Another Way to Kill Page 3

“You think of everything,” Stone said.

  THE FREIGHTER Athena chugged along the choppy Atlantic, a dull gray working ship with as many dings in the hull as official markings. It was part of Stone’s fleet and had made many smuggling trips around the world with nary a suspicious glance from customs.

  Inside, in a cabin, Steve Dane stepped out of the shower and dried off. Nina lay on the bed in a bathrobe.

  Dane pulled his clothes on again.

  “What are you doing?” Nina said.

  “Checking on Dev.”

  “The doctor said he’s fine.”

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Come to bed.”

  Dane shut the cabin door and went aft to the sick bay. The bearded doctor looked up from his desk.

  “Can I see him?”

  “He’s out cold.”

  Dane crossed the room to another doorway where the beds were. Devlin Stone lay with the covers up to his neck, unconscious, tubes plugged into his wrists and a heart monitor beeping steadily.

  “What kind of shape is he in?” Dane said.

  “Cuts and abrasions. Dehydration. He needs rest.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  Dane returned to the cabin. Nina was under the covers with the bathrobe on the floor. He undressed and slid under the covers. It was a tight fit. The bed had not been made for two. And they had to share a pillow.

  “Where are we going now that the shooting is over?” she said.

  “South of France,” he said. “Maybe Monaco.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? I can’t remember the last time we visited.”

  “You just want to gamble your money away.”

  “Um, usually that’s your job.”

  “Why don’t we just relax at home for a change?”

  Dane didn’t reply.

  “Duh,” she said, scratching nails down his chest. “What a silly question.”

  A WEEK later, with Stone up and around, the Athena docked at Crete. Dane, Nina, McConn and Stone stood by the starboard railing as the tugboats pushed the ship into port. The wind carried the faint scent of salt water.

  “We’re heading for Italy next,” Stone said. “Gonna stick around?”

  “I will,” McConn said.

  “Not us,” Dane said. “On to the next adventure.”

  “You don’t know when to stop, do you?”

  “I’ll stop when I’m dead.”

  “Nobody ever asks my opinion,” Nina said.

  Customs came aboard to check out the ship and clear Dane’s and Nina’s entry. Shortly after, Stone and McConn escorted Dane and Nina down the plank to the dock.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Stone said.

  “You’re always there when I call,” Dane said.

  “We’ll do something again soon, I imagine.”

  “Bet on it.”

  They shook hands and said good-bye, Stone and McConn getting a hug from Nina. She and Dane started across the busy shipyard. Trucks rumbled here and there; long cranes unloaded ships; loud voices carried with the wind.

  “We should go home first,” he said, “and pack a few things.”

  “Good idea. Unlike you, I refuse to wear the same underwear every day.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “And you’re a drama queen.”

  “That’s as close to true royalty as I’ll ever get.”

  2

  A Good Thief

  JOHN BLAZE drew the sheet up over his naked body and watched the countess emerge from the bathroom. She was a looker, all right. Long dark hair fell in a curly wave down her back. Big brown eyes and long elegant fingers that smoothed a short red negligee with nothing underneath that highlighted her creamy white skin. She stood in the doorway with hands on hips, legs slightly apart, the negligee draped over her slim frame. She cocked her head and smiled.

  “You like, Sir John?”

  He smiled back, his own upper-class British accent matching the woman’s. “What’s not to like?”

  Countess Louisa Fromme grinned. She had a small mouth so it wasn’t a wide grin, since Blaze didn’t like women with mouths large enough to swallow a Ford F-150. Countess Louisa was the perfect companion for this particular visit to the Riviera: married, and unhappy.

  Of course, he wasn’t all he claimed. His family had indeed christened him John, but he’d never received the knighthood.

  She crawled across the bed, the front of the negligee falling open, and plopped onto her back. She put her hands behind her head. “Show me you can do this better than my husband. Or my last three lovers. I hate being responsible for my own orgasms.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  Two hours later, Countess Louisa lay under the sheet, curled up, sound asleep. She’d rolled off of him after three rounds without giving a verdict. Perhaps the jury was still out.

