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TWENTY-EIGHT

Urakov

Paul

My foster father, Merlin, shares many things with his namesake.

Saint Anthony, Patron Saint of Lost Things, was born and raised by a wealthy family and held an undying devotion to those less fortunate than himself. This was especially true for those who had their lives torn asunder—losing not only priceless relics to the plunder of Nazi Germany but also, in some cases, wiping out entire family lines.

Merlin restores what he can and passes his core values on to the orphans he rescues and raises as his own—two adopted sons and an only daughter.

It’s a shame how far Nicholas and Catherine wandered astray of Merlin’s teachings, not that I’ve done much better. Without Merlin’s constant prodding, I wouldn’t be involved in his quest to restore what was taken.

I’m perfectly content to pour myself onto the canvas.

The muse for my next piece is but a breath away, making me desperate to immortalize her beauty in my oils.

While restitution drives Merlin forward, I have other concerns on my mind. Nicholas, the elder son, has resurfaced, and I don’t like what that implies.

A fierce intelligence makes Nicholas a dangerous opponent because the attack on Vivianne was poorly orchestrated. Nicholas is sending a message showing me what he can take.

“I’ll be down presently,” I call out to my father. “Vivianne, I have an important guest arriving for a business meeting. Would you mind remaining in your room until it’s over? Afterward, I’d love to give you a tour of the chateau.”

“Of course. I’ll wait here.”

With a grateful smile, I close her door and head downstairs to meet Urakov.

The urgent message from Urakov Tarasovich demanding a meeting has me on edge. Like me, Urakov straddles the line between legitimacy and the underbelly of the criminal world. He is well-connected with the criminal element and is a high-ranking member of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation. The FSB replaced the KGB and has only grown darker and more lethal since the fall of its predecessor.

What Urakov wants could be any number of different things—none good. Our meet-and-greet could involve brokering a deal with Urakov’s underworld clients or investigating a matter pertinent to the FSB.

Either way, it spells bad news.

Rumor has it that Urakov began his climb up the ranks of the FSB due to his connections with the mob, which started in his youth when he was a street fighter. With a stocky build, the top of his head barely meets my chin, but the man makes up for his lack of stature with the thick muscles girding his frame. His crooked nose and the scars on his face lend credence to that rumor.

We spend the first hour discussing sports, politics, and cars. Merlin watches from the sidelines while Urakov rambles on about the weather. Once the civility of socialization is established, Urakov switches the conversation to business by speaking Russian.

“Is your butler discreet?” Urakov asks in Russian, eyeing Merlin.

“Absolutely. He doesn’t speak Russian, and I trust him with my life.”

Urakov nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. Let’s get down to business then.”

Merlin moves silently around the room, refilling our glasses as needed, ever the perfect butler.

“What can I do for you?” I wait to see what has brought this man into my home.

“You will provide me with an invitation to the auction at Lac Léman,” Urakov pronounces as if he fully expects me to give in to the preposterous request.

“I’m surprised a man with your connections would need my help.”

Urakov slides to the edge of his chair, places his elbows on his knees, and tents his fingers beneath his chin.

“I couldn’t care less about fancy paintings.”

I sit back, intrigued but not willing to make Urakov’s request easy. “I don’t see what I can offer.”

“Access.”

I shake my head—not to be difficult, but it’s essential in dealing with Urakov to meet strength with strength.

“A man with your credentials should have no difficulty obtaining an invitation.”

“We’re familiar with your unique standing with the house.”

I broker deals for the auction house, both legitimate sales and those behind closed doors.

“My standing?”

Urakov cocks his head. “Let’s just say, a little birdie whispered in our ear.” His expression turns arctic.

Little birdy?

Those are ominous words.

Hiding my reaction takes every ounce of self-control I’ve mastered over the years.

“And what did this birdie say?” I keep my voice level, betraying nothing.

Urakov shifts in his seat. “That it wouldn’t take much to trap a certain starling in its cage.”

Air snags in my chest, a sharp confirmation of what I’d suspected. “You’re threatening me?”

“I’m stating information that has recently come to the attention of the FSB.”

“I respond poorly to threats.”

It’s bad enough that Larson and his team strong-armed me into working for them, but now, the Russians? Interpol has nothing to make an arrest, but this isn’t my first conversation about this. Over the years, I might have been bound to slip up. Dots have been connected.

