Page 55 of Belgian Betrayal

Dmytro climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Where to from here?” Ace asked as he settled in the front passenger seat.

“To my contact’s warehouse in south London,” Dmytro said. “We’ll need more than weapons if we’re going to spy on people.”

Ace shook his head. “Is there any place you don’t have contacts?”

Dmytro shrugged. “It helps to have friends in this business.”

Ace nodded. “Yes, it does.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Speaking of friends, I need to let Hank know we made it here and see how Atkins is doing.”

Dmytro drove out of the airport as Ace placed the call.

Fearghas strained to hear Ace’s side of the conversation, but road and rain noise made it impossible.

He took Catya’s cold hand in his and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He’d slept a little on the flight. When he’d been in the SAS, he’d learned to sleep whenever he had a chance. If they were going to follow Cassandra Miles, it could mean staking out her apartment for long, boring hours, and he'd need to remain awake.

All too soon, the van slowed to a stop in front of a brick warehouse with two large overhead doors.

Dmytro pulled out his cell phone, sent a text and waited.

Moments later, one of the doors rolled upward. When it was just high enough, Dmytro drove the van inside the dark interior.

As soon as the door rolled down behind them, lights blinked on, and a barrel-chested man with a shock of white hair appeared beside the van.

Dmytro stepped out, grinning.

Immediately, the man engulfed him in a tight hug, pounding his back again and again, speaking in a language that sounded a lot like Russian.

“He’s Ukrainian,” Catya whispered.

Jasmine slid the van door open and climbed out.

Fearghas and Catya followed.

Dmytro and his friend stepped back.

“This is my cousin, Ivan,” Dmytro said.

Ivan opened his arms wide. “Welcome to London. Come. Come. You need sustenance.” He waved them through a door into another part of the warehouse that had been converted into living quarters.

The smell of cooking food filled the air, making Fearghas’s stomach rumble. They’d snacked at the hospital, but it had been a while since they’d had a full meal.

Ivan led them into a room with a kitchen and a long table made from an old door that had been sanded smooth. Benches lined each side of the table.

A thick woman wearing a cotton dress and an apron turned, smiling. She said something in Russian and waved a wooden spoon toward the table.

“Sit. Sit,” Ivan said. “Food is ready. My wife, Anya.”

Fearghas smiled at the woman and waited until Catya climbed over the bench and settled in front of a deep, chipped bowl, mismatched silverware and a plastic cup.

Fearghas slid onto the bench beside her.

Ace and Jasmine sat across from Fearghas and Catya. Dmytro sat on the other side of Jasmine, and Ivan pulled a chair up to the end of the table and sat.

Anya poured the contents of a stockpot into a huge bowl and grabbed a ladle from the counter. She carried the bowl to the table and scooped heaping helpings of what appeared to be goulash into the bowls in front of each person at the table.

“It is not much,” Ivan patted his belly, “but it is good.”

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