Iris Johansen - Deadlock

He acted as if Ferguson's call had never taken place, that Babin had not been murdered. Well, what else was he supposed to do? It had happened, and there wasn't anything that Garrett could do about it right now. It was just another ugly piece in this macabre puzzle.

"It's okay if you'd rather be alone." Garrett's gaze was on her face. "But sometimes it's better to be with other people. Even people you're not very pleased with."

And she didn't want to be alone, she realized. She had been feeling a sort of weird heaviness since they had arrived in Ekaterinaburg. She re¬membered she had thought a pall should be lying over the city, and maybe that was right. She had been in many places where tragic past events seemed to linger. Why should she stay in her room because she wanted to make a statement? That would be immature, and she had al¬ready said what she needed to say to Garrett. She wasn't about to remain closeted away and let memory and depression gnaw at her. "Where?"

He glanced at the restaurant across the lobby. "We can try there. It's better than room service."

"We hope." She sniffed. "I smell cabbage. Even in the good restau¬rants in Russia, you get cabbage and more cabbage. But maybe they'll have bliny. Those little pancakes make up for a lot." She moved to¬ward the reception desk. "I want to take a shower. It will be good to have a bathroom to myself again. In an hour?"

"Whatever you want. Anything you want."

She glanced back over her shoulder at the curious note in his voice to see that his face was without expression. But it was what she sensed behind it that made her catch her breath. "It's only going to be din¬ner, Garrett."

"I know. It's too soon." He held her gaze as he came toward the reception desk. "Isn't that what I said?" He repeated softly, "Anything you want."

Sheer hot sensuality.

He had given her anything she wanted that night in the lean-to. Anything, everything, and she'd still been hungry. The heat burned her cheeks as she remembered how many times she had satisfied that hunger.

He glanced away from her as the desk clerk came up to them. He began speaking to the woman in Russian.

Anything she wanted…

"THESE ARE QUITE NICE ROOMS," Irana said when she phoned Emily almost an hour later. "Sort of a combination of Russian exotic and American Hilton. Dardon did better than I thought."

"He seems to have the knack. I'm almost ready to go down to the restaurant. What's your room number? I'll stop by for you."

"Four-thirteen, but I'm not going to dinner with you. I've decided to get some rest. I didn't sleep much last night." She paused. "And I wanted to give you a chance to be with Garrett without me acting as a buffer. Either for him or for you."

Wise Irana. "I wanted you to come."

"And you wanted your buffer."

Admit it. "Yes."

"Well, you'll have to do without me. You're both my friends, and I want peace between you. Work it out." She added, "And now I'll hang up and order room service. I'll talk to you later."

Emily slowly hung up the phone. Peace? There wasn't anything re¬sembling peace between her and Garrett. That moment at the reception desk had been as charged and volatile as the moments before a tornado.

Irana had meant the anger that Emily had felt toward Garrett should be healed. The anger was still there, but it was constantly being overshadowed by other emotions. Her fear for him, her sympathy and empathy with the agony of his feelings for Irana, the flash of pure sensuality she had felt downstairs. Did she want that to happen? That night with Garrett had been incredible, but she would be safer not be¬coming involved with him. She had only taken small steps, but he was already having a massive impact on her. She was too vulnerable. She could call Garrett and cancel.

And she was going right back to being Staunton's victim. Hiding away because she was afraid of being hurt.

Screw it. All this self-analysis and soul-searching was bull. She would go on instinct and let the cards fall where they may.

She grabbed her handbag from the nightstand and headed for the door.

"ANTON BORG," FERGUSON SAID, when Garrett picked up his call just as he was leaving his room. "Positive identification from the mug shot. He was the one who bumped into Babin on the escalator. He's a known cohort of Staunton." "Did he fly in from Moscow?"

"No, from Tangiers. His flight got in an hour before Babin arrived in Paris." He paused. "And he took off on a Delta flight to New York within an hour of Babin's death."

"New York?"

"That surprised you."

"I was expecting him to come to Moscow."

"Maybe Staunton is in New York."

"No, that's not possible."

"Why else would Borg be going to New York?"

Garrett had a sudden thought. "Maybe not New York. Maybe Connecticut. Look, send someone to Connecticut to keep an eye on Nicholas Zelov."

"You think he's Borg's next target?"

"I don't know. I'm guessing. I'll try to call him. You send someone to check on him at his house." He hung up and called up his phone list. All he had was Zelov's home number, no cell. He could only hope he was at home and not too drunk to answer.

The phone rang six times before voice mail picked up.

Dammit.

"Zelov if you're there, answer me." He waited. No response. "If you get this, don't answer the door to anyone but the man I've sent up there to protect you. He should have CIA identification." Still there was no pickup. He hung up.

He could be wrong. Zelov might not be a target. Garrett had done what he could. He'd try to phone Zelov again later. Should he tell Emily and let her fret over something he wasn't even sure was threat¬ening?

Hell, yes. He wasn't about to alienate her permanently because he wanted to protect her. She would take a hatchet to him.

But it wasn't the kind of conversation he'd wanted to have over dinner. He'd seen signs of softening, and he hoped to capitalize.

Face it; he hoped to do more than capitalize. That was too cold a word, and he wasn't feeling cold. He got hot and ready every time he looked at Emily. He hadn't had enough of her that night in the lean-to.

He was beginning to wonder if he'd ever get enough.

Okay, stop thinking about getting her into bed. That would have to wait. He'd have to tell her that it was Borg who had killed Babin and might be after Zelov. After that, there wasn't any question that she wouldn't focus on what was most important to her.

"CALL HIM AGAIN," EMILY SAID after dinner. "He's got to an¬swer sometime."

"I called him before dinner and left another message." Garrett said as he poured a little vodka into his coffee. "I could be wrong. Why would Zelov suddenly be a target when he's been safe all this time?"

"Maybe Joslyn found out about Babin betraying him and decided that he had to give orders to eliminate both of them." She shook her head in frustration. "Oh, I don't know. I can see why he'd want Babin killed. Revenge is a pretty good motive."

"Excellent."

Yes, both she and Garrett were being driven by revenge. It was logical to her that Joslyn might want to punish Babin. Lord knows, Emily had wanted the same thing that day in Babin's office.

"Call him," she repeated.

Garrett took out his phone and dialed. "Still no answer. I should be hearing from Ferguson soon about the agent he sent up to the house." He poured her more coffee. "You didn't eat much. At least drink your coffee."

"I was distracted. I am distracted." She took a sip of her coffee. "It's frustrating, dammit."

"Yes, I knew it would be. I was tempted not to tell you at all." He held up his hand as she opened her lips. "I overcame it. It wasn't easy for me, but at least it wasn't a question of risking your neck. You know as much as I do."

She gazed at him for a moment. He was being honest with her. For some reason it was tremendously hard for him to keep from pro¬tecting her. "Thank you."