Exposure Read online

  "Fine." He agreed against his better judgment, but a part of him was happy to have her there. Happy to be bantering as if nothing had happened last night. Of course he knew that sooner or later they'd have to face reality, but in the meantime he was damn glad to have her sitting next to him. Not that he was going to admit it. "But we'll have to call Cullen."

  "As long as you don't ditch me in the process."

  "I said you could stay. I don't go back on my word, Melissa." He hadn't meant it to be a pointed comment, but for a moment the subliminal conversation was about a great deal more than whether or not she was going with him to Celik's.

  "I didn't say you did." She returned her attention to flying the helicopter, but he could see by the set of her jaw that he'd hurt her.

  "Look, I didn't mean to..."

  She waved a hand, cutting him off. "It doesn't matter. Let's concentrate on finding out what we can about Celik, all right?"

  "If that's what you want." He fell silent then, staring out the window at the George Washington Bridge. She'd always known how to press his buttons, and now evidently he'd mastered hers, as well. Hell of a thing, caring about someone.

  "EVERYTHING IS AS IT should be?" Khamis spoke softly into the microphone of his headset, his eyes trained on the building in front of him. Alexi Kirov s apartment was a third-floor walk-up in an old Brooklyn Heights brownstone. The building itself was a little run-down, but the neighborhood was pricey. Typical of Americans. They built up an area until all charm and history were lost, and then moved on like a swarm of locusts to devour whatever they found next.

  Kirov wasn't American, but he'd made it more than clear that he wished he had been. The harsh allure of capitalism had worked its magic and now held the Russian firmly in its grasp, the false sense of security it afforded making him take risks that threatened not only his network but also Khamis's operation.

  "I have the package." The headset crackled to life, Malik's voice sounding close by. He was, in fact, across the island in a loft in the financial district. The miracles of modern communication.

  "Everything is accounted for?"

  "All elements are present and secure," Malik assured him.

  "Very well." Khamis nodded even though his friend could not see him. "Did you take care of everything at Celik's?"

  "I planted what you requested, although I'm not certain I fully understand why."

  "A ploy to flush out my quarry. You have everything you need for assembly?"

  "Almost everything." Malik accepted the change of subject without question. One of the reasons they had remained friends for so many years. "One of the components was damaged in transit. I'll have to replace it."

  "Can you do that without being traced?" Khamis asked, worry tugging at his gut.

  "Of course, my friend. I wouldn't attempt it otherwise."

  Despite the dire nature of the situation, Khamis smiled. "Very well. You get what you need, and I'll finish things here. We're so close, Malik."

  His friend was silent for a moment. "Are you sure you want to proceed?"

  "There is no choice. Everything has lined up in our favor. Allah has smiled upon us—we mustn't let fear pull us away from that fact."

  "You mistake me," Malik said, his tone derisive. "I am not afraid. I would gladly die for our cause. But you must be sure it is truly Allah who is smiling and not a devil clouding your vision."

  "My vision is clear. Proceed."

  Again there was a brief hesitation, then a sigh. "As you wish."

  Static surged as Malik disconnected, and Khamis reached up to switch the headset off. Perhaps Malik was right. Maybe he was letting his own desires cloud the truth. But he couldn't stop now. He had come too far. He would strike for both his cause and his family.

  Only then could balance be restored.

  He closed his eyes and opened them again, his mind now firmly centered on the task at hand. He'd been watching the building for most of the morning, counting its inhabitants as they'd left for work. According to his count the building should be empty. Or at least mostly so. Crossing the street, he kept his pace purposefully slow, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

  He strode up the stairs to the brownstone and, using the device Malik had provided, was inside in no time. It was the second time he'd been in the building. The first had been on the heels of a young woman who lived on the first floor. He'd needed to make sure that there weren't security cameras, and as he'd expected, there was nothing.

