Touch of Darkness (16 page)

The cold end of the revolver touched his neck. "Do it." The voice was harsh and Russian-accented.

Swallowing the lump of dismay in his throat, he took the folder over and put it in the trash.

"That's not good enough." The pistol poked Kirk again. "Wipe the computer's memory."

Kirk couldn't help it. He snapped, "Why don't you just shoot the computer?"

"You try to fool me. Do you think I am stupid? That computer backs up to the mainframe. Until you

wipe the memory, it will make no difference." He sounded reflective. "Perhaps I will shoot it later for fun."

"But the society has important information on these computers!"

"Wipe it clean."

Kirk rubbed his damp palms on his pants, and pulled up the Utilities file. He found the Erase command, highlighted the hard drive. . . . "This is a crime. There are things on this computer that can never be recovered."

"Exactly."

Kirk couldn't look at the guy anymore. He'd been looking at him for six hours, arguing at first, telling the guy Tasya was dead, then keeping quiet to avoid those big fists.

He didn't know the guy's name. He knew only that he was big and ugly, and something was wrong with his face—his nose looked almost like a rat's, and he seemed able to see in the dark.

He gave Kirk the creeps to start with, and the way he handled the knife, and that semiautomatic pistol . . . Kirk clicked Erase, and watched as the computer started the process of cleaning the hard drive.

He turned his head away. He couldn't watch. Looking up, way up to the guy's face, he said, "You
won't get away with this, you know. I can identify
you."

He had one second to realize he'd underestimated the situation.

Then the close-range shot blew his brains all over the room. Stanislaw Varinski viewed the mess with satisfaction. "Not anymore, you can't."

Chapter 15

Rurik caught a glimpse of him as they boarded the ferry. Just a glimpse. That was enough, and he knew—a Varinski had found them.

He led Tasya to a public area where they could watch the rest of the passengers embark. The broad, flat-bottomed boat held 830 passengers and 120 cars, at least according to the company's literature, and he saw no sign of more assassins.

But on a ferry this size, a Varinski could all too easily stow in a car trunk or work the crew.

Nowhere was safe from the Varinskis, unless Rurik made it safe.

"Shall we go to our seats?" Tasya asked. "Or do you want to go to the casino? Or one of the restaurants?" She was being sarcastic. She was upset about
Mrs. Reddenhurst and her bed-and-breakfast, and all of Rurik's assurances that his family would render assistance hadn't wiped the hatred and despair from Tasya's gaze. She took their responsibility in the matter very seriously, and made Rurik remember what his mother always said—the toll of murder and plundering was in more than life and possessions. The Varinskis destroyed every sense of security, and shadowed every sunny day.

"Let's locate our seats first." The seats were airplane-style, facing one direction in a huge room. They reclined, and Rurik had paid for first-class tickets, so he had room to stretch out his legs.

The cabin was crowded with people settling their belongings, but a quick glance showed him no sign of the Varinski. Seating himself next to Tasya, he asked, "Do you have the map of the ferry?" She handed it to him and closed her eyes. He unfolded the map and studied the arrangement of the public areas, the crew quarters, and the storage closets, noting everywhere a Varinski might hide. "When we land in Belgium, we'll buy passes for the train and go from there."

She opened her eyes. "Don't be silly. The train'll take too long. We'll fly to Lorraine." He paused. "The train will be—" "Slower?" She sat forward. "Right now we hold

the advantage over the Varinskis. They don't know where we're going, and a quick hop on an airplane would throw them off, at least for a little while."

"You learn quickly."
Damn it.

"We'll catch a quick flight to Strasbourg and be done. At least—I hope we'll be done."

First, they had to get off the ferry alive.

He looked back at the map. The restrooms were always a danger; everyone had to visit them, but no one lingered, and the chances for a solitary attack were good. "The Varinskis will be watching the airports."

"Like they won't be watching the trains?" Her tone hitched up a notch. She physically relaxed back into the seat, and modulated her tone. She was the voice of reason when she said, "I've made this trip before, Rurik. I know what I'm talking about."

"Yeah. I know you do." The lower corridors where the crew, the cars, and the luggage were stowed— they looked good, too.

But Rurik bet on the deck. It was still raining and as night came on, the air grew chilly. No one was out there, and a smart Varinski could lurk until most of the passengers were either asleep or gambling. All he would have to do was find Rurik and Tasya alone, and the hits would be oh so easy.

"So we'll do the plane," she said.

He looked at her. If Rurik didn't catch the Varinski,
they'd never get off the ferry. Right now, he was willing to fight for their lives; fighting with Tasya about how they traveled seemed less important. After all, he'd flown in the ultralight. Surely he could stand a flight across France. "Okay."

"Okay." She watched him curiously. "What's up?" The ferry was under way, pulling out of the harbor and into the North Sea.

"I'm going to stretch my legs." He stood. "You remain in your seat."

"What if I have to pee?"

"I'll take you now if you like, but after that, I'd like you to remain in your seat." She glanced around. "Are we in danger?"

"I'm cautious."

"I don't have to go." She pulled out her travel blanket and draped it over her shoulders. "I'll stay here."

