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  “It’s time for you to get past what happened and get on with the rest of your life.”

  At first Cruz couldn’t believe he’d heard Redpath correctly. In the years he’d worked for her, she’d never once mentioned the incident that had stripped him of everything that mattered to him in the world. Now she was talking about his humiliation with the offhand manner of a woman ordering a salad with dressing on the side.

  Before Cruz could say anything, the Mercedes braked to a halt in a small swirl of dust. With military precision Sergeant-Major Gillespie slid out from behind the wheel, popped open the back door smartly, and stood aside to allow the prospective clients to step out.

  Aleksy Novikov had straw-colored hair and androgynous features that were both handsome and beautiful. He was small and very well made, like a gymnast or a professional dancer. He moved with a grace that was fascinating, for it was neither male nor female but simply animal. Every eye was drawn to him. Every eye followed him.

  Cruz had often thought that standing next to Novikov would be as close to being invisible as it got in this life.

  Behind Novikov, a thickset man emerged from the car. He had haunted dark eyes, pallid skin, and a ragged black beard. The black suit he wore was made of dense felt. It was the wrong choice for the desert.

  Novikov’s suit was made of pale gray silk, Italian cut, understated and elegant. If the heat bothered him, it didn’t show in his movements. His clear skin was only faintly flushed. His widely spaced gray eyes took in the clever desert landscaping in front of the headquarters building before pausing on the Joshua tree supports and Washingtonia palm-frond roof of the ramada.

  “Surely you haven’t gone native, luv?” Novikov asked, looking at Redpath.

  She laughed and stepped forward, offering her hand. “You haven’t changed, Aleksy.”

  “Nor have you, Ambassador, except to grow even more formidable.” Smiling, he raised her hand to his lips, keeping a fingertip on her pulse point. “But your fingers still are soft and scented with roses.”

  Sourly Cruz noted that Novikov pulled off the hand-kissing and the compliment with his usual flawless grace. A glance at Gillespie told Cruz that he wasn’t alone in his irritation.

  “Thank you for coming out to the desert,” Redpath said. “I know it’s not to your taste.”

  Novikov’s shrug was as elegant as his clothes. “It was a small test, no? If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must care enough to undertake the journey.”

  “I’m surprised you cared enough,” she said.

  The Russian smiled thinly. “In my government, Risk Limited has many fans in high places.”

  Redpath’s arched eyebrows were as measured as Novikov’s smile.

  “How odd,” she said. “We certainly haven’t done much business with the new Russia.”

  “No,” agreed Novikov, “but you made enemies under the old regime. They still speak of you with great, ah, fervor.”

  “How very flattering.” Redpath made no move to withdraw her hand from Novikov’s. He could pull a gun on her and her pulse wouldn’t jump. He was a very attractive man who didn’t appeal to her at all. “But we aren’t interested in fighting old wars. Risk Limited is a private security firm. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  This time Novikov’s smile was full and apparently spontaneous. It transformed his face the way sunrise transformed night.

  “Direct. Succinct. Delightfully American.” Novikov’s lips brushed over Redpath’s fingers again. “Do you always greet your new clients with that speech?”

  Cruz had had enough of the hand-kissing and lethal charisma. He stepped out of the shadows into the pitiless light. “No. We save the speech for potential clients who think they can hire us to do illegal work.”

  The incandescent smile vanished from Novikov’s face. He stared at Cruz for several long seconds before he turned back to Redpath.

  “With men like Cruz Rowan on your staff,” Novikov said, “I understand why you think a warning might be necessary. Truly, Ambassador, would it not be easier simply to avoid employing known criminals?”

  Redpath withdrew her hand from Novikov’s and said calmly, “Cruz is one of my most valued operatives.”

  “A pity,” the Russian said in a neutral tone. “He tried to embarrass the Soviet government by planting evidence on me several years ago in San Francisco. He did such an inferior job that nothing came of it. Surely you can hire more adept operatives?”

