“He’s an archaeologist. Nothing to worry about.”
“Oh? And what about the girl? Is she harmless as well?”
Petrov didn’t have an immediate answer. At least not one that he wanted to blurt out. The truth was that he’d not been able to find out anything about her. His top resources had scanned through databases all over the world, hacking into every possible nook they could find to get information on her. As of yet, nothing had turned up.
“Niet,” he answered with the Russian for no. “No, we do not know anything about her.”
Dufort cocked his head to the side. “I am absolutely baffled by this, dear Nicholas.” His tone carried a heavy sentiment of regret and cynicism. “You have worked for me all this time, going above and beyond to provide tremendous services for me. Are you slipping? Perhaps you are too old for this sort of thing.”
Petrov suppressed the urge to swear at the Frenchman. He could snap the smaller man like a twig, but he would never make it to the exit. Petrov’s men were armed, but one was upstairs in the main part of the mansion. The other one was outnumbered. And he was a mercenary. If a gunfight broke out, he’d look to save his own skin first.
The tension in the room continued to build, like the deep rumble in a mountain just before an avalanche.
“Schultz is a trained killer, Nicholas. He may not be as proficient at it as his counterpart, but make no mistake, as long as he is alive, he’s a threat. What’s worse is that he has vast resources. Money is no object to him, and if he wants, he will spare no expense to get whatever it is he seeks.”
Dufort drew in another breath before continuing. Petrov’s level of discomfort was evident to all eyes in the room.
“I’ll give it to you on the topic of the woman though. Information on her was difficult to find. That task took deeper measures than I would have expected. Her name is Adriana Villa. She was born in Spain, to a wealthy landowner just outside Madrid. Her father did undercover work for the Spanish government and is rumored to do surveillance and intelligence for the United States as a freelancer. We aren’t sure exactly where, but all signs point to him living somewhere in South America.
“She has homes in the United States, Spain, and a few other locations in Europe. It seems she likes to jump around.”
Embarrassment was beginning to set in on Petrov’s face. He started to offer an explanation, but Dufort cut him off, holding up a dismissive hand as he continued to recite the dossier.
“The woman is an international thief, stealing priceless art from the wealthy and giving the paintings away like a mad Robin Hood. The stories claim that she returns stolen art to the original owners.” He spat a quick laugh at the last part. “How clichéd. My question for you, dear Nicholas, is how was I, a humble business owner, able to dig up all of this information and you were not when that is your area of expertise?”
“I don’t know where you got all of that, but I can assure you that I did all I could in my power to find her identity.” A bead of sweat rolled down Petrov’s temple.
“The way you have handled this entire operation has been sloppy, Nicholas. It feels like you are becoming a loose end yourself.” Dufort motioned for Caron to step forward.
The bodyguard obeyed and took three long strides toward his boss. He reached into his jacket and produced a black pistol. The long black barrel was a signature of the company that made it. Most people didn’t use a .50-caliber handgun; Caron used it only for special occasions.
Dufort took the weapon with a bow of the head and pulled the slide back. He raised it swiftly, aiming it at Petrov’s heart. “Do you know what a Desert Eagle .50-caliber will do to a human chest, Nicholas?”
Petrov never flinched, but he gulped a big swallow of air, and the concentration on his face showed he was desperately trying not to break. He would not apologize. Not to this weak little man. And not in front of his cronies, especially Caron, with his snooty, aristocratic expression that seemed permanently glued to his face. Petrov gave no answer.
“Surely you have seen what a weapon like this can do to a man, Nicholas,” Dufort egged further.
When Petrov spoke, he kept his voice even and calm. “I have stared death in the face more than any man in this room. If you want to kill me, go ahead. Do it. But do not think that I fear it. I do not fear death. And I do not fear any man.”
Dufort seemed to consider the words for a moment. He tilted his head sideways and stared through the Russian. Caron’s expression was unchanging. Petrov fearless eyes stared through Dufort’s.
“You have courage, Nicholas. Of course, I already knew that. It’s one of the reasons I hired you so long ago.” Dufort lowered the weapon.
He retraced his steps back over to the leatherback chair and laid the gun on the seat. “You have done poorly though,” he said, taking off his two thousand dollar, pinstripe suit jacket. He hung the expensive garment over one side of the chair and started loosening his tie.
“I did what you asked,” the Russian defended. “I brought you what you asked for. You have the coin. So what if I let the Americans live? We can kill them later if that is what you want.” He held his hands out as he pleaded his case.
“No, Nicholas. They are most certainly gone now, probably back in the United States at this point.” Dufort had removed his tie as Petrov tried to convince him things were fine. He laid it across the jacket on the chair and unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt, revealing a little olive skin at the base of his neck.
He turned and faced the big Russian.
“So? We go back and get them.”
“No,” Dufort shook his head slowly from one side to the other. “That won’t do. I think we are going to have to make a change in that department.”
“What do you mean?” Petrov eyed the Frenchman suspiciously. He wasn’t sure why his boss had removed his jacket and tie. It looked like he was getting ready for a fight. Surely the little man didn’t intend to engage in hand-to-hand combat with him. Petrov was certain he would break Dufort in half.
Dufort took a slow, deliberate step toward the Russian. “A man so highly decorated as yourself deserves to die on his feet, not like a common criminal.”
Petrov’s face twisted into a frown. “You would not fight me.”
Dufort rolled his shoulders. “It’s that, or I blow a hole in your chest. The choice is yours.”
Even though two other guards lingered in the room, close to the wall, they all took a collective step back to make additional space.
Petrov continued to gaze at the little Frenchman, surprised he would be willing to risk his own life. “And what happens when I kill you?” he asked bluntly.
Dufort held his hands out wide. “You are free to go. Do whatever you want. My men will not harm you.” He cast a sideways glance at Caron to make sure his right-hand man understood. Caron acknowledged the order with a nod.
Petrov looked around the room at the men’s faces, making sure they all would play by the rules. Satisfied, he slowly removed his jacket and tossed it aside on the floor. He cracked his neck from side to side and loosened his arms. Not that he needed to stretch. This was a fight that would be over in a matter of seconds. The moment Dufort got too close, he would grab him and crush him like a walnut.
“By all means,” the Frenchman teased, “let’s begin. Seeing that I have to clean up the mess you’ve made, I would prefer to get this over with quickly.”
Arrogant prick, the Russian thought. Enough talk. It was time to shut up the little rich boy for good. Petrov replied to the comment by lunging forward and striking out with a huge fist. Dufort easily sidestepped the punch and ducked behind the Russian. Petrov instinctively spun around, instantly switching his stance to prepare for a counter. Instead, Dufort merely stood with his hands at his side and a cocky smirk on his face.