Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(52)

He looked toward the Potomac. “Who’s there on Petrov’s boat?” She turned automatically and he hit her hard with the butt of the Walther. She didn’t make a sound, just sagged against him.

“Hey!” Henley took a step toward him. “Why’d you do that?”

Henley was becoming a nuisance. “She’s all right. I’m thinking it’d be easier if you carry her. You didn’t think you’d be staying with the helicopter, did you, mate?”

“I was told to drop you and take off again.”

“Change of plans. Not going to happen. Come and get Elena. “Where’s Petrov’s man? Abram?”

“He’ll be meeting us.”

Liam saw the moment Henley realized he’d unwittingly given away the farm, and smiled. “Don’t feel bad, old man. The only person I could never fool was my da, a right mean son of a bitch. Come on, take her.”

Henley lifted Elena in his arms rather than over his shoulder, and staggered. Liam grinned. Elena was well muscled, not a lightweight.

Liam waved the Walther. “Walk ahead of me. If you do anything stupid, I’ll blow your head apart.”

Henley looked at the Walther, swallowed, gave him a terrified smile. “Ah, you know you never want to kill the pilot.”

So Henley thought it would be hard to kill a man who was funny. It was a good point. He smiled. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” He waved the Walther. Always careful, Liam limped three steps behind Henley across the scrubby plot of land to a well-worn winding path through a thick copse of trees, full-leafed in midsummer. At the far edge of the trees a green yard spread out in front of them, sloping up to a house facing the Potomac. It wasn’t a mansion like some of the houses he’d seen from the air, not pretentious at all, but it wasn’t a shack, either. It was elegant in its own simple way, all wood and glass, beautifully weathered, a getaway, designed for the owner and guests to come and go in privacy. And the boss’s boat was thirty yards from the front door.

As Liam limped along the flagstone path toward the house, he saw a wide, roofed porch, with two ancient rocking chairs with faded red cushions. Liam couldn’t imagine someone like Petrov hanging out there, rocking back and forth, enjoying an evening martini. Everything was silent. He didn’t see the man Abram or any other sign of life in the house.

But then the wooden front door opened and an older man walked out onto the porch. He was deeply tanned and perfectly bald. He stood with his arms crossed, his head cocked to one side as he watched them come toward him. He was tall and fit, wearing a white suit, buttoned over a white shirt, white loafers on his bare feet. He wasn’t smiling.

“That’s Abram?”

Henley nodded.

“Say hello, you idiot.”

“Abram, how are you? Is Mr. Petrov here?”

“Yes, of course. Where else would he be?” Abram never looked away from the unconscious Elena in Henley’s arms. “He’s been waiting. You made good time. I see there’s a problem. Mr. Petrov will not be pleased. Bring Ms. Orlov inside. I assume she isn’t dead or dying?”

Liam stepped around Henley, aimed his Walther at Abram. “Hello, Abram. I’m Liam Hennessey. Don’t you worry about Elena, I gave her a small tap on the head to keep her quiet. Take us to Petrov.”

Abram’s big hands fisted, then relaxed. He turned on his heel and walked into the house, Henley and Liam following him.

Liam watched him lightly tap on a door, open it, and stick his head in. He heard Russian. Then another man’s voice, low and controlled, also speaking Russian.

Abram turned. “Come.”

Liam waved the Walther for Abram to precede them and limped behind Henley into a long narrow room with a full bank of wide windows facing the Potomac. He saw dark-stained wooden shelves on two walls, nearly empty, only a dozen or so hardcover books. At the far end of the room stood a big mahogany desk. He watched a man rise when he saw Elena unmoving in Henley’s arms and rush around the desk. His voice was sharp, with a clipped upper-class British accent. “What happened, Henley? Is she all right?” He turned quickly to Liam. “What did you do to her?”

“She’ll be fine, Mr. Petrov.”

“If you’ve harmed her, you’re a dead man.”

Liam smiled. “She’ll have a headache, but that should be all. You know as well as I do if I hadn’t knocked her out, she would have carved out my liver and trussed me up like a turkey for your pleasure. Why should I take a chance of your putting your foot on my neck or locking me up with no food or water until I tell you what you want to know?”

“I am not a barbarian, Manta Ray.”

“Call me Liam, Liam Hennessey. My old street name no longer fits me.”

Petrov ignored him, waved to Henley to put Elena down on the pale blue brocade sofa. So Elena really was Petrov’s Achilles’ heel. Liam felt the balance of power shift, and smiled.

Liam hated showing Petrov weakness, but Petrov already knew about his heel, Elena must have told him. He limped to a chair, sat down, and was glad the throbbing eased. He studied the boss. Petrov was in his midforties, not a big man, but he had presence, as if he understood power and how to wield it. Odd impression, that, but there it was. Petrov’s forehead was high, his dark hair spearing a thick widow’s peak in the middle of his forehead; his hair receding well back on each side. It reminded him of Nicolas Cage’s hair, the American actor Liam knew well, having watched his movies at the Old Goddard theatre in Belfast. He had Cage’s black eyes, too, but his nose was long and thin, his cheekbones high, and he had very white skin, like he’d never been in the sun. A vampire, the bloody Russian looked like a pretty vampire with Nicolas Cage hair.