  “All that saved your slick ass was a diplomatic passport,” Cruz said.

  Novikov’s tall, thickset companion stepped forward in a way that was meant to intimidate.

  Cruz looked at the second Russian with a complete lack of interest. He’d taken down bigger men. It was the small ones you had to watch.

  “Gapan,” Novikov said softly.

  The man called Gapan stepped back.

  “I see you’re still hiring out your muscle jobs,” Cruz said. “Be a man, Aleksy. Tell the ambassador the whole truth, just for the novelty of it. What can it hurt? The game has been over for years, the score totaled, and the dead buried.”

  “It always was a game for you, wasn’t it?” Novikov asked gently. “What a shame your government decided not to let you play anymore. Do you miss your toys?”

  Cruz’s eyes narrowed in the instant before he controlled his reaction.

  The curve of Novikov’s mouth was too cold to be called a smile. “I was in London for two years after I left San Francisco. My dear boy, how those British tabloids loved to hate you.”

  “I’m a regular prince, but I’m not your dear boy, now or ever.”

  “I have a confession,” Novikov said, turning to Redpath. “I took an almost orgasmic pleasure in watching the FBI snip off Cruz Rowan’s buttons and drum him out of the service.”

  Redpath shook her head and said something that sounded like, “Testosterone.” Then she looked at Novikov and said clearly, “Cruz quit the FBI because I made him a better offer. I suspect you know that as well as I do.”

  Novikov flicked a spot of dust off his coat, dismissing the subject. And Cruz. “I can understand why Rowan would leap at the chance to work with your organization. Risk Limited is widely regarded as the most effective private security firm in the world.”

  Redpath smiled politely.

  “What surprises me, luv,” the Russian added, “is that you would have him.”

  “Nearly everyone involved in Risk Limited was once part of one government agency or other,” she said. “But all of us, myself included, left government service because we ran up against something we couldn’t accept.”

  Novikov sent a cool glance in Cruz’s direction.

  Cruz gave it back with interest. He knew that Novikov was baiting him. What he didn’t know was why. In the past, before his own private world came crashing down, Cruz wouldn’t have cared about an enemy’s motivation. He would have thrashed it out with Novikov one-on-one, and to hell with what or why.

  But the past was dead, and Cruz had nearly died with it. He’d learned to get answers before he acted.

  Most of the time.

  Redpath looked from Cruz to Novikov. Her green eyes were shrewd, penetrating, and missed nothing. Like Cruz, she wondered why Novikov would bait a man whose services he required.

  “In my case,” she said, “I left government work because of a set of policies that paid more attention to the interests of banks and multinational corporations than it did to human needs.”

  “Very American of you,” Novikov said.

  Redpath gave him a sweet, gentle Mona Lisa smile that would have melted the heart of a marble statue. “Cruz Rowan has my complete confidence.”

  Cruz hid his own smile. When Redpath wanted to, she could make a man feel ten feet tall and handsome as Michelangelo’s David.

  She was also good at making men feel lower than a snake’s ass.

  Novikov didn’t say a word.

  “Being in the private sector has some disadvanta
ges,” Redpath said calmly. “We can’t act as policemen or operatives.”

  The Russian didn’t look convinced.

  “We’ve lost our access to the old boy network of government agents that some of our competitors utilize so cleverly,” she said. “We’re on our own. On the other hand, we can take cases or turn them down as we see fit. And we do.”

  “You are free to employ whom you wish, of course,” Novikov said. “So, of course, am I. As you pointed out, you have competitors.”

  “You appear to require that I disqualify Cruz for this job even before I know what you need from Risk Limited,” Redpath said. “If you insist on that, I will decline your retainer. I assign operators. The client does not.”

  A flush showed briefly on Novikov’s pale skin. He started to reply, then bit back the words before they were spoken.

