know who you work for.”
“Is that so?” Kanatova gave a wary half smile. “You believe we should work together to achieve our goal?”
“The thought had occurred to me,” Quinn said. He listened to her rhythmic breathing for a long moment as she considered this.
“I suppose the alternative would be us getting in each other’s way at every turn,” she said. “Or… I kill you, but that might prove messy.”
He gave a solemn nod. “It would.”
“Work together?” She stared at his face. “To recover the device?”
“That would be the plan,” Quinn said. “We’re not certain he’s even the one who has it.”
“I am,” Kanatova said without further explanation. “At first I believed it was the Chechens, but the way Rustam Daudov pesters him, he has to be trying to get the device from Zamora. What I do not yet know is where Zamora has it hidden or what he plans to do with it.” She cocked her head to one side. “I find myself at a disadvantage. If we are to be a team, as you Americans say it, I should know who I’m to work with.”
He put out his hand. “Captain Jericho Quinn, United States Air Force.”