  Blaze, naked, stood by the patio windows looking at the ocean in the distance. Or at least in that direction. There was no moon, so he couldn’t see even a hint of the water.

  He let out a breath that fogged a spot on the glass. She wasn’t bad as conquests go, but not much fun, either. He didn’t even care what the verdict was. His visit to the Riviera was supposed to be relaxing, but he felt a restlessness that wouldn’t go away.

  His cell phone, buried in a trouser pocket, started ringing. The trousers lay in a pile next to the bed with the rest of his clothes. He knelt to retrieve the phone, pressing “Answer” to cut off the ring. Countess Louisa didn’t stir.

  Blaze said: “Yes?”

  “Mr. Blaze,” the caller, male, said, “we need you.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a car waiting for you downstairs.”

  “On the way.”

  Blaze hung up and quickly dressed. Time for some real fun. He left without waking the countess.

  THE LOBBY of the Royal Riviera contained only the cleaning crew at this late hour. Even the fellow pushing a vacuum across the red carpet, and a woman dusting picture frames on the marble-white walls, wore fancy uniforms. Top class, this place, but still boring. Blaze crossed the lobby to the exit with hurried steps. Excited steps.

  To the average tourist on the Riviera, John Blaze was another young playboy spending the family fortune. To the police of the E.U., he was a wanted thief. Nothing penny-ante, either. He went after art, jewels, the treasures of the rich. They were easy targets and offered the biggest rewards along with the lowest risks.

  And when he wasn’t thieving, he worked odd jobs for The Trust, represented by his recent caller. If asked, he’d admit his work for them was ten times better than ripping off necklaces from people like the Countess or forging a Rembrandt.

  He stepped out into the crisp nighttime air, his shoes scraping the steps as he hustled down to a waiting limousine. He hopped in the back. The driver pulled away before Blaze could get the door closed. He settled into the plush seat. The limo’s insulation made it a quiet ride. Streetlights flashed through the tinted windows.

  “’Bout a ten-minute drive, sir,” said the driver over the intercom.

  “Enough time for a spot of this excellent brandy,” Blaze said. He took bottle and glass from a mounted tray and poured two fingers. Then he sat back and let the brandy warm his stomach.

  The Trust didn’t call often. In fact, this was his first contact with them in over fourteen months.

  Blaze was sure the call was worth the wait.

  Late-hour traffic made the ride longer than ten minutes. The anticipation of his pending assignment made it hard to sit still. His right foot kept tapping on the carpet.

  The three men who made up The Trust had literally snatched him off the street several years ago. He’d thought his free rein had finally come to an end, but the big men in black who had collected him were definitely not cops. Had some of his victims hired the muscle? What sort of grave awaited him? He’d found himself very calm about the snatch. The day had to come, eventually.


  When he’d been deposited in a penthouse suite instead of a shallow grave, and the three men of The Trust made their offer, Blaze decided he was a lucky man indeed, and that the fun was just beginning.

  The limo driver stopped in front of a darkened restaurant, and he used a key to enter. He led Blaze to a back room lit by an overhead lamp. The three men of The Trust sat around a table. One of them dismissed the driver. Another offered Blaze an empty chair.

  Blaze sat and looked at the weathered faces of the three men, each one of them in their late 70s. He didn’t know their names. They were One, Two and Three, each one an American.

  Number One, on Blaze’s left, always did most of the talking.

  “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Blaze,” said Number One. “Did we get you out of bed?”

  “Somebody’s,” Blaze said. “I’d rather be here. Where am I going this time?”

  Number Two, directly across from Blaze, produced a manila envelope. He opened it and passed a photograph across the table.

  Blaze examined the face of a man in his 60s. He wore a rumpled business suit and was walking down a busy street.

