Page 55

He also quickly noted that the driver, in her late twenties, was stunning.

She had a rich chestnut tan, and her short blond hair had been pulled back into a tight ponytail that bounced with the vehicle. She wore what appeared to be a nautical-themed uniform that consisted of tight navy shorts and a sheer white short-sleeved captain’s shirt (each epaulet had gold stars pinned to it) that fit very snugly over her ample bosom. Badde looked—and looked—but could not see any suggestion of a suntan line.

She hopped out and waved as she walked toward them.

“Welcome to paradise!” she said. “Mr. Santos has been expecting you. I’m to take you to Queens Club.”

Jan Harper had somewhat expected to hear an English accent. She knew the Caymans were, after all, a British territory, and the woman looked as if she’d be equally at home in, say, London’s trendy Notting Hill. What came out of the woman’s mouth, however, made Jan think she sounded Russian.

At least, she’s Eastern European something.

But she could pass, on looks alone if she kept her mouth shut, for a Main Line wife at the Merion Golf Club.

Or one at Rittenhouse Square.

I guess that’s why she does look so familiar.

Jan studied her.

Wait. That’s it—the bar in Vista Fiume!

But you’d think I would’ve remembered that accent, especially because of Yuri.

The new five-star “River View” took up half of the entire thirty-seventh floor of Two Liberty Place, the city’s third tallest tower that was midway—a few blocks—between Rittenhouse Square and City Hall. The fashionable restaurant and its enormous lounge featured panoramic views of the city and its iconic rivers, the Schuylkill and Delaware. It, and its moneyed international clientele, had set the new standard for late nightlife in Philly.

Janelle knew it was owned by a company controlled by the international investor Yuri Tikhonov, in large part because he also held, through shell companies, forty-nine percent of Diamond Development, which was in partnership with the Philadelphia Economic Gentrification Initiative.

Tikhonov—a wealthy forty-eight-year-old Russian rumored to have high connections in Moscow from his time in the intelligence agency Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—had struck fear in Badde in early November at Vista Fiume when he very quietly announced, stone-faced, that “friends” had taken care of three people who were holding up the final demolition for their PEGI-sponsored project.

Badde, incredulous, asked how. Tikhonov, his tone matter-of-fact, replied that it had been done by injecting them with succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant with a short half-life that could stop the heart and become undetectable after an hour.

Badde, not knowing what to believe at the time, now knew one thing for certain about the dead men—the cause of their deaths, from the start listed as “unknown,” remained unsolved.

And that—having initially wondered why Tikhonov would share such a damning admission—in turn had caused Badde, with bile suddenly rising in his throat, to decide that the Russian’s purpose had been coldly calculated.

Tikhonov was quietly suggesting that such “friends” could visit Badde, and anyone else, if they displeased the former spy. And, as with the three holdouts, there would never be any way to link Tikhonov to the act.

“I think we’ve met?” Jan asked, but she made it sound more of a statement.

“Yes, of course. I’m Illana,” she said, offering her hand. “A month or so ago? At Vista Fiume. It’s nice to see both of you again.”

“Well,” Jan said, shaking her hand, “I should say it’s a small world. But I guess it’s really not in certain circles.”

Illana smiled. “I recognized you, too.”

Jan glanced at the Jeep, and Illana followed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Jan said, looking back at Illana, “but I forgot what you told us it is that you do.”

“Of course,” Illana said. “I am what I like to call a hospitality ambassador. Our company provides consulting services and more to world-class properties.” She glanced at the Jeep, then added, “There’s usually a driver, but Mr. Santos asked that I personally meet your flight.”

“Properties like Vista Fiume?” Jan said, somewhat suspiciously.

“Yes,” Illana said, not showing that she had picked up on the inflection. “And also to Yellowrose resorts, such as Queens Club, and various other fine properties.” She turned to Rapp Badde. “I understand from Mr. Santos that we will soon provide the same to new properties in your Philadelphia.”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” Badde said, nodding. He looked at Jan, and added, “That’s what I was telling you we worked out when I met Santos in Dallas.”

Jan looked at him, raised her eyebrows, then turned to Illana.