The Spy With The Silver Lining. Wendy Rosnau
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Casmir couldn’t tell. Yurii looked fit and healthy at forty-nine, his wavy black hair short, with a touch of gray at his temples just as she remembered.
To go along with his dangerous good looks, he favored black shirts beneath expensive black suits—and always a bloodred silk tie. The picture he presented tonight was a carbon copy of the old Yurii, right down to the scent of his mordant cologne and an imported cigar pinched between his fingers.
Although his five-foot-nine-inch height made him appear more round than lean, his charisma was as powerful as his high-ranked position in the criminal world.
A real sweet deal, is how Ruza would have described him at a glance.
“Deny the betrayal. Let me hear the words from your hot red lips. Lips that have haunted my dreams since we’ve been apart. Tell me it’s all a terrible mistake, my love. Speak the truth.”
“I’m wearing your ring. I haven’t taken it off since you gave it to me. That is the only truth I know, Yurii.”
His hand closed around hers and squeezed. “Not exactly a confession of innocence, my love. Come. We will discuss it in private. My car is waiting.”
She felt something hard dig into her side. Without needing to look, she knew Yurii had drawn his Gyurza. The Russian pistol was famous for its cored bullets and penetration ability—a deadly weapon that could go through two sheets of titanium at 100 meters.
Casmir didn’t flinch. Instead she glanced left, then right. The nightclub was packed wall to wall, but Pasha had to be there somewhere. A little help from her contact would be appreciated about now.
“If you’re looking for your dark-haired friend, I’m afraid she won’t be coming. She’s met with a tragic accident. A lovely creature, but certainly not you.”
If Pasha was dead, Yurii knew for certain that she was a spy for EURO-Quest.
Casmir didn’t react to the bad news. She was a professional, after all. She hadn’t earned her stripes by wilting under pressure, or spilling tears in the face of the enemy.
She would cry for Pasha later, after she escaped.
Yurii saw betrayal only one way—he would have to kill her.
She had never bought into the cliché that life’s a bitch and then you die. Her mother had always professed the opposite—life’s a ball, so let’s party. Well dressed, of course.
But Yurii wasn’t in a mood to celebrate a reunion in the backseat of his Rolls. She was headed for the Dumpster in the alley, to be picked up with tomorrow morning’s garbage. Pasha was probably there waiting for her.
She saw Nasty Nicky slide off the bar stool. He was grinning, his greasy slicked-back red hair bringing more attention to his stubby nose and ruddy complexion.
Someone should suggest a new hairdo to him, and a new wardrobe, too. Double-pleated pants were out, and the cheap fabric had created deep wrinkle lines high on the inside of his sawed-off short legs, making his crotch pooch out like a deformity instead of an endowment.
Yurii’s fingers locked around Casmir’s wrist. He nudged her with the Gyurza, incentive to head for the exit.
Nicky was now shouldering his way through the crowd to join them. She was out of time. Blood was about to be spilt. Hers, all over her expensive Devicca suit.
Casmir slid her hand into her jacket pocket to retrieve her Makarov. Still playing her lover’s game, she turned slowly and poked the barrel of her weapon into Yurii’s stomach, just below the safety vest he always wore when he went out in public.
“Feel that, darling? Shoot me, and I shoot you.”
He didn’t seem surprised by her counter move. Or worried, for that matter.
His smile turned into a shark’s smirk. “You really are a bad girl, aren’t you, Kisa? One of Quest’s most valued she-spies, I’m told.”
“If you say so. Now slip your gun into my pocket, or we both die here and now.”
“Da, a bad bitch.”
“A bitch with a gun aimed at your—” she slid the gun lower “—big bad boy.”
His grin parted his thin lips, exposing nice white teeth. Yurii was famous for more than his Don status in the Red Mafia; his endowment was as thick as his accent and as penetrating as his Gyurza.
He dropped his gun into her pocket. “So the game begins. I look forward to playing. You know how I love a good challenge, Kisa. But in the end we will meet again. You know we must.”
“Destiny?”
“Yours and mine. Remember while you’re running there isn’t anywhere you can hide that I won’t find you.”
“You’re probably right. But you can’t blame a bad girl for giving it her best shot. No pun intended.”
He released her wrist, brushed her cheek with the back of his hand and ran a finger over her lips. “Extraordinary. From your sexy mouth to your amazing ass. There is no other like you, and even after all the lies I still want you, my love. We are soul mates, you and I. Till death do us part?”
“But not today, Yurii. I would prefer dying a little later. Say…thirty years from now, when my amazing ass has fallen.”
Casmir slid her Makarov lower and ran the barrel over the length of his big bad boy. “Dance with me, darling, and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Yurii started to move in time with the music. He was a good dancer. A fan of Sinatra.
As they blended into the crowd on the dance floor, Casmir blew him a kiss, then got lost in the mass of gyrating bodies. She reached up and removed her hat. Before the brimmed Tularo settled on the floor, she plucked a few pins, then shook her head, sending the length of her black wig cascading down her back.
She spun right, danced behind a beefy giant grinding his hips. There she pulled her jacket off, quickly turned it inside out and slipped it back on.
Feeling the music, the actress danced toward the exit, her silky black hair moving around the shoulders of her shocking pink jacket.
When she wiggled past Nasty Nicky, his eyes never left the dance floor as he searched the crowd for his boss, and the silver goddess wearing the black wide-brimmed hat.
Chapter 2
“You’re in the deep freeze, Balasi. Your cover’s been blown, and until we can find another use for ‘the actress,’ and Yurii Petrov is no longer a threat, you’re ice.”
Four days after her escape from the Kelt in Bratislava, Casmir sat in Lev Polax’s office in Prague dressed to kill. She wore a pale-blue satin pantsuit, complete with matching shoes and handbag, her blond hair twisted in a trendy knot, drawing attention to her slender neck and the silver filigree earrings dangling from her ears.
Prepared to sit through her commander’s predictable performance—Polax was number one when it came to grandstanding—she crossed her legs and made herself comfortable.
He would do a bit of yelling as he paced the floor, leaving footprints on the plush beige carpet, then stop and yell some more. After exhaustion set in—he was in poor shape, so it wouldn’t take long—they would get down to business and discuss the reason he had sent for her at seven in the morning.
“How in the hell did Petrov escape maximum security? That’s what I’d like to know.” Polax’s voice boomed like a cannon. “Now we’ve got the Russian Mafia crawling up our ass.”
It seemed more appropriate to be asking that question to his superiors, or the prison authorities, Casmir thought. She’d done her job. It had taken months to get close to Yurii, and now those months had been flushed down the toilet.
For sure, Quest had taken a giant step backward on this one. Now they would be scrambling to restore their