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Claudia’s late husband had been one of the world’s top contract killers and he’d been terrified of Azarov. It was a fear that he’d left deeply imprinted on her and one that Rapp couldn’t resist using as a test. So far, she was passing with a solid B plus.
“That dress looks great on you,” he said, trying to ease the tension a bit.
She polished off the rest of her wine. “It’s my favorite. The one I’d like to be buried in. Seemed appropriate.”
Rapp caught the waitress’s attention, pointed to Claudia’s empty glass, and held up two fingers.
“Where is he?” Claudia repeated. “He’s probably watching us. Waiting. Making us sweat.”
“I think that’s just the humidity.”
“So now you get a sense of humor?”
The waitress arrived and set a full glass down in front of Claudia. She was about to give Rapp the other but he indicated that they were both for her.
“Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Well, stop.”
He smiled reassuringly while he watched Grisha Azarov get out of his truck and start walking up behind her. The fact that he wasn’t alone was a good sign. He and Cara Hansen had been virtually inseparable since he’d resigned from the service of Russia’s president. She was a thirty-year-old American surf instructor with the expected athletic figure, unkempt blond hair, and perpetual half sunburn. Her barely perceptible smile looked both permanent and entirely sincere. By all reports, she was adored by everyone who knew her and it wasn’t hard to see why.
“¡Hola, Isabella!” she said as they stepped onto the deck. “¿Podemos sentarnos al lado de las flores?”
Rapp understood enough to know that Azarov wasn’t dictating where they sat and that the table near the flowers, while a great spot for an early dinner, was a tactical death trap.
Claudia stiffened but managed not to look back. “Is that them?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to spill your drink on your funeral dress.”
“You’re so funny. Maybe comedy was your calling, no?”
He just smiled, ignoring Cara and Azarov as they ordered drinks. After a convincing interval, the Russian looked directly at him and whispered something in his companion’s ear. A moment later they were up and walking in Rapp’s direction. Claudia seemed to think it was a good time to finish her second glass of wine and get a firm grip on her third.
“Mitch?”
“Grisha?” Rapp said, feigning surprise as he stood and shook the man’s hand. “What are you doing here?”
“I live only a few kilometers away.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
Azarov turned toward Cara. “I’d like you to meet Mitch. We know each other from Saudi Arabia.”
“Hi,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Cara. So you’re in the oil business, too?”
“I am.”
They had actually met once before. It had been dark, though, and he’d had a silencer pressed to her boyfriend’s head. It’d be interesting to know how Azarov had explained that one away.
“And this is Claudia,” the Russian said.
She twitched visibly at the fact that he knew who she was, but managed to look reasonably relaxed as they exchanged greetings. Her B-plus grade moved to a tentative A minus.
“Have you been on the trail behind the restaurant yet?” Azarov asked. His accent had softened noticeably, taking on a bit of the Spanish that surrounded him.