“I wouldn’t insult you by being so crass.” Urakov reclines back in his chair. “Let’s leave it at this. We are interested in a transaction, something we’re keen on returning to Mother Russia. What we’re not interested in is a spectacle.”

“A spectacle?”

“Quiet would be best.”

“I’m listening.”

Urakov’s telegraphic sentences put me on edge. I roll my hand over the armrest of the chair and open my palm, encouraging Urakov to continue.

“We believe an exchange will occur at the auction,” Urakov continues.

“Since when has the FSB been interested in the sale of art, legal or otherwise?”

“It’s not the art we’re following.”

“If you want my help, you need to be more specific.”

“We can make your life quite complicated, Monsieur de Gaulle. I suggest you comply.”

Tapping the edge of the chair, I take a moment before replying. “Who you think I am is quite irrelevant. Your threat is empty.”

“You’re working for Interpol…”

“I’ve worked with many government agencies over the years, but I do not work for any of them.”

“Touché,” Urakov says. “Let me rephrase. Interpol’s particular interests and ours are aligned for the moment. They’re tracking a particular painting slated for sale tomorrow. We’re interested in that transaction.”

“What interest does the FSB have in a painting?” I struggle to fit the pieces together.

What was stolen that would rile up the FSB?

They have little interest in art. This involves something bigger. The FSB is involved in counterintelligence, border security, surveillance, and counterterrorism.

It has to touch on one of those.

Most transactions brokered at the auction house are little more than elaborate vehicles to launder vast quantities of cash. Security around the event is nearly impenetrable with an extensive vetting process.

I can make Urakov’s request happen, but it will cost me. So far, I’m not convinced—unless…

My gut clenches when the pieces finally fall into place.

Counterterrorism is the only thing that makes sense.

Interpol wants to find the buyers of Dr. Gachet , and the FSB is interested in purchasing it to keep it out of the buyer’s hands.

The painting is a token.

But for what?

Counterterrorism? It has to be a weapon or something used to make a weapon. And Nicholas’s fingerprints are strewed all over the whole mess.

Nicholas, what the hell are you involved in?

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Urakov insists.

“Then, I’m not at liberty to help.”

Urakov’s lids narrow. The blackness of his pupils stares out of tiny slits. “All it would take is the wrong word slipped into the right conversation to ruin what you have built.”

Merlin keeps to the edge of the room. Silent as a statue, he plays his role as the invisible servant to perfection, except for the furious twitching of his brows. Thankfully, he took up position behind our guest.

One look at the fury clouding Merlin’s face, and Urakov might discover an even greater secret.

I laugh, loud and unrestrained, and the sound ricochets off the walls.

Urakov’s eyes widen and bulge like I’ve crossed some invisible line. His face twists, a mixture of shock and simmering rage. He jabs a finger in my direction.

“I’m serious.” His voice snaps like a live wire, but I can’t stop the grin curling at the corners of my mouth.

“No doubt, you are.”

“What’s so funny?”

The confused expression on Urakov’s face gives me pause. It isn’t wise to push my luck, but Urakov needs to understand a few things. I lean forward, mimicking Urakov’s pose a few minutes before. Elbows to knees, fingers tented under my chin, I clarify a few things.

“I’ve had this same discussion with my Interpol friends. They tried to intimidate me with secrets they thought they had. Like them, you have speculation but no proof. Rumors will only enhance this presumed reputation, while threats will result in consequences you’re unprepared to face. I’ve reached an understanding with my Interpol friends. I assist them when it’s mutually beneficial, and they leave me alone so that I might leverage my skills.”

“You dare,” Urakov sputters.

“You have come into my home. Insulted and threatened me. You’re welcome to leave, but I sense you need me, but the same is not true. You have nothing of value to offer in exchange.”

Urakov’s mouth twists, but he gives the slightest nod. “Compound 19…Are you familiar with it?”

“No.” I shake my head.

Urakov shifts in his seat. “It’s a military bioweapons facility. No longer active, but that’s irrelevant.”

“Bioweapons?”

“Yes. Have you heard of the tragedy in Yekaterinburg in April 1979?”

Another shake of my head.

“Workers in the factory forgot to replace a filter in an exhaust system, triggering the release of weaponized anthrax. It was a windy day, the spores spread, and people died. Lots of people.”

