The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [233]
He prowled the room, irritated by its smallness and the pretty Victorian decor. He needed the vastness of Haus Arnhaldt to contain his rages. He wanted to get out of there, to stalk the streets looking for his prey as he had Markheim and Abyss—but he had been stymied by the Turk’s incompetence.
The telephone jangled again and he leapt to pick it up. “Ja?” he said quickly.
“A limo arrived ten minutes ago at the Villa Kazahn,” the Turk said. “We have identified three of the men in it as Ahmet Kazahn, the Turkish foreign minister, and the American consul. The fourth is unknown but I’d guess he was American too. He arrived at the airport by army helicopter. The chief of police got here five minutes later.”
“Watch the house,” Arnhaldt said icily, “and next time do not wait ten minutes to tell me. I want to know immediately they leave—and where they go. If you let me down again, you idiot, there will be no more money.”
He slammed down the phone, pacing the room again, trying to figure out who Genie was with if it wasn’t Boris Solovsky. After ten minutes he could stand it no longer. He left the hotel and walked quickly to his rented car parked a block away. He was taking no more chances with the Turk: He was going to watch the Kazahns himself.
Genie lay on the bed watching as Valentin took off his jacket, then washed his hands in the tiny washbasin in the corner of the room.
“‘Will these hands ne’er be clean, ’” she quoted softly.
He grimaced. “Lady Macbeth, washing off the blood after the murder.” Their eyes met and he added, “It’s not difficult to kill, Genie. I was trained for it. But it is not something I enjoy. With Boris Solovsky I had no choice. My father is a man of integrity and honor and Boris was out to ruin him and to glorify himself in Russia’s eyes. I love my country and all she stands for, but I also love my father.”
She made no reply, her eyes following him as he picked up his jacket, took the Uzi from the pocket, and placed it on the table. It gleamed under the light like a small, malevolent creature, and a shiver ran down her spine.
After flinging down his jacket, he sat next to her. “Do you feel better now?” he asked, putting his hand under her chin and tilting her face toward him. “Are you in pain still?”
He looked at her raw, bleeding ankles and swollen feet. “Poor Genie,” he murmured tenderly. “You just didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, did you?”
He went to the sink, filled a bowl with water, and, kneeling in front of her, began to bathe her wounds. “I must go to the pharmacy,” he said worriedly, “you need antiseptics and pain-killers.” He sat on the bed again and put his arms around her. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone else,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “Nor I, Valentin. What would I have done without you?”
He was kissing her eyes, her ears, her hair, her mouth. She was filled with tenderness for him, he was her savior, her ally, her lover. It was so easy, so natural, so real that he should make love to her….
She had no idea how much time had passed when she awoke: an hour, two, maybe more. Valentin was sitting at the table cleaning the gun. The light shone on his blond hair and he looked like a beautiful child absorbed in a toy. A lethal toy.
He lifted his head and smiled. “You must be hungry.” He slotted the metal stock onto the Uzi and put it back on the table.
She shook her head. “I think I’m beyond hunger. I don’t remember when I last ate, maybe on the plane … I don’t even know how long ago that was.” She felt lightheaded, disoriented. “Valentin, what do we do next?”
He pulled over an upright wooden chair and sat in front of her, his eyes fixed on hers.
“This time I need your help, Genie,” he said quietly. “I have to find the ‘Lady’ before the KGB or the CIA.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “But I thought you knew.”
“You are the only one who knows.”
It suddenly dawned on her. Valentin did not know who she was. He still thought she was just Genie Reese, the hotheaded TV reporter who had gotten herself