The Killing Game (34 page)

Dmitri Volkov lay there with his face buried in his hands. A broken old man who’d caused more death and destruction than the entire regiment. Dempsey looked up as a Jeep full of soldiers in American BDUs screamed toward them.

Two tall men in a dark suits emerged from the mass of camo and heavy weapons. One had CIA written all over him, the other bore a remarkable resemblance to a woman he’d fallen in love with. Dempsey took a step forward, only to realize he was nothing to this guy. Nobody. Not his daughter’s lover. Not his future son-in-law.

He intercepted the ambassador while the spook went over to Dmitri.

“Do you know where your daughter is, Ambassador?”

“You are?” Eyes like winter questioned him.

Dempsey didn’t blink. “A friend.” More than a friend. “I met her in Afghanistan a few days ago.” A lifetime ago.

“She’s in Afghanistan?”

“You didn’t even know that?”

“Last time I spoke to her she wasn’t due to go back until summer.” The man shook his head, pressed his lips together, tense. “She’s all right?”

Dempsey watched him carefully. He wanted to know if this man would sacrifice his own daughter for some unknown political agenda. “Has no one informed you of her kidnapping, sir?”

“Kidnapping?” The ambassador stared at Dempsey as though he were seeing him for the first time. His voice sounded strained. “
Volkov
kidnapped her?”

“Yes, but she was unharmed when we left the Wakhan.”

The ambassador seemed to physically collect himself as he looked at the Russian lying on the tarmac. “I expected one of the most notorious men on the planet to look a little more threatening and a little less pathetic.”

The guy wasn’t listening to him and
pathetic
wasn’t how Dempsey would have described the person he’d chased through the Hindu Kush.

“I told her it wasn’t safe, but she never listens to me.” The American’s expression hardened.

Dempsey braced his feet even though he could see some of the Yanks wanting to physically sweep him out of the way. They could damn well try. “With all due respect, this isn’t about you, sir. It’s about her, living the life she was meant to live. She’s got more brains and balls than any person on this base, but I think she might still be in danger, sir.”

The ambassador went to push past him, so he got in the guy’s face. “I’m talking about your
daughter
, sir, you own flesh and blood. She could be in extreme danger. Dmitri Volkov named Jonathon Boyle as a Russian spy.”

“You can’t be serious.” The American soldiers stepped forward but Dehn waved them away. Anger narrowed his dark gaze and tightened the set of his jaw. He seemed to realize Dempsey was deadly serious and something enigmatic moved through his eyes. “I see, but I doubt Axelle is in any real danger if she’s still in Afghanistan. I saw Jonathon in London a couple of days ago. The man is too”—his lips twisted with distaste—“prissy to get his hands dirty, and he dotes on Axelle. However, I’ll make sure she gets a security detail assigned ASAP.” The ambassador nodded thoughtfully as if filtering information, then stared after the British PM, who ignored him as he climbed back into his limo to make more phone calls.

The CIA spook motioned two American soldiers over and they hauled Dmitri to his feet.

The Russian refused to meet Dempsey’s gaze as he was marched away.

“I never did like Iris’s father.” The ambassador nodded again to Dempsey, and turned to leave.

That’s it?
Christ, he hated politicians. “Ambassador Dehn,” Dempsey snapped. The man whirled back toward him, obviously unused to being yelled at. “You
are
going to save the man’s grandchild, aren’t you?”

Dmitri raised his head and shot him a startled look.

It took a moment but the ambassador jerked his head in a firm nod. “We’ll get him a new liver, but I can’t promise how long he’ll survive. I’m not a doctor. I’m certainly not God.”

“Thank you.” Dmitri Volkov spoke over the heads of his guards, a broken, hunched figure.

Dempsey didn’t know if he was talking to him or the diplomat but he held the man’s gaze as he was bundled away.

There but for the grace of God
…

Dempsey blew out a massive breath as the PM’s security detail and US ambassador’s mini-army headed in opposite directions, leaving him and his mates sitting on the tarmac like a bunch of delinquents. They looked at one another uncertainly.

The phone rang. It was Cullen. “Got a trace, Irish, but you’re not gonna like it. Brace yourself.” The uneasy turmoil in his stomach intensified. “She’s not in the Wakhan or the States. Her phone is headed south on the M20 in Kent.”

