Page 123

“You can come up for air, Skip. Just keep your head down.”

I emerge cautiously to find Dimitry grinning as he holds up an old analog-style phone. “Paid the fuel guy ten times its worth so I could keep its SIM card. I’m going to call Luke while we’ve got reception and no company.”

He hits the number as we idle down the river. “Luke.” He speaks in a low tone, eyes still roaming our surroundings, but there’s a soft mist rising from the water and nobody about. “Good,” Dimitry says in response to something Luke has said. He listens for another minute. “Copy that. No, tell him not to go to the dock. We’ll ditch the boat and meet him on the road. Don’t use this number again, I’m throwing the phone.”

They exchange a few more words, then Dimitry ends the call. He pulls the phone apart, breaks the SIM, and throws the pieces in the water. “Leon is in Bangkok. He’ll get a car and meet us on a road about ten clicks upriver.”

“Already?” This is moving fast.

I know it needs to.

It scares the hell out of me.

“Stay down, Skip.” Dimitry smiles at me. “It’s not for much longer, I promise.”

It’smidmorning when we nudge the boat into a muddy bank. Dimitry pulls it into the mangroves, concealing it from view, and we take our bag and walk through a tall stand of bamboo to a quiet dirt track. Steep limestone peaks soar in the middle distance, beyond the sound of a main road nearby. We remain behind the tree line as bicyclists and pedestrians pass us on their daily tasks. It seems odd that we can be hiding among trees, watching for people who want to kill us, while local Thai people are concerned with hauling their produce home from the market.

Sometimes I think it’s always going to be like this. Me hiding, while other people live their normal lives.

Yeah, don’t start, Abby.My cynical inner voice gives me a good kick up the backside.You tried normal, remember? Didn’t work so well, did it?

I fight a sudden urge to giggle. Dimitry glances at me quizzically, which makes me want to laugh even more.

He lifts a shoulder in question, and I actually turn red in the effort not to laugh. He frowns, nodding toward the passersby, but that just makes me snort, which in turn makes his grin widen until he, too, is fighting back the urge to laugh, even though he has no idea why. I start shaking, the suppressed laughter making my eyes water, and Dimitry coughs in his effort to suppress his own.

Thankfully, that’s when a dusty black SUV makes its way down the track toward us.

Dimitry pulls open the doors for us to climb inside, and that’s how we meet Leon Volkov: both of us erupting into a burst of uncontrollable hilarity so raucous that it leaves him staring at us both in amused bewilderment.

“For two people on the run for their lives,” he says dryly as we wipe our eyes, “you two seem awfully happy.”

I lie downin the back seat as Leon navigates a series of trails until we hit the bitumen. He and Dimitry seem remarkably at ease with one another, given that Dimitry told me they’ve only met once. Leon looks nothing like the small, effete art dealer in a suit I pictured. He’s as tall as Dimitry, with piercing slate eyes, cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and the rugged musculature of someone who spends more time in the woods than an art gallery. Dressed casually in an open-necked cotton shirt, khaki shorts, and boat shoes, he looks remarkably at home here.

“I’ve spend a bit of time in Thailand,” he answers my unspoken question, glancing around to smile at me in my prone position. “A lot of interesting Asian art passes through Sotheby’s Bangkok auction house. Then there are the other, more private auctions.” He gives me a wink. “Those are where the really interesting pieces are found.”

I’m starting to see why Dimitry chose Leon Volkov to call.

“We’re heading to a private villa owned by a friend of mine.” Volkov turns off the highway onto a steep, winding road that leads up one of the limestone escarpments. “I commissioned the art for her London club. Zinaida is extremely discreet,” he says when Dimitry frowns. “And very fond of her privacy. Her villa has excellent security.”

“Zinaida?” Dimitry turns in his seat, staring curiously at him. “As in ZinaidaMelikov?”

“You know her?” Leon gives him a surprised glance.

“You could say that.” Dimitry gives a snort, which he turns diplomatically into a cough. “Not me,” he says hastily when Leon raises his eyebrows. “A—friend of mine knows her very well.”

Verywell?

It takes me a moment to place who he’s talking about.Then I remember back to Roman and Darya’s wedding, and it clicks into place.

“The psychopath?” The words are out of my mouth before I think them through.

Dimitry snorts again, and even Leon looks amused.

“Zinaida does have something of a reputation,” he says, “it’s true. But she’s also an extremely loyal friend.” The quiet rebuke in his words chastens me immediately.

“I’m sorry.” I smile at him when he glances around again. “I’ve only met her once, briefly. She seemed very... interesting.”

That much is true, at least. I met Zinaida Melikov at Roman and Darya’s wedding for an entire five minutes. For quite a tiny woman, she made one hell of an impression. On every man present, at least. Her red silk sheath dress had been split all the way up one thigh to her groin. She had the kind of unsmiling, arctic beauty that could stop traffic, but spent most of the wedding hidden beneath an enormous hat and equally huge dark glasses. When I asked Dimitry who she was, he snorted and muttered something about her beinga psychopath even Roman doesn’t cross.Darya, however, seemed to quite like her. And she left an extremely generous gift—a Ming vase, from memory, which suddenly makes a lot of sense.