Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (11 page)

Mercy frowned. “But wouldn’t such items be questioned by U.S. Customs?”

“
Oui
. Many tourists do bring home souvenirs. She might have tried to pass them off as such.”

Ludicrous, Mercy thought. Her mother rarely picked up more than a single hand-made craft item to bring home, often as a gift to Mercy or a close friend. Nevertheless, she asked, “How do you know that’s not what they were—innocent souvenirs?” Mercy heard the tremor in her own voice despite her resolve to remain calm. “How can a few random items possibly link her to a Russian gang?”

DuBois shot a glance toward Geddes, who gave a subtle head nod of consent. “We tested the items, for radiation.” He paused, as if to make sure he had her full attention. “We believe they are Chernobyl artifacts.”

Mercy drew a short, quick breath. “That makes no sense at all. How did those things get into her Kiev hotel room if she was kidnapped in Pripyat?”

DuBois performed a classic Gallic shrug that said―
It matters not.
“For all we know, a Tambov agent delivered the items to her at her room, in preparation for her return to America. The facts are these: A treasure trove of valuable items was abandoned during the evacuation of the towns surrounding the reactors. These included gold coins, stocks, money and jewelry being held in safe deposit boxes and the vaults of two banks. Many scientists and government officials lived there, and they lived well. But there is no good way to decontaminate such items, so they were left behind. Forgotten for decades. Then someone must have realized the potential of cashing in on all of this abandoned wealth.”

“Good Lord.” Mercy breathed.

DuBois continued. “We believed that Talia O’Brien, already a Tambov courier, realized that she might increase her profit by collecting more items to take home and sell for herself. Thereby cutting the Tambovs out of money they believed should be theirs.” His eyes darkened, focusing on Mercy. “These are men who do not react well to being cheated.”

Mercy shook her head violently. “This is all conjecture on your part. Purely circumstantial and totally unlike anything my mother would ever do.”

“There’s more, I’m afraid.” A corner of the agent’s thin lips lifted, as if he’d found something amusing in what she’d said. She ached to punch him in the face. Bull would have before now. “A conversation was taped between your mother and a Russian national, discussing—and these were their precise words—‘the radioactive contraband.’”

Mercy’s heart bumped in her chest. Her mouth went stone dry. Clearly, someone was lying. Or her mother had been framed and the person responsible had been clever enough to convince everyone of her guilt.

“A conversation isn’t the same thing as an act,” Mercy protested. “She didn’t do anything illegal.” Geddes opened his mouth to speak. Mercy cut him off. “My mother isn’t
stupid
. She would have known she was risking her own life by handling objects exposed to radioisotopes.”

“Brief exposure wouldn’t necessarily hurt her,” DuBois stated. “But someone who bought an item then lived in close proximity to it for months or even years—” another of his indifferent shrugs “—that could prove fatal. The Russians realize this. The KGB was known for using radiation poisoning on members of their own government whom they wished to eliminate.”

Mercy glared at him. “And this is the information you thought would make me feel better?”
Heartless prick!

He lifted a shoulder in casual acknowledgement. “We’ve since changed our assessment of the situation.”

Mercy held her breath. She had the distinct impression the man was enjoying the emotional rollercoaster ride he was putting her through. She spoke as best she could between clenched teeth. “Go on.”

“Interpol has tracked down several of the tourists from the Kiev-to-Pripyat bus excursion. They all remember the photographer, Talia O’Brien. Several saw her wander away from the main group, taking pictures.”

“Photos of the abandoned city but also of the Number-Four reactor in its cement sarcophagus,” Geddes said.

Mercy had read about this. In the days following the explosion, the government decided to “control” the spume of radioactive steam and debris by dumping tons of sand and chemicals on the reactor from the air. Then they buried it all under concrete. Unfortunately, they’d waited days before acting. The delay cost many lives. If the fissures in the wavy, gray cement, shown in the photograph that Mercy had received earlier, were any indication, Mercy guessed that the sarcophagus was degrading and had begun leaching radioactive water and sediment into the soil in and around Pripyat. Which meant that everything in the area was being newly contaminated.

“The photo you received weeks ago was most likely taken the day Ms. O’Brien arrived in Kiev. We know that she hired a car and driver at the hotel,” DuBois said. “We were lucky enough to get to her room before the Tambovs. We found her laptop. It contained files of digital photographs. There is a one-hour photo service a few blocks from the hotel. One of the clerks remembered her. She could have simply kept the digital images stored in her cameras and computer, or emailed them immediately to her publisher. But for some reason she had copies printed of a few images.”

All Mercy could think was that her mother must have been taking extra precautions for a reason only she knew. Because she was afraid of her messages being intercepted, even if she encrypted them? “Did others on the bus see my mother on the return trip after the tour?” Mercy held her breath.

“
Rien du tout
. Nothing.” DuBois flipped a hand, the gesture of a magician. “‘The American photographer, she disappeared,’ or so they all said. She never returned to the bus; they drove back to Kiev without her. They never saw her again.”

Mercy’s head moved from side to side to side, an involuntary motion of denial.
No…no…no!
“Surely someone would have been concerned and spoken up, asked where she was.”

The Interpol agent’s eyes remained unreadable. “Apparently, the guide announced to the group that Ms. O’Brien had found another way back to the city.”

Mercy shut her eyes and swallowed over a lump the size of her fist. What in God’s name had her mother seen or photographed in Pripyat that sealed her fate? And what was she doing hoarding contraband in her hotel room? If indeed she was the one who had put it there.

Margaret Storey jumped in. “If thugs working for the Tambovs took Talia off the tour, what happened to her? If she was working for them, she surely would have shown up unharmed by now. Isn’t that alone proof of her being an innocent party to this smuggling ring?” She looked at each of the two men across the table from Mercy but got no response. “And if she fell out of grace with them, why wouldn’t they have simply—” She stopped short, glancing at Mercy then away.