What the…?

Dempsey got back in the car. “Taz, put your foot down. Baxter, get on the blower to the CO and tell him what’s going on. But I’m not here.” He took off his watch which contained his GPS transmitter and left it on the seat. “You can’t contact me, right?” They nodded.

If this went pear-shaped, Dempsey didn’t want others taking the fall for what he might have to do, because, suddenly, keeping Axelle safe and sound trumped his career and his loyalty to the crown. He would not follow orders if it meant putting her life on the line. Not this time. The thought alone was cause for being RTU’d and a dishonorable discharge.

***

“We’re nearly there,” Jonathon said as he noticed his granddaughter open her eyes and look at the pink-tinged sky. Fate was a remarkable thing. He’d thought he was going to have to sacrifice this beautiful, brilliant young woman and never see her again. Providence was rewarding him and he’d decided to take Axelle with him.

Why should they both be alone?

She was adroit with languages. It wouldn’t take her long to find a job over there, and they’d be good company for one another. She’d never got on with her father anyway, and had been unhappy since she’d lost that young man she’d married.

This was perfect. He grinned at her.

“While you were asleep I got a call from the marina where I berth my yacht. They need me to sail it to another spot down the coast because they’re dredging the harbor today.” He checked his watch. “We can do that before I need to meet the builders at ten.

“Okay.” She yawned and stretched. ‘Oh, excuse me, I’m exhausted.”

“You’ve been through a lot. You need proper sleep.”

He had all the information about the new defense systems in his head. He was looking forward to his return home and a hero’s welcome to a country he hadn’t lived in since his early teens. A country he’d missed. His heart tapped lightly against his ribs and he touched his chest. Instinct told him it was time to run, and instinct had been keeping him safe for years.

Another fifteen minutes, and they parked in the secure marina and headed toward his twenty-seven-foot yacht,
Iris
. Named after his daughter, Axelle’s mother.

Her lips spread into a wide smile as she admired the sleek craft. “I’d forgotten how beautiful she is.”

Jonathon felt a thrill of pride. The boat was his one true indulgence. “All aboard.” He swept his hand in a gentlemanly gesture and Axelle hopped across the gangplank.
Iris
was always ready go. He paid a man to run maintenance every day just in case.

Just in case
had turned into
just as well
.

“Go put the kettle on, we’ll have a cuppa as we motor around the bay.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Gramps. This is exactly what I needed.” She headed down the stairs as he primed and started the engines.

He cast off. He almost waved goodbye to the familiar coastline where he’d spent enough years for it to feel like home, but he didn’t. He hadn’t survived this long by taking chances.

***

Axelle found the teakettle and a big unopened bottle of water. Carefully she filled the kettle and put it on the stove. It was cool near the sea and she rubbed the sudden rush of goose bumps that spread over her flesh. The engine rumbled to life and she felt the boat start moving through the water at a steady chug. She hadn’t been sailing in years. Maybe she needed a break, although she’d better get her ass back to MSU before the end of the month to teach the rest of the semester’s course else she was in danger of losing that job too. She also needed to sort out Josef’s Ph.D., her own future research program, and see if there was any way of continuing her work with the snow leopards with other funding. But she needed this downtime after her ordeal and still needed to talk to her father.

The kettle boiled and she poured the water into a teapot complete with two requisite Tetley teabags.

She glanced around the comfy cabin. It wasn’t particularly fancy but it was fastidiously clean and tidy. There were a bunch of photographs tacked to one wall in the galley. She leaned closer, pulling off a photograph of her mother as a teenager and inadvertently knocking another couple loose. She dropped to her hands and knees to gather the pictures and hesitated. There was an old photograph, overexposed and faded, but it looked remarkably like the landscape she’d just left behind. Her grandfather as a young man stood beside a camel. Another much taller man stood on the other side, grinning at the camera. He looked vaguely familiar.

Footsteps sounded on the steps just as Dmitri’s words echoed in her ears.
Your blood owes me
.

“Where was this photograph taken, Gramps?”

Her grandfather frowned at her. “Morocco or Yemen maybe? I don’t remember.”

