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“I’ve learned I can trust no one.”
I shrugged and said, “Too bad. Life’s a lot easier with friends.”
Darya said, “It’s longer if you don’t trust friends.” She paused. “You’re very sharp. I’m used to dealing with FBI bureaucrats. You’re not like them at all.”
“Flattery won’t help you now.”
Darya said, “I want this terrorist stopped as much as you do.”
“Dead or alive?”
“That’s how Russia views all terrorist hunts.”
“There’s a lot more to this than just hunting for a fugitive.” I waited while she seemed to ponder my question and consider whether she could trust me.
Finally, Darya said, “Are there factions within the NYPD?”
“Yes. All agencies have factions.”
“So do we. I suspected it was the same everywhere. Some in my government have different ideas about the war on terror. Unfortunately, they’ve acted on them. You might call them cowboys or rogues.”
“What kind of different ideas do these factions have?”
She brought those intense, blue eyes to rest on me. “We all have the same goal: stop terrorism. Some people in the Russian government feel like the US has not participated the way it should.”
I couldn’t hide my shock. “Are you saying this is a Russian government–sanctioned attack?”
Darya stayed calm and steady. She didn’t rush what she had to say. That was the mark of a pro.
She said, “No, just the opposite. Now this is all hypothetical, of course. But suppose a rogue element, which was now neutralized, had forced a Russian agent to carry out an attack like this.”
“Temir Marat worked for the Russian government?”
She lifted her hands and said, “I was just giving you a theory. I’m doing this because I know you’re actually trying to help things.”
I said, “I want to capture Temir Marat and question him. What do you want?”
Darya gave no answer.
Before I could press her on it, I glanced up. There, near the front door, at the end of the bar, stood Temir Marat.
Chapter 28
IT FELT UNREAL to have been searching for someone so hard and then see him in person not far away. I guess part of me thought Lewis Vineyard was full of shit.
I stared at Marat. A bandage on his cheek covered the cut I’d given him with the bottle. He wore a NY Rangers baseball cap pulled low. He was gazing around the room, looking for someone. I suspected I knew who.
I eased out of my chair, getting ready to make a casual stroll across the dining room to get next to him.
Then I saw the couple coming into the bar behind Marat. A tall, burly man with short hair, and a woman nearly six feet tall with black hair. The man’s birthmark told me exactly who he was. The birthmark looked like a smeared tattoo of a purple house.
All I could think was that the FBI was going to owe Lewis Vineyard a truckload of cash.
If I wanted Marat alive, I would have to act quickly.
Then the mob hitters made their move. It was smooth and professional—if I didn’t know what I was looking for, I might’ve missed it.
The man stepped up right next to Temir Marat, folded his hands across his waist, and casually slipped his right hand under his dark linen coat.
