The Truant Officer (11 page)

“Can I help you?” she asked. Lilly was expecting a little more on the friendly side.

“I think we’re looking to get married,” Nick quipped.

The woman extended her arm, palm up. “Marriage license?”

Lilly and Nick exchanged glances. They hadn’t thought that part through. Lilly was sure they weren’t the first to come here unprepared. Britney came to mind.

The woman read their looks, sighed, and then instructed, “Clark County Municipal Building. It’s on the corner of Third and Clark in downtown Las Vegas. The Strip claims to be in Las Vegas, but this is really the town of Paradise, Nevada. If you’re not from around here, you can purchase a map in the gift shop.”

They left the chapel unhitched. Lilly struggled to breathe in the dry desert air. She was coming down off her high—all of a sudden danger didn’t seem so much like her friend. The wedding fantasy, despite being an act of insanity, had shielded her from their precarious reality.

Lilly looked down the Strip, feeling like each neon light was pointing danger in their direction. Whoever named this place Paradise sure didn’t have the Russian mob chasing them.

Chapter 22

Lilly knew it was time to get off the ledge. “We can’t get married today, Nick.”

“What are you talking about?”

“For starters, I’m already married. And besides, the minute we enter that office and apply for our license, the place will be surrounded by the FBI…or worse.”

Nick looked like he got punched in the face and stormed away from her. “That’s not it and you know it, Lilly!”

He sat down curbside, seemingly oblivious of the morning traffic that was streaming by. Lilly followed and sat beside him. “What is it Nick—why don’t you think I want to marry you?”

He stared down at the street like he didn’t even want to look at her. “I tell you I have no money and now you have no interest in marrying me. One minute you’re willing to risk your life to get to the altar, and now you’re preaching patience. Suddenly I’m not such a good trade up.”

She wanted to slap him, but the caretaker in her took over. “I do want to marry you—I just want to be alive to enjoy the honeymoon,” she said, forcing a smile.

She nudged closer to him and draped her arm around his broad shoulders.

“You were right about one thing, Nick. I did risk everything to be with you. My marriage—my career—and perhaps my life. I risked it all to be with
you
, not to become some rich heiress. But if you don’t trust me, then we might as well go our separate ways.”

Nick looked like a lost child. “I’m sorry, Lilly. I guess I was just a little jealous.”

“Jealous of what?”

“I’m afraid that you’ll eventually find someone more successful than me, and want to be with him.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m the one who should be jealous. I see how all those girls at school look at you.”

Lilly had never been the jealous type until she met Nick. From that moment on, every look in his direction from a flirty girl at school foreshadowed the day when he would kick her to the curb for a sleeker, younger model. And it drove her especially nuts when he was with his girlfriend Rebecca. That’s what led her to risk everything to crash that prom party.

But that didn’t even compare to her straightjacket moment the night she caught him embracing a girl in a local park. After Nick physically restrained her from scratching the mystery girl’s eyes out, he explained that it was his sister, Sasha, who had risked a dangerous visit. Lilly still believed that Sasha had been followed that night, which is what put Zubov on his trail—not a leak in the US Attorney’s office like Nick claimed.

But Lilly was most insecure when it came to his former girlfriend, Audrey, who had been murdered. Lilly saw the look in his eyes when he talked about her. He still loved her. Lilly could never compete with that

He laid his head next to hers. “You’re the one I want, Lilly. And for the record, I do trust you.”

“I thought I warned you about that.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Even if I don’t marry you today?”

“It will just give me something to look forward to.”

“I was thinking St. Patrick’s Cathedral with the reception at the Waldorf,” she said with a smile. “But now that we’re poor, I guess we’ll have to come back to Vegas so I can win us some more money.”

They embraced and kissed deeply. When Nick came up for air, a mischievous smile appeared on his face. “I wasn’t talking about the wedding. I meant I was looking forward to the honeymoon.”

They kissed again, ignoring the noose tightening around them. Lilly eventually pulled Nick to his feet and they walked slowly back to the Mirage, holding hands as they whistled past the graveyard. They entered the lobby, almost expecting an army to be waiting for them—they’d certainly left them enough clues. Lilly just wasn’t sure what uniform they’d be wearing.