  “Of course,” he said softly. “You are the professional. I am not.”

  “There are other professionals,” she said. “If we make you uncomfortable, go to them.”

  “You are the organization that tracked down Marcos’s billions,” Novikov said. “You orchestrated the rescue of three Anglican priests in East Beirut. You rescued a CNN correspondent from headhunters in Borneo. You are, unfortunately, the best there is.”

  Redpath nodded. She knew even better than Novikov just how capable her organization was.

  “I need the best,” the Russian said simply.

  “Why?”

  Novikov looked at Cruz one final time, shrugged, and gave in. “One of Russia’s greatest art treasures has gone missing.”

  “Which one?” Redpath asked.

  “The Ruby Surprise.”

  Redpath looked blank. “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “The Ruby Surprise is the most important artifact to survive the Bolshevik era,” Novikov explained. “It was only recently recovered by true Russian patriots.”

  Cruz and Gillespie looked at each other. Neither of them knew what Novikov was talking about. Even though Russia was selling off assets right and left in order to survive, there hadn’t been any rumors of a high-level art theft.

  “What, precisely, is the Ruby Surprise?” Redpath asked.

  Novikov hesitated, then said the easiest part of the truth. “It’s the last imperial egg made by Peter Carl Fabergé.”

  4

  Above Colorado

  Monday

  Flying gave Damon Hudson a sexual thrill. No matter how often he climbed aboard the Hi-Flyer One, Hudson International’s executive flagship, he felt a tingle somewhere below his belt, like a beautiful woman had just given him a lazy, sultry smile.

  Perhaps it was the phallic look of the plane itself. The long, tapering fuselage of the Boeing 757 had glistened in the hazy sunlight that fell on the La Guardia Airport tarmac. In his mind Hudson could see the plane taking off, then thrusting through the air to thirty-five thousand feet, heading back to Los Angeles.

  Or perhaps the sexual thrill was in the ostentation, the sultanlike opulence of the aircraft itself. A plane this large usually carried one hundred and eighty passengers, which meant that maintenance and upkeep were much too expensive for normal executive service.

  Hi-Flyer One was Hudson’s private plane partly because he knew the importance of a grand public presence. But most of it was simply that he liked doing things in an imperial manner. He’d ordered the plane directly from Boeing. Then he’d furnished it with Middle Eastern carpets, Chinese silk wall coverings, and antiques from all over the world.

  The aircraft’s cost had been charged off against Hudson International, a public company with thousands of stockholders. Yet Damon Hudson regarded the plane as his personal property, regardless of what a few unhappy investors and narrow-minded busybodies from the Securities and Exchange Commission had to say.

  There was plenty for small minds to complain about. Hi-Flyer One was among the most grandiose executive aircraft in the world. The forward portion of the plane was given over to staff and guests. They flew in comfort, but hardly in style. The back half of the plane was Hudson’s very own pleasure dome. It was equipped with the latest in communications gear, a discriminating collection of erotic art, and often the most alluring sex workers in the world.

  Though Hudson was a man of relentless sexual appetite, he was far too shrewd to seek release in circumstances where his control wasn’t absolute. He hadn’t become grossly rich by being stupid about his pleasures.

  Hudson International was the third time up the ladder of success for him. Two of his previous business concerns had ballooned and then collapsed. Each time he’d escaped with his personal fortune intact. And each time he’d left behind wreckage that would have destroyed the reputation of a lesser man or a man with a lesser public relations staff. Now in his seventh decade and his third career, Hudson was a master of corporate and human manipulation.

  The president and CEO of Hudson International drew a deep breath of the plane’s carefully purified air. He breathed clean air as much as he could, and bottled oxygen when he had to. He also was extremely finicky about water and food. He intended to live to be at least one hundred.

  More important, he was going to stay virile every minute of that life.

