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Part
II
Paris
glanced around her, taking in the people in large shapeless
winter coats, making their way slowly across ice-covered
walkways. Everything was cast in various shades of white,
glowing in the dim winter light. Somewhere she heard the
song of a bird, twittering about the bare branches of the
park's trees as they stretched their arms up toward the
gray overcast sky. The laughter of children as they sledded
down an embankment drifted through the air. Paris wrapped
her fur coat tighter around her slim body, carefully not
making eye contact with the people sitting on the park benches
that surrounded the small circle of worn cement tables.
A man walked up to the table she was sitting at and tapped
lightly her on the shoulder. Paris looked up.
"This seat. Is it taken?"
She shook her head yes, hoping he would go way. He sat down
anyway and pulled a wrapped bundle out from his coat. Paris
tensed a moment, then decided that it wasn't a weapon and
this old man wasn't going to hurt her.
"First time in Moscow?"
Paris shook her head again and looked away, trying to ignore
him.
"You play?" he asked, pulled out a worn chessboard,
spread it across the table and placed a dirty cardboard
box tied with string on the top of it. "I will let
you win - I was taught by the masters in Vienna before the
war."
Paris stiffened when she heard the words 'Vienna before
the war.' Her head turned back toward him with renewed interest.
It was the code phrase.
"I'll play."
"I
thought you might change your mind."
The old man untied the string and opened the box, pulling
out exquisitely carved chess pieces one by one. He carefully
set them on the table in the proper order, then moved a
pawn out as a challenge. Paris responded by moving her own
pawn.
"I come here every day." The old man said, moving
another pawn. "And every day I offer to play chess
with someone. No one will notice us."
He moved his knight forward and deftly captured one of her
pawns.
"What's the job?" Paris asked feeling irritated
at the pace the old man wanted to take. The longer they
took the more vulnerable she was. Someone was following
her. The amount of information the Russian agent had was
more than anyone could get from simple research.
"There is a bomb."
"A bomb?" Paris arched her eyebrows. No one paid
the kind of money she would be getting to extract a simple
bomb. "I don't handle jobs that involve plutonium."
The
old man studied her for a moment.
"Well, a bomb of biological sorts. It's in the old
laboratory under a safe house in the city."
"The city?"
He was being cagey, not telling her the whole story. Paris
pushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and moved
her queen from behind her line of pawns to capture his knight.
She picked it up and placed on her side of the board, giving
the old man a coy smile.
"I'm sorry. I mean, it's in Paris, heavily guarded
and we want it." He said, moving one of his rooks.
"Who's guarding it?"
"The NVD. They are heavily armed and ruthless."
"I like a challenge."
"You will get a challenge going after this objective.
A highly skilled agent named Sabeth heads them up. Have
you heard of her?
Paris nodded, smiling. She'd promised herself that she and
that post-soviet tart would meet again someday. She never
expected it would be so soon.
"I'm going to give you a card in a moment. It looks
like a birthday card. It is a picture of a little boy holding
some balloons. If you look closely, one of the sparkles
on the balloons is a microchip. This will have all the information
you need. Your move."
Paris looked intently at the chessboard, then moved one
of her rooks forward. She looked up to find the man handing
her the card. Smiling, she put it into her black leather
bag.
"Checkmate."
Her king had been left open. The old man smiled and started
picking up the pieces, placing them carefully in the worn
cardboard box. He reached out and grasped her hand, shaking
it hard.
"It was a good game."
Paris knew he was lying. It was a terrible game.
*****
The
Kremlin rose up against the evening sky as the sun slipped
quietly over the horizon. Declan and Nightingale were in
the Council Moscow apartment, a huge cavernous modern affair
with white carpet and an entire wall of windows looking
out onto Red Square.
When
they'd first arrived he'd surveyed the space, taking in
how its coldness matched the chill outside. He walked up
to the wall of windows, holding his hand flat against it,
but not touching, and felt the cold. Finally he'd chosen
an angular chair, covered with ice blue leather and facing
the windows. The strange tension of waiting filled the air.
