A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: Epilogue (Part 3)

What follows is is the conclusion of the promised Epilogue to my River of Mnemosyne story, which, I'm thrilled to say, won the challenge!

If you haven't already, please read the first chapters of the story before you move on.

Chapter 1:  Prologue: The Briefing
Chapter 2:  Pride and Extreme Prejudice
Chapter 3:  The Monk
Chapter 4:  Sagittarius
Chapter 5:  A Misplaced Identity
Chapter 6:  Shit Happens
Chapter 7:  Family Ties
Chapter 8:  Tartuffe
Chapter 9:  Non, Je Regrette Rien
Epilogue (Part 1)
Epilogue (Part 2)


Epilogue  (Part 3)

Image by porbital

FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

 

“Holy shit!” Mercedes turns to Chase as he sets down the two suitcases and lifts the strap of a smaller bag from his shoulder. “Did you see this?”

She waves him over to the sitting room window. She has pulled back the sheer drapes.

“Look!”

She’s looking down on the Grand Concourse below where people are hurrying about their business, oblivious to the couple watching them from far above.

“What is this place?”

“It’s called The Campbell Apartment,” Chase replies. “Though he never actually lived here, an early 20th century financier named John Campbell built an office here in Grand Central. This suite was added after his death.”

He gives her bare bottom a gentle slap, and says “Come on. Let’s get dressed. I’ll show you his office. We can get a drink and I’ll tell you about the rest of your surprise.”

***

After a shower, accompanied by more fun and games, Chase leads Mercedes to a door in the sitting room she had taken for a coat closet. He opens it and Mercedes is surprised to see a staircase in front of her. Soft music drifts up to greet them. Chase offers his arm, and the couple descends to a small space below, a balcony set up with several small bistro tables and chairs. Below is a handsome wood-paneled lounge with a bar and several comfortable looking couches.

“This is where Campbell had his office,” he tells the astonished woman at his side.

“Pretty nice digs,” Mercedes comments as she takes in the space, her eyes wide.

“Let’s go down and get that drink,” Chase says. “There’s no dart board, for which I’m grateful since I’m a lousy player. But you can get your beer if you like. I recommend you forego the brew for a martini, though. They make an excellent one.”

After their drinks are delivered to table in front of the small couch where they sit side-by-side, Chase tells Mercedes about the schedule for the following day.

***

They make a stop at Saks on Fifth to buy some suitable clothing for the day’s events – neither Mercedes nor Chase had taken much to Marrakech – then the limo heads downtown. 

“After you drop us off, please take our garment bags back to Grand Central,” Chase tells the driver. “You can leave them with the bartender in The Campbell Apartment. ”

Chase and Mercedes are dressed in the conservative summer-weight business suits they bought at Saks. The bags contain the clothing they wore to the store, as well as evening wear for the gala that night. 

When Chase told her about the ceremony they were attending as they had dinner the previous night, Mercedes was overjoyed.

“Oh, Ed! That’s a great surprise! How did you pull it off?” 

“I wish I could take credit,” he responds, “but I had nothing to do with it. I didn't know anything about it until I got the invitations for you and me to attend.”

He leans over and kisses her. “But I knew you would be thrilled, and since I had every intention of jumping your bones…”

“You were going to bribe me?” Mercedes pulls away and looks at him with almost credible indignation, but the smile hovering at the corner of her mouth gives her away.

“I would never have done that. I didn’t tell you until after I had my way with you, did I?”

“No. No, you didn’t.” The smile bursts into full bloom. “But I think you are mistaken. Who had whose way with whom?”

 Chase thinks to himself that he hasn’t ever seen Mercedes smile so much. He decides to take that as a good sign.

After the limo drops them at the entrance to the beige stone building, they pause on the sidewalk and look at the words carved into the mantle above the double wooden doors. 

Tears spring to Mercedes eyes. Though he worked in this building only a short time before the precinct moved to new digs, nearly all her father’s career with the NYPD was spent in the 1^st Precinct. How appropriate, she thinks, that the ceremony they are about to attend is being held in the New York Police Museum, now housed in the original 1^st Precinct headquarters.

Chase takes her hand and leads her inside.  They board the elevator and ride to the third floor.  

When the doors open, the hallway to the left is filled with members of the NYPD, all in full dress blues. The sea of blue parts as Chase and Mercedes walk to the doors to the Hall of Heroes. The exhibit is closed, its renovation due to begin in the near future. But today, the exhibit room portal is open wide in welcome to its community of cops, gathered to honor one of their own.

The 1^st Precinct captain, a man Mercedes has known for years, steps forward and kisses her cheek. 

“Mercedes. I’m so pleased you could be here. This is a day too long in coming.”

“You know I wouldn’t have missed it.” Mercedes smiles through tears at the grey-haired man and accepts the arm he holds out to her.

“Come, both of you. We have seats for you up front.”

He and Mercedes walk to the front of the room, where a photograph of Grigori Karpov, aka Phil Brin, rests on an easel. Chase follows, and takes the chair beside Mercedes.

As they wait for the ceremony to begin, Chase looks around the room. The walls are filled with brass plates bearing the names – too many names -- of the NYPD fallen.

The room falls silent as Captain McInerny takes the podium.

“There is no space in this building, indeed in all of New York City, more sacred to the New York Police Department. As the plaque on the door says, this exhibit is ‘a memorial that commemorates those officers who have given the last full measure of devotion beyond the call of duty while fulfilling their sworn obligation to protect and serve their city’.”

The captain pauses for a moment to look over at Mercedes.

“Today, we are here to honor a man who did just that. It is an honor that is long overdue. Until now, the man we knew as Sergeant Phil Brin went unrecognized as the hero he was. The reason that could happen is because very few knew the risks he took to help clean our house. 

“Thanks to Phil Brin, we learned just how dirty the NYPD house had gotten. As most of you know by now, the force was infiltrated by an element of the Russian mafia known as Zodiac. Given the events in New York over the past decade, I think it’s safe to say that Zodiac contributed to the death of many of the people whose names are on these walls.

“Sgt. Brin, whose real name was Grigori Karpov, was a member of Zodiac, not as a criminal infiltrator of the NYPD but as an undercover agent of the Russian government. Because of his Russian heritage and the fact that he was already a member of the NYPD, he was recruited by Russian intelligence to help identify and stop Zodiac.

“The information he’d gathered was turned over to us. It was through his efforts that we were able to arrest and prosecute the criminal element that had insinuated its way into the NYPD.  Those efforts cost Phil Brin his life.”