  The residents here spent their money on revitalizing the old building, not protecting themselves. Foolish arrogance. He took the stairs in easy strides, and again using Malik's electronic key, was inside Alexi's apartment in less than two minutes.

  The Russian had few possessions, but those he did have were of the highest quality. A sound system with flat-screen television occupied most of the west wall. Blatant idolatry. Khamis stopped at a small desk between the bedroom and the living room. A date book lay open on top. The man was making it too easy.

  Khamis grabbed a pen with one gloved hand, and then turned back a page or two. After studying Alexi's handwriting, he made a brief entry and returned the book to its original position. Turning toward the television, he scanned the room. The only other furniture was a sofa on the same wall as the door. The placement was wrong. The open door would provide a barrier. Better to wait in the bedroom.

  Unlike the front room, there was more personality here. Bits of Mother Russia that Alexi no doubt believed bought him justification for his decadence. Soon he would not have any doubt which side of the battle he had chosen. If he believed in hell, then he'd soon be there.

  Khamis pulled out his gun and sat on the bed. He was good at waiting. He'd waited so many years to put his plan in action. First ferreting out the needed information, information that Malik had believed he could never unearth. But Malik had underestimated Khamis's tenacity. In time his patience had won out and he'd found all that he needed to know.

  The door clicked as the lock was sprung. Khamis tightened his hand on the gun, checking the silencer.

  Footsteps moved slowly from the front door into the apartment. Khamis heard the television come on. American extremists lying about his people, claiming their superiority. Anger flooded through him, but he fought it down, knowing that it, too, was his enemy.

  In the past few days he had pulled everything he could on Russian mob hits. It was important that he make things look exactly right. When Alexi was found, it must appear to be a contracted death. A double cross or perhaps simply another step in the mob's plan to undermine the UN.

  By the time the authorities worked it out, Khamis and Malik would be gone and there would be bigger problems for America to face.

  He smiled, listening as Alexi's footsteps grew closer. Two more steps and...

  The bullet ripped through Alexi Kirov before he even had time to open his mouth in surprise. He stood for a moment in confusion, trying to sort through what was happening, but before he could find his answer—he was dead.

  Khamis stepped dispassionately over the body and picked up the appointment book. Ripping out the page he'd written on, he placed the book near Alexi's outstretched hand and then walked from the apartment. The hallway was empty and, after carefully relocking Kirov's door, he strode down the stairs and out into the street. One obstacle had been eliminated.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HAKAN CELIK'S APARTMENT was in Tudor City. Close to the UN, the building was part rental, part owner with the accompanying hodgepodge of tenants. Celik lived on the sixth floor in a one-bedroom corner unit that actually belonged to the Turkish embassy. Melissa and Nigel had entered the building without incident, Cullen's magic having cleared the way.

  They had identified themselves as real estate agents hired to list the apartment for the embassy. The fact that there were two rather than one didn't seem to faze the man at the desk, and they'd been given a key without further question. Melissa now stood in the living room of Celik's apartment, surveyin
g the accoutrements of the man's life.

  Except for the odd remnant of the NYC forensic team's examination, it looked as if Celik had just stepped out for a slice. There was an open soft drink can on the kitchen counter, the empty glass next to it still bearing traces of fingerprint powder.

  The sofa was littered with magazines and junk mail. Evidently Celik hadn't been a believer in throwing out the trash. The floor in front of the sofa was covered with newspapers, most of them old.

  "Either he wasn't here much, or the man was a slob." Nigel appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, the sound of his voice reminding Melissa of other things his mouth was capable of.

  She pushed all emotion away. "It's hard to know where to start."

  "If there's anything here, I'll wager it's either amazingly well hidden, or it's staring us in the face."

  "Thanks for narrowing it down."

  "No problem." Nigel grinned, his mustache making him look almost wicked. "You start with the newspapers and mail, and I'll check out the closets and radiators."

