скачать книгу бесплатно
Take me back, my love. My wife. My life.
Stay focused.
Don’t wake up.
Another kiss.
Another moan.
Another night wrapped in ghostly arms.
No more thinking. No more sorrow. No more tears.
Nothing but the dream. Nothing but the memories. Nothing but Johanna swallowing him up body and soul and taking him on a wicked midnight ride.
The incessant rain tapping at the window like an unwelcome voyeur roused Merrick. It was dawn, another dreary, rainy day in April. He tossed back the white satin sheet, soiled now from making love to his ghostly wife. He dropped his feet to the floor and rubbed the gray stubble along his rugged jaw.
The fire had died sometime in the middle of the night, but not the memories. He realized now that he should have hired someone to box up Johanna’s things. Her clothes still hung in the closet. Her jewelry box on the vanity. The quilt she’d made for their bed was still folded over the rocker—all of it wrapped in cobwebs, surrounded by yellowed curtains, peeling wallpaper and wood floors stained from a leaky roof.
The tattered remains of heaven on earth.
He should have sold the house years ago, before it became an eyesore. He’d planned to, but he had always come up with some lame-ass excuse.
He shoved himself up from the bed and walked naked into the bathroom with a powerful grace that, at age fifty-two, still garnered him a second look from a beautiful woman. By society’s standards Adolf Merrick was one of the lucky ones. Like a renowned bottle of port years in the making, he seemed to get better with age.
The only evidence that he was past his prime was his silver hair—a phenomenon that had happened virtually overnight following Johanna’s death.
He turned on the shower and stepped inside. He kept the water cold—a strategic maneuver to quash the residual effects of making love to Johanna’s ghost. Five minutes later, back on track, with a towel wrapped low around his hips, he headed for the kitchen.
The windows faced Johanna’s rose garden in the backyard, and when she hadn’t been sharing his bed at night, or cooking something fabulous for dinner, he would find her in the garden with her roses. He’d left the windows open last night, and he could smell the heavy sweet fragrance—the scent as caustic as the memories.
His cell phone rang while he was cooking the hell out of a cup of instant coffee in the microwave—after all this time he still couldn’t brew a decent pot of coffee. He backtracked to the bedroom and picked up his phone from the nightstand, checked the number and saw it was Sly McEwen.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got bad news.”
Merrick heard the distress in Sly’s voice. “Let’s hear it.”
“Peter Briggs is dead and so is the operative we had staked out in front of his apartment. That’s all I know. No details. The Agency called me after they couldn’t reach you.”
“I must have been in the shower.”
“I’m on my way to Briggs’s apartment now. My guess is Krizova sent Holic Reznik to clean up a loose end. Maybe we should have locked Briggs up.”
Merrick hadn’t wanted to do that. As of yet they hadn’t been able to prove that Briggs was guilty of treason. They needed concrete evidence, and that had been damn hard to come by.
“When should I expect you?” Sly asked.
“One hour. I’m at my country house.”
“I thought you sold that old monster years ago.”
Merrick set his jaw, sidestepped the issue, as well as his personal obsession with the old monster, saying, “Damn good thing I didn’t or I’d be homeless, thanks to Krizova blowing up my apartment. I don’t want Briggs’s body touched until I get there. One hour.”
The country house was north of D.C. As Merrick drove through the rain, he called Jacy Madox and got him out of bed in Montana. Since he’d slipped the flu virus into Briggs’s wine a week ago, Jacy had been going through the data on Peter’s computer while he was housebound. Although Jacy’s field agent days were over, he continued to work for Onyxx from his mountain home miles from nowhere. A cybergenius, he was considered one of the best hackers in the intelligence world.
“Sorry about Briggs,” Jacy said. “The news is I didn’t find anything on his computer. If he was Krizova’s mole, he left no evidence behind.”
“All right. I’ll be in touch.”
Merrick hung up, his mood sinking past sour. It was starting to look like finding Cyrus’s latest hideout was going to take an act of God. Not that he wasn’t thankful for the surprise resurrection of Sully Paxton two months ago. After believing his agent was dead, Merrick had learned that Sully had given new meaning to the word survival. It had been the salt the Agency needed to step up their commitment to ending Cyrus’s fanaticism with Onyxx, as well as his global terrorism.
With Sully’s help they’d found two of Krizova’s compounds in Greece, rescued more than a dozen government agents imprisoned in the bowels of one of his monastery hideouts and recovered a cache of weapons bound for rebel hands. They had also rescued Melita Krizova from Cyrus’s warped sense of fatherly love.
But at the end of the day—once again—Cyrus had managed to elude capture.