  Number One: “That is Mr. Theodore Trent. Spent decades as an engineer and now he runs a company selling equipment to the U.S. military.”

  Blaze nodded.

  “Mr. Trent has run into hard times. His latest project, a direct energy weapon, or DEW, was rejected by the U.S. in favor of a competitor with a superior design.”

  “Whoa,” Blaze said. “A laser gun? Like Star Wars?”

  “We’ll get there,” Number One said, “but right now the technology is still in the infant stages. The DEW emits concentrated energy on a target, but the beam is invisible and must be held on the target for a period of time before the target is destroyed. But the weapon works.”

  “If you were shooting at an enemy tank,” said Blaze, “it sounds as if the enemy would have time to adjust its turret and shoot first.”

  “Yes, but that won’t be the case forever.”

  “Is Trent out to sabotage the competition?”

  “No. He’s invested millions of dollars and needs to recoup that. He has approached another buyer.”

  “China?”

  “The Russians,” said Number One.

  “Not a crime, is it? The Cold War is long over.”

  “If this were about maintaining the status quo, a balance of power, we’d let the sale go through. But I don’t have to remind you that Putin has made some very aggressive moves lately, Crimea being one example, among many.”

  Number Three continued. “And we can’t let him get his hands on this weapon.”

  “It’s probably a bit big to steal,” Blaze said.

  “You are not being asked to steal it,” Number One said. “It must be destroyed. We have other people in mind for that. Your job is very specific. Trent will be meeting a Russian representative named Arkady in Monaco, not far from here. The meeting takes place in three days. Trent plans to show Arkady technical specs to whet their appetites. We want you to steal those technical specs. By the time Trent returns home, the second phase will also be completed. We want no trace of that weapon left in existence. Good luck, Mr. Blaze. Our driver will return you to the hotel.”

  Blaze helped himself to more brandy on the way back. He returned to find the Countess still sound asleep. Dropping his clothes in a pile once more, he climbed back into bed. She shifted and wrapped warm legs around him.

  He might as well stick around to hear the verdict after all.

  3

  Running Low on Vitamins

  Nina Talikova sat at a baccarat table under bright lights and beside painted arches in the main room of the Casino de Monte-Carlo. She wore a tight-fitting blue party dress with gold earrings and black stilettos. A cocktail waitress stepped beside her, removing her empty glass and replacing it with a full vodka tonic. It was her fourth.

  “Mademoiselle? Your bet?”

  Nina stared at the small stack of plaques in front of her with little comprehension.

  She looked up lazily at the banker across the table.

  “I’m sorry, how much?” She spoke slowly so as not to slur.

  “Five million.” The banker held disapproval in his dark eyes.

  Nina counted her stack. Ten million. She took the bet and placed half the stack near the center of the table.

  The players on her left, a gray-haired older couple, passed on the bet, so Nina faced the banker alone.

  The banker slipped four cards from the shoe, a box containing six well-shuffled packs of cards. The croupier next to the banker used a long wooden spatula to pass Nina’s two cards to her.

  The heavyset older woman bundled in a heavy blue suit shot Nina yet another death glare of disapproval.

  “That’s your fourth drink,” she said. “You should really take it easy.”

  An American, Nina noticed. Stupid do-gooder. Along with the suit she wore rings on almost every finger. “I’ll stop drinking when you stop eating bonbons for breakfast.”

  The woman gasped.

  Nina looked at her cards. A jack of hearts and an ace of spades. The ace gave her one point; the jack, like all face cards in baccarat, held zero value. She had to get as close as she could to nine in three cards or less.

  The banker showed his cards and Nina’s score didn’t matter. Nine of clubs and jack of diamonds. A natural. Nina tossed her cards at the croupier, who shifted her plaques to the banker’s side.

  With a snort and a glare, the heavyset woman and her younger female companion left the table. Nina looked over her shoulder at their departing backs and stuck out her tongue.

