Page 64 of Twisted Enemy
26
COLE
Iglance at the monitor in the bottom right corner of the array in my office. It’s transmitting a video feed from the laptop I left running in the bedroom. The picture is clear even though the curtains are drawn, because the nightstand light is on.
Kate is sleeping. Rather, Kate isstillsleeping. It’s nearly noon, and she hasn’t shifted position in hours.
I should wake her. Get her to eat some toast, or maybe some clear broth. Help her to drink the bottle of water I left beside the lamp.
The scene at the zoo was utter chaos. Mothers screamed at me in the ladies’ room like I was some feral predator, when all I wanted to do was catch whoever hurt Kate. Tarasov laughed, brutally entertained by my wife’s frailty, or maybe by the insinuation that I was some sort of pervert. Breagha was the picture of sisterly concern, helping Kate to a bench, answeringquestions once park security arrived, trying to explain that nothing happened, it was all just an innocent mistake.
Kate said she had food poisoning.
But a woman with food poisoning runstoa toilet, not away. And she doesn’t flinch like a horsewhipped child when she catches a glimpse of her sister’s gloating fiancé. She doesn’t shut down like someone turned off a switch at the nape of her neck.
Food poisoning, my ass.
Tarasov did something to her. He planted something in the bathroom, or he threatened her somehow. Maybe he threatened Breagha. There has to be some explanation for his ghoulish laughter.
I just can’t work out what it was. We talked the whole time the women were gone, me maneuvering him closer to accepting the Viktor thumb drive instead of the Lynch files he wants. He didn’t take out his phone. He didn’t text an associate, didn’t signal an accomplice in any way.
He gloated as we strolled down the path, tracing Kate and Breagha’s footsteps toward the john. “Three days until I get your paintings,” he smirked.
“You have buyers lined up for the auction? Men you can trust?”
“I trust my boyeviks with my life. They are like family.” He eyed me slyly. “You did not tell me on the phone. What other paintings are you giving me, along with the Picasso?”
“Notgiving. Your men are buying them,” I reminded him. “At open auction.”
He waved his hand, as if that detail didn’t matter. “You give the Picasso. The rest—” He never got to finish. Kate’s sudden appearance saw to that.
He didn’t take the thumb drive either.
Still eyeing my wife on the monitor, I stand beside my desk and stretch. I’m familiar with the restless feeling that makes mychair feel like an Iron Maiden. Every good con requires patience. Marks need to take bait at their own pace. Rushing things only guarantees destruction, like prying a butterfly out of its chrysalis before its wings are formed.
Tarasov will take the Picasso. He’ll pay for three more paintings. After that, he’ll take the Viktor code. The AI project will be too good a lure for him to ignore, especially when he thinks he has the upper hand.
My thoughts are interrupted by my phone ringing. It’s the tone I’ve set for Nilsson.
“Wolf,” I answer immediately.
“I have just arrived in Dover, sir,” Nilsson announces. “There were no complications on the road.”
“Excellent. Hold off until five this evening,” I remind him unnecessarily. “I don’t want the paintings loaded into my gallery before then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nilsson doesn’t question why he should spend the next several hours babysitting a stack of wooden crates. He only waits for me to terminate the call first. I tap the red icon to disconnect.
Grimacing, I turn to my next call.
I was one of Diamond Freeport’s first clients; I started taking advantage of the Delaware tax haven within three months of its opening for business. Over the years, I’ve run hundreds of legitimate transactions through the place, earning money for myself, my business partners, and the freeport itself.
I’ve also been party to a handful of more…suspicious transactions, ranging from tax fraud to—on at least two occasions—well-deserved murders. Trap Prince and Alix Key aren’t squeamish. They keep a perfect tension on the freeport reins, with an impeccable sense of when to look the other way.
And this time I very much need them to look away. Or, at least, to blink very hard.
The deal I’m planning, selling Megan’s fake paintings, skates dangerously close to a bright red line. The freeport’s reputation bolsters every sale on its premises. By having Nilsson deliver the forgeries at the very close of business on a Friday, I’m intentionally making it difficult—ideally impossible—for the freeport to do its job.
