Once Upon a Grind (34 page)

T
HE
Brothers Grimm gala was an hour old and I was starting to panic. I'd circled the exhibition space twice, hovered around the splendid buffet, and even scouted the screening room. But I could not find hide nor hair of the Wolf.

Had he chosen to remain in his lair tonight? Bad news if he did . . .

The uncertainty was galling, but it gave Madame Tesla time to move through the crowd, establish her cover by reading the palms of manicured ladies, well-heeled celebrities, high-toned literati—even a grinning Mayor Stanton.

I ended my second circuit at a section devoted to Tashchen's illustrated volume of
The Brothers Grimm
. Many original works reproduced in the book were displayed, including nineteenth-century German illustrations by Gustav Sus, and Arthur Rackham's
The Brave Little Tailor Meets the Giant
.

I was proud to see the Village Blend's mixed media Basquiat given a place of honor among illustrations by Haitian artists Edouard Duval-Carrié and Frankétienne.

Finally, I went back to the buffet table. For tonight's showcase event, dishes were contributed by a few notable chefs from around the city, and they all had fun with the fairy-tale theme.

Del Posto provided splendid little squares of their famous hundred-layer lasagna—originally inspired by the bedding in
The Princess and the Pea
.

Fat Witch Bakery contributed delicious brownies with your choice of Snow Witch (white chocolate) or Red Witch (cherry). And my pastry chef friend Janelle had baked up trays of her special Fairy Bread Cookies, inspired by the classic “fairy bread,” a staple of Australian children's parties.

Nancy took pity on Eldar and Boris stuck in the storeroom, and sweet-talked an entire “Poisoned-Apple” Sharlotka from a server.

Ever the good egg, she delivered it on a tray with silver, dishes, a big carving knife, cups, and a pot of tea.

As a baker, Boris skeptically sampled this so-called “poisoned” version of a classic Russian apple cake. With one bite, he determined the “poison” was cinnamon schnapps, and he suspected apple vodka was used in the crumb, as well.

“Not traditional,” he said, “but I approve!”

Back at the party, I enjoyed a second helping of Three Little Pigs (I could have huffed and puffed and inhaled a whole tray of those prosciutto-wrapped mini franks in bourbon-bacon-laced pastry), when Nancy appeared.

“The Wolf is here,” she whispered.

I turned and there he was.

Taller than his photo suggested, Stuart Packer wore evening clothes worth more than I earned per annum. With a square jaw and blond business pompadour, the Wolf was conventionally handsome. But the hungry green eyes from his photos were now unfocused, probably due to the pair of cocktails he'd inhaled while chatting with another businessman.

There was a third man in the mix. A tall, dark-haired bodyguard silently hovered behind Packer's shoulder. He seemed familiar somehow, but I could not place him.

“It's show time. Tell Madame to activate her earrings.”

“Roger,” Nancy replied.

I took another glance at the Wolf. He snagged a third cocktail from a passing waiter, ignoring a lovely woman who stood close, clearly interested.

I panicked.
Is this going to work?

“Look, Nancy. I feel like a hypocrite after the things I thought about the ‘agents of sexpionage,' but I'm relying on your beauty and charm to get Madame close to the Wolf.”

Nancy glanced nervously over her shoulder then nodded. “I can do it.”

I hurried back to the storeroom and my transmitter, while Nancy alerted Madame.

The stage was set, the curtain about to rise. But would there be a happy ending?

“C
AN
you hear me, Madame?”

“Loud and clear, my dear.”

“What's happening?”

“Nancy and I are circling our mark, and—oh, excellent.”

“What?”

“Mr. Packer took one look at our bait and his jaw dropped. In fact, I do believe the Wolf is slavering.”

I was in the storeroom, headset in place, smartphone primed with my intelligence on Stuart Packer.

At my elbow, a carving knife lay beside a half-eaten Poisoned Apple Sharlotka. The cake was forgotten as Boris and Eldar eavesdropped on our transmission.

“I hope Nancy can pull this off. She's so sweet and naïve—”

“Anya was innocent, too,” Madame reminded me. “Nancy's naiveté may be her appeal—that, and her daring
décolletage!
”

Suddenly I heard another voice. The Wolf, speaking to his friend.

“You remember my ex, don't you, Phil? Well, the best thing I can say about that marriage is she had the same initials as me—and the Standard and Poor's index—which means I didn't have to change monograms on the luggage and towels.”