The instant that their feet touched in the lobby, Nick stuck out his arm to hold her back.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” he rambled.

“What is it?” Lilly whispered.

He pointed at a middle-aged man in a tidy gray suit. The man had a short-cropped haircut and a fluffy salt and pepper mustache. He didn’t stand out from the many others who were scurrying through the lobby, except for a tattoo that colored the back of his neck.

“That’s Zubov,” Nick whispered.

Lilly felt fear shoot through her, even though the man’s look didn’t match the monster that Nick had described to her.

“Are you sure?” Lilly replied, feeling her stomach in her mouth.

“Of course I am,” Nick said with a sharp glare.

They turned and began jogging away, not even risking a backward glance. Their wedding day was officially ruined. When they got outside, they desperately hailed a cab.

“Where to?” the cab driver asked.

Lilly knew they were no longer safe here. “To the airport,” she said urgently.

“No,” Nick said. “There’s some place I need to go before we leave.”

Chapter 23

Viktor Sarvydas’ ponytail bounced behind him as he ushered his guest down the long corridor that led to the lavish dining room in his Netanya mansion. Although, ‘mansion’ might not be doing the place justice.

The decor of the hallway was similar to that in the Manhattan headquarters of Sarvy Music. It was lined with the trophies of his music career—gold records, mounted Grammy awards, and framed magazine covers that featured the many artists he had brought to life over the years. The latest was Natalie Gold, posing provocatively on this month’s edition of
Rolling Stone
.

Viktor loved giving tours of his estate. And the grander the guest, the more he took pride in their dropped-jaw looks. Tonight was no different. They entered the expansive dining room that was constructred of Italian marble. The back wall was a hand-painted mural of the skyline of the Russian city of St. Petersburg, making it feel like you were there. Not almost feel like you were there—actually seem like you were overlooking the city.

They were seated at an immense dining table that was prepared with caviar and vodka—two Sarvydas essentials. The view opposite the St. Petersburg skyline was of the Mediterranean Sea, a spectacular sight from the mansion’s perch on the cliffs of Netanya. This was no mural—it was very real, as was the bulletproof glass of the window they peered through. The glass could stop a heat-seeking missile, but didn’t diminish the view of the sun beginning to sink into the sea. While night was approaching in Israel, Viktor’s mind was on events unfolding in the States, where it was just midday.

A less attractive sight was the presence of his protectors, caressing their trusty machine-guns. They were a necessary evil. He had many enemies who aspired to knock off the don of the Russian Mafiya. Sarvydas knew this from experience. The reason he was here was because he took out his predecessor—Vladimir Miklacz—who also happened to be his father-in-law. The lesson was to never trust anyone, especially friends and family.

His guest sent his guards away so the two men could discuss their business alone. They joined Viktor’s guards on the balcony. It was an awkward mix. Viktor’s group was a collection of renegades, while his guest’s team was made up of elite sharpshooters provided by the state. Still, if forced to choose, Viktor would take his men every time.

Viktor raised a goblet of vodka to his guest and toasted, “To friendship and business. A combination that has brought us together again.”

The man smiled. It was a smile that, along with his constant tan and perfectly groomed silver hair, made him a friend of the camera. And while he and Viktor were approximately the same age, there was no competition when it came to their physical vitality. The man across from him still ran marathons and was fitter than accomplished athletes half his age.

“I blame you for every gray hair on my head, Viktor,” the Israeli prime minister Ati Kessler said in jest, although Viktor knew it was no joke. But there was really little he could do—he was only a prime minister, not the head of the Russian Mafiya. “Your display at the Wall today has many of my constituents upset with you, if they weren’t already.”

“In America there is a saying—that’s show business.”

Kessler’s face tightened. “I’ve done all I can to protect our friendship, but you’ve been pushing the limits since Israel opened its arms to you.”

“If I’ve offended them with my public posture, then I can only imagine the reaction if they knew my private business affairs,” he paused for a moment, before adding, “
Our
business affairs.”

