If You're Going Through Hell Keep Going Page 17

  I was kind of surprised that our friendship deepened. I didn’t have many friends—my job was too dangerous, and people were too fucking stupid, but Pete was someone I liked and trusted.

  In fact, I trusted him enough to give him my cell phone number.

  In addition, he was fun to fuck.

  “Cher m’sieur, I regret to disturb you.”

  “No big deal,” I said. I was packed and had about twenty minutes to kill before it was time to leave. “What’s up?”

  “I must ask for a favor.”

  “Go ahead and ask.”

  “I need you to do a kindness for a friend. Her name used to be Zhenshchina.”

  “She’s a friend of yours?”

  “Oui.”

  I’d heard of her, and I was impressed—she was originally from the Republic of North Ossetia-Alania, was reputed to be the deadliest woman in Europe, and— “Hold on a minute. What do you mean, her name used to be Zhenshchina?”

  “Henri could not pronounce it, and so he began calling her Élisabeth.”

  “And she allowed it?” Rumor had it she didn’t suffer fools gladly, and an idiot who couldn’t pronounce her name was a fool beyond measure.

  “You must ask her about it.”

  Huh. “Who’s Henri?”

  “He ran the Interrogation department.”

  He couldn’t have done it well... I’d never heard of him. “She’s with the Division?”

  “As a matter of fact, she’s in charge of Interrogation now.”

  I worried my thumbnail. I wasn’t needed back in the States for a few days; I could fly to Frankfurt—or Vienna if that airport turned out to have the earlier flight—and get a connecting flight from there to Paris in a matter of hours. “Uh... any way you could introduce us?”

  “I would be enchanted to.”

  “Soon?” I felt like a boy with his first crush, and maybe I should have been embarrassed by that, but... Zhenshchina!

  “If you wish.”

  Yes! No other living woman roused such fear and respect in the intelligence community. I envied the Division for having her. From what I’d been able to learn, she’d been recruited by the Kamitet Dziaržaǔnaj Biaspieki at an early age. If I’d known she intended to leave the State Security Committee, I’d have tried to recruit her for the WBIS.

  I got myself under control. “Okay, so what sort of kindness did you have in mind?” Zhenshchina!

  “The week we spent together... You treated me well, in spite of the fact that you thought I was a rent boy.”

  “We’re not going over that again, are we? I told you—”

  “You did, which is why I ask you to treat her as kindly.”

  “I think you’d better explain this to me.”

  He sighed. “Henri decided he wanted her. He refused to take her no seriously, and saw nothing wrong with a little chemical persuasion in the form of rohypnol to change her mind.”

  “Bastard,” I spat. It burned my butt when shit like that happened. “Did Tactics point out the error of his ways?” If anything like that had happened at the WBIS, The Boss would’ve had the perp strung up by his short and curlies.

  “There was no need. Henri choked to death on a ham sandwich in the commissary. A fitting ending for such a cochon.”

  “Did he hurt her?” Too bad he was dead. I’d have liked to get my hands on him.

  He muttered, “Not as much as the Division did,” but before I could question him about that, his next words threw me off kilter. “She asked if I would help her overcome her aversion to being touched.”

  I choked. “You, Pete?”

  He growled. “She tends to be very wrapped up in her occupation. She had no idea I didn’t sail that side of the lake.” He waited for me to stop laughing. “After it was discovered what Henri had done, Anacapri insisted Femme be... treated.”

  “That doesn’t strike me like Anacapri.” The psych op was a cold bitch, a fitting match for Tactics. “Wait, who’s Femme?”

  “Zhenshchina.” Pete sighed again. “She refuses to use that name now, and insists on Femme.”

  Too bad. It was a pretty name.

  “Mark… Anacapri had her sterilized.”

  “Son of a bitch! Okay, I’m asking you again: what do you need me for?” If he said he wanted that bitch canceled, I’d definitely be on the next flight. “When did all this happen?”

  “Late last fall. It has been more than eight months, and Femme won’t let anyone near her.”