McInerny walks to one of the walls filled with name plates, and uncovers the latest addition. The small brass plate says: 

Grigori Alexei Karpov

(aka Sergeant Phil Brin)

2002

As those gathered in the room applaud, McInerny goes over to stand before Mercedes. He hands her a small velvet box. Inside, she finds a green bar covered with a field of tiny gold stars. 

“Mercedes Karpov, I’m pleased to give you your father’s Medal of Honor. This is the highest award the New York Police Department has.  I only wish I were able to present it to him.  As you’ll see on this Certificate of  Commendation,” McInerny opens a leather folder and hands it to her, “this medal is ‘awarded  for acts of gallantry and valor performed with knowledge of the risk involved, above and beyond the call of duty’.”

Chase watches Mercedes accept the medal and citation, tears streaming down her smiling cheeks. He can’t help but remember the first time he saw her, standing dry-eyed at the edge of her father’s grave. He knows that this is the final element of what she committed herself to achieving on her father’s behalf that day.

Mercedes shakes Captain McInerny’s hand and thanks him. Then she turns to Chase and wraps her arms around him in a hug.

“And thank you, Ed,” she whispers in his ear. “This was a wonderful surprise.”

As Chase returns the hug, he thinks about the ring in his pocket.  He'd slipped down to the first floor jewelry department in Saks while Mercedes tried on evening gowns.

“Oh, I’m not done yet,” he whispers in reply.

The End (the real one)

A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: Epilogue (Part 2)

What follows is Part 2 of the promised Epilogue to my River of Mnemosyne story, which, I'm thrilled to say, won the challenge!

If you haven't already, please read the first chapters of the story before you move on.

Chapter 1:  Prologue: The Briefing
Chapter 2:  Pride and Extreme Prejudice
Chapter 3:  The Monk
Chapter 4:  Sagittarius
Chapter 5:  A Misplaced Identity
Chapter 6:  Shit Happens
Chapter 7:  Family Ties
Chapter 8:  Tartuffe
Chapter 9:  Non, Je Regrette Rien
Epilogue (Part 1)

Epilogue  (Part 2)

 Image by porbital

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Chase and Mercedes descend the airstair just aft of the cockpit to the tarmac below where the limo waits in the late morning sun, its rear door standing open in welcome. They climb into the back, and after the driver stows their few pieces of luggage, the car leaves the small Teterboro Airport and heads to the city.

As Mercedes had said earlier, it was a good thing it was a long flight. In the hours since she awakened, she has had enough time to come to terms with everything she’s recently learned about her family. Chase thinks it’s possible that she may even understand why he didn’t tell her. 

Interesting to Chase, the thing she cares most about is that her father was not the terrorist the Nemesis Group thought him to be. The rest of it she easily dismissed with her usual sarcastic aplomb. 

Great-granddaughter of Grigori Rasputin? “No big whoop.”

Distant cousin of a notorious contract killer? “Isn’t everyone?”

She’d just killed that cousin? “Yeah, well, he fucking had it coming.” 

The fact that said cousin had killed her father and was bent on doing the same to her was a whole other story. 

“You should have told me, Ed. The only reason I lived long enough to benefit from your Dudley-Do-Right rescue -- and don’t get me wrong; I appreciated your timely arrival -- was the man’s monumental ego. He just had to let me know how clever he was.”

“You’re right.”

Chase agrees that, had it not been that ego and a commitment to his signature style, the Monk would no doubt have put a bullet in Mercedes the first chance he had.

“I should have told you. There’s a lot I should have told you. And I will,” Chase promised as the plane was landing. “Soon.”

***

As the limo passes through the Lincoln Tunnel and makes its way into the city, Mercedes asks, “So what’s this big surprise you have for me?”

Chase smiles and holds up his index finger in a wait-a-minute gesture as the car pulls to the curb in front of the Vanderbilt Avenue entrance of Grand Central Station.

“Oh, please. You’re kidding right? We’re not getting on a train to somewhere… Not after hours on a plane.” Mercedes face speaks volumes about her displeasure at the idea.

“No, no more travel.” Chase climbs from the car and holds his hand out to help her from the car.

“Shall I bring the bags in, Mr. Chase?” the driver asks as he closes the car door.

“No, not right away.  Please wait about 30 minutes and then give me a call,” Chase responds as he takes Mercedes arm. “I’ll come out and get them.”

“Very good, sir.”

As Chase and Mercedes walk into the Grand Concourse of the majestic train station, she raises her eyebrows at him, and says in a low voice, “What the hell are you up to, Chase?”

Although both have been in Grand Central many times, when they get inside, they pause and look up at the sun streaming in through the high arched windows encircling the soaring space above the concourse. As they stand playing tourist, Chase takes her hand. Mercedes is surprised by the fillip of response she feels deep inside.

He leads her in the direction of the famous clock in the center of the concourse, but before they get close to it, Chase does a 180^o and starts up the staircase to the mezzanine behind them.

“Up here.”

Mercedes is mystified, but decides not to say anything. She barely recognizes this man beside her. She’s never known Chase to be playful before, but she’s rather liking this new side of him. 

At the top of the stairs is a bar, but they walk past it to an unmarked door. Chase takes a key from his pocket and unlocks it, pulling it open to reveal a small elevator lobby. After the door closes behind them, he pushes the call button. While they stand waiting, their eyes meet in the gleaming brass door.

Good looking couple, he thinks. The woman’s dark eyes are gleaming and she looks happy; that  makes him happy. He doesn’t know how he’s going to do it, but one thing’s for sure: before this night is over, Mercedes Karpov is going to know that he’s in love with her and has been for a long time.

The door whispers open and they step into the small mirrored enclosure of the elevator, Chase trying to decide what his next move should be. The door closes on them, and in the next moment, Mercedes takes that decision away from him. She reaches out and slips her fingers in between two buttons on the front of his shirt, pulls him against her, and  kisses him. The kiss is decidedly not one she would bestow on an uncle. When the door begins to slide open she steps away, a self-satisfied grin on her face.

It’s all the encouragement he needs. Chase pushes her through the elevator door and into a small sitting room, but he doesn’t give her a chance to get her bearings. He scoops her up and carries her into an adjoining bedroom, kissing her as he walks. When he sets her down  again, and pulls back to look at her, her self-satisfied grin is still there, wider than ever.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for that,” she said. “I was beginning to think you didn’t like me.”

“Didn’t like you? I…” Chase stammers.

“I was kidding, Ed.  I’ve known you had the hots for me for years,” she laughs. “I was afraid if I kept waiting for you to make the first move, by the time you finally did, we might both be too old to, um, get it up, so to speak. I’ve just been looking for the right time and place.” 

Mercedes looks around the pleasant bedroom. “I have no idea what this place is, but it’ll do nicely.”

