Eye of the Storm (11 page)

“I ask you once again, Dr. Hart.” He uncapped the second precious bottle. “Would you like some water?”

Don’t be a fool.
Rosa’s voice broke through her resolve.
You need to keep your strength up. Get the water, fight later.

“Yes,” Cassie cried as the first precious drops spilled from the bottle.

Kasanov smiled and righted the bottle. “Very well. Come and have a drink.”

Should have seen that one coming, Cassie chided herself. It was impossible, but to salvage some of her pride, she attempted to climb to her feet. She used the bumper of the car for leverage, pressing her bound hands against it. She made it almost to a standing position before her legs gave out, dumping her back onto the floor. Kasanov’s men chuckled from their positions behind her.

Keeping her eyes focused on the sapphire bottle of hope, Cassie dragged her body across the grease-stained floor.

JIMMY DIDN’T COMPLAIN
as Drake drove over the curb and down the sidewalk before bouncing around a patrol car and back onto the street. He dug the red light out of the glove box and set it, revolving, on the dashboard. They made the drive to the FBI’s offices across the river in record time.

Drake never said a word the entire trip, which gave Jimmy the time to pave their way with a few phone calls. He’d figured on browbeating some junior agent stuck with duty on the Friday before Christmas, but mention Kasanov’s name and next thing he knew, it was the head of the Organized Crime task force, a supervisory special agent named Prescott, on the line.

By the time they arrived, security badges and a fresh-scrubbed junior G-man named Taylor were waiting in the lobby, ready to escort Drake and Jimmy upstairs to the inner sanctum.

“What I don’t understand,” a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair was saying as they were led into a high-tech situation room, “is why Kasanov didn’t just kill them all?” He looked up when Drake and Jimmy appeared but didn’t soften his tone. You want in, you’d better be wearing body armor, his expression said.

This must be Prescott. Guy dressed like a movie mafia don and looked like he was leading a hostile takeover of a rival corporation rather than a hastily convened emergency briefing.

“Why leave any witnesses?” Prescott continued. The other two agents in the room with him, neither of who looked old enough to vote, both nodded eagerly.

“He wants something,” Jimmy said, ignoring the federal agents and helping himself to a cup of their coffee. Drake moved to a corner where he could see all the players and have a good view of the computer screen projected onto the far wall. This placed him behind Prescott, but the fed didn’t seem bothered by having a non-feebie at his back.

“Obvious,” came the clipped tones of a peaches-and-cream female agent, her accent hailing from Texas or Oklahoma. She looked like she should be leading a pep rally instead of discussing a violent crime lord. “But what?”

Prescott answered. “Depends on who was the target. Cassandra Hart or Detective Drake.”

“Hart’s a doctor at a community clinic. What could she have of value to Kasanov?”

“Maybe something he thinks Hart has seen or knows, but,” Jimmy took a sip of coffee and thought for a moment, “he’s not entirely certain. And that’s why he didn’t kill anyone at the party. Maybe he was worried he’d be killing the one person who could force Hart to do whatever it is he wants.”

“Then he’d have done better to take one of the juveniles as his second hostage,” the other agent, one who obviously wasn’t aware Jimmy was father of two of those “juveniles,” put in in a bland tone. He had Hispanic coloring and a shaven head that made Jimmy look twice for gang tattoos, even though he knew visible body art was against FBI policy.

Prescott cleared his throat as Jimmy crushed the paper cup and hurled it at a garbage can just past the agent’s head. The junior agent jerked up at that, shooting Jimmy a narrow-eyed glare.

“Maybe I should introduce our guests before we continue,” Prescott said. “This is Detective Jimmy Dolan of Pittsburgh’s Major Case Squad.” Shaven-head lowered his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in his notes. “Father of two of our witnesses and husband to Denise Dolan, also a witness. And, for those of you who haven’t recognized him, Detective Mickey Drake.”

“It was my mother and fiancée Kasanov took,” Drake put in, his voice as expressionless as his face. In Jimmy’s experience, that blank void of a stare always meant trouble. Kid shut down like that, meant the powder keg’s fuse was lit and burning fast.