“What are you saying?”

“My country’s anthrax stockpiles were officially destroyed in the early 1990s, inactivated by bleach, and then buried in the Aral Sea.”

“Except not all the stockpiles were destroyed?” I’m finally getting a picture of what he wants.

“Correct.”

“Let me guess; your government recently misplaced some of its remaining stores?”

“Taken by someone whose skills rival your own.”

Nicholas.

The realization slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs like I’ve been hit by a sledgehammer. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can’t even draw in air.

“If you’re implying I’m a thief…”

Dear Lord, is this what you’ve gotten yourself into, brother?

“Forgive me then,” Urakov says, bending slightly at the waist in his seat. It’s a sign of respect—barely. “I’m only suggesting there are few in the world with the skills required. And we’ve been made aware of certain chatter surrounding the theft of a…” His gaze darts around the room as if checking for eavesdroppers.

“Of what?” I prod, although I can guess the answer.

“That item is up for auction.”

“By whom?” I checked the records, but the seller’s identity was sealed, which isn’t uncommon at this event. Despite my connections, even I can’t break through that layer of encryption.

“Unclear, but let’s say we’re anxious to regain control of the stolen anthrax. Genetic testing will reveal the spores to be from the strain used at Compound 19. Russia is not interested in the attention that would draw on the international scene.”

He only cares about how Mother Russia will be perceived, not about those who might die if that weapon were ever released. I grit my teeth. That isn’t something I can change, but I still have questions.

“Why aren’t you working with Interpol?”

Urakov arches a brow.

Okay, that was a foolish question.

The FSB doesn’t work with others, but Interpol’s interest in the transaction surrounding Dr. Gachet makes much more sense. They never expressed a desire to return the painting to the Musée d’Orsay because they’re working on uncovering a terrorist cell and preventing the release of a bioweapon.

Is Nicholas involved in both thefts?

It makes sense.

Steal the painting.

Move the anthrax.

Use the painting to move the anthrax. It’s brilliant, actually. The painting is the perfect mule.

I run a hand through my hair to hide fine tremors. This project has taken a turn for the worse.

What is Nicholas’s end game?

Urakov has been tasked with recovering a bioweapon. It would be unwise to stand in his way or allow the anthrax to make it into the buyer’s hands.

I can’t refuse.

“I will secure you an invitation,” I concede. “However, no one may know of this discussion. I’ll support you as a broker. I can request you as a last-minute addition. Do you have anything to sell?”

Merlin silently refills our glasses, his movements precise and unobtrusive.

“I do,” Urakov says. “We anticipated the need.” He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. A hen of gold holds a sapphire egg loosely in her beak. Hundreds of rose-cut diamonds stud the figurine and the basket.

I give a low whistle. “Is that…”

“ The Hen with Sapphire Pendant ,” Urakov proclaims.

“You want to put that up for auction?” It’s one of the seven lost Imperial Fabergé eggs. “It’s priceless.”

“I’ll have a man there to bid on it. Mother Russia will not lose her treasure.”

I shake my head. “You don’t understand. You may bring who you please to the main auction, but for the private event, I’ll only be able to secure you an invite—and only if you have something worthy to sell.” I point to the screen of Urakov’s cell phone. “Many pieces move through this auction, but priceless objects like that? That’s beyond the scale of this event.”

Urakov twists his lips. “Hmm,” he says, scratching his head.

“You need to find something else, and it needs to be delivered as soon as possible.”

“A minute, please,” Urakov says. He stares at his screen momentarily and then shoots off a text. A rapid-fire text conversation follows.

Merlin attends to our drinks, refilling them with practiced efficiency.

A few moments later, Urakov holds out his phone. “What about this?”

I lean in to look, my eyes widening. “Is that?—”

“Vermeer’s The Concert ,” Urakov confirms.

I struggle to keep my composure. Merlin has been searching for this piece for decades. “That would certainly suffice.”

Urakov tosses back his drink. His cheeks take on a rosy glow. I rise from my chair and stretch out my hand.

“Do we have a deal?”

“I believe we do.”

As Urakov leaves, I can’t help but feel the weight of what’s to come. The stakes have risen dramatically, and I fear I’ve just stepped into something far more dangerous than I’d anticipated.