Before Chase can gather his thoughts and respond, she has lifted her summer-weight madras shift over her head, tossed it in a nearby chair, and kicked off her sandals. Stunned, Chase takes in the vision before him, scarcely believing his luck. She is everything he imagined, and more. Rather than revealing scraps of  silk and lace from the latest Victoria’s Secret catalog, Mercedes wears a white cotton bra and men’s-style boxers. Anything more would have been overkill. 

This body needs no adornment, he thinks.  In fact…

Chase reaches out and very slowly slides one finger under the soft cotton trim along the top of her left breast, his fingertip just grazing the nipple beneath. He feels rather than hears the soft intake of breath Mercedes makes in response. He pulls her to him and after a stop at the corner of her mouth, presses his lips to that soft pulsing spot just below her left ear that has seduced him for years. As his tongue makes its way down her neck toward a creamy shoulder, Chase reaches around to her back and unfastens her bra, and tosses it on the chair to join her dress.  In short order, the rest of their clothes follow suit, each undressing the other.

“Not bad for an old man,” Mercedes observes with a smile, her eyes traveling his body head to foot with a stop about midway along the journey. “Guess I needn’t have worried.”

“Gee, you think, smartass?”

With that, Chase tackles her, landing them both on the wide bed beside them and sending several decorative pillows on a flight path to the floor. What follows is a strange and wonderful mix of playful wrestling and increasing need. After a brief tussle, Chase falls to his back in mock surrender.

Mercedes straddles him in triumph and lowers herself.  She moves slowly at first, teasing his nipples with her fingertips as she grins down at him, but it isn’t long before all thoughts of play vanish and her pace quickens.  When his own hunger, built of many years, overwhelms him, Chase rolls her over.  She wraps her legs around his waist and reaches up with her hips as though trying to consume him. Together, they race to the edge and fall over, landing in a sweaty tangle of limbs.

And that’s when Chase’s cell phone rings.

“The bags! Dammit!” 

He jumps from the bed, pulls on his trousers and shirt, and jams his bare feet into the loafers at the foot of the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” he says heading for the door of the suite, tucking in his shirt as he goes. The door closes on Mercedes’ laughter drifting from the bedroom.

To be concluded in A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: Epilogue (Part 3)

A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: Epilogue (Part 1)

What follows is Part 1 of the promised Epilogue to my River of Mnemosyne story, which, I'm thrilled to say, won the challenge!

If you haven't already, please read the first chapters of the story before you move on to the Epilogue.

Chapter 1:  Prologue: The Briefing
Chapter 2:  Pride and Extreme Prejudice
Chapter 3:  The Monk
Chapter 4:  Sagittarius
Chapter 5:  A Misplaced Identity
Chapter 6:  Shit Happens
Chapter 7:  Family Ties
Chapter 8:  Tartuffe
Chapter 9:  Non, Je Regrette Rien

Epilogue  (Part 1)

Image by porbital

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

There is no easy way to get from there to almost anywhere. But Edmond Chase was determined to make the long trip as comfortable as possible, and that definitely did not include a 45–minute desert jump on a turboprop with a sketchy past. He pretended it was concern for his traveling companion’s comfort, but if truth were told, it was his own. Bumping over African thermals worrying whether they were going to crash and burn in the Moroccan desert is not his idea of a good time. Then, presuming they survived, they’d still have had to make two plane changes before reaching the end of the long journey.

He decided to call in a favor and borrow the jet normally used by the honchos at State. The plane had just dropped a diplomat in Dubai and was about to fly back to the US empty. Chase saw an opportunity and took it. Hey, Mama didn’t raise no fools, he’d thought to himself as he punched in the number on his cell.

After flying to Dubai -- which fortunately was one of the places you could get to from Marrakech -- to catch the State Department plane, he and Mercedes Karpov are now comfortably settled in butter-soft leather seats aboard the well-appointed Falcon 7X. Their final destination is New York, though Mercedes has no idea why. She’d expected to go back to London after that Marrakech business and was looking forward to kicking back with a pint – okay, make that several pints – at a pub. The news they are stopping in New York first came as a surprise, one that obviously didn’t thrill her. 

“New York?” she’d asked when Chase told her London would have to wait. “Whatever for? I’m so done with New York. Meh. I expected to be tossing back a few at The Cheese within a couple of hours of landing.” Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese is Mercedes’ favorite London watering hole. “Besides, I was looking forward to whupping some of me mates’ arses at darts.”

“You’ll see,” Chase says. “Trust me, it’ll be worth it. Relax and get some rest if you can.”

Chase has a surprise for her. In fact, if all goes well, he has several surprises. If he survives the inevitable dressing down she winds up to launch at him, that is.

“So you never thought to warn me about the Monk? You know, the killer who just happened to be the great-grandson of Rasputin. The one who was also my fucking cousin. And, oh yeah, the one who killed my father! You didn’t think I needed to know that? Really? Really?” 

Mercedes sputters to a stop and takes a gulp of her champagne before continuing. Chase considers jumping into the brief lull with an explanation, but thinks better of it. Mercedes is on a roll. Best to let her get it all out. After she was properly vented, he’d tell her the whole story.

Putting the champagne glass down with force and splashing them both with its contents, she picks up where she left off. “Damn it, Ed! You should have told me.”

As she rails at him, Chase is very glad they are on the State Department plane and there is no one to overhear. He doubts that the presence of other passengers on a commercial flight would have inhibited her at all.

“Have you known from the beginning?” she demands.

 The “beginning” came at the funeral that followed the murder of Mercedes’ father, Grigori Karpov.

***

A cold wind blew the rain sideways across the gravestones lined up in rows as far as the eye could see.  Chase tilted his black umbrella in a futile attempt the shield himself from its sting. Beyond the sea of NYPD blue in front of him, he saw the drenched young woman standing at the other side of the open grave. The rain had plastered her chestnut curls to her head and molded the dark shirtwaist dress to her body. The figure beneath was revealed as shapely and strong-looking, made all the more so by the way she held herself.

Karpov’s daughter stood motionless, arms stiff at her sides, letting the wind and rain have their way with her. Her face was grim, but to Chase, the set of her jaw and compressed lips looked more like anger than grief.

A piper blew the final notes of Amazing Grace into the dismal day, where they lingered for a few moments before fading away. As Chase watched, the woman tossed the clump of damp earth she’d been clutching onto the mahogany casket resting above the grave in front of her, and then lifted her eyes. The only moisture on her cheeks was rain. Her flashing dark eyes confirmed his impression: Mercedes Karpov was mad as hell. 