With the people close and the stewards cruising the aisles, she would be safe. He hoped.

He opened the outside door, and the wind almost ripped it out of his hands. The mist had developed into a storm, and the clouds and the setting sun made the deck a shadowed, empty, rain-swept place. Stairways loomed; the lifeboats held corners where a Varinski could hide—especially a Varinski who kept himself in the animal state. Patches of light from the windows created weird shadows, and as Rurik softly
trod the decks, he slipped his knife from the sheath around his waist.

He reached the stern. Paused for a minute and looked across the choppy wake left by the ferry. Listened for movement—and heard something, the faintest flick of a feather.

Only that split second of warning saved Rurik's eyes.

The peregrine came right at his face, claws out.

With his arm, he smacked the bird aside. A blinding pain sliced across his chest.

In an instant, the peregrine changed, becoming a man, as tall as Rurik with arms half again as long and a lethal, intent gaze.

Rurik didn't stop to stare. He charged, lunging with the knife—and the knife made contact, slicing into the flesh over the Varinski's throat.

The guy reared back in surprise.

Good. These bastards always underestimated Konstantine's sons.

Rurik laughed. "Did they send only one of you?"

The guy wiped his hand across the blood dripping down his throat. "Only one Varinski is needed." He caught Rurik's knife hand in his huge grip, and pounded his chest with the other fist. "The best one."

The knife turned toward Rurik, headed toward his chest.

Rurik concentrated, opened his fingers. The knife
clattered to the floor. Rurik dropped to his knees, his weight throwing the Varinski off-balance. Coming up underneath the Varinski, he used his shoulder to pull the man's arm out of its socket.

The Varinski roared in pain.

Then he put crushing pressure on Rurik's hand.

Apparently, pain made him mad.

Rurik's bones begin to crack and separate. The pain was horrible; his vision began to fade.

He was going to pass out.

Faintly in the storage bank of his memory, he heard his father yelling at him to think. He heard his brothers mocking him for fainting, for being a girl.

Against the Varinski gorilla, he had only one chance. He focused until he could work his other hand around and open the switchblade hidden in his sleeve—and he placed it between the Varinski's ribs.

The Varinski hung there on the blade, his eyes wide, his grip unyielding. Then, in a gush of blood, he died.

Rurik caught him as he fell. Checking his pulse, he found nothing. Without pausing, he dragged him to the side and hefted him over the rail.

He didn't stop to listen for the splash. The bloody stain would disappear under the lash of the rain, but he couldn't depend on the passengers and crew not to have seen the fight. He needed to get cleaned up and out of sight before "someone came along.

He broke the lock on one of the janitors' storage closets, and blotted himself with the paper towels. Removing his duster, he shook it out and examined it. It was wet, but not bloody.

He frowned at his chest. The peregrine had opened an eight-inch slash across his shirt and over his right pec. It burned. His tattoo had jagged edges. But the skin would heal. The shirt wouldn't, and it left all too graphic evidence of his fight.

With a shrug, he put the coat back on. Taking great care, he made a tour of the rest of the boat, pausing and listening, examining the other passengers. He stopped in the gift shop, bought himself a T-shirt that said
Ferry Me Away,
and changed in the men's room. Finally he made his way back to his seat.

He would watch throughout the night, but he believed he and Tasya were safe.

Tasya roused as he sat down, blinking at him. "Oh. It's you."

"Yeah. It's me." And he remembered something that hadn't mattered before. He had agreed to fly with her to Lorraine.

The missile was almost on them.

Rurik drove the plane up and to the side.

They weren't going to make it
—

"Did everything go okay?" she asked. "Are there any Varinskis on the ferry?"

He stared blankly, then settled down. "You tell me. Have you felt the presence of any Varinskis?"

He'd caught her half-asleep, all her barricades down. She bit her lower lip, glanced aside.

"What?" Her obvious discomfort intrigued him. Satisfied him.

She made him fly.

He made her reveal herself.

She'd already confessed to her premonitions. Why was she uneasy now?

"I wouldn't feel a Varinski unless he was very close, because when I'm with you, I always feel a low-level sense of ... something." She put her hand on his arm as if to reassure him. "I think it's just that, in your own way, you're dangerous."

"I see." He had wondered. Now he knew. Her instincts about him were good.

Just not good enough.

***

Boris Varinski sat in front of his computer, by the phone in his office, searching CNN.com for the news he wanted.

Nothing. Not a word about the mysterious murders of Rurik Wilder and Tasya Hunnicutt.

Why not?

Duscha was one of Boris's sons, a skilled assassin blessed with long arms and an overwhelming muscle

mass. He loved the kill, insisting he execute each and every assignment by hand.

They—Boris and his brothers—had thought that Konstantine's weakness for the Gypsy woman must breed inferior sons.

Yet Jasha Wilder had proved impossible to kill, and now, for every minute that went by without a phone call from Duscha, Boris's hopes failed a little more.

The door banged open. One of the younger boys stuck his head in. "Hey, Uncle, want to play poker?"

Boris loved to gamble, and lately, all too often, the family played without asking him to join in. Their disrespect was another sign that his status as their leader had slipped, and this was a good opportunity to reinforce his control over them.