Page 25 of Lethal Alliance

“Their demands?” I’d laugh, but I’m pretty sure it would come out sounding deranged. “The only demands the Orlovs will be making will be for me to stop breaking their fucking bones.”

There’s a grim murmur of assent from around the room.

“I know how to deal with the Orlovs,” I say coldly.

It’s not a lie. I’ve thought of little else from the moment the bomb went off. To be honest, even before that. I’ve known this moment would come, although I never imagined it would involve my children being in danger.

“As soon as we’ve identified exactly where the girls are, we’ll set up an attack. Meanwhile, we need to find Darya. We have to get her off the streets and into safety before any of this goes down.”

I avoid looking at either Mickey or Dimitry. Neither has forgiven me for my initial hostility toward Darya. Going by the incessant buzzing of his phone, Dimitry is getting grief from Abby as well, which no doubt isn’t improving his mood. Mickey has barely looked up from his screen since the night of the explosion. He’s lost every woman in his life who means anything.

His sisters.

Darya.

His mother.

The fact that he loathes Inger doesn’t change the fact that he’s lost his mother. No matter what the outcome of the current situation is, Mickey won’t ever trust Inger again, and I, more than anyone else, understand the scar that kind of loss leaves on a young heart.

“Wait.” Mickey leans forward, frowning at the screen. “Have a look at this.” He pauses a grainy CCTV feed from the Malaga bus station and points to a woman climbing onto a bus. She’s wearing Moroccan clothing, with a headscarf and dark glasses, and she’s carrying a large handbag. It’s impossible to see her face clearly, and the voluminous Moroccan djellabaswamps her figure. Nothing, from her stance to her clothing, looks anything like Darya.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” I try not to sound impatient.

“Have a look at this screen.” Mickey has another feed paused. The same Moroccan woman, heading into a bathroom at the airport, approximately one hour earlier than the video footage taken at the bus stop. Only this woman has intricate henna patterns on the backs of her hands, starkly visible even in the poor-quality feed. Mickey points back at the first screen. The woman’s hand is clasped around the handrail inside the bus door.

No henna.

I look back and forth between the two images. The clothing isn’t just similar, it’s exactly the same. Same slight tear on the headscarf, same glasses. The only difference is the handbag; the woman at the airport has a large suitcase on roller wheels.

“Then there’s this.” Mickey fast-forwards the airport footage. A few minutes after the Moroccan woman enters the bathroom, a woman exits wearing jeans and a sweater that I immediately recognize as Darya’s. Her black hair is in a long plait, and she keeps her face averted from the camera. From behind, she looks enough like Darya that I do a double take, until Mickey points out the henna pattern on the hand pulling the large roller suitcase.

“And after a few more minutes,” he says, flicking through the footage, “there’s this.” Another woman exits the bathroom, wearing the djellaba and headscarf. She’s carrying a duty-free bag, but not the satchel.

The satchel had already been left on a plane bound for Switzerland, with Darya’s phone inside it.

“By the time she’s at the bus stop, the duty-free bag is gone and she’s bought a handbag,” Mickey says. “Less conspicuous, I guess.” I glance at Dimitry, but he’s already got his phone out, giving low-voiced orders.

A lead.It’s all I need. From here it’s only a matter of time before I find her.

Even if I have to turn over every stone in Spain to do it.

I have a quick conversation with Dimitry and then put Darya out of my mind with no small effort. I know none of my men will rest until she’s found. Meanwhile, I have a phone call to make, one that can’t wait.

I go into my office in the Mercura secure room and pick up the telephone that only I ever use. It’s safer in here than any government SCIF used for military purposes. The phone line is completely untraceable.

I pull out the thick cream business card and dial the gold-embossed number on it. The line rings once before it is picked up. I’m greeted by a smooth, coolly professional female voice.

“Da.”

“I need to get a message to Makari Tereschenko. It’s Roman Stevanovsky. Tell him I’m calling in that favor.”

9

ROMAN

Mickey folds his arms stubbornly. “I’m coming with you.”

I run an impatient hand through my hair. “No, Mickey, you’re not. I want you here.”

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