Though he was sure she was grief-stricken, Chase was grateful that she didn’t show it. When Grigori Karpov, known then as Phil Brin, had been killed, Chase couldn’t help but feel some responsibility. He was fairly sure that his investigation of suspected terrorist Brin was what had brought him to his death at the hands of a contract killer called the Monk.  Seeing Brin's daughter broken-hearted would have made it worse.

After the funeral, Chase made it his business to get to know Mercedes. She was orphaned by her father’s death, but there was something within her that seemed strengthened by it. Her composure, steely resolve and a surprising skill with  firearms -- which he’d discovered one day when she asked him to accompany him to a firing range – had led him to offer her a job with the newly-formed London division of the Nemesis Group. They, along with her beauty, also led him to harbor a secret attraction to her. He’d never acted on it, because he knew she saw him as her boss and something of a foster uncle, a relationship he’d encouraged.

Recent events had come as the wake-up call he needed. After coming so close to losing her to Max Rasputin, known as The Monk, Chase was determined to declare himself, as they say. That whole “uncle” shit was over.

***

At the end of her rant, which was world-class even for her, Mercedes doesn’t want to hear his explanation.

“Leave me alone. I’m going to sleep.” 

She pulls an eye-shade from the amenity kit handed to them as they boarded and stands.

“You can try to dig yourself out of that hole you’re in after I get some sleep,” she says in parting.

Mercedes heads toward the rear of the aircraft where a bench seat has been made up as a bed. She settles the shade over her eyes and lies down, turning toward the dark window. She pulls the blanket up to her chin and, to Chase’s surprise, is out in minutes. He wonders how much sleep she’s had over the past several days.

Chase wouldn’t mind a little shut-eye himself, but he knows that isn’t likely with his thoughts churning as they are. While Mercedes sleeps, he opens his laptop and gets to the business of writing his report of the events in Marrakech. 

To be continued in A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: Epilogue (Part 2)

9 A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

Conclusion, continued from Part 8, Tartuffe

The Tenth Daughter of Memory

Muse 9: Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

As the Nemesis agent Hassam drives the taxi, Edmond Chase directs him through the streets of the Marrakech medina using the GPS on his cell phone. He sits in the back of the cab, but that has nothing to do with rank or privilege, and everything to do with maintaining cover. It’s perhaps less important now in the wee hours, but it’s a habit neither thinks to break.

Chase had been very relieved when he heard the ping from his cell phone alerting him to the GPS signal sent by the tiny device concealed in Mercedes bra. He hated being so completely in the dark about her whereabouts. This was especially true after he’d learned that The Monk was in all likelihood involved in her disappearance. 

Mercedes had laughed at him when he’d sent her to Halloran in Technology R & D to be outfitted with the GPS sender in her underwear. In fact, she’d found the entire idea of a Technology research and development division in Nemesis to be hysterical, and persisted in calling poor Halloran “Q.”  Chase has a feeling she’s not laughing now. 

Or maybe she is, he thinks. This is Mercedes Karpov, after all.

***

Mercedes looks at the non-descript man opposite her and wonders if he is completely insane or simply evil. If he truly is the great-grandson of Grigori Rasputin, he could well be both. Of course, if he’s right about all this, she too has Rasputin in her bloodline, and she’s pretty sure she is neither insane nor evil. Although, were her mind not thrown into increasing turmoil by every far-fetched idea he’d laid out on his little family tree, she’d have probably gone for his throat at his last revelation.

Given the revolver once again in Max’s hand, that truly would have been insanity.

Can it be true? Did she waste years stalking the wrong man? Not that the terrorist al-Abayghur wasn’t a scourge on society (the body count credited to him and his band of thugs numbered in the thousands now) , but if he didn’t kill her father…

***

Hassam had cut the lights two blocks from their destination.  Now he kills the engine and lets the taxi roll gently to a stop at the side of the narrow road. They are still a block away, and around the corner, but he doesn’t want to take the chance of broadcasting their arrival. Besides, the building they seek is on a very narrow road and there would be nowhere to leave the vehicle. Owners’ cars are generally parked within an interior courtyard.

As Chase and Hassam climb from the car, three shapes dressed in dark clothes materialize from the shadows. They are the Nemesis team Chase summoned as the two left Mercedes' hotel. They assembled several minutes earlier and have sussed out the destination.

“The building houses a collection of four riads available for rent to holiday travelers,” a man named Abdul reports in a voice barely above a whisper. “Given the arts festival, it is likely that all four are booked. We can see lights in only one, however.”

Chase says, “The tracking device she wears can get us within 50 feet of Mercedes, but no closer.  The lit apartment would be the place to start.”

“There is a locked doorway in the outer wall, as well as a gate for cars.  Getting through either shouldn’t pose any problems. What we find once inside the courtyard might be another story.”

“Well, let’s not borrow trouble,” Chase says. “We’ll deal with whatever is there.”

Mohammed – call me Al – al Ghamedi  wears a small backpack. He says, “I have rope and a few tools. And a set of picks, of course.”

“Are there windows?” Chase asks.

“Yes, but typically barred.” Nearly all residences within the medina have ornate wrought iron grates over the windows.

Hassam asks, “Is there a rear entrance to the building?”  

“Yes. It opens onto a very small alley where garbage is collected.” Abdul replies. “But we aren’t sure what’s on the other side.”

The third member of the team,  a rather scary looking Algerian woman called Fatima, adds, “Typically, there is a small hallway leading from the back entrance to the courtyard. For holiday riads, you’d probably find laundry facilities in a room off that hallway.” 

“OK. Hassam, cover the rear. Abdul, I’d like you to stay outside the wall in the front keeping an eye on the door and gate. The rest of us will go in. As always, use your weapons only as a last resort.”

Chase looks around at the assembly for confirmation. After everyone nods, he says, “Let’s go.”

***

As ridiculous as she thought it was to wear a homing device, and in her bra, of all places, Mercedes Karpov is grateful to Chase for insisting on it. She's confident that a Nemesis team is on its way.  Now she just has to stall. The gun in Max’s hand is making her extremely nervous. Time to turn on the charm.

Keeping her voice soft  and her eyes on his, she asks “So, Max Rasputin… Oddly, it suits you. In fact, it’s quite sexy.” 

She's rewarded with a smile.

Then her eyes widen. “The Monk… Ohhh, I get it. Very clever.” She remembers that Rasputin was called The Monk. The Mad Monk.  “But what about Sagittarius? What’s up with that?”

“Did your father ever mention a group called the Zodiac to you?” he asks. 

She bristles at the mention of her father, but drops her eyes as if in thought to hide it. “No, but I learned after his death that he was working undercover in the NYPD to expose them. They were dirty cops, as I recall.”

Suddenly, it made sense. Sagittarius is a sign of the Zodiac. 

