had been strolling through the museum, and so far neither had looked at a single painting. Bjorn, still matching Merrick’s steps, said, “That would mean he would have to trust someone. From what I know about him, Holic trusts damn few. That’s why he’s been so elusive.”
“Then if he doesn’t hire someone to pull the trigger, what do you think he’ll do? A useless hand isn’t going to get the job done.”
“He’ll retire. He’ll find a buyer for the kill-file, sell it for a few billion, then enjoy his money and his myriad of mistresses until he’s too old to find his zipper.”
Merrick stopped in his tracks. “Sell the file? You think that’s a possibility?”
“That’s what I’d do. Holic’s life revolves around two things, killing and women. If he can’t do one, then he’ll bury himself in the other. No pun intended. His reputation is flawless, and if that’s all he has left then he’ll want to preserve his legend status. He’s got a big ego.”
“Then the sooner we locate him the better, before he starts shopping for buyers and the perfect getaway. Which brings us back to the question of the hour. Which lucky lady is going to keep you warm in Austria? It doesn’t matter to me who goes, so make your choice.”
It would matter, Bjorn thought. If Merrick knew that he and Nadja Stefn had a history and he decided to take her along, there would be a dozen questions. Questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. He’d never mentioned her in his report five years ago when he’d gotten back from Vienna. She’d had no bearing on his mission while he was there, and he’d wanted to forget her.
But that had been impossible for a man with a telephoto memory and instant-recall capabilities.
Normally Nadja wouldn’t have minded cooling her heels. She could use the time to pull herself together. But nature was calling and she needed to use the rest room because her morning routine had exploded into chaos the minute she’d opened her eyes and realized she had overslept.
She stood and glanced at Pasha Lenova across the room, then down at her friend, Casmir. “I’m going to the little girl’s room. If I’m still gone when our almighty commander decides to show himself, tell him I went for coffee. Still take two creams, Cass?”
“Two creams, no sugar. I don’t get paid for being super-sweet like you do. I’m the ruthless bitch, remember?”
Nadja smiled. Casmir was good at playing a ruthless bitch, just like all the other roles she had perfected in the name of Quest. But that’s not who she really was. Out of character, she had a beautiful smile, was extremely generous and had impeccable manners, thanks to her Russian mother, Ruza.
“I thought that was Pasha’s job,” Nadja teased. “Presenting attitude.”
Pasha blinked open her eyes and gave Nadja and Casmir the finger. “I do my talking behind a gun, that’s a fact. I don’t play dress-up, or straddle my victims. Being a hard case suits me just fine.”
Pasha’s words had Casmir on her feet and on the defensive. She was the slightest of the three, but fiery nonetheless.
Nadja stepped in front of her friend before she did something stupid—like knock Pasha off her chair. They were all friends, but sometimes the pressures of the job put Cass and Pasha at each other’s throat, and they took things too far.
If Polax walked in and found a monkey pile on the floor…again…they were all going to be sitting this one out.
She said, “Sit down, Cass. You two have already been caught fighting once this week.”
Casmir touched the faint bruise on her cheek, the last bit of evidence that there had been more than words exchanged with Pasha, then settled back in her chair. “Why aren’t you wearing your jacket? Polax is going to say something.”
“It’s missing a button.”
Nadja glanced at Casmir’s crisp white shirt beneath her immaculate black suit jacket, then at Pasha who was wearing a similar outfit. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be satisfied with seeing it. If he does say something, I’ll complain about being too hot.”
Casmir’s gaze shifted to Nadja’s chest. “I wish my blouse fit me half as good as yours fits you.” She made a show of sticking out her chest, her modest 32B no match for Nadja’s full-figured 34C. “Maybe I should have implants. What do you think?”
“Men like petite women.” Nadja pushed Cass’s long honey-colored hair off her shoulder and it rippled down her back to tease her waist. “You have gorgeous hair, and rescue-me-please eyes.” She fluttered her own to emphasize the fact. “Just look what that combination accomplished with Yurii Petrov, a man rumored to have no heart. He fell in love.”
“He wasn’t in love with me,” Casmir argued. “He was in lust. Anyway, I want to forget that mission. Him.”
“I’m sure you do, but he will never forget you. I’m sure of that.” Nadja pointed to the diamond-and-ruby ring on Casmir’s finger. “I see you’re still wearing the ring he gave you. Why is that? If you’re trying to forget—”
“I don’t ever want to forget.” Casmir held up her hand and studied the priceless bauble on her slender finger. “This reminds me of what can happen when you start to enjoy your work too much. Luckily I came to my senses in time. Yurii was not a nice man.”
“There are no nice men, Cass. They only exist in a weak woman’s mind.”
“I’m beginning to believe that. Who do you think will be going to Austria?” Casmir asked, changing the subject. “I hope it’s not me. I just got back from Munich and I’m still trying to catch up on my sleep.”
“Unlike you, I was hoping it would be me,” Nadja admitted. “But I overslept this morning, and you know how Polax feels about scheduled appointments. He’s probably already crossed me off the list for walking through the front door late.”
She gave Casmir an oh-well shrug, though in her heart she felt sick about the lost chance. She needed to be on that plane bound for Austria. It was the only way to find out what had happened to Ruger.
“I’ll be back with the coffee,” she said.
It had been five years since he’d seen her. But Bjorn remembered that night in Vienna like it was yesterday.
He’d been on Onyxx business, and Nadja was most likely on similar business for Quest. Although at the time, who she was or where she worked hadn’t been important. The only thing he had cared about when he’d seen her was celebrating the end of a long four-month field mission by getting laid.
He had gone out to a keller for a bite to eat and had just finished his meal when she’d entered the small restaurant wearing knee-high black boots, snowflakes in her wild blond hair.
She was breathless, her nose and cheeks as red as her wool cape. It wasn’t the same wool cape she was wearing when she stepped into the elevator today, but the similarities had been uncanny. So much so that it had put him back in Vienna in a blink of an eye.
That night she had made a quick search of the keller, located the rear exit, then left as quickly as she had appeared. He’d read the signs, knew she was on the run. He’d paid for his meal, then followed