  I could understand that. There’d been a time about five years earlier when I’d been edgy like that. Of course I hadn’t been raped and neutered—that was when my idiot partner had gotten himself tortured and killed.

  “She’s not happy that even though he’s dead, Henri still holds the least little bit of control over her. I told her I knew someone who I trusted implicitly, and if she wanted, I’d ask him.”

  “That’s the favor you want me to do?”

  “Yes.”

  Although I’d slept with women, I preferred men, and Pete knew that. But… I wasn’t surprised when I got hard. Zhenshchina!

  I didn’t ask if she was responsible for Henri choking on that sandwich. If she was as exceptional as they said, of course she was, and no one would ever bring it back to her.

  “I like her, Mark, and I dislike seeing her like this. Fix her, s’il vous plaît?”

  Oh, Jesus, he sounded like he was going to cry.

  “Get a grip, Pete. Look, I have to get to the airport to change my flight. I don’t know when I’ll arrive in Paris, but I’ll make a reservation at the hôtel de l'Espoir.”

  “Mon cher, cher m’sieur! Merci!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t make a big thing of it. Tell her to meet me at Le Petit Homme.” That was the bar where Pete and I had first run into each other.

  “Non. She will meet you at the airport.”

  “Pete—”

  “And you will wear a flower in your buttonhole. A lavender rose.”

  “Jesus. How am I supposed to find roses in Minsk at this time of year?”

  “Try Frankfurt. Or Vienna. I trust you, Mark. You are very resourceful.”

  “Don’t try to butter me up. I’m mad at you.” A rose! I felt like rolling my eyes. What a cliché.

  “Cher m’sieur, I am more grateful than I can say.”

  “Pete…”

  “I must tell Femme you agreed and she must pack.” He hung up.

  I sat on the bed and stared into space. I was going to meet Zhenshchina.

  A glance at my watch showed me I had to get hopping. I bounced to my feet, grabbed the handle of my suitcase, and headed out of the room and down to the lobby.

  I was going to meet Zhenshchina!

  The flight to Vienna seemed to take forever. Fortunately, I was able to use the two hour layover to prowl the area around the airport, searching for that damned lavender rose.

  How could Pete be so certain I’d find one?

  I worked the rose into my lapel, bought a couple of magazines from a kiosk, and went back into the airport.

  The flight from Vienna to Paris passed more quickly as I envisioned scenarios of our meeting. Did she have any idea who I was, other than Pete’s friend?

  I was tempted to order a scotch rocks when the flight attendant came around with her little cart, but the last thing I wanted to do was greet Zhenshchina with alcohol on my breath. I’d happened to bring a roll of Life Savers with me, and I wound up chewing one after the other.

  Finally, I was in Paris. I retrieved my suitcase from baggage claim and prepared to wait, but I didn’t have long.

  I spotted her as soon as she entered the area, pulling a pilot case behind her like a reluctant puppy.

  She was maybe four foot ten, four eleven tops, and slender to the point of delicacy. Shit. How was I supposed to do this? I dwarfed the woman.

  The skirt of the drab brown suit she wore fell below her knees, and the matching pumps were the sensible sort with flat heels and thick soles.
Her blonde hair was scraped back so tightly I was tempted to wince in sympathy, and her face was blank, smoothed of all expression. She wore a pair of glasses with thick brown flames that shielded her eyes. I’d always thought black frames were ugly, but compared to those brown ones, they were actually tolerable.

  She glanced around, her gaze coming to a halt when she saw me. It had to be the lavender rose I wore in my lapel that caught her attention. Maybe Pete was right when he insisted I needed something so she’d know it was me.

  But she didn’t come toward me. Had she changed her mind? Did something about my looks put her off?

  And then I saw the bastard who had his hand around her arm, lifting her up onto her tiptoes and into his embrace. He wasn’t bad; I’d give him that. No one suspected they were anything but a couple reuniting after a period apart. Well, no one except me. I left my suitcase where it was and stalked toward him. I couldn’t shoot him in a crowded airport, goddammit, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to make him sorry he’d ever decided to lay a hand on her. As I approached, I reached for the pocketknife I was never without.