“Ah, I see that clever mind of yours has worked it out," Max says. "Yes, Zodiac is a group of Russian mobsters who have infiltrated the NYPD. I told you that they consider me one of them even though I chose not to follow my father’s footsteps into the force.”

He smiles as her eyes lift to his. “That's right, yet another thing we have in common. Uncanny, isn’t it?”

He continues. “Unfortunately, your father was just too good at his job for his own health. He was about to expose me to both the authorities and the mob. I’m sure you can see that I just couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t have lasted ‘a New York minute’, as they say.”

Hating him, she struggles to keep her voice flirtatious as she asks.  “And what do you plan to do with me now, Max Rasputin aka Sagittarius aka The Monk? Are we to become partners in crime?”

Max laughs. “I could do worse. You are a very smart lady; I wouldn’t expect anything else. We come from the same stock. But sorry, no, honey. I’m a loner.”

He checks her teacup and finds it empty. Keeping his eyes and the gun on her, he reaches down and pulls a skewer-like object from a strap around his calf.

“You feeling sleepy yet, cousin?”

Almost as if his words had thrown a switch, Mercedes suddenly finds she can’t keep her eyes open

.

“Did you…?”

“Yes, I drugged you. Sorry about that.” Max smiles. “You are your father’s daughter after all, too smart for your own good. And you now know all my secrets.”

She labors to speak. “What ...are you going to…do?”

“Oh, I think you know the answer to that, Mercedes. I’m going to kill you. I’m a killer. It’s what we do.”

***

As Abdul had predicted, the front gate of the riad complex posed no problem at all. The lock was old and simple.

Once inside, Chase, Al and Fatima quickly identify the unit with lights. The creep up the stairs and to the left, stopping at the second door, which is marked “13.” Ironic, Chase thinks.

With Fatima on the right side of the door and Chase on the left, Al crouches down and examines the lock with his penlight.

He pulls a small pad and pencil from his pack and scrawls Bad news. Deadbolt. He sits back on his haunches and thinks for a minute, then rises and peers at the lock again.

After writing more on the pad, he holds it up so Chase and Fatima can see it.

I think I can get it open.

Chase touches him on the shoulder and mouths, “How?”

Acid.

“OK. Hurry!” Chase whispers.

Al takes a small bottle filled with clear liquid from his pack. He pulls a small black case from an outside pocket on the backpack and from it, removes a syringe. He fills the syringe, then puts the needle into the lock and pushes the plunger. He repeats the procedure several times, and a thin stream of smoke begins to rise from the lock. They watch for what seems like a lifetime until the smoke no longer oozes from the opening. 

Al stashes his gear back into the pack and stands. After taking his gun from inside it, he carefully sets the pack down on the walkway to the right of the door.

He nods at Chase and raises his eyebrows in question.

“You sure?” 

Al waggles a hand back and forth, which Chase doesn’t find reassuring, but he sees no other option. 

He nods back at Al.

Al stands back, and hits the door with his booted foot, putting the full force of his weight behind the blow to the lock. The door springs open to reveal a man standing over Mercedes, who appears to be unconscious on the couch.

All three Nemesis agents quickly enter the room. Al-Ghamedi and Fatima move in opposite directions to stand to either side of the room, guns trained on the man.

Chase, standing just inside the door across from the couch, yells, “Freeze.”

It all happens in just a few seconds.

The surprised man jerks upright and reaches for a large pistol lying on the coffee table between them. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Pal,” al-Ghamedi says menacingly.

The man slowly straightens up and raises his hands.

“Walk around the table slowly,” Chase commands. “You can lower your hands, but don’t even think about reaching for that gun again. We will shoot you. One of us might miss, but I can assure you, not all of us will.”

Max walks around the table and stands facing Chase, hands at his sides.

“Mr. Chase, I presume?”

***

Mercedes feels herself surfacing from whatever drugged state she was in. One thing her close cousin doesn’t seem to know about her is that barbiturates seldom work for long with her. It wreaks havoc with such things as minor surgery, but it's coming in handy  now.

As she regains consciousness, she becomes aware of voices. Remaining still, she opens an eye just far enough to look through her lashes. She sees Max standing on the other side of the coffee table, his back to her. Beyond him and slightly to the right is Chase holding a gun.  

Chase says, “Yes. And what should I call you? Mr. Monk? Sagittarius? Or perhaps you prefer your given name, Mr. Rasputin.”

Son of a bitch! Chase knew!

***

Max laughs. “Just call me Max.”

Without taking his eyes of Rasputin, Chase asks, “You have cuffs in the goody bag of yours, Al?”

“You bet, Boss.”

“Please bring them in. Mr. Rasputin here is going for a little drive, and I think it best he be properly restrained.”

He then says to the woman on the other side of the room, “Fatima, check on Mercedes, will you? And while you’re there, pick up that steel rod on the floor in front of the couch.”

***

Mercedes feels cool fingers touch her neck at the carotid for a few moments.

“Her pulse is strong. She’s probably drugged,” Fatima says.

“No doubt. That’s Mr. Rasputin’s style,” Chase says. “It’s the first step in your preferred method of killing, isn’t it, Max? Fortunately, we got here before you could subject Mercedes to the second step.”

As the woman moves away from the couch, Mercedes opens her eyes just in time to see Max easing his small revolver from the back pocket of his jeans. She spots her Makarov lying on the coffee table, grabs it, and fires several shots into the back of her long-lost cousin.

***

Chase reaches out and takes the hand of the woman seated in the first class seat next to him. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“I’m fine. Stop hovering like an old mother hen, “Mercedes replies shortly as she snatches her hand away and picks up a glass of champagne.

“This is the first time you’ve killed someone, Mercedes,” Chase says with concern in his voice. “And he was your cousin, albeit a very distant one. You have to be prepared for some regrets. It’s only natural.”

Mercedes lifts her glass to him and says, “Non, je ne regrette rien.”

She takes a sip, then pulls Max’s family tree from her purse. Waving it in front of him, she says, “But you just might. You got some splainin’ to do, as Ricky would have said. Good thing this is a long flight.”

The End

Note:  I can hear you saying, “But…but… that can’t be the end of the story. What about…?”

Right you are. Continue to the Epilogue for the rest of the story.

8 A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: Tartuffe

Continued from Part 7, Family Ties

The Tenth Daughter of Memory

Muse 8: Dancing Around Men Toward a Burlesque Destiny

(Image source: WikiMedia Commons) 

Tartuffe

As her captor begins to draw, Mercedes Karpov sips her tea and considers her escape. On the face of it, he is holding all the cards. The door is locked and he has the key. And he has not one gun, but two: his Ruger, which is on the chair beside him, and her Makarov, still tucked in the waist band at the back of his jeans.

