The Property of a Lady (68 page)

She had arrived at her decision to tell the truth about the “Lady” on television because she knew it had all gone too far. People were being killed, and she was afraid not only for her own life but for Missie. She also desperately wanted to keep her promise to Cal, her promise to help her country. But before she did anything she needed to see the Kazahns personally to warn them what to expect and also to ask Michael’s advice about the little matter of the several billion dollars inheritance in the Swiss banks. She had thought about the money a lot since she discovered its existence. She knew what she wanted to do with it, and Michael would know how to go about it. And besides, she had known she would be safe with them. Her family would look after her. But her plan had gone all wrong and now she was a prisoner.

She still didn’t know how it had happened. She thought she had thrown everyone off the scent by skipping onto the London flight instead of going back to her apartment, but somehow they had caught up with her. All she remembered was the men in dark glasses crowding her at the airport and then nothing else until she woke up here. Wherever
here
was.

She frowned, puzzled. Something strange seemed to be happening to the floor—it was rocking slightly, a familiar movement, something she remembered from holidays on the Kazahns’ yacht and in sailboats off Rhode Island…. Of course, she wasn’t buried alive—she was on board a ship! She strained her ears into the silence, listening for
the sound of engines, but there was nothing—not even the slap of waves against the hull, and she guessed they were at anchor. But where? Was she in Istanbul? Or Russia?

She concentrated on her surroundings, feeling the floor with her hands and discovering bare wooden boards. She rolled over, biting her lip as the ropes cut painfully into her flesh, coming to a stop against a wall. It felt cold under her touch, like metal … steel….

She jumped as a footstep sounded close by.
Someone was coming down a ladder
. Frozen with fear, she stared into the pitch darkness.

A key rasped in the lock and the room was suddenly filled with light so bright it burned her eyes. She squeezed them shut as pain zigzagged through her head.

“So?” a harsh voice said in heavily accented English. “You are awake at last, Anna Adair.”

Anna Adair…. She hadn’t used that name in years. She hadn’t wanted her mother’s notoriety to tarnish her own young life any longer. She was eighteen, just starting college, and she had wanted to start her new grown-up life as her own person, not as her scandalous mother’s daughter. Besides, there was always the lurking fear that she might turn out just like her. Missie had told her she was being silly, that she wasn’t a bit like Ava Adair, but the fear had still been there and changing her name seemed to put it all a little farther away. She had chosen the name “Reese” from the first college textbook she had bought. And that’s who she was, Genie Reese. Her own name and nobody’s heiress—not even to their dread diseases of the mind. None of her friends at college ever knew she was Ava Adair’s daughter, and she had remained Anna only to Missie and the Kazahns.

The man with the harsh voice hauled her onto a chair, forcing a glass against her lips. “Drink,” he said coldly.

She peered at him through slitted eyes.

“It’s only water,” he said contemptuously. “Drink it, so we can talk.”

He tilted the glass and cool water ran down her face. With a sudden terrible thirst she began to drink, but after a few sips he removed it, laughing mockingly.

“Sit up,” he commanded. “Let me look at the face of Prince Misha Ivanoff’s granddaughter.” His eyes devoured her in the long silence. Then he laughed suddenly. “A pity you did not inherit your grandmother’s beauty—nor your mother’s. But they tell me you are clever, with a keen mind, so I suppose it is some compensation not to have inherited their insanity.”

His heels rang on the wooden floorboards as he began to pace the small room, and she blinked her eyes, trying to adjust to the light.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Why am I here?”

“Do you not know?” He perched on the edge of a small table opposite her and she could make out his bulk, his bald head, his arrogant posture, the folded arms. And then quite suddenly, as if surfacing from a pool, her vision cleared and she could see the flat face, the small eyes under the lowering brow, the jutting jaw and cruel mouth twisted into a smile.

“Surely you must know who I am?” he said. “Or who I represent?”

She nodded. “Russia.”

His snatch of laughter was mocking. “I am Marshal Boris Solovsky, head of the KGB.”

“Solovsky?” She stared at him, puzzled.

“Ah, the name rings a bell! Yes…. I am uncle to the handsome Valentin, the famous diplomat.” She trembled as he leaned forward and took her by the shoulder, thrusting his face next to hers until she breathed his stale breath, saw the open pores, the scar beside his mouth, and the insane gleam in his eyes. Then he reached out quickly and gripped her right breast, squeezing hard. She screamed but he only twisted harder.

“Good,” he said, satisfied. “Now we can begin.”

Valentin parked the perky black Ford Scorpio in the lot at Yildiz Park and walked through the woods to a vantage point overlooking the Bosphorus. Massed banks of bright spring tulips striped the grass with color and the sun dipped in a glowing orange ball over the water. As he watched he thought about Genie.

The sun soon disappeared leaving a grayish light and he turned and made his way back to the car. It was only a few minutes’ drive to Istinye, but by the time he got there it was almost dark. He parked behind a crane at the far end of the small dock and checked the Luger in the holster under his armpit. Then he took the compact Micro-Uzi submachine gun from his briefcase and examined that. It was lightweight and small; with its butt folded it measured only 250 millimeters and was compact enough to fit into his jacket pocket. And it could fire 1, 250 rounds of lethal 9mm cartridges a minute. Pocket death. After leaving the car unlocked, he walked the 150 yards to the
Leonid Brezhnev
.

There were two gangplanks, one amidships leading to the holds and one at the stern leading to the bridge and the crew’s quarters, and there were two guards on each. As he walked to the stern the soldiers stepped forward, their carbines pointing at him.