Sully Paxton was still in Greece, on the island of Amorgós with Melita. He’d been tirelessly combing the islands trying to pinpoint Cyrus’s latest hideout. He would need to fill Sully in on the recent turn of events, but he’d wait until he had all the facts.
Merrick swung his black Jag to the curb of the ten-story apartment building where Peter Briggs had lived for the past twenty-two years, since the Prague incident. Out front Pierce Fourtier and Ash Kelly, two of his elite Rat Fighters, were standing under the awning smoking.
Pulling up the collar on his black leather jacket to combat the rain, he joined them. “Got a name on our stakeout agent?”
“New guy. Nathan Connor. Shot three times, just like Briggs,” Ash said.
“Sly’s inside,” Pierce offered.
Merrick nodded and headed in. Peter’s apartment was on the ground floor, halfway down the hall. He walked through the open door. Sly McEwen was standing at the window, his stance in sync with his serious attitude. Over six feet, rock-solid, Sly had proven himself to be a man you could count on. He didn’t know what the word quit meant, and Merrick liked that about him. It’s why he’d made him his second in command.
Sly turned from the window and motioned to the bedroom. “Nothing’s been touched. I called Harry Pendleton and gave him the news. Nathan Connor was his nephew. The kid was twenty-three. Onyxx activated him six months ago.”
“I thought I recognized the name.” Merrick walked through the living room and headed for the bedroom. Briggs’s body should have been his primary focus, but instead his eyes locked on the peach-colored roses in a crystal vase on the nightstand.
There was only one flower shop in D.C. where you could buy Medallion roses without placing a special order. Merrick knew that because they had been Johanna’s favorite and he regularly purchased the rare hybrid to place on her grave.
Merrick left Sly with the task of seeing to Peter’s body and, twenty minutes after his arrival, he was on his way to Finny Floral. Sarah Finny lived in the apartment above the flower shop, and when he pulled up he noticed that the Open sign was on in the window. He leapt from the car and crossed the street. As he passed the window he saw her standing behind the counter waiting on a plump bald man in a gray suit. The little bell rang above the door as he swung it open.
She glanced up, saw him, then turned back to the elderly gentleman. There was no surprise in her soft brown eyes when she’d seen him, which told Merrick she’d been expecting him.
The bald gentleman left with his purchase, and Merrick stepped up to the counter. Before he could say anything, Sarah spoke.
“You’ve come about the Medallions. The ones he bought yesterday.”
“What did he look like, Sarah?”
“Very tall, with dark gray hair. Not silver like yours. And shorter.” She glanced at the overnight shadow on Merrick’s jaw. “Clean shaven. He had a nasty scar,” she touched her neck, “here.”
Merrick had been expecting her to describe the scrawny build of Holic Reznik, a hired assassin who had become involved in Cyrus’s nefarious activities years ago. Instead she’d given him a description of Krizova himself.
“I wanted to call you yesterday, but he said if I did he would be back for more than roses. I was afraid, Adolf. Did I make a mistake?”
“No, you did the right thing. Tell me exactly what he said.”
“He asked for three dozen Medallions, one dozen in a crystal vase.”
“Three dozen?”
“Yes.”
“What time was he here?”
“Yesterday around two o’clock. I remember because I was getting a large order together for a wedding that had to be delivered by four.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a small, three-inch-square brown envelope. “He told me when you came by to give you this.”
Merrick took the envelope and peeled open the seal. He pinched the envelope and looked inside. He was careful not to react to the contents, resealed the envelope and slid it into his jacket pocket.
“So he bought the roses, gave you the envelope and told you I’d be by today? That’s it?”
She pointed to a small gift-card display on the counter. “He bought a card.”
Merrick glanced at the card rack. There had been no card with the vase of flowers at Peter’s apartment.
“Adolf, what’s going on?”
If Cyrus intended to kill Sarah, he would. Merrick wasn’t going to cause her more distress by telling her that, but within the hour she’d have an invisible bodyguard. “You’re not in any danger,” he said. “I’ve got to go.” He started to leave.
“Adolf?”
He turned back.
“If you need me to deliver Johanna’s roses to the cemetery the next time you’re out of town, you know you can ask. Just because we’re not seeing each other anymore doesn’t mean we can’t remain friends.”
Over the past three years their friendship had slowly resolved into casual dinners. Sarah wanted more, and he’d been on the verge of giving it to her until Cyrus had blown up his apartment. Once that had happened, he realized that putting Sarah in his life meant he would be putting her in Krizova’s iron sights, as well.
He hadn’t explained it that way to her. Government spies and espionage weren’t exactly dinner table conversation. Fifteen years her senior, he’d taken a different approach the day he’d stopped seeing her.