Now Declan watched tiny snowflakes dance in the air, caught
in miniature maelstroms as they drifted toward the ground.
"We've
got her."
Nightingale
shut her laptop with a sharp click and swiveled her chair
to face Declan, an almost imperceptible trace of joy. Her
quest was almost to an end. His was about to begin.
"It
has been set in motion. We fly to Paris tomorrow then it
will all be over and we can go our separate ways."
But
it wouldn't be over. Nightingale could walk away, but Declan
couldn't. He was working for the Council, risking his career,
maybe even his life. Then there was Katrina - could he save
her? He had no idea what would be left once the AI was removed.
For Nightingale, the ending to the next chapter of her life
was neatly written and bound up. For Declan it stretched
out in front of him like pitch-blackness: nothing was discernable.
Declan
stood up slowly. He picked up his gun from the chrome and
glass table next to the chair and tucked it into the waistband
of the neatly pressed black slacks. He grabbed his long,
blazer style black leather jacket and started to put it
on.
"Where
are you going?"
He
turned to Nightingale. Her face was puzzled. She thought
she'd just given him good news. She didn't understand.
"Out."
Declan said tersely. "I need a drink."
*****
"A little to the left, no to the right…right there."
Sabeth groaned and relaxed further into face rest of the
massage table. The strong hands of the masseuse kneaded
her aching muscles. It had been a tough week and she was
looking forward to getting back to Paris and her new assignment.
Moscow in the wintertime was something Sabeth avoided at
all costs.
The masseuse moved her hands down to Sabeth's legs.
"You know how I like it Kitty. Can't I bring you with
me to the city of love, darling?"
Kitty
chuckled and leaned further into Sabeth's hamstring.
"I
would follow you anywhere Sabe, but they won't let me."
Kitty
put a particular emphasis on the word "they" so
they both knew they were talking about FSB. Sabeth smiled
relaxing further and letting her mind wander away from the
grind of being a secret agent. Her eyelids drooped down
and the room fell away as Sabeth felt her self slowly drifting….
All of the sudden sharp pain went through her body, and
she jerked awake, pupils dialated, her breath shortened.
"KITTY!"
"Not anyone's kitty cat, love." A voice purred
in her ear. "Just me."
Sabeth pushed up against the hands that held her down. She
couldn't move.
"I'm here to tell you that I'm coming for you."
Her Russian was flawless, but tinged with an accent. Sabeth's
photographic mind raced until she put the voice to a face.
"Paris." She hissed through clenched teeth.
"I see you missed me."
The pressure on her back eased up and Sabeth started to
turn.
"Before you pull out any weapons you may have concealed."
Paris' voice was mocking. Sabeth almost smiled at the comment.
She was currently buck naked. "I've got Kitty in the
palm of my hand."
Sitting up, Sabeth surveyed the room. Kitty was standing
in the corner. A strange man held a gun with a silencer
to her head and her eyes were filled with terror. Paris,
dressed head to toe in black, all the way down to her black
stiletto heeled boots, was standing next to the table, twirling
a strand of hair around her finger.
"One rule." Paris paused as Sabeth stood up and
dropped her towel. Paris glanced at her then looked over
to the corner where Kitty stood. "You make a move on
me, she dies."
"What do you want, Paris?" Sabeth stepped around
Paris and turned to face her. Her voice was cool and deadly.
"Pride wounded so much you had to pull a juvenile stunt
like this one?"
"Just wanted to see you again, lover. And to tell you
to watch your back; the biggest mistake you made was leaving
me alive."
Sabeth glanced over at Kitty. The pleading had been replaced
by a determined look.
Sabeth centered her weight and sent a side kick in Paris'
direction, catching her completely off-guard. Kitty took
the signal, knocking the gun out of her captors hand, then
diving across the floor. Paris recovered from the surprise,
lunged forward and Sabeth blocked her punches. Paris pushed
Sabeth back until her bottom hit the edge of the massage
table. Pushing off the table, Sabeth glanced over to see
that Kitty had finished off the man with a single shot to
the head and now had the gun leveled at Paris.
