his snifter of Courvoisier L’Essence, pondering ways and means. He’d been contacted—through secure channels—by Prince Nikolai Marianescu, the king of Zakhar’s cousin. The cousin who’d failed so miserably eighteen months ago to dethrone the king and take his place, and who now resided in a prison cell.
The king’s cousin had named most of his coconspirators in the plot to kill the king—including two of Vishenko’s henchmen—but he had not dared to name Vishenko himself. Now he was trying to use his previous silence—and the threat of disclosure—to force Vishenko to do his bidding. The prince wanted revenge on Zakhar’s royal couple by assassinating their precious son who was not yet a month old—the heir all of Zakhar had prayed for.
Crown Prince Raoul was vulnerable, the prince insisted. There was a perfect window of opportunity coming up for him to die a very public, very gruesome death his parents would never recover from. The perfect revenge.
Vishenko smiled to himself, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and reluctantly came to the same conclusion as the unfortunate prince who thought he still had leverage from within his prison cell. It was a false assumption, but Vishenko was not going to say so. Not yet.
He had his own reasons for wanting the child dead, and they had nothing to do with vengeance. Only expedience. A means to a desired end.
He didn’t want Zakhar’s king dead—not anymore—despite the ongoing risk of his illegal activities being exposed. Despite the fact that the Russian Brotherhood, the Bratva—a branch of which Vishenko headed in the US as well as Zakhar—cared nothing for the monarchy. Any monarchy. Or any government, for that matter.
The king was good for Zakhar, and therefore good for Vishenko—that was all he cared about. Stable governments meant stable economies, which were greatly beneficial to his various legitimate enterprises all over the world, including Zakhar. All his legitimate Zakharian enterprises had prospered these past few years under the king’s rule. And he was nothing if not a pragmatist.
He just wanted the king...distracted for a time. Wanted the king’s attention focused elsewhere, just long enough for Vishenko’s men to wind down the operation that threatened to expose his identity.
The arrival of the American embassy’s new regional security officer, Alec Jones—who the current RSO insisted was incorruptible—had prompted the Americans to suggest shutting things down immediately.
He couldn’t do it. There were women in the pipeline, and the operation was just too profitable to bring it to a screeching halt. Especially when it had just been expanded six months ago. If the new RSO was truly not susceptible to bribery—and Vishenko was by no means convinced of that, since he believed every man had his price—then perhaps Alec Jones could be...nullified...in another fashion. The Americans would balk, of course. Corruption was one thing in their minds. Murder was something completely different.
So perhaps it would be better to do as the Americans wanted and shut things down...for now. A few more weeks—that’s all his men needed to wrap things up and put the operation in Zakhar on the shelf. It could be dusted off later and reinstated if circumstances changed. If not...well, there were other European countries, after all. It would just be a matter of bribing the right officials.
Aleksandrov Vishenko had operated in the shadow world for years with few people the wiser, reaping the rewards that came to a man who had no scruples. No morals. It would not have been a bad thing if Prince Nikolai had dethroned the king of Zakhar and taken his place, for then Vishenko would have had the new king in his pocket.
Not to be, he thought with a fatalistic shrug. Prince Nikolai was in jail and would remain there. Which meant Vishenko was safe...for now. But that could change.
So the little crown prince had to die. Unfortunate but necessary. And when he did, Prince Nikolai would die, as well. Wrapping up that loose end, making it appear a suicide, would be tricky. But no more impossible than other deaths Vishenko had successfully arranged over the years, including deaths inside prisons. No more impossible than killing the crown prince.
There is one more loose end I must eliminate, he reminded himself coldly, clinically. This one would be harder to accomplish than killing the two princes—man and child—because he at least knew where they were. It was different with Caterina. She had run six years ago, vanishing into thin air, and had never been found despite the bounty he’d placed on her head. He’d agonized at first—unnecessarily, as it turned out—that Caterina would take the evidence she’d compiled against him to the feds, and he’d lived in fear for nearly two years, waiting for the ax to fall. Waiting to be arrested. Tried. Convicted. He’d finally relaxed...but not completely. His men had continued searching for her, to no avail.
Caterina had been a grievous error in judgment—two grievous errors, he admitted. Letting her into his life...and letting her live to tell. I will not be secure until all three are dead, he thought as he savored another sip of brandy. Prince Nikolai. Crown Prince Raoul. And Caterina Mateja.
Alec sat quietly in a small conference room with only the secretary of state, the king of Zakhar and a man who’d been introduced as Colonel Marianescu, head of internal security. Though nothing more was said, Alec knew Colonel Marianescu was the king’s cousin as well as his closest confidant and adviser. The fact that only four men were in the room was a dead giveaway something extremely confidential was going to be discussed.
The king opened by thanking both Americans for being there. “I asked for this private meeting with you, Mr. Secretary,” he said, his steely gaze fixing on the secretary of state before moving to Alec, “and with your embassy’s new regional security officer, to tell you I had more than just a personal reason behind my request for a new RSO at the embassy in Zakhar. I wanted to speak to you both in person—privately—to explain.”
The king’s lips tightened. “We have heard rumors of corruption and fraud at the US embassy here in Drago related to trafficking in women.” His flint-eyed expression left no doubt how he felt about this. “Prostitution, Mr. Secretary. Forced prostitution. The queen is incensed, and rightfully so—any decent person would feel the same. And the word is this corruption at your embassy is occurring at high levels. Possibly even the highest levels.”
The secretary of state looked shocked. “I can assure you, Your Majesty, that—”
The king cut him off. “I do not want assurances from you, sir. I believe you are sincerely shocked by this allegation. Nevertheless, if the rumors are to be believed, Zakharians are involved...as both predator and prey. And there are whispers the Bratva may have a hand in this, as well.”
Cold anger was coming off the king in waves. “I want this crime syndicate stopped now. Not a year from now, or two years from now, after an investigation finds proof that holds up in a US courtroom.” He glanced at Alec again. “The Drago police force is already on the case, but that investigation can only go so far. By bringing in a new RSO, whatever is going on at the US embassy will be stopped. Now. I am sure of it.”
He drew a deep breath and forcibly relaxed. Then he smiled faintly at Alec. “If I could trust you with my sister’s safety, Special Agent Jones—and I did—I believe I can trust you in this.”
The allegations disturbed Alec, but he wasn’t shocked. This wouldn’t be the first time someone in a position of trust within a US embassy was accused of visa fraud, although he wouldn’t have thought the embassy here in Zakhar was a likely target for people desperate enough to pay under the table to obtain a US visa to escape the conditions
