Page 26 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

Rhodes

The driver stops to let me out at Boris Nemtsov Plaza.

It’s a beautiful summer day in D.C. and a group of tourists, led by a woman with silver spectacles and a European accent, stop along the wall of the Russian Embassy.

A car horn honks farther down the street, and I nod at the automobile with a lit Lyft sign perched in the window before jaywalking in front of his stopped car.

I scan the sidewalk, aware that surveillance cameras are capturing every passerby.

When Ms. Victoria Romanovich suggested meeting outside the Russian Embassy, I considered declining.

But, the reality is, a meeting with a Russian diplomat will be widely observed and noted.

Some might argue it’s publicity for ARGUS.

Now, if we met inside the embassy, rumors would spread about who I met with and questions might be asked regarding the secrecy.

This way, it’s out in the open. There are no laws against meetings.

A woman in a light gray suit with shoulder length black hair approaches. Her gaze travels from me, along the street, to the sedan I climbed out of that is now driving away.

“Mr. MacMillan,” she says, her smile formal, eyes hidden behind a pair of black framed sunglasses.

“Ms. Romanovich,” I answer, returning her firm grip as we shake hands.

“It’s such a nice day. Thank you for agreeing to meet outside. Are you up for a walk?”

“How’s my hair? Has the wind ruffled it too much?” I point in the general direction of my head, waiting for her to get the joke.

She stills, and I zero in on her thickly applied red lipstick and matching nails.

There’s no reaction. She doesn’t get it.

“You have a photographer somewhere out here, right? I want to be certain I look my best.”

With that, she smiles, revealing a touch of red lipstick on her front tooth.

“Shall we?” she says, gesturing for us to walk away from the embassy.

I let my hands fall to my side and fall in line beside her.

“We might be photographed, but not by our photographers. That’s not why I asked you to meet outdoors.”

“No?” It doesn’t matter what she says. I’ll never trust the Russians. Doesn’t mean I won’t do business with them—with eyes wide open.

“The Forbes Intelligence System.”

Her heels rap a steady stream of clicks on the concrete sidewalk. I expect her to expand, but we arrive at the intersection in silence.

“Is there more to that? Did I miss something?”

“There are interested parties.”

Yes, there are. She’s right. It’s been on and off the metaphorical auction block for years.

“And?”

“Are you bidding?”

Miles wishes to explore an acquisition. It might be something we need to buy through a separate entity to avoid congressional interest.

The pedestrian light flicks white and the two of us proceed.

“I think you should,” she says.

“Why?”

“Would you prefer for it to go to Moscow or Beijing?”

“Excuse me, Ms. Romanovich, but are you not Moscow?”

“We would buy before we allowed adversaries to purchase, but you are our partner.”

Technically, they are a client. But if a client prefers the word partner, I don’t get lost in semantics.

“I’m looking into it,” I say on an inhale.

“We want you to do more than look into it.”

We stop on a section of sidewalk situated between a busy street and shrubbery.

“Let me explain,” she answers in crisp, textbook English with a distinct Russian accent. “If we were to purchase, there would be opposition.”

That’s an accurate assessment. It would be easier to list the countries that would support the purchase than to list those that would oppose.

I can’t see her eyes behind those oversized sunglasses, but I sense she’s staring at me, waiting for a response.

“I’ve been looking into it. It’s not clear cut. We do not wish to invite an investigation.”

More than that, I haven’t determined we need to acquire the database.

We have a wealth of data. The beauty of our system is the ability to cull massive amounts of data into useful information.

While acquiring the Forbes Intelligence System is tempting, I get nervous at the responsibilities that would result in strengthening ARGUS capabilities with such an acquisition.

“We want you to find a way.”

“Thank you for sharing your position.”

We’re approaching Embassy Row, and up ahead I spot my security detail. Brandon, my head of security, insisted his on-call staff, men who work as needed for those visiting D.C., cover my visit.

It’s overkill, but I trust Brandon. Plus, what’s the point of hiring an expert if you’re not going to heed their recommendations?

“I’m afraid you might not understand,” she says.

“What’s that?” I check my watch. I’ve got about twenty minutes before I’m due to meet Evie.

“If you don’t buy it, there are parties that will be forced to expose an unsanctioned deal.”

Saudi Arabia.

Goddamn it.

Those greedy fuckers probably hand-delivered evidence to Russia.

“We trust you will choose wisely. It would not be wise to lose the trust you’ve built with your clients.”

And look at that. Now she’s chosen the correct term.

Click. Click. Click.

The rapid fire of her heels proceeds down the sidewalk in the direction of her embassy. Walk and meeting concluded.

Fuck. This is all Miles’ fault. He wanted the Saudi deal to help fund our expansion. Growth. Profit. I told him it was a bad idea. He argued sanctions would be lifted, and they have been, but it doesn’t change the fact they were in place when the deal closed.

The security detail approaches at a fast pace. I glance behind me, halfway expecting to find someone charging.

The detail reaches me and says, “Mr. MacMillan, your car will be here in two.”

“Thank you.”

“Sir, I have an update.”

Excellent . “Let me have it.”

“The FBI approached Ms. Sydney Parker at the hotel.”

“What?”

I spin so I can see his lips when he speaks.

“Yes, sir. We don’t have audio. But she’s with him now.”

“In our suite?”

“No, sir. In the bar.”

“Did it look like they know each other?” She is former CIA and lives in the D.C. area. It’s possible this is nothing. They could be acquaintances.

“He flashed his badge, so I don’t believe so, sir.”

Has an investigation been authorized? Would the FBI approach her simply because she showed up at a hotel with me?

“You’ve got eyes on her?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fuck .

“At the Round Robin bar?” The hotel bar at the Willard, nicknamed the Oval Office of Bars by Condé Nast, is an iconic Washington location. It’s not surprising Sydney would check it out, but one isn’t generally approached by the FBI when enjoying an afternoon mint julep.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll move my meeting.” Evie might not want a run-in with the FBI. “Tell your guys not to let Sydney out of their sight. If you can overhear anything…”

“Yes, sir.”