Page 68 of Lethal Obsession

“Where did the trace on the van lead?”

“Into a labyrinth, so far. The team that had you under surveillance have vanished without a trace. Their van was found dumped in a field near Chartres, the electronic equipment inside it destroyed beyond salvation. We’re nowhere on this John Owens character either, so far.”

“Call Dima.” I give him the rundown on my encounter with Owens in the Miami airport, which I only briefly touched on prior to this. “Whoever Owens is working for is responsible for hiring these fuckers. We need to know who they are and what they want.” I pause, hesitating to say what I’m about to, then grit my teeth. “And call Mak. If anyone has the contacts to get to the bottom of this, that prick does.”

Mak is Makari Tereschenko, head of the world’s largest private army of mercenaries and intelligence operatives. He headed up the operation to rescue Ofelia and Masha from the Orlovs. Since then, we’ve worked together more than once, not least because Mak sits on the Mercura board and is one of Roman’s closest friends.

Hence my hesitation.

But Roman’s friend or not, Mak is the best at what he does.

“You want him briefed all the way?”

“Full access. Whatever he needs.”

“When it comes to that motherfucker,” Lars says cheerfully, “I don’t ask questions. Now. Until further notice, only contact me via coding on the encrypted laptop. Let me know if you need to talk urgently, and I’ll set up a safe line. Meanwhile, since you’re a man of leisure, you can make yourself fucking useful and look over the code for the Helsinki product.”

“No problem.” I do my best to sound casual, but I’d be lying if I said the idea didn’t give me a secret thrill.

“For now, you’re definitely in the clear,” he says. “Your Ken Thompson identity is clean as a whistle. And I’ll keep the disinformation flowing on my end. I’ve got numerous diversions planned, the first of which involves me, on my yacht in Greece, wearing an eye patch.”

I give an involuntary snort of laughter. “You have to be kidding. On top of the Cuba story?”

“It’s all about misdirection, motherfucker,” Lars says cheerfully. “You taught me that. The more confused they are, the better. I’ve even got Lance Ryder coming out to take some happy snaps. After Cuba, of course, where you’ll be snapped having a wild party on the Guapa.” He yawns. “I’m going to have terrible imaginary jet lag.”

I shake my head, still grinning. “Maybe you should give that friend of Ofelia’s a call, see if he can soothe the pain.”

“Benny!” Lars says the name like he’s just thought of it. “Now that’s one of your better ideas, asshole. The way that boy uses his mouth—”

“Yeah, all right, I get the picture,” I say, cutting him off before he gives me the fine details I know he’s more than capable of. “Thanks,” I say, meaning it. “Really.”

“It’s what I do,” he says lightly. “Oh—your father sends his love.”

I wince, guilt and regret twisting my gut.

“He said to tell you that you owe him a day in Paris.”

“Yeah.” I shake my head, trying to rid it of my father’s lined, honorable face. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

For the son I can’t be. For all the ways I know I’ve disappointed him.

“Oh,” I say, just as he’s about to hang up, “tell Mickey I like the name he came up with.”

“Ha!” Lars’s infectious shout of laughter makes me smile again, like it always does. “I knew you’d get it. Kid has a twisted sense of humor. Probably why I like him.”

He hangs up without saying anything more, leaving me smiling.

I turn to leave and halt with a slight shock as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I removed my sunglasses while I was talking to Lars, but my eye patch is still up in my cabin. I usually wear it even when I’m sleeping; seeing myself without it is almost like looking at a stranger.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt self-conscious about my missing eye. Most of the time I forget about it. Often it’s a useful prop, whether to intimidate others, catch them off guard, or simply intrigue. Certainly no woman has ever complained about it.

Nor has any woman ever seen beneath it. In fact, the only people who ever have are Dima and Lars. Dima because he was the one who made sure the wound he was forced to inflict didn’t actually kill me. I know I would be dead now if it weren’t for Dima’s careful doctoring.

Lars is more complicated. Our friendship should logically have never survived my captivity. We were no more than kids when the Orlov coup took place.

But oddly, the years of covert communication bound us more profoundly than even the bond forged between Dima and me by his knife. The simple fact is that Lars never abandoned me, not ever, even though he could have and probably should have, a thousand times over. Not that I ever consider Darya and my father’s escape as some kind of abandonment. But like it or not, after they left, I was profoundly alone.

Until every night when I picked up that gaming console and found Lars waiting on the other end. Some nights we did nothing more than game. Other nights we had painstaking conversations via a code we devised ourselves, and that evolved over the years until it became a shorthand that barely needs embellishment.