Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [23]
She called out to him in Russian—just as she had called out to him every day and every night as he sat by her in the hospital, watching her fight for her life.
“Papa, Papa.”
Chapter 25
MARTA KRALL WAS as beautiful as she was intelligent, as intelligent as she was deadly. She was nearly six feet tall, with white-blond hair, a former model who could make a man’s heart beat faster just by walking into a room. But for the right amount of money she could make a man’s heart stop. Permanently.
Chukov had tracked Krall down in Los Angeles. Eight hours later, she entered his apartment, wearing Marc Jacobs pleated black leather jodhpurs and a Derek Lam dark gray cashmere cowl-neck sweater. Her hair was cropped close to her face, framing perfect features and flawless skin that most men and many women longed to touch.
She sat down and stared at Chukov.
An ice sculpture, he thought. Cold to the very core. The perfect killer.
“I read in the New York Times that Walter Zelvas was found dead in the Grand Central fiasco,” she said.
“Yes,” Chukov said. “He decided to take early retirement.”
“You should have called me,” she said. “Then his retirement party might not have been front-page news.”
“It was a rush job. He was planning to leave town.”
“More likely he was planning to leave the hemisphere,” Krall said. “Why was he running?”
“He was stealing from the Syndicate, and we found out about it.”
“I see. And since you’re in the diamond business, I’m guessing he wasn’t pilfering office supplies.”
“Very observant,” Chukov said. “And now I want to recover everything he stole.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said. “I don’t do lost and found. Call me when you have something more challenging and interesting. Wet work is best for me.”
“Here,” Chukov said, handing her a photo of a preppy-looking young man standing next to a locker. “Get this guy as wet as you want.”
Marta studied the picture. “Sexy guy,” she said. “I almost hate to kill him. Not really, but a little. I’d prefer to play with him first, though.”
“Just find out what he did with my diamonds. Can you do that?”
“With one hand tied behind my back,” she said, staring at the Russian with sea-green eyes. “And both hands tied behind his.”
They negotiated her price, a high one.
“One question,” Marta said. “Who am I in competition with? And if you lie to me, I’ll know it, and I’ll be on the first flight back to L.A. Or Hamburg.”
“It’s not a competition,” Chukov said. “I got two local dickhead cops who work for me, and one professional.”
“Who?”
“The Ghost.”
Marta kept her icy exterior, but inside she was roiling. She had never met the Ghost, but she despised him. People talked about him like he was a god.
“The Ghost,” she said casually. “I’ve heard he’s pretty good.”
Chukov laughed. “Pretty good? They say he’s the only assassin who will go to heaven. Satan would be too nervous having him around.”
“If he’s so good, why do you need me?”
“Because my boss wants a backup.”
She stood up. “I’m nobody’s backup. Get somebody else to suck hind tit.”
Chukov knew he’d handled her wrong. He watched as she headed toward the door. Prince would kill him if he lost her.
“Wait,” he said. “Forget about what my boss wants. I want you because I think the Ghost might know more about the missing diamonds than he lets on, and I’ll pay you double if you’ll do me the honor of killing him.”
Krall looked surprised. Nothing would make her happier than to eliminate the Ghost. And now someone was willing to pay her to do it.
She reached out and shook Chukov’s hand. “I accept.”
Chukov had surprised himself by his impulsiveness. But then he lowered his eyes to his chest. He could still see the red dot boring into his skin, into his flesh, trying to tear a hole in his dignity.
He had no regrets about his sudden decision. The Ghost must die.
Vadim Chukov bows to no man.
Chapter 26
MARTA KRALL TOOK a cab to 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue and bought a turkey, avocado, and bacon sandwich at the ’wichcraft kiosk in Bryant Park. She found a quiet table under a London plane