Mercedes knows she’ll be able to summon help when she’s ready. Max never searched her, at least not with anything but his eyes. True; the t-shirt and leggings she wears under the djellaba don’t leave much to the imagination. But it was a mistake, one that she'll turn to her advantage. He clearly never suspected that she wears a GPS sender concealed in the hooks of her bra. She needs only to activate it by undoing one of the hooks.

But not yet, not until she hears what he has to say.

And besides, she vows to herself, I’m not leaving here without Baba’s gun. She has no doubt she can retrieve it using her feminine wiles. He wouldn’t be the first predator who found himself her prey. She had used her charms – and yes, her body – more times than she cared to remember to get what she wanted from men.

Looking at him over the rim of her tea cup, she says, “You never told me your full name. Max what?”

“My name is Max Reynolds,” he replies. “Oh, it’s not my real name, you understand.  But in my line of work, using my real name could be a definite handicap. I actually use a couple of others as well. Depends on who the client is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Russian mob guys in New York, who believe I’m one of them, know me as Sagittarius. And it’s true; sometimes I play along with them. When it suits me.” Max glances up again, his brown eyes meeting hers. “But your cohorts call me The Monk.”

Mercedes laughs. This was just getting better and better, in an absurd comedy sort of way. First they are related. And now he’s The Monk. It was like a fucking Molière farce. That, or a really bad burlesque plot. 

“I don’t believe that you’re The Monk for a minute,” she snorts. “You’re too…”

Her voice trails off. She was about to say that he was too ordinary, too nice, but decided that might be a mistake. He’d brought her here against her will, after all (well, sort of), and she had no idea what he intended to do with her. But The Monk? This guy? No way.

“Too what?  Nice?” he echoes her thoughts. “Don’t be naïve, Mercedes. I’m one of the bad guys. Probably the worst you’ve ever met, and in your line of work, I know you‘ve met some pretty bad ones.”

“True,” she responds. “But you know nothing about my line of work.”

“Oh, yeah, I do. I told you before; I’ve been ‘avoiding’ you for a long time. Since I realized who you were, I’ve kept an eye on you. Not easy to do and still remain in the shadows.  I felt kind of an obligation, if you want to know the truth.”

He looks up from the paper on the brass table between them and grins at her. “Besides, sometimes it works out to my benefit.” 

He drops his eyes and goes back to his drawing.

“For example, I admired your work this afternoon. You pulled off the impossible. Of course, I had to finish the job for you. And I was happy to do it. I suspect I’ll collect quite a bundle when I take credit for it.”

Frowning, she says, “What the hell are you talking about?”

 “Al-Abayghur? The world will be a better place without that asshole.”

“You don’t mean…?”

Mercedes has an idea what he means. She’s sure she is wrong, but admits to herself that she wouldn’t be too upset if she were right. That asshole had killed her father, after all. 

“Yes, of course I do, honey,” he laughs. 

“You fucking killed him?” 

“Hey, I’m a killer.” Max looks up and shrugs. “That’s what we do.”

***

Edmond Chase immediately breaks out into a sweat when he walks out of the Menara airport. Nearly midnight, and it must be well into the nineties, he thinks. It wasn’t even seventy when he left London.

He scans the taxis parked across from the door and spots a familiar face. He gestures, and the cab pulls out and swings over to the curb in front of Chase. The cabbie rolls down the passenger window, and calls out loudly, “Where to, mister?”

Chase climbs into the back and the cab pulls away.

“Hello, Hassam. I don’t suppose you can take me to Mercedes Karpov?”

“Not yet, Ed, “Hassam responds. “But wherever she is, I don’t think she went unwillingly. There is no sign of a struggle in her hotel room.”

“Maybe she never returned to her room,” Chase offers.

“No, we know she did. We talked to the man in the room next to hers. It took a little encouragement,” Hassam meets Chase’s eyes in the rear view mirror, “but he decided he would like to cooperate.”

“And?”

“He was just leaving to attend the Fantasia. He said he saw a woman in a djellaba enter her room shortly after seven o’clock this evening.”

“Did he see her face?”

“No, she had the hood up and pulled low in the front. But who else could it be?”

Chase sighs. “OK. Take me there please.”

***

At first, Mercedes is shocked at Max’s casual announcement. How he knew about al-Abayghur, she can’t guess, but she decides she doesn’t believe him anyway. She watches as he continues to draw boxes on the sheet of paper.

“Learned my shapes in kindergarten, Max. Get to the point, please.” 

“Patience, my dear.”

Max draws until he has several layers of boxes.

Mercedes gives a wide, gaping yawn. “I’ve had a long day, you know, and I’m really tired. Will you get on with it?"

“Almost there…”

Max draws arrows connecting some of the boxes to others.

“Ah, a family tree...” Mercedes says. “Silly me. I should have known right away. Is this the part where you tell me how it is that you and I are blood relatives?”

“I hear the skepticism in your voice. That won’t last long, I assure you.”

Starting at the top, Max begins writing names in the boxes. He labels the first two boxes Nicholas and Alexandra.

“How’s your Russian history, Mercedes? It’s your heritage, you know.”

“Oh, good grief. I don’t have time, not to mention much interest, for a fucking history lesson. Will you get to the point!”

“Relax. You are in no position to make demands. I’m the one with the gun, remember?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Despite the unconcerned tone in her voice, Mercedes makes a show of calming down and leans back on the couch. She isn't sure how far she can push him.

“Now for the fun part.”

He quickly fills in the rest of the boxes. All but the bottom two.

He looks up at her.“You see where I'm going with this?”

Mercedes leans forward and turns the page around.  The names mean nothing to her, other than two of them.

“Those are my parents,” she says, indicating the boxes containing the names Grigori and Ella. “I have no idea who these other people are.”

“Here, let me help you out.”

Max swivels the page around again and fills in the two bottom boxes.

“Does that clear it up for you, cousin,” he asks sarcastically.

“Oh, you are so full of shit.” 

Enough of this, she decides.

“Listen, I have to use the bathroom. You will let me do that, right? I can’t be sure. You’re obviously a fucking control freak. Not to mention insane.”

“Sure.” He indicates a door off the small hallway from the sitting room. “But if you think you’re going to make your escape that way, think again. There’s no window or anything you could use as a weapon. I made sure of that when I decided you were going to be my guest.” He laughs. “Not unless you know a cool trick with a bar of soap.”

Mercedes gets to her feet and heads for the bathroom.

“But just in case, leave the door open a few inches.”