  Abruptly, the situation changed. His eyes widened, and he grunted and pressed a palm to his left side.

  “You were warned,” she snarled softly, and stepped away, free of his grasp.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said in French. “I told you not to have that last drink.” I slung an arm around his shoulders and used my other hand to pull his suit jacket closed. “Let’s find you a seat.”

  I could feel the blood begin to soak his clothes, and I knew at any moment his legs would buckle, but I managed to get him seated before he collapsed.

  “You’re fucking lucky,” I muttered. “I’d have killed you a lot harder.”

  “Wha...?” His eyes took on a vague, glazed expression. I squeezed his shoulder.

  “I’m gonna see if I can find someone to take a look at you. Sit tight.” I left him there and went to retrieve my suitcase, pausing to take out a handkerchief and wipe the blood off my hand. No one would be able to help him; he was a dead man. Zhenshchina had jammed her own knife into his spleen, and I’d seen the vicious twist she’d given it.

  I turned and almost walked into her. “Sorry.”

  She tipped her head back and stared into my eyes. Was she going to ask me how the weather was up here? “M’sieur Vincent?”

  I nodded.

  “You hardly needed the rose, m’sieur,” she murmured as we walked toward the exit. “Your height alone would have alerted me to your identity.”

  “You know how Pete is.”

  “Pete?”

  “De Becque. He likes to make sure all bases are covered.”

  “Ah.”

  “That was nice work. Any idea who he was?”

  “No. No one was supposed to know I’d left the Division.” But something in her eyes made me wonder.

  “Do you think the State Security Committee might want you back?”

  “It’s possible, but they don’t operate quite like that.”

  “Hmm. Well, the asshole’s dead, or near enough to it not to make a difference. Nothing to worry about from that direction.”

  “Of a certainty.”

  I wanted to see her hands. I stopped and extended my open hand slowly, as if offering to shake her hand. Her fingers touched my palm—strong, capable fingers that could slice the flesh from a man’s bones. What would they feel like on my skin? I turned her hand, brought it to my mouth, and pressed a soft kiss to her wrist.

  She made a breathless little sound.

  “We’ll go no faster than you desire.”

  “And if I do not desire to go at all?”

  “Then we won’t.”

  “Pierre has told me a good deal about you. I was unsure if he was exaggerating.”

  “He probably was. He’s a Frenchman, y’know, and he likes nothing better than a good romance.”

  “Is this the same Pierre of whom we’re speaking?”

  I smiled at her. “We’d better get out of here.” Talking about Pete was the last thing I wanted to do. “Someone’s bound to realize soon that clown isn’t drunk or asleep. Would you care to dine, Zhenshchina?”

  For a second I thought she’d object to my use of her name, but then she simply gave a regal tilt to her head.

  I escorted her out of the terminal and whistled up a cab. In a whirlwind of motion, the driver hopped out, grabbed our suitcases, put them in the trunk, and then got back behind the wheel, waiting for us to get in.

  I had just opened the door when we heard the first scream. She met my gaze, her eyebrow raised.

  “Excellent work,” I murmured in French.

  “You’re not shocked? No, of course you wouldn’t be.” She slid across the seat, and I got in beside her.

  “Hôtel de l’Espoir,” I told the driver.

  We had to stop at the hotel first so we could drop off our suitcases. Gaston, the evening desk clerk, watched with wide eyes as I registered and took the key. He was used to seeing me here with men. I winked at him over my shoulder and turned to Zhenshchina.

  “They’ve given me my usual room. I think you’ll like it.”

  “I have never had the opportunity to see a Paris hotel room. I believe I should like to.”

  I headed for the stairs with the deadliest woman on the planet beside me. Although if Folana Fournaise were still alive, it would have been another story, because in that case, it would have been a dead heat. “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t care for elevators.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Shall I take your suitcase?”