He saluted and said in Russian,
“Spetsnaz
Major Valentin Solovsky, here to see the captain.” The men relaxed their trigger fingers, saluting back, but they looked at each other uncertainly and he knew they were under orders to admit no one. Taking a chance, he called out that his uncle, Major-General Solovsky, was on board, and this time one soldier came down the gangplank and asked to see his identification. He inspected it carefully, then quickly saluted. Valentin stared coldly at him. He knew his commanding attitude and his superior rank had done the trick. They were going to let him on board.

“I will escort you to the captain, sir,” the soldier said respectfully.

He told them not to bother, they should stay on guard, he would find his own way.

He could feel their eyes on his back as he strode along the deck and prayed they would not get nervous and change their minds. Still, if he were their commanding officer he would have had them court-martialed. It was more than a
Spetsnaz
soldier’s life was worth to disobey an order.

He found the captain alone in his quarters, eating his evening meal and drinking Turkish beer from the bottle. He was a heavy-built, rough-looking man, whose normal job—plying his freighter between Russia and Libya—was a matter of routine, requiring little brainpower, and he was already out of his depth with his important visitor, Major-General Solovsky of the KGB. He stared at Valentin, his mouth open in astonishment.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, slamming down his beer.

Valentin’s lip curled. “On your feet,” he commanded.
“Spetsnaz
Major Valentin Solovsky.”

The captain lumbered quickly to his feet, wiping his mouth with his hand. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled. “I was not expecting anyone…. The orders were that no one was to be allowed….”

“Except me,” Valentin said angrily. “When will you people ever get things right? I am here to see my uncle, Major-General Solovsky.”

The captain’s eyes widened as he caught the connection. “Yes, sir, of course, sir,” he said fawningly. “I will take you to him myself.”

“No need.” Valentin glanced at the enormous steaming plate of brownish stew. “Finish your meal. Just direct me to him.”

As he walked quickly through the ship he heard the crew talking and knew they must have been confined to
quarters so they would not glimpse the important Russian they had on board. But there were no KGB agents or guards around, and he guessed that Boris had decided the fewer people who knew he was there the better. He wanted his visit kept top secret.

He made his way down a spiral staircase into the bowels of the ship. It sat high in the water, rocking gently under his feet, and a single electric bulb showed that the holds were empty. To the left of the stairs was a small office with the door firmly shut. As he had guessed, there were no guards, and from inside he could hear Boris talking.

The door was unlocked. He strode in and came face-to-face with his uncle. Behind him, sitting on a wooden chair, her hands and feet bound, was Genie.

“Valentin!” Boris’s expression flickered rapidly from amazement to fury to satisfaction as he stared at him. “I won’t ask how you got here. But I suppose you might call this a
family
occasion, so come on in.” He laughed harshly. “This is a moment I have been waiting for.
A moment to treasure.”

Valentin closed the door behind him. Genie’s desperate eyes stared at him, but she said nothing and he ignored her. Leaning against the wall, he folded his arms and said, “Well, Uncle Boris, it looks as if you beat me to it.”

“What did you expect?” he replied, his lip curling disdainfully. “Did you think you could outwit the KGB?
And
me? You forget, Valentin, who you are dealing with. You forget my power.
You forget I know everything”

Boris took a step toward him. His piggy eyes were murderous, and Valentin felt the thrill of fear a prisoner must feel waiting to have Boris Solovsky practice his polished little games of torture on him, but with a contemptuous shrug he strode past Boris to Genie. She was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and she looked very pale except for a red handprint on her cheek where Boris had slapped her. She stared at him mutely. “Are you afraid she will
run away, Boris?” he asked, “Or do you always tie your women this way?”

“Do not imagine you can rile me, Valentin,” Boris replied coldly. “The girl is tied because she is my prisoner.”

“Not for much longer.” Valentin made himself comfortable in Boris’s chair, his feet arrogantly on the table. “I telephoned the authorities, anonymously of course, and I think the Turkish police are about to pay you a visit. And that’s only a preliminary. Next comes the American government, then the Turkish government, the FBI, Interpol, the CIA….” He stared mockingly at Boris, whose face had turned to stone. “This little escapade has all the makings of an international incident, Uncle. And I’m just wondering how you are going to feel when they discover that the head of the KGB is aboard a Russian freighter moored in Turkish waters.
And
that he has the missing American girl tied up on board. It will make headlines in every newspaper! The Shame of the Russian KGB—Major-General Solovsky, Caught in the Act of International Kidnapping.’ Apart from the trouble to our family, I am just wondering how our president will react. What do you think, Uncle Boris? Is he going to forgive you for the disgrace you have brought on Russia?”

“You are lying. No one else knows she is here.”

“Of course they do. Do you take them for fools? Do you imagine they wouldn’t figure out that the easiest thing is to smuggle her onto a ship and take her back to Russia? So? What is your next move?”

Genie stared at Valentin, lazing back in his chair, then her eyes swiveled nervously to Boris, standing by the door. His bald head shone under the naked light bulb and his heavy frowning face was set in angry lines.

“We shall sail at once,” Boris decided.

Valentin shook his head. “Go on deck, Uncle. Take a look. There is already a cordon around this ship.”

“Do you really expect me to believe all this?” Boris laughed contemptuously.

“You should, Uncle. It is the truth. But I have a suggestion to save you. You and I could walk off this ship together. I will get you on a private jet to Ankara. You can be out of this mess in less than an hour, if you wish.”

“And I suppose I just give you the girl?” He laughed mockingly. “How can you take me for such a fool? Surely you know your ‘uncle’ better than that.” He prowled the tiny cabin, his hands behind his back, chuckling mirthlessly. “Your trouble is that you are an idealist, Valentin, and idealists always want to keep their cake and eat it too.” He glanced shrewdly at Valentin. “But not quite idealistic enough to think of
Russia
first. All you really want is to save your own skin—and your father’s.”