Chasing the White Lion, James Hannibal [ebook reader macos .TXT] 📗

mass delusion made men from every culture think women enjoyed leers and innuendo? Talia slipped her fingers from his grasp. A little sweat. A little hair product. Gross. She sat again and wiped her hand on her jeans under the table. “You can speak Russian, Oleg. I’m fluent.”

“I want to practice my English. Besides, it is safer. The overgrown morons around us can barely speak their own language, let alone another.”

The music blaring from behind the bar—some Russian knock-off of nineties American metal—would cover their conversation, but Talia didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”

“I will. First round is on me. What do you want?”

“I’m here for business. Not a date.”

The corners of his mouth turned up as he walked away. “Why can it not be both, eh?”

Moments later, he returned from the bar with a bottle of vodka and two tumblers, which he filled well past the customary level. “Zdoróvye.” He tossed his drink back in one gulp.

Talia slid hers aside with the back of her hand. “Nice place you picked. A lot of . . . atmosphere. What kind of name is Catfish for a bar?”

“It is good name. In Volga River, catfish is king. He is top of food chain, up to five meters long and three hundred fifty kilograms.” The rat took her tumbler, swallowed its contents, and poured two more. When Talia’s flat expression didn’t change, he spread his hands. “Three hundred fifty kilograms,Vera. The Som, Volga catfish, is bigger than mako shark.”

“The Mako. Now that is a good name for a bar.”

“You Americans. No imagination.” Oleg slid the tumbler in front of her.

Talia pushed it aside again.

He frowned. “Fine. Business. What can best forger in Russia do for Vera?”

“The question you should ask is, What can Vera do for you?”

“Okay. I bite. What can Vera do for me?”

“Make your bank account grow.” Talia produced an envelope, fat with cash.

The flaring of Oleg’s nostrils told her she had his full attention. “I am listening.” He leaned across the pocked tabletop, bringing with him the stench of cigarette breath and perfumed hair, and reached for the cash.

Talia snatched the envelope away. “Not so fast. This is one hundred thousand US, a good-faith payment to show that my employer is serious. First I want to know you’re serious as well.”

“What kind of relationship?”

“The profitable kind.”

Oleg let his eyes drift around the bar in poorly feigned disinterest. “I have many such relationships. My identities are best in Russia.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger together and kissed them with a loud smack. “Best in Russia. I am not copy-shop hack making fake passports. I build complete identities. Documents. Digital histories. Life stories. A hundred thousand will buy your boss five identities.” He raised his chin. “In fact, make it ten. I give him new customer discount.”

“Her. My boss is a woman.”

The rat raised an eyebrow. “How modern. I cannot wait to meet her.”

“You never will. And she doesn’t want new identities. She wants copies of the identities you create for others.”

The leer dropped from Oleg’s face. “Perhaps my English fails me. It sound like you want me to betray my clients.”

“Don’t think of it as betrayal.” Talia lifted her hand, revealing the full thickness of the envelope—the weight of all that money—and watched Oleg lick his lips. “Think of it as a bonus. You’ll get paid twice for every identity you create.”

The rat’s Adam’s apple dipped. “A bonus. Yes. I like that.” His fingers crept across the table, seeking her permission.

“Go ahead, Oleg. The money’s yours.” She owned him.

Oleg drew back the lapel of his blue leather jacket and tucked the envelope away. “It is very good deal. But tell your boss I pass.”

As if the statement were a command, all the rough patrons at the bar swiveled their stools to glare at Talia. Others emerged from the booths.

Oleg laughed, zipped up the jacket, and patted the envelope inside. “Did you think I would not find out who you were, Miss C-I-A? Identities are my business.” He slapped both hands down on the table. “Like I said. You Americans. No imagination.”

CHAPTER

TWO

VOLGOGRAD, RUSSIA

WHARF DISTRICT

TALIALEAPEDUPFROMHERCHAIR, leveling her Glock.

In the same instant, a meaty hand wrapped the barrel and tore it from her fingers. One of the Russian gorillas stepped out from behind her and handed the weapon to Oleg.

The rat laughed, holding Talia’s Glock in one hand and the vodka bottle in the other. “Nice try. But you cannot save yourself. This was your last mission, Miss CIA Agent.”

“You mean, ‘CIA officer.’” The correction came from the bar—from the only patron who hadn’t turned at Oleg’s signal.

The rat lowered the bottle. “What did you say?”

“My friend, here, is a CIA case officer.” The man kept his back to them, face buried in an untouched drink. “She was trying to turn you into an agent. Get it right.”

Talia knew the voice, despite the fake Russian accent. Adam Tyler. “What are you doing here?”

He swiveled the stool, bringing his face into view. The accent vanished. “Looking after you.”

“I don’t need looking after.”

“Hey!” Oleg waved the bottle and gun in the air. “Who is this guy?”

Tyler ignored him, keeping his focus on Talia. “Are you sure? I count fourteen hostiles. One of them already has your weapon.”

“Fifteen. You’re slipping. And I can handle them.”

Tyler glanced at Oleg. The two shared an incredulous look and asked the same question in unison. “Oh really?”

“Yes. Really.”

With a grunt, Talia lifted the little table and launched the two vodka tumblers. She swatted one with an open hand, sending it flying at Oleg to shatter on the bridge of his rat nose.

At the same time, Tyler left the stool to bring a closed fist down on Oleg’s forearm.

The Glock fell. The rat clutched his bleeding face and ran for the door. “Kill them, you idiots! Kill them both!”

The Russians converged. Talia’s world descended into hairy, nicotine-scented mayhem.

Her first target, the gorilla who’d torn the Glock from her hand, caught a knee in the groin, followed by an uppercut that met