Eagle's Heart (5 page)

After cleaning himself up, he threw on shorts and a T-shirt and headed out into the heat. He did a circuit of the block first and then ran farther, ignoring the oppressive humidity. Houses lined with aluminum siding nestled up to impressive brownstones and modern condos, and people of every stripe walked the streets.

He stared at a group of children who lit illegal firecrackers with glee as parents chided them to mind their fingers. In Tirana, where Julian had grown up, children had played with much more dangerous ammunition than glorified noisemakers, and not many adults had seemed to worry about it.

He ran for blocks, marveling at the ways neighborhoods changed both economically and ethnically from street to street. He didn’t worry about distance or time. Instead he let himself get acquainted with the appealing hodgepodge that conglomerated to form Brooklyn.

Her apartment isn’t far from here, he thought on his return trip, mentally mapping out the distance from his apartment to Salomeh’s as if he hadn’t done it a dozen times already.
You could just run by, make sure she was okay.

He increased his pace, pushing back against the desire to go see Salomeh. Yates was right. Questioning the teacher could wait a day. And besides, in light of his morning activities, purposely running past her home would place him squarely in the stalker zone.

He broke into a full sprint as his apartment building came into view, his lungs heaving and his muscles burning but his mind clear. The beating of his heart and the pumping of his legs became his central focus, blotting out all his foolish inclinations.

He considered running past his building, running until his body gave out and he didn’t have to worry about Salomeh or Bardhyn or the ghosts of his parents and sister. Instead he slowed his pace and brought himself to a stop near the front door.

Sweat coursed down his body, cooling him, although the air he gulped down was warm and heavy with moisture. He bent over into a stretch, fingers grabbing his toes as he let his mind slip into the comforting routine of verb conjugation. When physical activity failed, his mind could be brought to heel through mental exertion.

He listed the Latin words by rote.
Sto, stavo, stetti, staro
… Next Italian, then French, then Spanish. He’d stick to the romance languages this morning, as they were the only kind of romance he should be dabbling in right now. Fantasies of wide-eyed teachers had no place in his life.

“Impressive,” a voice said from behind him.

He stood and saw a short, fair-haired Latina holding a bag of groceries and eyeing him with interest.

She was beautiful, but something in his mind said,
Not her
, rejecting the woman. He didn’t have to try very hard to imagine who would get the
Yes her
stamp of approval.

Julian smiled at the woman all the same, knowing the effect of his dimples and his long lashes. Flirting was an interaction he could control, a game that came easily to him even when he lacked enthusiasm.

“I didn’t know I had an audience,” he said, observing the quirk of her head that marked the exact moment she noticed his accent.

“An appreciative one,” she said, still friendly but not exactly flirty. More like assessing. She glanced at the thick scars on his arms. “Are you new to the building?”

“I’m subletting while I’m in the area for business,” he said as he stopped stretching to open the door for her. She passed beneath his arm and then turned.

“Well, if you aren’t detained by
business
, you should come to the party on the roof tonight,” she said. “There’s going to be music, dancing, and a killer view of the fireworks.”

“I’ve never seen the fireworks display in New York. Do you think it lives up to the hype?” he asked. “Haven’t they been handled by the same family for generations?”

The woman shrugged as she walked into the lobby.

“Beats me,” she said. “But my friend, who by chance is going to be here tonight, probably knows. She reads everything, has a memory like a steel trap, and she’s super cute.”

Ah. A setup.

“Well, I’d love to, but I have plans.”

“Liar. You have nothing better to do, and if you don’t come, you’re going to regret it,” she said as she stepped into the elevator. Right before the doors closed, she smiled wide and threw down the gauntlet. “Besides, my friend probably won’t be interested in you anyway.”

There was only one cute, smart woman Julian was interested in meeting, but the fireworks display might be worth a few moments of inane chitchat. Maybe interacting with normal people, people who knew nothing about Albanian gangs and terrorists and how really scary the world was, would be a good thing. At the very least it would be something to keep his mind off this troubling fixation with one Miss Salomeh Jones.

He and Yates would question her tomorrow in a totally professional manner, and then, he hoped for her sake, he’d never see her again.