Kessler understood the implication. “Please don’t take what I say as a threat, Viktor. I just have concerns, which I think we can come to agreement on. You know I love you like a brother.”

“But you love my campaign contributions like a wife. Although, the other money we’ve made acts like your mistress—secret and satisfying.”

“Thanks to our business arrangements, finances are not a problem for me,” he admitted with another thin grin. His eyes swept the room, before adding, “Although finances seem to be even less of a problem for you, my friend.”

“There would be many questions asked if you used the money we earned together. Where would such a modest man who dedicated his life to service of his country, get such a personal fortune?”

“I save it for a rainy day,” he said, his face turning serious. “Your money helped me gain office, Viktor, but now I pay for it every day.”

The perception within Israel was that Kessler was willing to harbor a fugitive like Sarvydas because of his large campaign contributions. Despite Israel’s long history of not extraditing citizens, the polls indicated that the overwhelming majority wanted to make an exception for Viktor Sarvydas. And that was before today’s video-shoot at the Western Wall had infuriated the largest religious sect in the country.

But what they didn’t know was that Kessler’s support went far beyond money. Their bond was more than brothers—they were vors.

Viktor’s black market business that arose from his work on the cruise ship as a teen, eventually ticketed him to a Siberian gulag, when he refused to give the Soviets their cut. His time in the gulag was a dehumanizing experience, but also the most important event of his life. It was there he met his future partners in crime, Ati Kessler and Karl Zellen. They were anointed as vors—thieves-in-law—an elite group of Russian criminals whose bond would never be broken, even by bloodshed.

Zellen was a fervent anti-communist journalist and writer, beaten and thrown into the gulag for his views. He was also a man of rarely matched intelligence. Years later, when Viktor gained power in Brighton Beach, he brought Zellen to the United States. With Viktor’s street-smarts and visionary business savvy, combined with Zellen’s behind-the-scenes strategic plotting, they took the Russian Mafiya from a bunch of local extortionists to an unmatched worldwide syndicate. This included the infiltration into Wall Street, and the legendary gas tax scam in which they controlled most of the flow of gasoline throughout the northeast corridor of North America. And while Viktor was the flamboyant face of the organization, Zellen lived below the radar in Long Island with his wife Paula, and his children. He was a known as a quiet businessman and respected member of the community who avoided headlines. That was, until he was murdered.

Kessler was born in the Soviet Union, but his family moved to Israel when he was a small child. His Russian heritage, and great distaste for communism, made him the perfect recruit for Mossad, who sent him to spy behind the Iron Curtain. A dangerous choice of profession that landed him in the harshest gulag in Siberia, upon his capture. His well-publicized plight made him a national hero in his home country, where he returned upon his release. On the surface, he dedicated himself to the Israeli intelligence agency and eventually became its leader.

But as he moved up the ranks of Israeli intelligence, he never forgot his fellow vors. Using Kessler’s underworld contacts and influence, Sarvydas was able to infiltrate everything from diamond mining in Sierra Leone to black market weapons sales throughout Russia and Asia. A very profitable business, to say the least, and Kessler took his share of the pie. Now, decades later, the national hero had been elected prime minister, and a very popular one, at least before Viktor took up residence.

Viktor never understood why people claimed to want honest politicians, and yet were willing to vote for an intelligence agent as prime minister. They were liars by nature.

Kessler took a large gulp of the vodka, and said, “Alexei’s trial is only a week away. Is there anything I can do to help expedite his freedom?”

“You mean so that you can get me out of your country sooner.”

“That is exactly what I mean.”

Viktor shook his head. “The trial shouldn’t be a problem. I have it all under control,” he said, thinking of Nick.

Kessler looked at him searchingly. Viktor knew he needed to address the subject that was hanging over them. They had never discussed it. “I promise you that Alexei did not murder Karl, nor did I order him to do it. Karl and I had our differences the last few years, but I can assure you what the American FBI tells you about Alexei is false. We are vors—that bond can’t be broken.”