Steve Berry - The Romanov Prophecy

"Unfortunately," Orleg said, "the consul general is concerned about a murder taking place here. So we have arranged a little journey for you. They tell me a desert lies not far away. A perfect place to bury a body. I live in the cold. Some warm, dry air would be nice." Orleg stepped close. "There is a car waiting in the rear of this building. You will go quietly. There is no one present to hear any cry for help, and if you make one sound outside, I will slit your throat. I personally would kill you here. Right now. But orders do need to be followed, would you not agree?"

A long, curved knife appeared in Orleg's hand, its edge boasting a recent sharpening. The policeman handed it to Droopy, who pressed the flat of the blade to Lord's throat.

"I suggest you walk slow and straight," Orleg said.

The warning mattered little to Lord. He was still woozy from the torture and barely possessed the strength to stand. But he was trying to muster enough stamina to be ready if an opportunity presented itself.

Droopy shoved him out of the office and into a secretarial area devoid of people. Down a staircase they made their way toward the rear of the ground floor, past a cadre of offices, all of which were dark and empty. The glimpses he caught through windows showed that day was surrendering to night.

Orleg stepped ahead, now leading the way, stopping at a paneled wooden door outlined in elaborate molding. He unlocked the latch and opened it. Beyond, the growl of a car motor could be heard, and he saw the open rear door of a black sedan, exhaust smoke whipping mist up and over the roof. The inspector motioned for Droopy to bring their charge forward.

"Stoi," a voice called out from behind. Stop.

Filip Vitenko brushed past and moved straight toward Orleg. "I told you, Inspector, there would be no more violence where this man is concerned."

"I told you, diplomat, this does not concern you."

"Your Mr. Zubarev is gone. I am in authority here. I have spoken to Moscow and have been told to do as I see fit."

Orleg grabbed two handfuls of the envoy's jacket and slammed him to the wall.

"Xaver," Vitenko screamed.

Lord heard the gait of someone rushing down the hall, then a stump of a man rushed at Orleg. The second of commotion allowed Lord to jam his elbow into Droopy's stomach. The muscles were hard and flat, but he managed to wedge the point between ribs, then wrench upward.

Droopy's breath left him in a swoosh.

Lord shoved the hand holding the knife away. The big man atop Orleg noticed the attack and turned his attention to Droopy, leaping onto the Russian.

Lord lunged toward the outer door. Vitenko momentarily interfered with Orleg, which allowed Lord to leap out under the porte cochere harboring the idling vehicle. He saw no one in the car and jumped into the front seat. He rammed the gearshift into drive and plunged the accelerator to the floorboard. Tires grabbed pavement and the car rocked forward, the rear door slamming shut.

Ahead loomed an open iron gate.

He raced through.

Out in the street, he wheeled right and roared off.

"Enough," Hayes said.

Droopy, Orleg, Vitenko, and the aide stopped their tussle.

Maxim Zubarev stood beside Hayes in the corridor. "Good show, gentlemen."

"Now," Hayes said. "Let's go track that motherfucker and find out what this is all about."

Lord swung the car around another corner, then slowed. In the rearview mirror he noticed no cars following, and the last thing he needed was to attract the attention of the police. The dashboard clock glowed five thirty. He still had half an hour to make the rendezvous. He was trying to remember the local geography. The zoo was south of town center, adjacent to the ocean, near San Francisco State University. Lake Merced was nearby. On an earlier trip, he'd fished there for trout.

That seemed like an eternity ago. Back when he was just an associate in a huge law firm, nobody beyond his secretary and supervising attorney caring what he did. Hard to believe all this had started just a week ago after a simple lunch in a Moscow restaurant. Artemy Bely had insisted on paying the tab, saying the next day's meal would be on Lord. He'd allowed the courtesy, knowing the Russian lawyer made less in a year than he did in three months. He'd liked Bely, a seemingly knowledgeable, easygoing young man. Yet all he now remembered was the image of Bely's bullet-ridden corpse, lying on the sidewalk, Orleg telling him there were too many dead to bother covering them.

The bastard.

He turned at the next intersection and headed south, away from the Golden Gate Bridge, toward the ocean side of the peninsula. It helped when signs started appearing for the zoo, and he followed them through evening traffic. Soon he left the congestion of commercialism behind for the quiet hills and trees of St. Francis Wood, the villas set back from the road, most with iron gates and fountains.

He was amazed that he was even able to drive, but a rush of adrenaline surging through him had charged his senses. His muscles still ached from the electricity and he was winded from repeated strangulations, but he was starting to feel alive again.

"Just let Akilina be there, waiting," he whispered.

He found the zoo and motored into a lighted parking lot. He left the keys in the sedan and trotted to the admission gate where he paid for a ticket, the attendant warning him that the park would be closing in little more than an hour.

The front of his sweater was wet from Orleg's dousing, the bloodied green wool carrying the feel of a damp towel in the chilly evening air. His face ached from the blows, and surely some swelling had contorted his features. He was probably quite a sight.

He trotted down the concrete walkway, amber lights illuminating the way. A few visitors milled about, several more strolling in the opposite direction back toward the exit. He passed a primate center and elephant exhibit and followed direction signs to the Lion House.

His watch read six PM.

Darkness was starting to conquer the sky. Only the sounds of animals muted by thick walls disturbed an otherwise peaceful scene. The air smelled of fur and food. He entered the Lion House through a set of double glass doors.

Akilina stood before a pacing tiger. He sympathized with the animal trapped in a cage-exactly where he'd been the entire afternoon.

Her face reflected relief and joy. She rushed toward him and they hugged, her grip desperately tight. He held her as she trembled.

"I was just about to leave," she said. Her hand gently traced his swollen jaw and bruised eye. "What happened?"

"Orleg and one of the men who's been after me are here."

"I heard you scream through the phone." She told him about her call and the man she'd talked with.

"The Russian in charge called himself Zubarev. There must be others at the consulate helping them besides Vitenko. But I don't think Vitenko is one of them. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here." He told her what had happened just a few minutes before. "I checked all the way here, but nobody was behind me." He noticed the bag slung over her shoulder. "What's that?"

"I didn't want to trust these things to the hotel. Better to keep everything with me."

He decided not to argue about her foolishness. "We're getting out of here. As soon as we're safe, I'm calling Taylor Hayes and getting some help. This is way out of control."

"I'm glad you are okay."

He suddenly realized they were still in each other's arms and drew back to look at her.

"It's okay," she said softly.

"What do you mean?"

"You can kiss me."

"How do you know I want to?"

"I just do."

He touched his lips to hers, then pulled away. "This is really strange."