Chelsea shot him an emphatic look that said, Cut it out. Again, Zoelner answered with a laconic shrug.
Kozlov’s expression turned sour. “And just so we understand each other, Russia does not pay good rubles for something she can get for free.”
“Meaning what?” Chelsea asked. “You just planned to catch Winterfield and beat the information out of him. And so the T/C Contender is for?” Kozlov opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “Let me guess. Al-Rahma.”
“One less radical on the face of the earth.”
Chelsea glanced up and down the alley. “So where are your friends, huh? Where’s your backup?”
“Please,” Kozlov scoffed. “Your government may have forgotten how to handle these matters, but Russia has not. When you want to catch a rat, you do not send in a whole regiment.”
And that had been Dan’s exact point to the CIA barely two days ago. Although he would not like to think he had anything in common with Kozlov, he had to admit they were of like mind in this one particular regard.
“You send in one very mean rat terrier,” Kozlov finished proudly, the V in the word “very” sounded like a W.
Chelsea checked her watch. “And the terrier was planning to capture the rat in Plaza San Francisco thirty minutes from now.”
Looking at Kozlov, Dan realized once again that the fate of the nation had come down to good ol’ DFL. Dumb fuckin’ luck. Which Zoelner’s happenstance spotting of the Russian in the square definitely qualified as. More often than anyone would probably like to concede, that’s how it happened, and he thanked his lucky stars every time it did.
“Is there anything more you can tell us about Winterfield’s meeting?” Chelsea asked.
Kozlov shrugged indifferently. “Nothing. You know it all. Now I would like my weapon back, please.” With a jerk of his chin he indicated the Contender still aimed at him.
Dan scoffed. “Not on your life, comrade.” Is this guy for real?
“A pity,” Kozlov sighed. “It was one of my favorites. But, then again, I have many favorites.” The warning in his tone was clear as he straightened his jacket, touched a finger to his busted lip, and smiled at Dan. The look on his face said, Until we meet again…
Dan made sure his own expression responded with Looking forward to it, fuckhead. And, ooooh! Wasn’t supersecret spy-guy stuff fun?
“Now”—Chelsea cocked her head at Kozlov, tapping a finger against her chin—“what to do with you?”
“What? This is a question?” The Russian glanced back and forth among the four of them. “I have given you what you want. I have no weapon. My mission is, as you say, in the garbage. So you will let me go, yes?”
Penni caught Dan’s eye and mouthed, Is this guy for real?
Under different circumstances he would have laughed out loud that she’d just put his thoughts into words.
Chelsea chuckled. “You’re funny, Andrei. I think I like you.”
Zoelner snarled something under his breath. But when Chelsea turned to him, he straightened and blinked innocently, like he hadn’t just threatened to have the Russian strung up by his balls. “Suggestions, Z?” she asked. “This is more your area of expertise than mine.”
“Take him to the rendezvous point, gag him, and hog-tie him until we see if his information pans out,” Zoelner said, as if the answer was obvious.
“Yeah,” Dan wholeheartedly agreed. “What he said…”
Chapter Ten
“I know I stumbled into this mission and it’s probably none of my business,” Penni said when Chelsea clicked off the phone with her supervisor after telling the man to alert the marshals about the mysterious threat to some guy Zoelner had never heard of, “but care to fill me in on what the heck all that business concerning Rubashkin was about?”
“Yeah.” Dan shook his head so fast Zoelner was surprised the move wasn’t accompanied by the cartoonish aye-eee-aye-eee-aye sound effect. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but what she said…”
Zoelner glanced over at Chelsea. Normally the woman had a face that promised heaven, but in the dim light of the street lamp shining in through the window, her current expression looked like hell. She might have put on a brave front while interrogating Kozlov, but it’d taken its toll on her. She was used to sitting safe and sound in a cubicle, not demanding answers from a Russian thug who would have happily killed her, given a chance.
The air inside the deserted building was as heavily scented as a South Side hooker. But instead of dime-store perfume, the smell was sawdust and plaster. It filled Zoelner’s nose and mouth when he sucked in a breath, preparing himself for whatever bombshell Chelsea was poised to drop.
“Stanislav Rubashkin is the former military intelligence colonel for the KGB,” she whispered. “He defected to the U.S. after the Soviet Union fell in ’91.”
Boom!