She looks back at him and rolls her eyes. Once inside the bathroom, she pushes the door closed until there is a six inch gap between it and the frame.  She lifts her robe, pulls down her tights, and sits on the toilet. As she urinates, she reaches up under back of the robe and t-shirt to her bra and quickly unfastens the middle hook.

***

Chase looks around the hotel room as Hassam watches from just inside the door.

“What a pit,” he comments.

“Yes.”

In the corner of the room, Chase spots a glass on the floor beside a ratty looking armchair and starts toward it.

“Don’t bother,” Hassam says. “It’s clean.” 

Chase sniffs the remnants in the glass. Licorice. 

“No prints?”

“None at all on the glass. The only prints in the room are hers.”

“Well, that says something, doesn’t it?”

Chase’s thoughts are interrupted by a ping coming from the phone in his pocket.

“She’s activated the GPS signal. Let’s go.”

***

After she returns to the couch, Mercedes says, “You expect me to believe we are cousins?”

“No, not really. But this may help convince you.” He tosses a sheaf of paper-clipped photocopies on the table. “These are official birth records for everyone you see on this chart. My friends in the Russian mob were happy to give them to me. Of course, they had an ulterior motive, but that’s another story.”

Mercedes gives them a cursory glance.

“Look more closely, cousin.  You’ll see that we share a great-grandfather, and a rather infamous one at that. Sadly, my side of the family seems to have gotten the bad genes. I come by my need to be a control freak, as you put it, quite naturally.” 

Max leans forward and adds two names at the top of the chart he has drawn.

“No fucking way!”

“Yep. Way.” 

An evil smile appears on his face. 

Oh, my god, she thinks. It’s true. A Molière play immediately comes to her mind. Tartuffe.

Max goes on. “And, ah, sorry to do this to you, honey, but in the interest of full disclosure…”

Max puts the pencil to the chart again, and draws a big X over one of the boxes.

Mercedes raises her eyes to his in horror.

He smirks and says, “That’s what I do. I kill.”

Concluded in Part 9: Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

6 A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: Shit Happens

Continued from Part 5, A Misplaced Identity

The Tenth Daughter of Memory

Muse 6: Entropy Echoes, Alas

(NASA image source: www.http://commons.wikimedia.org)

Shit Happens

“…You wouldn’t shoot your own blood relative, would you?”

If Mercedes Karpov weren’t so shocked by the words spoken by the uninvited guest slouched in the ratty chair in her hotel room, she might have shot him for the tone in which he’d said them. Dripping in sarcasm, they are clearly a taunt.

It’s totally out of character for her, but she barely notices his tone of voice, because not only are his words shocking, there is something else… Something that makes Mercedes look more closely at the intruder. 

He looks to be about her age, maybe a little older. If she were asked what he looked like, the first word she’d use to describe him would be “average.” His medium brown hair is cut in a style you’d find on the majority of men: not too long, not too short, just… well, average. His eyes, also brown, are set in a face composed of regular features. Dressed in jeans and the Moroccan shirt known as a kurta worn by most of the men in Marrakech, there is absolutely nothing remarkable about the man.

And yet, there’s something… She can’t quite put her finger on it, but for some reason, he makes her think of her father.

As she tries to work it out, Mercedes lets her focus flag for a moment. And a moment is all it takes.

***

When Edmond Chase tries to call Mercedes, his call goes right to voice mail. He ends the call without leaving a message. She’s probably got the phone turned off.  At least he hopes she does.

When his cell rings a few minutes later, he breathes a sigh of relief. She must have seen that he’d called. A glance at the screen tells him he’s wrong. It’s al-Ghamedi calling back.  When he hears what his Marrakech contact has to say, Chase’s heart sinks. 

“I have a feeling you already know this, Boss, but we found The Monk’s card tucked into the sash of al-Abayghur’s Berber outfit.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling that’s what you would find. Look at the back of his head, Al. Anything there? It’d be right at the top of the neck.”

“Roger. Hold on a sec.” When al-Ghamedi comes back on the line, he says, “Right again.”

“This is not good. Is the maintenance team there?” Chase asks, a feeling of dread blossoming in his stomach.

“Yep. Arrived a few minutes ago,” al Ghamedi replies.

“OK, they can take it from there, Al. I want you to go to the Farah Mariana right away and check on Mercedes.” Chase gives him the address of Mercedes’ hotel. “She’s registered as Alexandra Feodorovna. Room 321.” 

“Will do. I know where that is.” 

Chase says, “Call me when you get there. And look, if she doesn’t answer the door, I want you to break in. She won’t be happy if you awaken her, but just tell her you’re following orders from me. I’ll talk to her.”

“Hey, no need to break in,” al-Ghamedi says in an insulted tone. “I’ve got my picks, and I know how to use ‘em.”

“Hurry,” Chase says and ends the call. 

He walks to the small credenza in the corner of the study that serves as a bar and pours himself a healthy three fingers of scotch. He belts them down and refills his glass, which he carries to the chair in front of the fireplace. He sits down, then immediately springs up again and resumes pacing.

“Dammit all,” he mutters. 

He’s hoping that when al-Ghamedi calls, he’ll have the unenviable task of soothing a very angry Mercedes, but he suspects that’s wishful thinking.

“Dammit all to hell!”

Chase feels totally helpless, and more than a little guilty. This is what comes of getting emotionally involved, he thinks. I should have told her everything.

***

Mercedes barely registers the movement, let alone reacts in defense, when the man suddenly leaps up and grabs the Makarov from her hand.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you never to point a gun at anyone unless you plan to use it, Mercedes?” he challenges.

“Who the fuck are you?” she demands.

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough, honey, but for now, you can call me Max.” He kicks the discarded djellaba in her direction. “Here, get dressed and put on your shoes. We’re getting out of here before your friends send in the cavalry.”

As soon as Mercedes has dropped the robe over her head and slipped her feet into the babouche slippers she’d kicked off earlier, the man called Max gives her a push toward the door.

“Pull up that hood,” he says, “and keep your eyes down, like a good little Moroccan girl.”

He yanks off the security lock Mercedes had attached to the door when she came in and tosses it on the bed. Before opening the door, he pulls up his loose-fitting kurta and takes out a small Ruger  LCR revolver that is all but invisible in his hand. He shoves the big Makarov into the waistband of his jeans and drops the kurta. 

Pulling open the door, he says in a low voice, “Go. And don’t try anything. Personally, I have no qualms about killing a blood relative. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

***

The call from Morocco confirms Chase’s worst fears. Mercedes is not in her hotel room.

He tells al-Ghamedi that he’s on his way.

