The Bodyguard Contract. Donna Young

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СКАЧАТЬ that scraped his palm. God, he was tired. Of the espionage, the endless chasing after bad guys—dealing with his feelings for Lara. “Forget I said that.”

      “Ian, you’re the logical choice.”

      “Trust me, Cain, there’s nothing logical about Lara and I. You don’t want to send me.” Ian reached for his gym bag to snag a cigarette, then swore. He’d quit months before, but the craving still gnawed at him.

      “You’re right, I don’t.”

      Ian stared at his brother for a moment. It wasn’t in Cain’s nature to jump into decisions. If anything, he was too cautious. Most times, Cain made sure he’d always had a backup plan on any mission.

      Obviously, Ian was that backup plan. “All right, boss,” he said, resigned. “Fill me in.”

      Cain walked over to a nearby computer console and hit a few buttons. “Later today, Lara’s meeting with this man.”

      A picture flashed against the back wall. A priest, posed in a professional portrait. An older man with strands of hair smoothed over a slightly shiny head. A hint of a smile added mischief to an otherwise plain face. “Father Xavier Varvarinski. Retired. St. Stanislaus Roman Catholic Church, Las Vegas.”

      “I’m listening,” Ian growled. Only Lara could be at risk dealing with a priest.

      “Father Xavier,” Cain repeated, “is Russian intelligence. A double agent for Labyrinth operations. Been in the business longer than you and I put together,” he explained. “As a priest, he’s had access to most of the Russian terrorist leaders and Russian Mafia members.” His gaze shifted to Ian. “I’ve never dealt with him directly, but he’s good. Very good.”

      Ian studied the picture, noted the worn creases, the laugh lines. Evidence the priest spent most of his time enjoying life. But the weariness that dulled the blue of the man’s eyes caused a jab of trepidation deep in Ian’s belly. “When was this picture taken?”

      “Six months ago.”

      A lot can happen in six months. “Is he a real priest?” Ian wondered aloud. They’d all used different aliases at one time or another. Impersonating a priest was no different than pretending to be a cop, or a doctor.

      “Yes. Served in Vietnam in his early thirties. Studied for the priesthood after his discharge. Seems he got his calling somewhere in the midst of that mess.”

      “Interesting way to combine two careers,” Ian commented, then hung his towel loosely around the back of his neck. Only his white-knuckle grip on each end gave away his edginess. “I assume this priest has information regarding the biochemical.”

      “Actually, it’s in his possession….” Cain paused. “It being Substance 39.”

      Ian let out a slow whistle. “So the rumors are true then. We have a new biochemical warfare weapon to worry about.”

      “While the Russians have tagged it with their usual substance number, on the streets it’s called Katts Smeart. The English translation…Silent Death.”

      Cain moved on to the next slide. This time it was a newspaper photo of a man behind a podium—average height, slight in build, with properly trimmed brown hair, peppered with gray. His style was just short of slick. Not too Hollywood. But close.

      “Katts Smeart is a synthetically enhanced poison allegedly financed and created by this man, Mikhail Davidenko, leader of the Russian terrorist sect—The Maxim. A fact the Russian government has conveniently overlooked. And the Russian Mafia has embraced.”

      “Davidenko.” Ian recalled the name, acknowledging the punch of caution that jarred his spine. “Involved mostly with gambling, drug and human trafficking, arms and nuclear material dealings—even the sale of body organs. I’m not surprised about the biochemical warfare. Only that it took him so long.”

      The next picture appeared on the wall—an aerial view of Davidenko on his yacht, entertaining. “Bottom line with Davidenko is profit. Biochemical manufacturing is big business these days,” Cain said.

      Ian noted a few politicians, European and American—all dressed designer casual and surrounded by topless, thong-clad beauties. “Amazing what dirty money can buy.”

      Cain grunted in agreement.

      Ian considered the photograph again. “And Lara?”

      “She’s been tracking Davidenko, gathering information through Father Xavier. We’ve always suspected Davidenko’s involvement in illegal activities within our borders. But never had proof.”

      “The Maxim has a pretty long reach.” Lara’s involvement didn’t surprise him. The woman could find trouble going to the Laundromat. “How in the hell did the priest get a hold of the poison in the first place?”

      Cain flashed another picture. This one was a woman. A brunette with classical features that complemented her upswept hair, wearing a strapless, black Versace gown.

      In this photo, Davidenko stood to her right whispering in her ear. The curve of her mouth showed her amusement, but it was the softness in the deep brown eyes that confirmed much more.

      “She’s amused, but not in love,” Ian murmured, his opinion instinctive.

      “Her name is Sophia Franco,” Cain continued. But the slight raise of his brow acknowledged Ian’s comment.

      “The actress?” Ian remembered Sophia Franco. Late thirties. Never headlined. Her forte was horror movies. Got a lot of press over her blood-chilling screams.

      “Davidenko’s mistress,” Cain stated. “A few months back, Father Xavier managed an introduction. She’s a Roman Catholic and has become quite attached to the old man.”

      “Are you saying Sophia Franco managed to get the poison to the priest?”

      “It fits,” Cain responded. “We have proof that Father Xavier controls her. It’s no secret Russian terrorism is a small step from the Russian Mafia.”

      “So, Sophia Franco turns in the Katts Smeart hoping to save lives and her soul? Hell of a penance.” Ian frowned. “Where is she?”

      “Dead, we suspect. But I haven’t been able to confirm it yet,” Cain said, then paused. “Lara’s the courier for the Katts Smeart. She’s headed for Las Vegas where Father Xavier is supposed to pass it to her later today.”

      “So Lara gets the weapon, brings it in,” Ian said, relaxing somewhat. “One-two punch. She could handle this in her sleep. If you send me in to cover her and she finds out—it won’t be pretty.”

      “Pretty is the least of my worries. After this assignment, I’m forcing Lara to take a leave of absence. For her benefit.” Another pause, this time longer. “And yours.”

      “Mine? How in the hell do you figure that?” He followed Cain’s gaze to the VI equipment. “You’re not getting rid of her because the two of us can’t get along, are you? Because if that’s the case, I’ll step down. Lara’s hated my guts ever since the President fiasco two months ago.” And rightly so, Ian silently acknowledged. “If she loses her career because of me, you’re signing my death СКАЧАТЬ