The Property of a Lady (70 page)

He turned to the others and said quietly, “The police have fished a man’s body from the water near Istinye. He was wearing a dark suit and all his personal effects—wallet, wristwatch, etcetera—had been removed before he was put into the water. But he has been positively identified from photographs as Major-General Boris Solovsky.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Herbert said into the silence.

“That’s probably who he thought he was,” Cal commented gloomily, “or some sort of self-made god.”

“You can only imagine the problem this presents for Turkey,” Guisen said angrily. “The head of the KGB murdered in Istanbul.”

“It seems to me,” Ahmet said quickly, “that the first problem is to find Anna. Someone killed Solovsky and helped her to escape. It must be someone she trusts.”

Cal’s eyes met his as the Mercedes swung into the courtyard of the Villa Kazahn.

Cal nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I know who she is with. Valentin Solovsky.”

Michael Kazahn scanned the group of men standing around drinking whiskey and filling his beautiful room with cigarette smoke, listening gloomily while Cal explained what had happened. He was sitting beside Refika on the long divan under the window, and she put her
hand over his as Cal told them they believed Anna—or Genie, as they all called her—was with Valentin Solovsky.

“Missie never told Genie the full story,” Cal said. “She never knew about the money in the Swiss banks. She didn’t even know about the jewels until Missie was forced to hand them over to her when she went into Fairlawns, and she
still
doesn’t know about the mines. Missie always downplayed the Russian background. She never showed her the old photos or talked about it much at all. She wanted it all forgotten so that when she died, the story—and the threat—would die with her. She was keeping her promise to Misha right to the end.

“Valentin is as dangerous as his uncle Boris,” he concluded quietly. “He is a career diplomat with his eyes on Russia’s highest position, and so far he has let nothing stand in his way. There is no reason to believe he will now. The last thing he can allow is for Genie to go on TV and tell the truth. He is looking to kill Anna Adair and he believes Genie will lead him to her. All we can do now is pray that in some misguided moment, believing he is her rescuer, she does not confess everything to him and tell him who she really is. Because there is only one ending to that scenario.”

“And what do you propose we do now?” Michael demanded, limping over to the police chief. “After you have bungled the raid on the ship and lost her? Are we supposed to wait around while your men get stuck in traffic again? Or do you have some master plan you haven’t told us?”

“It was not our fault.”
Keliç
blustered, red-faced. “Istanbul’s traffic is notorious. Even our own prime minister’s motorcade gets delayed….”

“Bah!” Michael limped back to Cal. He leaned heavily on his ebony cane, staring hard at him, assessing him. “You know her,” he said finally. “What do you think she is likely to do?”

Cal hesitated. He was thinking of Genie’s meeting with
Valentin in Geneva and her odd behavior afterward. He was finally forced to face the painful truth. “Valentin is a handsome, charming man,” he said quietly. “Genie is … attracted … to him and I believe he is to her, but that would not be enough to stop him killing her if he knew who she really was. I think all we can do now is wait and let the police try to trace them. And we must pray that she telephones you.”

Refika met her husband’s eyes across the room and she knew what he was thinking.
He was thinking of Tariq’s pledge of loyalty to the Ivanoffs—and that he had let his father down
.

Ferdie Arnhaldt’s face was a mask of fury as he slammed down the telephone in his room at the Yesil Ev Hotel. Genie Reese had escaped and the Turk had lost them in a traffic jam at the Galata Bridge. If he had the bastard here now, he would strangle him. He would enjoy watching his eyes pop out of his stupid, mercenary face….

He flung back the fringed velvet curtains with shaking hands and peered into the busy nighttime street. She could be anywhere out there, anywhere at all, with the man who had rescued her. “A young man,” the Turk had said, “foreign. Maybe American.”

He prowled the room, irritated by its smallness and the pretty Victorian decor. He needed the vastness of Haus Arnhaldt to contain his rages. He wanted to get out of there, to stalk the streets looking for his prey as he had Markheim and Abyss—but he had been stymied by the Turk’s incompetence.

The telephone jangled again and he leapt to pick it up.
“Ja?”
he said quickly.

“A limo arrived ten minutes ago at the Villa Kazahn,” the Turk said. “We have identified three of the men in it as Ahmet Kazahn, the Turkish foreign minister, and the American consul. The fourth is unknown but I’d guess he
was American too. He arrived at the airport by army helicopter. The chief of police got here five minutes later.”

“Watch the house,” Arnhaldt said icily, “and next time do not wait ten minutes to tell me. I want to know
immediately
they leave—and where they go. If you let me down again, you idiot, there will be no more money.”

He slammed down the phone, pacing the room again, trying to figure out who Genie was with if it wasn’t Boris Solovsky. After ten minutes he could stand it no longer. He left the hotel and walked quickly to his rented car parked a block away. He was taking no more chances with the Turk: He was going to watch the Kazahns himself.

Genie lay on the bed watching as Valentin took off his jacket, then washed his hands in the tiny washbasin in the corner of the room.

“‘Will these hands ne’er be clean, ’” she quoted softly.

He grimaced. “Lady Macbeth, washing off the blood after the murder.” Their eyes met and he added, “It’s not difficult to kill, Genie. I was trained for it. But it is not something I enjoy. With Boris Solovsky I had no choice. My father is a man of integrity and honor and Boris was out to ruin him and to glorify himself in Russia’s eyes. I love my country and all she stands for, but I also love my father.”

She made no reply, her eyes following him as he picked up his jacket, took the Uzi from the pocket, and placed it on the table. It gleamed under the light like a small, malevolent creature, and a shiver ran down her spine.

After flinging down his jacket, he sat next to her. “Do you feel better now?” he asked, putting his hand under her chin and tilting her face toward him. “Are you in pain still?”