Her meaning was clear. It sliced through Mercy to her core. “Exactly,” she whispered. “Why wouldn’t they have killed my mother, then and there?”

“Maybe she somehow gave them the slip?” Geddes suggested.

“It seems likely. We know the Tambovs are still hunting for her,” DuBois admitted. “All we can be relatively clear on is that they didn’t kill her and they don’t have her.”

“But they obviously want her,” Geddes said.

“So this means you were wrong.” Mercy felt a sudden lightness lift her body in the chair.
Oh, God, please let it be so.
“She was never cooperating with the Russian mafia.”

“No.” DuBois shook his head, the clear lenses over his eyes catching the room’s lights, making it impossible to interpret his expression. “This only means she did something that infuriated them. She might have been working for them but then tried to walk away. You don’t just quit a crime syndicate like Tambov.”

Which was a lesson she’d learned during her time in Mexico. She’d seen what the gangs there did to those who turned their backs on them. The torture was horrendous. Their victims must have begged for a quick death.

“So who has her now?” This was the question she’d been wrestling with for weeks, assuming her mother was alive. If Talia had once been on the run, she would have by now shown up at a U.S. embassy and received help. She would be home.

“We don’t have an answer for that yet,” DuBois admitted, the muscles in his face pinched, as if the inability to resolve any problem irked him. “Our contacts in Ukraine are not—” he hesitated, searching for the right words “—
digne de confiance.
Not reliable.”

Geddes added, “One of our contacts in Kiev has questioned locals in Chernobyl and Pripyat. But whether or not the information we’ve reaped from these sources can be trusted, we just don’t know yet.”

“People live in those towns?” Mercy stared at the man in disbelief as he nodded at her. “But they were evacuated. Isn’t the area uninhabitable?”

“Technically, yes,” DuBois said. “There are no official residents. But some people have returned to the so-called Exclusion or Forbidden Zone without the government’s blessing.” He shifted in his seat and glanced at his watch—a pricey Patek Philippe, she noted—as if impatient to wrap things up.

Mercy closed her eyes and tried to settle her stomach, her breathing. When she opened her eyes, the room spun precariously, portraits on the wall a merry-go-round of grim faces. Her fingers locked around the wooden chair arms.
Oh God, Mom!
Dare she hope that Talia still lived? She needed to know more. Couldn’t let the French agent out of the room without learning all she could from him.

“Do you think someone might be holding her for ransom?” she persisted. “Or for political reasons?”

“Held by whom?” Margaret Storey spoke up.

Mercy sighed, shaking her head.

“
C’est possible
,” DuBois said.

“Except no one in her family, at her publisher’s offices, or within the U.S. government has been contacted with a list of political or ransom demands,” Geddes interjected. “Kidnappers usually communicate their wishes within days, if not hours, after acquiring a victim.”

Acquiring,
Mercy thought.
How unemotional
. Like adding a new stamp to one’s collection.

“The point is,” DuBois continued, “there’s been absolutely no communication.”

“Except for the photograph of a woman shackled to a cot that turned up weeks ago,” Agent Storey pointed out. “Mercy turned a copy of that over to the State Department.”

“Yes, there’s that,” DuBois agreed blandly, as if he saw such horrifying photographs daily and had grown bored with them. “But we’ve been unable to track the source or even ascertain whether it is in fact Ms. O’Brien.”

Mercy swallowed with effort. “So the sum of your so-called good news is that you’ve decided my mother is innocent, and may or may not be dead?”

“We’ll go as far as saying that we’re no longer convinced of her absolute guilt,” DuBois responded. “It’s possible she was coerced, or entirely uninvolved. We just don’t know yet.”

“Big of you,” Mercy grumbled, making sure he heard her.

“This should give you hope, Ms. O’Brien,” said Geddes. “It means that now the authorities will address her case in an entirely different way. She’ll be seen as a victim rather than as a criminal.”

Mercy blew out a long breath. “Great. So now the State Department will lift the flag on my passport and help me get a visa so I can fly to Eastern Europe and look for my mother?”

Geddes winced and looked at the Interpol man.

“I’m afraid we can’t permit that,” DuBois said.

“What? Why?”

“Your interference in this matter might corrupt our investigation. We feel we’re being very generous, passing along this information through Red Sands. Much of what we’ve discussed today is still, technically, classified.”

Mercy glared him, feeling the blood drain from her face. “Frankly, Agent DuBois, if my going to Ukraine brings my mother home, your investigation be damned.”

The Interpol man made a huffing sound, halfway between a laugh and annoyance. “I’m sorry your family has become entangled in this difficult situation.” He turned his wooden face away from her, back to Geddes, then reached down and came up with a black leather briefcase before standing. “We’ll do all we can to help the U.S. State Department and Red Sands locate Talia O’Brien. If we find her, we’ll attempt to move her out of Ukraine and back to the States. Her involvement or innocence can be sorted out once she’s returned to her home country.”

“Excellent,” Geddes said, smiling as he stood up to shake the Frenchman’s hand.

Mercy shot to her feet before DuBois made it to the door. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a warning look from Margaret Storey, and ignored it. “If you don’t bring my mother back, I fucking will!”

The Interpol agent froze mid-stride, then slowly turned. He removed his eyeglasses and studied her for a long moment. His pale eyes shifted from bored to vaguely dangerous. “If you interfere with Interpol, madam, we will arrest you.” Although his words barely rose above a whisper, they had the chilling effect of a shouted threat. “But remember, we are not the enemy. If you meddle with Tambov business, getting arrested will be the very least of your worries.”