“Makes more sense if Drake is the real target,” Texas said in a chipper voice as if this tidbit of enlightenment would solve all their problems. “His paintings burned, his family taken. Maybe Kasanov is tied to a former case? From the Interpol report, Kasanov has been known to carry a grudge against prosecutors and judges who target him.”

“Do you people have anything?” Drake asked, turning to the small task force. “Besides vague theories?”

“The only thing we know for certain about Kasanov is to expect the unexpected,” Taylor, the agent who’d acted as their escort, put in. Despite his youth, he must have some seniority because Prescott shifted the computer over to him.

Kasanov’s photo, one that appeared several years old, flashed onto the monitor. “Nickolai Bernard Kasanov—at least that’s his current incarnation,” he began. “Real name unknown. There’s a list of his aliases in your briefing packets. Date of birth, unknown, suspected to be approximately 1940 or 1941. Place of birth unknown, but phonetic analysis of vocal patterns place his origins in the Austria-Hungarian area. Parents—”

“Unknown,” Jimmy interrupted, saving Drake the effort. “Cut the crap. What
do
you know?”

Taylor’s eyes sparked but he continued without pause. “Known to have been involved in fifty-three homicides. Suspected in another thirty-one.”

“Jeezit—what’s this actor doing out on the streets?” Jimmy asked with indignation. “Seventy-four people he’s killed and you’re letting him get away with it?”

“Those all occurred outside of the USA,” Texas said.

Prescott placed both his hands flat on the table, drawing the attention of all of the agents. “That’s one of the things that worries me. While he has criminal enterprises running here, Kasanov has never stepped foot on US soil before. And we can’t find any trace that he has now. If he’s here, he’s a ghost.”

“Are we sure it’s him?” Shaven-head said, risking a glance in Jimmy’s direction.

In answer, Jimmy tossed Jacob’s phone to him. “See for yourself.” As the junior agents gathered around the video, Jimmy turned to Prescott. “Seems like Kasanov knows how to stay off the radar. Any ideas why he’s coming out in the open now?”

“He’s fighting a war,” Taylor, the computer guy, said. “And losing.”

“These Eastern European mobs are always fighting over something,” Jimmy scoffed. “Remember the bootleg vodka war two years ago?”

“This one is more serious,” Prescott answered. “Kasanov is strictly old-school. Strong-arm tactics, kidnapping, blackmail, murder for hire. Forget the twenty-first century, his business model dates back to Attila the Hun.”

Taylor took over, flashing several screens of financial data onto the monitor. “Kasanov has always been fiercely independent. His organization is small, family-based, but used to being feared and respected and brought in plenty of money. Until now.”

He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head as if proud of himself. “Welcome to the age of the Internet. Blackmail occurs online. You want to kidnap someone? You hold their hard drive hostage. No need to kill when you can hijack a person’s—hell, a company’s—bank accounts and siphon off all their money with a click of a button.”

“So Kasanov isn’t doing well. What’s that got to do with Drake?” Jimmy asked. “And why is he here in Pittsburgh?”

No one had an answer to that.

“Tell me about the homicides,” Drake said in a low voice, staring at Kasanov’s photo as if he and the murderer were the only two people in the room.

“First we can verify was a storekeeper in Prague, 1954. During an attempted armed robbery. He actually did time for that but escaped from custody. Then he moved onto hiring himself out as a leg breaker, worked for various Mafia factions: Sicilians, Corsicans, Greeks, Turks, even Basques at one point. Always staying in Europe and Central Asia, dropping bodies wherever he went.”

Drake shook his head. “No, those are all just business. You said he was unpredictable. Tell me about the murders that don’t fit the pattern.”

Jimmy moved to join his partner, nodding in approval. Two great minds think alike. Even when one was clouded with worry.

No, more than worry; worry was what Jimmy felt. Stark terror was more like what Drake was experiencing, Jimmy thought as he saw the muscles at the corner of Drake’s jaw spasm. He swore he could hear Drake’s teeth grind in frustration as they waited for the FBI’s best and brightest to give them the answers they needed. That break in Drake’s facade made Jimmy worry even more.

Taylor fiddled with his computer for moment, then a screen with a dozen thumbnail photos appeared. He clicked on each one in turn, blowing it up to the full view.