He looked at her raw, bleeding ankles and swollen feet. “Poor Genie,” he murmured tenderly. “You just didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, did you?”

He went to the sink, filled a bowl with water, and, kneeling in front of her, began to bathe her wounds. “I must go to the pharmacy,” he said worriedly, “you need antiseptics and pain-killers.” He sat on the bed again and
put his arms around her. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone else,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “Nor I, Valentin. What would I have done without you?”

He was kissing her eyes, her ears, her hair, her mouth. She was filled with tenderness for him, he was her savior, her ally, her lover. It was so easy, so natural, so real that he should make love to her….

She had no idea how much time had passed when she awoke: an hour, two, maybe more. Valentin was sitting at the table cleaning the gun. The light shone on his blond hair and he looked like a beautiful child absorbed in a toy. A lethal toy.

He lifted his head and smiled. “You must be hungry.” He slotted the metal stock onto the Uzi and put it back on the table.

She shook her head. “I think I’m beyond hunger. I don’t remember when I last ate, maybe on the plane … I don’t even know how long ago that was.” She felt lightheaded, disoriented. “Valentin, what do we do next?”

He pulled over an upright wooden chair and sat in front of her, his eyes fixed on hers.

“This time I need
your
help, Genie,” he said quietly. “I have to find the ‘Lady’ before the KGB or the CIA.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “But I thought you knew.”

“You
are the only one who knows.”

It suddenly dawned on her.
Valentin did not know who she was. He still thought she was just Genie Reese, the hotheaded TV reporter who had gotten herself in too deep on the trail of a career coup
. Her heart sank and she said flatly, “Is that why you rescued me from Boris? So I would lead you to the ‘Lady’?”

“I admit it was one of the reasons,” he said carefully, “but you know it was not the only one.”

She looked at the gleaming gun, just lying there waiting for this man to turn it into an instrument of death, and
her mouth went dry with fear.
She suddenly knew beyond any doubt that when Valentin found out he would kill her
.

“Time has run out for me,” he was saying quietly. “Remember the saying, Genie, a life for a life? I saved yours—and now I’m asking you to save mine. I
must know.”

She closed her eyes, shutting out the evil shape of the gun, but it was still there under the blackness of her closed lids. “I … I don’t really know who she is,” she said quickly, “I … well, I was supposed to call a certain number when I got here. Someone who knows her….”

“Who?”
he demanded eagerly. He leaned closer, grasping her hands tightly.
“Who knows?”

She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye.
“Michael Kazahn,”
she said shakily.

He nodded. “That makes sense. The emerald was sold by one of the Kazahn companies. I investigated their background; the family is originally Russian and worked for the Ivanoffs.”

“They have been protecting her all these years,” she said, hurriedly embroidering her story. “Michael Kazahn contacted me because he thought things had gone too far. He wanted to put a stop to the international speculation. He said it was safer if her identity was known … before someone found her and—” She bit her lip, praying he would believe her. “She is at their villa.”

He lifted her hands to his lips. “Thank you, Genie.”

His eyes were full of tenderness and she thought he didn’t look like a murderer. He looked like Valentin, the man she loved … but in the back of her mind she could hear Cal Warrender telling her,
“Valentin is a Russian first, and a man second. Never forget that.”

She bowed her head, tears trickling down her cheeks, and he said, “I’m sorry, Genie, really I am.”

He rearranged her pillows and kissed her gently, then he walked to the table and picked up the Uzi. She stared at him, eyes dark with terror. She didn’t want to scream,
she didn’t even want to run. He was going to kill her, after all. It was inevitable.

Valentin folded the metal stock, fitted the compact little submachine gun into his pocket, and put on his jacket.

“Get some sleep,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” A smile lighted his handsome boyish face. “And then life can get back to normal.” He strode casually to the door as if he were going on a hunting trip. “Just you and me.”

The door closed behind him and she heard the key turn in the lock. Then she heard his footsteps disappearing along the corridor, and she turned her face into her pillow and sobbed. But she wasn’t crying in relief, she was crying because she was in love with a man who wanted to kill her.

After a while she sat up and mopped her eyes on the worn sheet. She got out of bed, walked to the window, and looked out. It was dawn. The black Ford Scorpio was gone and the hotel sign blinked above the empty street. Turning back into the room, she thought about Missie’s warnings and how, through not heeding them, she had brought about their destruction. Because she knew with a terrible certainty that once Valentin found out the truth he would kill Missie too. And she had to get out of there! She had to get help!

She remembered all the clever tricks with locks and credit cards she had heard about, but her purse had been lost when she was abducted. She had nothing, not even a hairpin. She prowled the room, searching for some kind of tool to open the door, and in a frenzy of despair she grabbed the handle, shaking it angrily, wailing like a madwoman. With a crack like a pistol shot the handle came off in her hand and the door suddenly sprang open.

For a moment she was too stunned to move. Then, pulling her wits together, she stepped cautiously into the corridor. It was as empty and silent as if she were the only guest. She ran to the stairs and stopped to listen. Everything
was quiet. She hurried down the first flight, listening for footsteps again before fleeing down the remaining stairs and letting herself out onto the street.

There was still no sign of the Scorpio and she breathed a small sigh of relief as she hobbled in the direction of the Hippodrome, keeping an eye open for a passing taxi. But the big square, usually packed with tourists, was deserted this early. She glanced around uncertainly at the shadows. She had no idea where the nearest police station might be and she thought wistfully of Cal, wishing he were there to help her. Why, oh, why had she not told him the truth earlier? She had always known she could trust him. She wondered whether if she was lucky enough to survive, Cal would ever trust
her
again. The only thing to do now was call Michael. Michael would come for her. Michael would save her.