Drone Threat

52

Pearce called Myers’s cell phone from his car, but it was Mann who picked up again. She was sedated and resting under doctor’s orders. He promised to have her call Pearce when she awoke. Mann also assured Pearce that the German government was helping with her security — discreetly. The German press hadn’t been alerted to the incident or even to the former president’s presence on German soil. The last thing Berlin needed was more publicity about immigrants and violence after the incidents of mass rape and beatings that had been taking place since the tidal wave of migration began in 2015.

He thanked Mann again for all his help and rang off. He wished he could have talked to Margaret, though. He wanted to tell her that he was spiraling out of control. But then again, he probably wouldn’t have said anything. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her.

One more bender was all he needed to clear his system. Then he’d walk the straight and narrow for good.

A soft knock on the door of her Georgetown loft sent Grafton scurrying to open it. Tarkovsky stood in the doorway. His two hulking bodyguards remained in the hall, their backs discreetly turned away.

She pulled him inside her loft and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the favor.

“I’ve missed you,” Grafton whispered breathily.

The handsome Russian pulled off his sport coat. “Something smells marvelous.”

“I’ve ordered in.” She led him by the hand to the dining room. Candles, wine. A feast.

“Before I forget.” Tarkovsky reached into his pocket.

She bit her lower lip with anticipation. “Something for me? Something terribly expensive?”

“Not expensive, but something I think you will find extremely valuable.” He pulled out a thumb drive. Handed it to her. She examined it.

“It’s not Tiffany but it’s interesting. What’s in it?”

“Your friend Pearce. My contact in the SVR came through. Turns out there was a secret, unauthorized file on him. Not many details. But I think you’re going to be quite surprised at what you’ll find in there.” He loosened his tie.

“Surprised in a good way?”

Tarkovsky poured two glasses of wine. “Only if you want to get rid of him.”

Grafton pocketed the thumb drive. “You said a secret file? Sounds like someone had a special interest in him.”

“Pearce killed two SVR operatives in Mozambique just a few years ago. They want their revenge. Of course, the SVR would never attempt an operation on American soil without my government’s permission. But if Pearce can be removed from service some other way? There’s an old Russian saying, ‘Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good.’” He laid his hands on her shoulders.

She gazed into his hungering eyes. “I didn’t realize Voltaire was Russian.”

Tarkovsky began unbuttoning her blouse. “That’s what made him such an effective Russian spy.”

Grafton’s flesh tingled. “What about dinner?” She reached for his belt buckle. He answered with a lingering kiss.

They ate later.

Much later.

Pearce decided to spend the night at his corporate hotel suite. He couldn’t bring himself to get drunk at Myers’s place for the same reason he would never bring another woman into her home and violate the sanctity of their shared bed. What he was about to do felt like an even worse betrayal than that.

He put up a good fight, at least for a while. When he arrived at the lobby he checked in with the concierge for mail and messages, then picked up the house phone and ordered a steak dinner from the room service menu.

On the long ride up the elevator with the wide glass wall and spectacular view of the city, Pearce suddenly realized the anniversary of his dad’s death had passed him by again. The weeds around the old man’s lonely grave on the side of the hill in Wyoming would be three feet tall by now. He should’ve been there to trim them back down and clean the stone.

By the time he unlocked the front door and kicked off his shoes in the foyer he gave in to his lesser, fallen angel. He called the rooftop bar and ordered a bottle of his dad’s favorite, Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7. It arrived on the room service cart with a sizzling porterhouse and fries. He cracked open the bottle first and poured himself a tall one. He drank it standing up. It went down fast with a familiar burn. It knocked him sideways, just like he hoped it would. He filled his glass again and shoved a few salty fries in his mouth before draining it and then poured another and headed for the sofa.

He never got around to that steak.

Three-quarters of the way through the bottle, his iWatch alarmed. It was a text. Bleary-eyed and flushed, he picked up his phone and read it. “Package in the lobby. Marked urgent. Thx. Management.”

What could it be? Pearce ran through the possibilities in his fogged mind but couldn’t settle on anything definite. Why bother trying? Just go down and get the damn thing, he told himself.

He pulled on a pair of Vans and grabbed his pass key and headed uneasily for the door. He tried to be quiet. It was late and the guests in the neighboring suites were probably asleep, and the management was fussy about noise.

It was hard for him to hold a straight line down the long hallway and he brushed against the walls a few times. He finally arrived at the elevator and pushed the button. He stood there, wobbly, waiting for the stainless steel doors to open. It took forever. He leaned against the wall. His eyes were heavy. He closed them. The world spun on a nauseating axis but he was too tired to get off.

The elevator ding startled him.

The doors slid open but all Pearce saw was the massive fist slamming into his face. The force of the blow whipped him around. The pain in his jaw woke him up as he crashed down onto the carpeted floor. Before he could lift himself up to throw a punch, a heavy knee jammed into his spine and a pair of thick hands pinned his shoulders and head to the ground, pressing his face against the carpet. A needle stabbed his neck and a moment later he was gone.