Chapter Four

“Tell me, Henderson, how does it feel to know that none of my men would ever break their Besa, that they wouldn’t speak to you for any amount of money, and yet here you are selling your own agents out for the small sum of three hundred thousand dollars?”

Bardhyn sat in the cool darkness of his office, fingers poised delicately on the clasps of the briefcase he had just closed. He watched the emotions play over the director of the Balkan Gang Squad’s face as the man tried in vain to hide them: revulsion, guilt, anger. Westerners, especially Americans, were always easy to read. When your biggest worry was where to get your next cheeseburger, your sense of self-preservation tended to atrophy.

Bardhyn had no qualms about handing over a large chunk of cash to Henderson; he needed to know how much info the feds had about his connection with the West Africans he was meeting with this week, and the money was a pittance compared to what he’d make on the deal with the Islamists.

He just enjoyed toying with the man.

“It feels like I can pay for both of my kids to go to college without having to mortgage my house again,” Henderson said with feigned cheer as he reached for the case.

Bardhyn didn’t remove his hands, his fingers drumming out a staccato rhythm on the taut leather. “And if one of these agents were to die as a result of your bargain, how would you feel then?” he asked, smiling as Henderson’s face went pale, almost as pale as the man’s thinning gray hair.

He knew there was no risk of Henderson reneging on their deal, and he intended to wring some enjoyment out of the situation. Excitement tickled at his skin and raised the hairs on his wrists as he waited for the man’s answer.

Henderson pulled his arm back, balling his hands into fists. “You gave me your word that there would be no deaths,” he said.

Bardhyn laughed. If you gave a man a bit of hope to cling to, however improbable, he would hang on for dear life as he followed you to hell. “I hate to list my accomplishments, but you’re the director of the task force assembled to catch me, and therefore most familiar with my…” He paused and searched for the right turn of phrase. “With my modus operandi, and you still take me at my word? I’m honored.”

“Are we finished here?” Henderson asked, face shifting from blanched to a mottled flush.

“Of course, Director,” Bardhyn said, locking the case with a flick of his thumbs and passing it to the man. “And if you want to make use of a girl on your way out, I suggest the young Mexican minx in room three. Only recently deflowered, but a fast learner. I won’t tell her you’re the man who’s supposed to be saving her.”

Henderson emitted a strangled sound, and his jaw worked in repressed fury. Bardhyn thought he would leave without a word, but the man stopped at the door and glared at him, surprising for a worthless bureaucrat.

“You know, you might be surprised to find that our main consultant on this case is Albanian,” Henderson said. “Says he knew you pretty well too. Guess that Besa isn’t so unbreakable.”

Bardhyn smiled indulgently. That wasn’t likely. Anyone who was close enough to him to pose a threat had been culled, with the exception of Linda. She served as both his right hand and as his reminder that no one, no matter how close, was immune to his wrath if they thought of crossing him.

“Someone’s obviously lied on their résumé,” Bardhyn said. “It’s not like you’re supposed to be on friendly enough terms with me to follow up on their claims.”

“He’s the one who connected you to the teacher,” Henderson said with a shrug. “Said the whole mind-fuck thing was right up your alley. He even told us a fun little story about you getting a hard-on when a teacher disciplined you in front of the class one day, and how the other boys teased you until you ran home crying.”

Bardhyn kept the serene smile on his face, but he had the slightest sensation of something he wasn’t very familiar with: unease.

“I’ll see myself out,” Henderson said.

As the door closed, Bardhyn heard the
click
of Linda’s lighter, the long draw on her cigarette.

“You shouldn’t have antagonized him so much, Birdie,” she said, the coolness of her voice both soothing and titillating. He knew that the way she spoke, the way she dressed, the way she smelled even, were all for him. After all these years it was still sometimes unbearably exciting for him to think about.

“Why should I make it easy for him? “ he asked, turning to where she sat on a plush red chair, the tip of her cigarette glowing like a beacon. “Just because his betrayal is benefiting me doesn’t mean it’s not an inexcusable act of cowardice.”