“These all seem unmotivated,” he told them. “The first documented was a prostitute in Budapest. Found dead after spending a night with a man identified as Kasanov.” A mug shot photo appeared, the woman was in her mid-thirties, old for a prostitute—especially to attract a man like Kasanov, Jimmy thought.

“He was what, twenty, then?”

“Try seventeen,” Texas answered. “I’m sure the BAU would label these homicides as the pleasure kills of a sadist who enjoys ritual torture.”

Taylor flashed another image. Another tortured woman. And another. Until finally, he projected a map of the killings. A bloody trail leading across Europe, the former Soviet Union, and Central Asia.

The footsteps of a psychopathic serial killer who hated women. Jimmy took a drink of his coffee, mainly to cover his emotions, but it turned to acid in his mouth. This was the man who had Drake’s mother and Hart.

And they had no idea why he’d targeted them or what he wanted.

ONCE CASSIE REACHED
his feet, Kasanov jerked his head in a nod and one of his minions leapt forward, knife in hand, and cut her wrists free. She stretched for the bottle of water Kasanov held out to her. Finally, she grasped it with both hands, fearful that she might drop it, her fingers were so numb.

Greedily, she drank it all before he could change his mind. She would have tried to maintain her dignity, but she couldn’t survive without water. Besides, what did she care about humiliation? Didn’t matter one wit what Kasanov and his men thought of her as long as it got her what she wanted: her and Muriel safe and free.

Was this how Rosa felt when the Gestapo held her prisoner? Paddy had dropped hints of that time, but Cassie never heard Rosa say a word about it, had to fill in any details from her imagination colored by horrors described in the history books.

But, just like Paddy had come for Rosa, she knew Drake would rally every law enforcement agency and use all their resources to find her and Muriel.

She scanned her environment. The window behind Kasanov, the one leading to the office area, was now crowded with faces pressed against the glass. Children of all ages—the pickpockets she’d seen last night at the museum. She didn’t see the woman, Natasha, or the boy, Vincent, but then the door from the office slid open silently, just far enough to allow a reedy-thin boy to slip through. Vincent. He sidled into the shadows behind Kasanov and his men to stand, waiting, watching.

Good to know she had one ally here. The thought brought with it strength.

As she tilted the bottle back to suck out the final drops, she glanced at Kasanov. He lounged in his chair, watching her with an indulgent smile, not hurried at all.

Didn’t he know he’d already lost? There was no way he could escape. What good was any story of Rosa’s past when he’d be spending the rest of his life in prison? If Drake didn’t kill him first.

The thought made her want to smile, but she forced it back. Kasanov couldn’t have come as far as he had without being smart enough to have an exit strategy. Which meant her job would be to stall him as long as possible, give Drake the time he needed to find her and Muriel.

She glanced at the men with guns. Only four of them, none old enough to drink legally; one of them didn’t even look like he’d started shaving yet. Why so young? Wouldn’t a man like Kasanov have more experienced thugs at his command? Maybe the younger men were more pliable, willing to do violence for no good reason?

Or maybe they were expendable? Probably both. She wondered if there was some way she could use that against them.

She set the bottle down. Kasanov said nothing. Okay, she’d play his game, act the supplicant. “Thank you,” she said, her voice raspy.

He inclined his head as if granting a royal boon. And waited.

“May I see Muriel?” she asked. “I’d like to make sure she’s okay.”

“You doubt my word?” he boomed, but his frown was fake. All part of the damn game.

“No. Of course not.” Right. Like she trusted the word of a man who’d threatened to kill a child in front of his mother. “May I please see her?”

“I think not. Not until I’ve received some cooperation for my efforts.”

“I don’t understand.” Cassie shifted her weight as her legs began to come alive with pain. Her ankles were still bound so she had no choice but to sit like a child, legs curled up to one side or the other.

“Rosa never told you about the treasure she stole?”

“No. She never talked about her past.”

He made a skeptical noise. “What about that
gaje
she married? Padraic Hart. What did he tell you?”

“He used to tell me stories about the people they helped escape from the Nazis, about some of the things they did during the war. Nothing about any treasure.”