She stepped around the counter. She was wearing a pale-blue blouse and black skirt, her blond hair twisted up off her neck. She was the exact opposite of Johanna. It was the first thing he always thought about when he looked at Sarah—his lovely ghost wasn’t just content to haunt him at night—and perhaps that was the real reason he’d ended it.
“No strings, Adolf. You know how I feel about you, but I respect your decision.”
“You’re a good friend, Sarah. I’ll be leaving town soon. Maybe you could see to the roses for the next couple of Saturdays.”
She nodded. “I’ll see to it that Johanna gets them.”
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”
He left the flower shop with the envelope burning a hole in his pocket. It was still raining, the day surrendering to a bleak sky of gray clouds and a bitter chill in the air. Inside the car, Merrick slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. He dropped the ring into his hand—Johanna’s wedding ring—and closed his eyes. He remembered the day he’d bought it, and with that memory came the memory of her death. The anniversary of that fateful day was looming. It had been twenty years and it still felt like yesterday.
Because he knew Cyrus didn’t do anything without a reason, he had to ask himself, why had he kept the ring, and why was he giving it back to him now?
Merrick swore, returned the ring to the envelope, then to his pocket. He started the car, glanced across the street. Sarah was standing in the window.
He drove the Jag out into the traffic and the rain. Cyrus had bought three dozen roses. He’d left one dozen at Peter’s apartment. There was no doubt in his mind where he would find the other two.
Forty minutes later, Merrick parked at the Oak Hill Cemetery and walked through the rain down the path to Johanna’s grave. Before he reached it, he saw the roses in the cone-shaped brass vase.
The stark white card was pierced on a rose thorn like a dagger. He bent down and pulled the card free. The rain had smeared the ink, but it was still legible.
Four words scribbled in red ink. Four words that would send Merrick back to Greece.
Game on. Your move.
Chapter 2
“Kipler has just sent word that the Starina has been spotted, Callia. Your husband is home.”
Cyrus’s long-standing housekeeper, Zeta Poulos, stood in the bedroom doorway, her pretty island features accented by her smile.
The sun was setting. Callia had just showered and slipped on a white caftan. With no time to dress, she tucked her asthma inhaler in the nightstand drawer along with her nebulizer, then stepped out onto the veranda.
The view from the second-story bedroom was picture-perfect. A vision of paradise that would easily sell a dream vacation to Corfu.
Three months ago Cyrus had moved her and Erik into a villa on the island. She was used to being uprooted. Survival came with a price, and that price had required a new address every couple of years.
The cove was normally quiet, but now six guards scrambled toward the dock as the Starina glided into the harbor. Cyrus came ashore quickly. He spoke to Timon Kipler, the man in charge when her husband was away, and the exchange sent Kipler hurrying back to the yacht.
The warm island breeze blew Callia’s black hair into her eyes and she reached up. Holding her hair in place, she watched Cyrus begin the long climb up the stone steps that wrapped the sharp, rocky face where the villa was perched like an eagle’s nest high above the Ionian Sea.
Her movement must have caught his attention, and he stopped and looked up. He was still a hundred yards away, but she knew he was smiling. He gave her a thumbs-up—the signal that all was well, and she waved in relief.
He never spoke about business. It was an old rule that had come into play long ago. A rule she never challenged. As long as he came back, she was content. And he always came back. It was the one constant in her life. That, and Erik.
In the beginning she’d felt only gratitude, indebted to him for saving her life. But over the years her gratitude had slowly turned into love. Not the kind born out of burning passion. This was a safe and secure love bred out of loyalty and trust.
When he disappeared from sight, she remained on the veranda. She heard him speaking to Zeta. The fifty-year-old housekeeper spoke softly in return. Cyrus never let the smallest detail of their lives go unchecked. Whether it had to do with his business affairs or mundane household trivia, he required an accounting from everyone he employed.
She heard his footsteps on the stone tiles that were polished like a mirror. Caught the scent of sweet tobacco, but she didn’t turn around. Then a pair of strong arms captured her around the waist.
He lowered his head, said softly, “Although I have no sympathy for the weaknesses of men, I confess you are mine.”
Callia smiled. “Have you taken to reciting poetry after all these years?”
“Poetry? I know nothing about poetry,” he muttered close to her ears. “Greek mythology, perhaps. Inspired by your goddesslike beauty.”
He hugged her tighter, drew her back against his hard body, and she knew his eyes had drifted shut. Knew that she held some odd power over him, that she was his weakness. And although he had no sympathy for men with such flaws, she had become her husband’s debility.
“It’s hard to believe that you could have grown more beautiful. Have you and Zeta cooked up some fountain of youth potion you’ve neglected to tell me about? Something we could bottle and sell to the islanders?”
Still smiling, Callia turned in his arms. “If you’re trying to get me in bed, you don’t need to use flattery.”