  "Hey," she said, "hiding my files behind the radiator turned out to be a damn good idea. If I hadn't, they'd be in the hands of New York's Finest."

  "That's why I'm checking them out," Nigel laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender.

  Thirty minutes later, she knew a hell of a lot more about Celik's reading preferences than she'd ever wanted to know. The man definitely had a penchant for American pornography. Unfortunately, the preference did nothing whatsoever to help identify the man's true accomplice.

  His bills had been equally unhelpful. There were a couple of unidentified cell-phone calls worth checking out further, but no calls to the UN or names that seemed familiar. She pocketed the bill for further examination.

  "You finding anything?" she called into the kitchen, where Nigel was going through the cabinets. So far the closets had been silently unhelpful.

  "The guy liked his cereal. There's like fourteen different kinds here. American overkill."

  "He wasn't American."

  "No. But Super Pops and Trix are. You'd think one corn-puff cereal would be more than enough for the world."

  Melissa shrugged with a smile. "Capitalism at its best. You should see his choice in magazines, they run the gamut from Playboy to Jugs."

  "Poor guy obviously wasn't getting any." Nigel's voice was muffled as he stepped into the pantry.

  Melissa ignored the comment and turned her concentration to the piles of newspapers. Like the magazines, they didn't run to heavy journalism. The Post was a favorite, along with Newsday and the occasional copy of the Star. She sorted through them, stacking like copies together by date. It was unlikely that there'd be anything in his reading habits to suggest a connection to someone at the UN, but she liked to be thorough.

  She'd worked her way to the far end of the sofa and the last group of newspapers when she picked up a copy of the Wall Street Journal. The lead article was about a proposed merger between two megaliths that threatened SEC rules. Nothing else on the front page seemed of value, but she put it to the side. If nothing else, the fact that it didn't fit with the rest of his reading material was noteworthy.

  She sorted through the rest of the newspapers, then returned to the Journal, something inside her urging a closer look.

  "Well, there's nothing in there. No loose ceiling tiles, floorboards or hidden compartments that I can find. Not even a stray key."

  "There's not much here, either." Melissa looked up as Nigel walked into the room. "But this is kind of interesting."

  "The Wall Street Journal? I find it a little dry."

  Nigel had always been able to make her laugh.

  "Well, that's actually the point. This is the only one here. And believe me its floormates are in a whole other class." She waved her hand toward the stack of Newsdays.

  "Anything in the editorial copy?"

  "Nothing to do with the UN. It's dated two weeks ago." She pulled out a couple of sections and tossed them to Nigel. "Have a look."

  He took the newspaper and settled into an armchair, already thumbing through the pages.

  Melissa picked up the front page and flipped through. "Nothing here."

  "Nor here."

  With a sigh, Melissa closed the newspaper, her gaze falling In the address label in the corner of the back page. "Hang on." Her heart started pounding and she reread it just to be certain.

  Nigel had crossed to her side and was looking down at the label, too, a smile quirking the corner of his mustache. "I'll be damned. It was right under our noses."

  According to the label, the newspaper belonged to Alexi Kirov.

  "Kirov is on your list, right?"

  "Yeah, I've met him, but I haven't had the chance to investigate him. In fact, I was trying to schedule a time the night ot the party."

  "Anything he said or did seem out of the ordinary?"

  Melissa tried to think back. It seemed like decades ago rather than just a couple of days. "I didn't like him much. But that was as close as it came to him making me think he was the one."

  "Sometimes instinct is your best ally."

  "You sound like Madison." Melissa folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket with the phone bill. "So what do we do next?"

  "We find Kirov."

  ALEXI KIROV'S APARTMENT WAS a walk-up in a Brooklyn brownstone, and Nigel found himself wondering how anyone did it day in and day out. At least it was only the third floor.

  There wasn't an on-site super, but they'd arrived at the same time as another tenant was leaving. This time Nigel's credentials had done the trick, and the woman had been only too happy to let them into the building and direct them to Kirov's floor. As they hit the landing, Nigel pulled out his gun.

