TQ leafed through her private phone book, containing the names of movers and shakers on both sides of the law, as well as the more obscure individuals who did her dirty work. Most were people whose numbers were impossible to find, although a few of the underworld figures practically handed out business cards because they were either too arrogant or too stupid to be careful. Russian mob boss Yuri Dratshev fell somewhere in between.
She reached for the phone. “Time to deal with the president,” she said aloud as she dialed the unlisted number to Dratshev’s Manhattan Beach, New York mansion. She’d previously avoided contact with the Russian disease of a man; he was vulgar, uneducated, and without any decorum. But though she despised him, he had much to lose as well should the president get her way, and he had some of the best warlords on his side. If they combined forces, something he’d always begged for because of TQ’s reputation, it was only a matter of time before this ridiculous weapons agenda ended up on the massive pile of unkept political promises.
“I’m looking for Yuri Dratshev,” TQ said loudly, to be heard over the blaring sound of the TV in the background. She didn’t own a set herself—they were annoying, misleading contraptions deliberately designed to numb the mind.
“This is him,” came the heavily accented reply.
TQ rolled her eyes. Second-generation immigrant and he still couldn’t speak the language correctly. “Good evening, Yuri. You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting me in person, though I know you’ve wanted to.”
“Who the shit are you?” the Russian mob boss replied. “I don’t need to meet anyone. How did you get my number?”
“Is this a secure line?” she asked.
“Yes, line is safe,” he replied dubiously. “Who is this?”
“My name is TQ.”
There was a long pause, then a clicking in the phone line and the maddening blare of the TV stopped. “Now it is a secure line,” Dratshev finally said. “What a pleasure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Finally, we meet.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as a meeting,” TQ said, “but I do have a collaboration plan in mind.”
“I would very much like business with you,” Dratshev said. “Big business, yes?”
“Big, yes.”
“I am all hears.”
“The expression is ‘ears,’” she said patiently, trying hard not to second-guess her choice. “But that aside, we have a certain problem in common.”
“You mean guns.”
“Indeed.”
“That bitch is a big problem.”
“Problems are like a cancer,” she said. “They become a big problem and spread only when they aren’t dealt with on time.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Good.”
“So you see where I’m going.”
“You have a cancer?” Dratshev asked.
TQ rubbed her eyes tiredly at his inanity. “No, I’m fine, thank you. The cancer that’s spreading and needs to be stopped is the president.”
“Ah, yes. The bitch.”
“I want you to help me stop her so we can continue with our very profitable enterprises.”
“How?”
“I’m going to need your best men to orchestrate an attempt on her life.”
“Attempt?”
“Yes, just an attempt. You are to kidnap her and keep her in your possession until I instruct you to return her to me.”
“How will my people get the president?” he asked. “She is very much guarded all the time in her white house.”
“Leave that up to me. I will tell you where and when. All you have to do is make it look like a genuine attempt on her life.”
“So the country will have no president. How does this change something for us?”
“Again, leave that up to me.”
“You have a plan.”
TQ was tempted to use an expression she never had, one completely out of character. She wanted to say, Duh, you Russian idiot, but refrained. “I do.”
“But you will not share.”
“It’s to both our interests I don’t, if you know what I mean.”
“Your plans stay secret and I know nothing that can implisate me.”
“Implicate. That’s correct.”
The Russian laughed. “Always careful. But you understand, this means big money to make it happen. My people will want big money, too. I have the best people who work for me, but they must be persuaded.”
“I don’t waste money, Yuri, but have you ever heard any rumors involving my lack of generosity for a job well done?”
“Good rumors. You pay good money.”
“Then don’t waste my time with pointless comments. Time, like money, is something I hate to waste.” The conversation was draining. She sighed. “Get your people together and I’ll get back to you with what you need to know.”
“I know just the right person,” Dratshev said, “but I hope I can find her.”
“I want to believe your ability to help me does not hinge on one individual’s talent.”
“No, but she is the best.”
“Make it happen or find a new best if you have to.”
“No problem for me.”
“Oh, and Yuri…if I so much as hear a whisper of a rumor from you or your men concerning our plan, I will eliminate you and your wife. And I’ll make your daughter wish she’d become another trophy on that psychopath’s wall.” She knew the reference would have the desired impact. Yuri’s daughter Nina had been the only person to escape serial killer Walter Owens, better known as the Headhunter because he’d cut off the faces of his victims to make macabre masks. TQ laughed when Dratshev didn’t immediately answer. “Okay, Yuri?”
“Da…yes,” Dratshev promised with a tremble in his voice. “Not one whisper.”
Chapter Two
Porto Carras, Greece
Next day, December 17
“Which one’s yours?” The man who spoke was of average height and build and was fairly attractive, with a neat, short haircut and piercing blue eyes. He wore the conservative dark suit that was standard fare for his profession, and Agent Shield wore the feminine equivalent—a crisp white blouse and navy suit tailored to fit her lean, five-foot seven-inch figure. Standing side by side against the wall by the curtains, they provided, as always, the perfect balance between subtlety and warning.
Others of their ilk occupied similar positions around the perimeter of the banquet hall, watching the dignitaries. The lavish state dinner at the Porto Carras Grand Resort in northern Greece was the final event of a three-day international conference on global warming, so there was at least a pair of bodyguards for every major figure seated at the long table.
Shield adjusted her earpiece. “Francois Legard,” she replied in a low voice, never taking her eyes off the French prime minister as the waiter poured him a glass of wine. Not bad, she thought, noticing the thickness of the gold liquid and the label. Wine was Harper Kennedy’s passion, and regardless of where she was, whom she was with, or whether or not she was on a job as Shield, wine never escaped her attention.
The only other interesting entity at the table was the incoming American president, the first female to hold that office. Elizabeth Thomas wouldn’t even be officially sworn in for another few weeks because of a court-ordered recount, but the outgoing president had invited her to represent the U.S. at the conference. To all appearances, the woman looked calm and in control, but Shield picked up on the minor nuances that transmitted her newness and nerves: she listened too attentively and fidgeted with her napkin, albeit discreetly.