  She turned back to see the smoldering stares of the banker and croupier.

  Nina smiled smartly and gulped her drink. Where was Steve?

  The banker offered his next bet at eight million francs. Nina passed. Some spectators and the remaining two players contributed enough to make the bet. The spectators split between betting on who would win, the bankers or the players.

  Nina and her fuzzy brain had had enough. It was after midnight. She tipped the croupier, grabbed her vodka tonic along with the plaques and departed. She marched toward the bar on the other side of the room and found a stool.

  It was a nice hotel, Nina had to admit. The arched ceilings were painted in a homage to, or rip-off of, the Sistine Chapel; similar paintings lined the walls, each corner of the paintings impeccably lined up with its neighbor.

  It wasn’t Vegas, in that it wasn’t terribly loud, with none of the riotous noise Americans seemed to enjoy. Nina was sure her do-gooder friends felt well out of place.

  She took a long drink, almost fell off the stool and decided to lean against the bar. Two nearby Frenchmen talked football, with one glancing her way. She caught the look in her peripheral vision. Took another drink. The man who examined her wore a tux and bow tie. He interrupted his pal mid-thought to rise from the chair and come over to her. She leaned toward him and spoke before the man opened his mouth. “Vous êtes une grenouille degoutant.”

  The man blinked in surprise, muttered something and went back to his pal, who laughed.

  “Be nice,” a man over her shoulder said. Steve Dane eased onto the stool next to her. He wore a tux with a loose bow tie. “Really, you had to call him a disgusting frog?”

  “I almost,” she said, “told him in Russian.”

  “How did you do?”

  “Never mind that; where have you been?”

  “That fish didn’t sit well with me.”

  “Awwww, your tummy upset?”

  “And any rats in the sewers are in for a bad night.”

  The bartender came over and Dane ordered a martini. “Don’t forget the vermouth,” he said. The bartender nodded dutifully and filled his shaker. Dane watched the bartender stir the gin and vermouth and gladly accepted the offered glass.

  “So how did you do?” Dane asked again.

  Nina opened her purse and placed the four plaques on the bar.r />
  Dane whistled. “The money isn’t unlimited, you know.”

  “I saw a rich American bitch we can hustle,” Nina said. “I’m sure she’s a criminal.”

  “Nina…”

  “Especially in that suit.”

  “Nina, what’s wrong?”

  “I am bored, Steve. B-O-R-E-D.” She slurred as she spelled the word. “This was a stupid idea.”

  “We’ve only been here a few days,” Dane said. “Something will turn up.”

  “Right now, only your stomach is turning up.”

  “Turning over, actually.” Dane grabbed his drink and the four plaques. “Come on, let’s find another game.”

  Dane noticed the two Frenchmen glaring at them as they departed.

  “You hurt his feelings, dear,” Dane said.

  She spat a curse in Russian.

  “Let’s go find that fat lady and steal her rings.”

  “Now, now, dear.”

  DANE TRADED the plaques for chips at the roulette table.

  “You realize you’re playing Russian with a roulette?”

  “Want to rephrase that, honey?”

  She laughed and swallowed more of her drink. Dane held the martini in his left hand while he placed chips on the table with his right. He covered a spread of numbers.

  Other players placed their bets, and then the wheelman spun the wheel and dropped the ball.

  The table was a European single-zone, as one would expect, and the wheel rotated in an ornate wooden base. The ball traveled counter-clockwise to the wheel, riding in a raised groove.

  Dane watched the table, second-guessing his spread.

  Nina’s eyes stayed with the ball until she had to grab the edge of the table to keep from falling over.

  “You’re running low on vitamins,” he told her.

  “Bottoms up,” she said, and took another swallow.

  The ball dropped from the groove and landed on black eight. The wheelman called out the winners and passed them their chips. Dane did not collect any.

  “You’re having the same luck as me,” Nina said. “Maybe we should bet on your next visit to the toilet.”