Gruff laughter was interrupted by Nancy's sweet voice, speaking in a sexy Southern drawl I'd never heard her use.

“Excuse my rudeness, Mr. Packer. Madame Tesla would like to read that cute palm of yours. We're both quite interested in your future,” she added coyly—and no doubt with a toss of her flowing wheat-colored hair.

Taking the bail, the Wolf quickly dismissed his pal.

“Sure, honey child. Anything you say.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.”

“Your hand, please,” Madame commanded.

“No, the right hand,” I heard Nancy purr. “Here . . . Let
me
help.”

“What does the future hold?” Madame asked after a beat.

The Wolf replied, but his words were directed at Nancy. “Here's hoping you're a big part of my immediate future, honey child.”

He loudly drained another cocktail glass.

“Oh, Mr. Packer, you are so funny.”

“Mr. Packer is my daddy's name, darlin'. Call me Stuart.”

More like “stewed,”
I thought. The Wolf was loud and his words were slurred—he'd been drinking constantly, and he probably started to party before actually arriving at the party.

A lucky break. If his little gray cells are pickled, he'll be easier to spook.

“I see a journey, Mr. Packer,” Madame continued. “To a foreign capital. Ah, yes, it's Moscow. And you're leaving within the week.”

“How did you know?”

An article in
Forbes Business News, I silently answered.
Reporting you're a guest speaker at an international investment seminar next week.

“But I sense danger,” Madame Tesla continued ominously.

“Let me guess. A plane crash or something?”

“I see no crash in Aeroflot's future—”

“Lufthansa!”
I corrected. “He flies Lufthansa!”

“Nor will a Lufthansa airplane crash,” Madame amended. “Accidental death is not the threat, Mr. Packer. You have moved millions of dollars out of Europe and deposited the money in the Bank of Moscow—”

“You can't know that!”

I glanced at the smartphone.
Why not, Packer? I'm looking at a
Financial Times
article about the transfer, with a photo of you and the bank's president.

“Madame Tesla is very good,” Nancy cooed. “And she has one more message from the spirit world.”

“I don't know if I want to hear it.”

The Wolf was suspicious, and the alcohol was making him belligerent. Fortunately, Madame's years of experience with bad customers proved invaluable.

“The message is this,” she said in a calm and even tone. “Accompany this young woman to a private meeting across the hall, or those assets will vanish.”

“What the hell—”

“Overnight,” Madame interrupted with a snap of her fingers.

“Nobody can do that,” the Wolf declared. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Did we overplay our hand? Too late to stop now. In for a kopeck, in for a ruble, I say.

“Deliver the coup de grâce, Madame,” I commanded.

“Listen closely, Mr. Packer,” Madame said. “You can talk to my colleagues now. Or you can hurry to Moscow to retrieve your lost assets. There you will be met by less reasonable men, who will put a bag over your head, shoot you in the heart, and leave your corpse in Sheremetyevo International Airport's parking lot.”

It was quiet for so long I worried that the earring batteries had died. Finally Madame spoke again.

“It is only a conversation, Mr. Packer. You can bring your bodyguard there if it makes you feel safe.”

I didn't need visuals to sense the Wolf was wavering. In the end, it was sheer curiosity—and young Nancy—who swayed him.

“Maybe we can clear up this silly old mess without resorting to extortion, or violence,” she said in a breathy tone.

“How about it, Stuart? Let's go for a walk.”

T
HROUGH
the crack in the door, I spied Nancy and the Wolf approaching, arm in arm. Nancy continued her charm offensive, but the increasingly wary Wolf was no longer buying it. The creepily familiar bodyguard loped sullenly and silently behind them.

I closed the door but left it unlocked. “Everyone take your places.”

Eldar flattened himself against the wall, so when the door opened, he would be hidden behind it.

Boris stood beside me, the transmitter in plain sight between us. I no longer needed the device to communicate, but it was a useful prop to convince the Wolf of my “credentials.”

I held my breath until the door opened and Nancy and the Wolf stepped inside, the bodyguard sticking like glue to his charge.

As soon as they were through the door, Eldar slammed it.

Wolf and bodyguard whirled, saw Eldar's intimidating stare, and faced me again. “What the hell is—”

“I do the talking here, Comrade Packer,” I said, channeling Boris's heavy Russian accent.

“Who are you people?”