  “I’m quite capable of transporting it.”

  “If you say so, but I’m on eight.” I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. “If you grow weary, I’ll be more than happy to carry it. Or you.” I waited to see how she would take that.

  “Thank you, but neither will be necessary.”

  As it turned out, she was right. She wasn’t even breathing heavily by the time we reached the eighth floor.

  After we unpacked, I took her to the same restaurant I’d taken Pete when I still thought he was a rent boy. Her eyes widened when she saw there were no prices on the menu.

  “Order what you’d like.”

  “I must tell you… in spite of my appearance, I enjoy my food.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Nothing’s as irritating as a woman who orders grass and twigs because she’s watching her weight, and then spends the meal lusting after what’s on my plate.”

  She laughed, and I hoped I could get her to want me. If I couldn’t… well, I hoped I could at least get her to feel comfortable around a man.

  Nothing happened that night. I’d offered to sleep on the sofa—since this was my usual room in the hôtel de l'Espoir, it was much larger than the one I’d shared with Pete—but she insisted we share the bed. I kept to the left side, uncertain if I’d be able to get any sleep with her not more than a couple of feet away.

  But I must have fallen asleep at some point, because when I woke up, she was spooned against my back, her hand pressed over my heart.

  The next morning I bought a copy of every newspaper available.

  “May I ask why?” Zhenshchina asked as she tucked into the enormous breakfast she’d ordered.

  “I want to see if there’s any mention of the joker from the airport.”

  “There won’t be. Pierre called my cell phone while you were in the shower. He’d sent Giuliani to make sure our meeting was effected with no trouble.”

  “Yeah? Well, Giuliani did a piss-poor job.”

  She peered at me through her glasses, which I knew were for camouflage—she had perfect vision. Had she used them before Henri? I was sorry he was dead. I really would have liked to have torn his pathetic cock from his carcass and shoved it down his throat.

  “As you saw, I hardly needed his help. However, Giuliani will have disposed of the body.” There was amusement in her blue eyes. “It’s the Division way.”

  I nodded.
It was the WBIS way as well.

  We were together for two weeks—I’d received a message from the WBIS telling me the Scarlet Chamber was… annoyed… with me for taking out the Archbishop, and I was to lie low for that amount of time.

  If the message had been from The Boss, I’d have done as ordered, but it was from Sperling—why the fuck was he sticking his nose into my work again?—so I didn’t let it influence me. For the next few days, Zhenshchina joined me in playing cat and mouse with them, and together we took out enough Scarlet Chamber agents that they decided it might be a good idea to go play in someone else’s sandbox.

  With them out of the way, I could get down to what was important to me—Zhenshchina.

  There was a little shop that offered the best pastries and coffee that was virtually a dessert in itself, and her pleasure in them was almost orgasmic.

  I took her to a cinema that was having a comedy marathon, and we spent the day and into the late evening there, watching Cousin, Cousine, Tendre Poulet, which had been released in the States as Dear Inspector, Le Grand Blond avec une chaussure noire—The Tall Blond Man with One Black Shoe, and La Cage Aux Folles and both sequels.

  She insisted we picnic on the bed—Pete must have told her about the two of us having done that—and we sat cross-legged, I in my boxers, and she in a little ivory slip that barely covered her thighs. We dined on pâté, Provençal cheese, warm, crusty French bread, grapes, and peaches. Those peaches… I sliced one and dropped it into a glass of champagne, and we took turns sipping from the same spot. After we finished the champagne, I fed her the peach from my mouth.

  I let her do all the touching so she could get comfortable with my body. She wore that little silk slip—surprisingly sexy considering the clothes she wore over it—and while I lay on my stomach, she straddled my hips and stroked her oiled palms over my back and spoke of her work.

  “Formidable,” I groaned, unable to move, partly due to how boneless her massage left me, but mostly due to a raging hard-on.

  Eventually she said, “I want to fuck you.” And I nearly came right then.

  My hands were shaking as I tore open the condom wrapper and began rolling it over my cock.