  With crisp movements, he shed his coat, pulled off his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his white broadcloth cotton shirt. Then he put on a loosely woven cotton sweater. It was tight enough to show the world that while his chest had thickened with the years, he had a flatter and harder belly than most men three decades younger.

  For a moment he stood in front of the full-length mirror that hung on one bulkhead wall between original Vargas nudes. He inspected himself the same way he would have inspected a prospective whore—carefully, critically, almost clinically. He was still handsome, with a full head of steel-colored hair and a smooth, unwrinkled face that glowed with pink-cheeked English health. He looked forty. He’d achieved this effect as he had his other successes.

  Pure illusion.

  At the age of sixty-five, when most men began the descent to sickness and oblivion, he’d undergone a complete make-over by a famed French plastic surgeon. The treatment had involved nips, tucks, liposuction, and implants. The recuperation had taken three months, but the result was just short of miraculous. The photo his public relations staff had planted in People magazine showed a man whose appearance most men over forty would envy.

  It had been almost eight years since that transformation. He’d gone through several tucks and lifts since then. The black eyes and the ugly bruising took weeks to heal, but they kept his face taut.

  There were other therapies, too, ones that were less well known and far more intimate. These treatments were intensely painful, but they were effective, the equivalent of putting a new ink cartridge in a well-used yet still useful Mont Blanc.

  Hudson was convinced that he’d mastered the process of physical aging. He’d locked himself in an expensive time capsule, remaining stationary while those around him got older or less virile, which in his mind was the same thing. He relished every moment of his surgical rejuvenation, especially when he came into contact with men of his own generation.

  Satisfied by his daily ritual of inspection, he went to the burnished cherry Federal Period writing table at one end of the suite. He would rather have called for the two women who were waiting for him in the forward cabin, but he had business to take care of first. As much as he was driven by his own sexuality, he’d learned that delay only made the climax better.

  With a throttled, impatient sound, he picked up the cell phone. He disliked using the cellular because it made eavesdropping easier for his enemies. Encoding the calls made it more difficult for spies to pick information out of the air, but nothing was wholly secure. An encoded conversation could be recorded and decoded at leisure. While he regularly recorded his own conversations, he hated having others record him. But when he was flying, he hadn’t any choice except the cell phone or the even more public radio.

  The first and most i
mportant call Hudson made was to his Los Angeles office.

  “Hudson Museum,” the woman at the other end of the line said. “How may I help you?”

  “This is Hudson. Is Aleksy around?”

  “Oh, Mr. Hudson, good afternoon.”

  The voice belonged to his personal secretary. Knowing his habits with employees, she didn’t wait for a polite greeting from him. Hudson had no patience for little social rituals.

  “Mr. Novikov isn’t here right now,” she said quickly.

  Hudson grunted. “Where is he?”

  “He didn’t say where he was going.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “What did he say?” Hudson asked impatiently.

  “Nothing, sir. He seemed rather upset about something, but he didn’t say what it was.”

  Uneasiness slithered through Hudson. He’d invested an extravagant amount of money in the Hudson Museum’s new building. He’d spent almost as much simply to bring “The Splendors of Russia” show to Los Angeles for his museum’s first exhibit. That exhibit opened on Friday.

  It had to be a success.

  The money for building the museum and securing the exhibit had come from the operating funds of Hudson International. He must have a very good museum opening on Friday to offset complaints from stockholders who felt it was more important to pay dividends than to construct museums for Hudson International’s extensive art collections. Hudson’s collections, actually.

  “Find the effete little bastard and find him fast,” Hudson said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re paying his government a hell of a lot of money for this show, yet that catamite acts like he’s in charge.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hudson had complained about Novikov to everyone from the Russian minister of culture to his closest allies in the president’s office, but the complaints had been turned away with surprising coolness. Everyone said the same thing: Mr. Novikov has our fullest support. You would do well to follow his aesthetic advice.

  “He better be back in time for the press briefing,” Hudson said harshly. “The media is the most important part of the show.”