  "You think that's necessary?" Melissa whispered.

  "I like to err on the side of caution. Besides, if Alexi is our man, there's no telling how he'll react."

  "All right then." She reached behind her, pulling a .38 from her waistband.

  "Where the hell did you get that?" he asked, frowning.

  "Cullen's study." She grinned. "Desk drawer is a sure bet almost every time."

  "Remind me to have a little talk with him about his security." Nigel knew he was reacting badly, but he didn't like the idea of Cullen leaving handguns lying about.

  "It's not like I don't know how to use one. If I'd thought of it I'd have had you bring mine from my apartment."

  "When in Rome," he mumbled, blowing out a long breath. "You ready?"

  She nodded and together they moved down the hallway, Nigel flanking the left side of door, while Melissa took the right. Nigel reached over to knock on the door, not bothering to identify himself. Better to catch the bastard by surprise.

  Nothing happened, and he repeated the action. Again nothing.

  "Cover me." He waited for Melissa to move into position and then quickly picked the lock. He felt rather than saw her surprise but didn't stop to explain. There were a lot of skills a man in his position needed, picking locks being the least of them.

  Leading with his gun, he cracked the door, then swung it open. At first all he saw was an empty apartment. And then he looked down. Alexi Kirov lay faceup on the floor near a small desk, a bullet hole marking what had been the center of his forehead.

  Without thinking, he moved to block Melissa from entering the apartment, but she'd pushed past him, her face tight with anger.

  "Stop treating me like some kind of hothouse flower. I know how to use a gun. In my business it's a necessity. People in war zones rarely stop to ask which side I'm on. They shoot first. I like to be able shoot back. And I've sure as hell seen a dead body before. Many of them a whole lot harder to stomach than this one."

  "I'm sorry..." He trailed on, frustrated. He seemed to be apologizing a lot of late. "I guess I didn't think."

  "The old testosterone just kicked in, right? Big man save little woman."

  "It's not like that and you know it," he said, his anger matching hers. "It's perfe
ctly natural to try and protect someone you care about. So don't ask me to stop, because I'm bloody hell not going to do it."

  Her anger dissipated. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just that sometimes I get tired of being underestimated."

  "Believe me, Melissa, I do not underestimate you."

  She nodded, her gaze locking on Kirov. "What do you think happened here?"

  "A professional hit, if I had to call it. Dead center, hardly any blood, and Kirov here doesn't even look surprised. I'd say he either knew his killer, or was dead before the fact regis-tered." Nigel bent down to pick up a book lying near Kirov's outstretched hand, careful not to disturb any prints.

  "What is it?"

  "A day planner." Nigel flipped through the little book. "Looks like there's a page missing." He pointed to the jagged edge of paper next to the spiral binding.

  "A whole day." Melissa stared down at the book, her brow wrinkling in thought. "Nigel, it's the same day that Celik was killed."

  "So the question is, who tore it out?"

  "I'm guessing the killer." Melissa walked over to the wastebasket and rifled through the contents. "Nothing here."

  "So we've got a dead man and a missing diary page. Not a lot of help."

  "Well, I'd say this is a pretty good indication that Alexi was involved in all this somehow. We've just got to figure out what Ms role was."

  "Agreed." He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started to dial, but before he could connect, something whizzed past his ear, his gut identifying it before his brain. "Get down," he yelled, diving for Melissa. They clattered to the floor, just missing Alexi's body, and together rolled to the corner, out of range of both the window and door.

  "You hit?" he whispered into Melissa's hair. She shook her head, and he rolled off her to his knees, his gun at the ready.

  "Where did it come from?" Melissa asked, holding the .38 with both hands.

  "Window, I think." He nodded toward the open window in the opposite wall. Suddenly another slug slammed into the wall above their heads, the curtain undulating wildly.