"No!" Sabeth yelled and Kitty blinked in surprise.
She lowered the gun, the pulled it back and slammed it into
the back of Paris' head with a loud crack.
Paris looked dazed for a second and glanced around her.
She touched the back of her head, her hand coming away covered
in blood, then stumbled out the door, leaving Sabeth and
Kitty staring after her. Sabeth looked over at Kitty and
flashed a satisfied smile. Kitty had faked her fear to give
Sabeth the time she needed.
Yes, Kitty gave a great massage, but Sabeth loved her even
move because she could kick ass like no one else.
*****
There
had been a fight. She felt Paris' anger as she went after
the dark haired woman on the table. Then searing pain, burning
and Katrina blinked her eyes for the first time in a year.
She was in a room. There were two women, one standing behind
her holding a gun. The other - the dark haired one she'd
seen before - was backed against a long table with a circular
attachment on the end. Katrina stared for a moment, trying
to remember what it was called, her mind was foggy, struggling
to comprehend what had just happened.
Katrina
suddenly became aware pain somewhere. She touched the back
of her head with her hand. It felt sticky and wet. She dropped
her hand and stared at her fingers. They were red and Katrina's
mind groped for the word. Blood. She'd been hurt.
The
women had been staring at her for what seemed an eternity.
Now one took a step toward her. Katrina stepped back, then
seeing the door, ran out it. She ran down a hallway, then
another until she pushed through a door, stumbling out into
the darkness. Her legs felt like rubber, but somehow she
kept going, putting one foot in front of the other. The
air around her was cold and something cold stung her cheeks.
It took a moment for her to realize it was snow falling.
There were buildings, brick walls coated with ice and dirt.
The street was filled with snow that was mostly mud, freezing
slowly into black ice.
Every
street looked the same and Katrina wished something would
trigger her memory - anything to tell her where she was.
Then she saw it, rising above the horizon, bulbous domes
jabbing into the sky. She hadn't seen those buildings since
she was a child, but they came rushing back to her in one
Technicolor memory, and she realized where she was. Moscow.
Her
next thought was The Legacy. She had to get back. She had
to tell them she was okay, and that something was inside
her - something they would want to remove and study, and
then lock up somewhere where no one could find it and use
it.
Phone.
She had to find a phone. One foot in front of the other,
Katrina put her head down and she started to see more people.
Wishing she had a hat to cover up the wound on the back
of her head, she pulled the collar of the fur coat higher
around her chin.
Memories
were rushing in now, like a dam had been broken. Faces and
voices flooded her mind, and she grasped to put names to
them, to understand what they were saying. Katrina rounded
another corner when she saw the street opening onto Red
Square. She looked up and down the street until her eyes
settled on the flashing neon light of a bar. She walked
towards it and pushed through the heavy black lacquered
door.
It
was one of those hip new bars, catering to the young Muscovites
who lived hard and fast. Dimly lit, a haze of smoke filled
the air. Glass lamps in shades of purple and yellow hung
from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over velvet-covered
booths. Women and men, dressed in black, smoking imported
cigarettes, sat in front of brightly colored drinks. A Russian
pop tune blasted from speakers concealed somewhere in the
recesses of the bar, making it hard to hear anything. Katrina
stood in the door, seeing none this - seeing only one thing.
She
couldn't breathe, her heart was pounding and she felt cold
and numb. Pushing her way through the already gathering
evening crowd, Katrina walked toward the bar. She stopped
behind a man sitting there, reached out her hand then stopped
with it in midair. It was trembling violently. She touched
him on the back, lightly at first then harder, feeling the
warmth of his skin through the thin cotton.
He
turned and jumped off the bar stool as he realized who was
tapping his shoulder. The color drained out of his face
as he stared at her. Katrina was struck by how much older
he looked. They stared at each other for what felt like
an eternity, eyes locked, afraid to look anywhere else in
case it was another fevered dream. Finally, Katrina, lifting
a trembling hand to his face, stroking his cheek lightly,
found her voice and uttered a single name.
"Declan."
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