As he throws a few things into a suitcase, he berates himself again for not telling Mercedes the whole story about her father’s -- and hers by extension -- heritage. He’d thought that finding out that her father was working for the SVR in Russia as a mole in the NYPD would come as more of a shock to her than it had. She’d taken that as good news, swelling with pride in her father. He just couldn’t dump the rest of it on her.

He’d planned to tell her later, but never got around to it. He’d asked himself at the time, What’s the worst that could happen if he put it off a while? Well, now he has his answer.

Chase climbs into the London Taxi he flags in front of his Mayfair flat and tells the driver, “Heathrow.” Not for the first time, he’s grateful for the skill London hacks have in getting around the city quickly.

As the cab carries him to the airport, he thinks, shit happens. Isn’t that what they say? 

Somehow, when it came to Mercedes Karpov, it happened all the more often. Her life was testimony to that. It was like some kind of personal entropy, repeating itself over and over again.

Yeah, shit happens.

To be continued in Part 7: Family Ties

5 A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow: A Misplaced Identity

Continued from Part 4: Sagittarius

The Tenth Daughter of Memory

Muse 5: A Misplaced Identity

 (Image source: traveladventures.org)

A Misplaced Identity

When his cell phone buzzes, Edmond Chase expects to hear that the maintenance team he dispatched to Marrakech has secured Fariq al-Abayghur. Mercedes Karpov is very good at immobilizing a target, even if she has to drug him into tomorrow, until the Nemesis clean-up guys arrive and take him into custody.

He presses the talk button and says, “Chase.”

“You didn’t tell me she iced him,” Mohammed (call me Al) al-Ghamedi said. Al-Ghamedi was a local Nemesis contact in Marrakech, and would have been the first to arrive at the address Mercedes texted to Chase.

“What?” Chase asks in astonishment. Were it anyone else saying those words, he’d tell him to look again, that the man was probably deeply drugged. But he knows al-Ghamedi is thorough and would have checked.

“She wouldn’t have…” 

“Ed, this moke is deader’n a doornail.” Al-Ghamedi is a great fan of American gangster movies, and his speech is liberally seasoned with language from 1940s film noir.

Chase thinks for a minute, then asks, “Al, have you searched the body?”

“Nope, not really. I gave him a quick once-over to make sure he was a goner, but he’s all gussied up in a ceremonial Fantasia get-up, you know?”

“OK. Listen, Al, do me a favor. Give him a thorough search, then call me back.”

“Will do, Boss.”

As Chase waits for al-Ghamedi’s call-back, he paces his study, thinking about the strange turn of events.

Mercedes’ plan, the one he’d thought impossible, had not included killing Fariq al-Abayghur. He’d never have condoned that. So how did the man end up dead?

Chase’s first suspicion is always the same when there is an unexplained death, especially when the deceased is someone he considers “kill-worthy.” But what are the odds? Slim to none, he's sure.

OK, maybe he isn’t so sure.

One thing he is sure about is that Mercedes did not kill the man. He remembers the rainy day three years ago when she’d laid out her plan. She’d apparently had the terrorist in her sights a long time, ever since she’d become convinced he had something to do with her father’s death.  And that was his fault, Chase knows.

That afternoon in the tea shop, Mercedes told him that she’d learned that al-Abayghur participated in the Popular Arts Festival Fantasia extravaganza. She said she’d received an anonymous tip -- a note tucked into her morning newspaper, of all things -- but had never identified the source. That tip was all she needed, and she was off and running. 

It had taken nearly four years, but she’d found him, followed him, seduced and secured him. Chase knew that al-Abayghur would never have picked her out as a threat. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure the he could find her in a crowd if she didn’t want to be found. Mercedes Karpov was a master at… well, he might have said she was a master at disguise, but it went beyond that. She was a master at becoming invisible. Slipping in and out of the smoke and shadows unnoticed was her strong suit. It was one of the reasons he’d recruited her into Nemesis in the first place.

One of the reasons, but not the primary reason, he reminds himself. 

From the moment he laid eyes on the dry-eyed young woman at her father’s funeral, she had haunted him.  He told himself it was because she had no one left after her father was gone, and in a way, he’d felt responsible for his death. He couldn’t help but wonder if Phil Brin had been killed because of the Nemesis investigation.

He’d assumed a sort of avuncular role in Mercedes’ life, checking in with her from time to time. He doubts she was really fooled. He was only seven years older than she, a little young to play the uncle. But he’d manage to fool himself very well.

He’d never told her of his feelings toward her. Worse, he’d never even admitted them to himself.

Then he’d gotten the call from Moscow. When he returned from his meeting with Boris Rogosin, he’d felt obligated to tell Mercedes Brin that much of what she knew about her father was a lie. As it turned out, she’d known her father had a Russian heritage. She hadn’t known that he was working undercover for the Russian government, though, and when he told her, she smiled the first real smile he’d ever seen on her face.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I knew he wasn’t some kind of terrorist. Oh, thank you!”

And with that, she’d thrown her arms around Chase. When she kissed him soundly, he was sure his heart had stopped. When she pulled away, the moment passed and he told himself not to start planning the wedding; it was just a thank-you kiss.

She'd immediately begun calling herself Mercedes Karpov.

As he wears a path into the carpet while he awaits al-Ghamedi’s call, Chase wonders if he should have told her the rest. Although he’d told her a little about her father’s real identity, he hadn’t told her all of it. And he’d not told her about The Monk.

***

The window of the dismal hotel room is shuttered against the heat. From beyond it, Mercedes hears the wail of Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. But the words coming from the shadowed corner of her room are no prayer.

The deep voice says, “Where the hell have you been? I was beginning to worry. Shall we drink a toast to a job well-done?"

Mercedes looks down the barrel of the Makarov she has aimed at the shape of a man slouched on the threadbare chair. In her mind’s eye, she sees the bright red dot of an imaginary laser sight dancing eagerly over his heart.

“Who the hell are you?” she demands, but gets only a chuckle in reply.

Keeping the gun trained on him, she reaches a hand up to pull the chain dangling from the fan above and turns on the harsh overhead light. The man’s face is brought into sharp focus. She’s sure she has never seen him before.

“I asked you who you are,” she said in a measured tone. “Unless you have a death wish, I suggest you answer the question. I’d have little trouble explaining your death to the Gendarmes Touriste. 

“Here I am,” she continues, her voice now that of a frightened girl, “a woman vacationing alone, returning to find an intruder in my hotel room. What was I to do? Attacked, I had to defend myself.  I was lucky I could grab your gun while your attention was, ahem, elsewhere. I’m sure they’d understand. Now, tell me who the fuck you are and what you are doing in my room.”

“Ah, come now, Mercedes. You wouldn’t shoot your own blood relative, would you?”

Continued in Part 6: Shit Happens