“It looks like the Wakhan Corridor.” She picked up all the photos and rearranged them on the board. “Who’s that you’re with?”

Her grandfather shrugged and a sense of unease roused inside her. “I don’t remember. Some tourist.”

Her grandfather had a photographic memory for names and faces. In fact, she didn’t think he’d ever forgotten a damn thing. Why was he lying? Or was he simply getting absentminded with age?

She poured the tea and took two mugs up on deck. Passed him one as he steered and she sat on the bench beside him.

The salt-laden breeze grazed her cheeks and her loose hair whipped around her face, blinding her. The enormous cross-channel ferries were coming in and out of port not far away. The white cliffs of Dover gleamed a toothy grin in the background. The sky was pale blue, the sea dark and brooding. She shivered and zipped her windbreaker.

“Do you fancy going on a little jaunt before we head back?” There was an excited light in his eyes. She nodded and he unfurled the sails, the boat surging forward as they caught the breeze. She wasn’t big on sailing, but this was his thing and chances were she wouldn’t see him again for another couple of years. It wouldn’t hurt to spend an extra hour at sea.

She hadn’t been a good granddaughter. She hadn’t been much of a daughter, either, come to think of it. Ever since Gideon had died she’d closed herself off to everyone except her leopards. It was time to make an effort.

She sipped her tea. Braced against the chrome railings she realized the swell was pretty big, and from what she remembered they were about to enter some of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. After quarter of an hour she checked her watch. “Hey, Gramps, we should probably head back else you’ll be late for your meeting with the builders.”

He turned his gaze from the horizon. “We’re not going back, Axelle.”

“What? What do you mean?”

His eyes burned with some inner fire. He seemed to be losing it. “I’m going home, back to Russia.”

“Russia?” A frisson of disquiet snaked along her nerves. He’d definitely lost his marbles, which was a bit of a blow because she didn’t know how to sail and they were zipping toward Denmark at a scary rate of knots. Damn.

“I was born in a small town outside Leningrad.”

“No, Gramps, you were born in Croydon.”

He smiled, his cheeks smooth and unlined, unlike the rest of his face. “That’s my cover story. You have an entire heritage you know nothing about, and now I’m going to get the chance to share it with you.”

Dmitri Volkov’s words echoed around her mind again.
Blood debt
. “I don’t want to go to Russia. I live in Montana. I have a job that I happen to love in Montana.”

“Because you’ve never been to Russia, never experienced the beauty of the land, the architecture, the people…”

He was serious.

A sense of dread stole through her body. “Gramps, have you ever heard of a man called Dmitri Volkov?”

A tight smile moved over his features. “We’ve met.”

CHAPTER 17

“What do you mean you can’t isolate it?” She was in trouble. He knew it. The same way he’d known she was in trouble before he’d run into that bloody cave in Afghanistan.

Letting her die was not an option.

“Any luck finding her grandfather, this Boyle character?”

With Dmitri bundled off, probably to some black camp never to be seen again, Dempsey was going to have to rely on his instincts, colleagues, and twenty-plus years of experience fighting bad guys. He didn’t know if it would be enough. They had no idea where Jonathon Boyle was or if he
was
a spy, or if Volkov was lying to them. He’d been sent a picture of a handsome white-haired gentleman in a three-piece suit. The Metropolitan Police had raided the man’s two homes and put out an alert for his car. So far nothing.

Of all the possible scenarios this was the one he liked least. Jonathon Boyle in the wind—apparently with sensitive MOD information—thank
you
, Prime Minister—and being unable to locate Axelle.

She might not be with her grandfather.

There was also the remote possibility Axelle and Jonathon Boyle were working in collusion and acting against the interests of Great Britain and the US. Christ, he didn’t want to believe it, because the thought she might have lied to him hurt too much. Even though they’d made no promises to one another, it was one betrayal he didn’t want to contemplate.

He tried her phone again. It went straight to voicemail. “Hi, Axelle. I’m in the UK.” He paused, not wanting to leave a message that gave them away, not wanting to piss her off or scare her away with declarations of undying love or death-do-us-part adoration. “I’d like to see you again. Get in touch ASAP. Please?”