“I am Magda,” I replied. “Man beside me is Boris. Man behind you Eldar. Now we have been introduced—”

The Wolf was flushed under a sheen of alcohol perspiration, but he was so scared he was no longer slurring his words. “Look, I don't mean names—”

“Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki,”
Boris snarled.

The Wolf didn't react, but his bodyguard sure did. The man hadn't taken a drink all evening, but suddenly he was flop-sweating rivers, just like his boss.

“American rudeness is renowned,” I continued. “To answer your rude question, we are from the Foreign Intelligence Service, Comrade Packer.”

“The SVR?” The Wolf pointed at Nancy. “But you can't be Russian spies. This sweet young thing has a Southern accent.”

“Because she went to school in your Georgia,” I replied. “But was born in ours—
Republic of
Georgia.”

Now the bodyguard spoke up, his tone challenging.
“
!”

Boris stepped forward.
“
!”

Whatever he said worked. The bodyguard blanched.

Wolf saw his man's fearful reaction and was suddenly in a mood to cooperate—

“Okay, okay, I believe you. What do you want with me?”

“I wish to know why you murdered one of my sexpionage agents, and put another in coma.”

Wolf's knees got weak and he wavered. “You've got to be kidding! Are you talking about Anya Krevchenko?”

“And Rozalina Krasny.”

“I never heard of this Krasny chick, but Anya . . .” He frowned. “I know her.”

“She is suing you,” I said. “For your vicious assault on her person.”

“She was . . .
Is
suing me, it's true. But it's extortion. I spoke with the girl for
ten
minutes
, and I sure didn't assault her. If I were guilty, I wouldn't be pushing for a court date.”

“You want trial?”

“Sure, if that's what it takes to clear my name.”

My expression was doubtful.

“Look, if I wanted Anya out of the way, I would have killed her,” the Wolf insisted. “Girl dead, the lawsuit goes away. Alive, justice marches on, with my legal team and that bastard Van Loon getting rich off
my
misery.”

“Perhaps this is misunderstanding?” I offered. “You made unwanted pass. She took it too hard.”

The Wolf shook his head. “Van Loon claimed he had proof, the kind of evidence a certain White House intern had on the former President. I knew that was bull, so I let Van Loon's docs take my DNA.”

His frown deepened. “They came back claiming the test proved my guilt. Now we'll see—in court.”

Stuart Packer was as convinced of his innocence as he was convincing. If he was lying now, then he had to be a stone cold sociopath with no fear of death.

Not so his bodyguard. The man had been glancing over his shoulder at Eldar, as if he expected an ice pick to plunge into the back of his neck at any moment.

When he turned this time, I got a good look at that neck—and the crescent-shaped scar that marked him!

“It's you!” I cried, dropping my accent. “You are the phony nurse who slapped Anya in the hospital. You got away because your partner took a shot at me and my boyfriend!”

With the desperate cry of a trapped animal, the bodyguard pushed his boss aside and snatched the carving knife from the Sharlotka tray. Before I could react, he wrapped a powerful arm around my throat, and held the blade aloft.

“I'll kill her!” he threatened.

Oh, no, you won't!

Channeling my inner She-Wolf, I bit down on his arm,
hard
. The man howled, releasing me enough to lunge away. That was when Eldar and Boris both jumped him. Suddenly the blade flashed, and Boris cried out.

I saw blood! Boris was badly hurt, yet still clutching at the man as Eldar struggled to hold him. I whipped around for a weapon, saw the heavy Sharlotka serving tray and dumped its contents.

As cups bounced and shattered, and the Sharlotka splattered on the floor tiles, I swung the metal disc, striking the bodyguard's head once, twice.

He was probably down for the count after two, but you can never be too careful so I whacked him again.

The Wolf, paralyzed during this entire struggle, turned with a girlish scream and ran through the door. Blond pompadour flying, he raced toward the party shouting at the top of his lungs—

“Help! Help! Russian spies are trying to kill me!”

I dropped to my knees and tried to stem the bleeding from Boris's wound. He looked up at me, eyes bright with pain.

“I'll find a doctor!” Nancy cried, racing to the party.

“I will call 911!” Eldar declared.

I pressed my hand against the wound in Boris's abdomen, but warm blood continued to seep between my fingers. Suddenly the young baker gripped my arm.

“Tell my czarina my last thoughts were of her.”

Then he closed his eyes.