She didn’t respond, and he knew that even if he could see her features, he wouldn’t know what she was thinking. Her emotions were hidden behind a fortress, one he had built with his own hands.

“And don’t call me Birdie,” he added. “That’s for show, and there’s no need for pretense between us.”

The cigarette glowed brighter, and she exhaled, the cloud of smoke lacing the air with the smell of expensive tobacco.

“Is the hard-on story true, Bardhyn?” she asked.

“Are you jealous?” he countered. The story was true, but not entirely. He hadn’t run home but to the teacher’s house, where the man’s prized poodle met an untimely demise.

Linda laughed, a short harsh sound that conveyed her disdain.

“Hardly. It does give some insight into your current proclivities,” she said. She exhaled slowly before speaking again. “It would be interesting to see who this Albanian is.”

Bardhyn could sense the merest thread of urgency in her voice, enough to make him want to tease it out and play with it like a kitten. To see how long it would take to make her crack and ask him outright. But he was also curious about this consultant.

He flipped through the pages of the file—personnel information taken directly from the FBI’s HR department. His eyes lingered on the lanky blonde who he had already caught sniffing around his businesses once or twice, some bitch named Yates. Three men, their expressions resigned and nonthreatening, gazed back at him from the next few pages. And in the last file—

“No,” Bardhyn barked, jumping to his feet. “This is impossible,” he said, feeling his control slipping. He sat back down.

“What is it?” Linda asked, walking over at an unhurried pace despite his obvious distress. Her sleeveless turtleneck minidress and blunt bob haircut made her look like she had stepped from the pages of the fashion magazines she had become obsessed with over the years. Her hair was jet black, dyed because Bardhyn liked it that way. The unnatural color made her skin seem even paler than it was.

He inhaled deeply and tried to calm himself before he spoke. “A miracle, my sweet. It appears that an old friend of ours has returned from the dead.”

He could have just told her, but that malicious part of him longed to see her reaction. He handed her the picture from the file for Julian Tamali.

She took the photo gingerly and stared at it with a seemingly impassive gaze. Her eyes moved quickly back and forth as she processed the image, but her face showed absolutely no emotion. Bardhyn had to admit he was impressed.

She handed the picture back to him and took a long drag from her cigarette before speaking. “He is risen,” she said calmly. The allusion wasn’t surprising, given how she had worshipped at Julian’s feet.

“You reference Christ, but Judas would be more accurate,” Bardhyn snapped. “Betraying me once wasn’t enough, apparently. He’s now dedicated his career to it. Worthless scum.”

Bardhyn had already dealt with Julian. After that first betrayal, that broken Besa from the one person he considered a true friend, Bardhyn had concocted a vengeance fitting the crime. He could have killed Julian, but death was a quick release, and there were so many ways in which living could be far worse.

Bardhyn had laid Julian’s life fallow, had watched the flicker of hope in his friend’s eyes snuff out and be replaced with agony.

And he had laughed.

Everyone knew that Julian had been killed in the war in Sarajevo, where he’d fought as if he had nothing to live for. Bardhyn had always taken pleasure in the fact that Julian lay in some mass grave, buried like the dog he was. But now he had the audacity to reappear? Now, when Bardhyn was poised to make the deal of a lifetime?

“I guess you’ll want to speak with him,” Linda said without even the slightest tremor in her voice, her reserve making him realize his hands shook with rage.

“Of course. I’ll have him brought in, and we’ll have some fun with him,” Bardhyn said. “After this deal with the Islamists, we’re going to have an unimaginable amount of money, and then—”

“And then we’ll all live happily ever after,” she said, stubbing her cigarette out in the heavy ashtray on his desk. “I’ve heard that story before.” She sauntered out of the room, shutting the door behind her with a pronounced
click.

Bardhyn ignored what for Linda amounted to a screaming temper tantrum. It was time to start planning a reunion.

Bardhyn reached for his phone to call Alexi, but paused. The man knew how to use brute force, but he was a fool. The teacher he had gotten Bardhyn involved with might be a liability, and the girl locked upstairs might be too. No, he’d use someone with a bit more finesse to find out where Julian was and to bring him in.