The Russian's Pride (Avenging Angel - Seven Deadly Sins Book 1) Page 2

  He pounded his fist into the table. “Was it the water or the pills?”

  The doctor leaned back, shying away from White’s intensity. “It was the water, of course.”

  White spun on a heel, grabbed the trash can, and yanked open the door to the interrogation room. Slamming the can onto the tile floor beside Anya, he ordered, “Empty your stomach, now!”

  Anya’s eyes darted between the nearly hysterical agent and the open door of the interrogation room. Remembering White’s nearly flawless Russian, she said, “Skazhi mne pochemu.”

  “Because the water is drugged. That’s why. Do it now!”

  “You also drank water,” she hissed.

  White shoved two fingers down his throat and emptied the contents of his stomach into the waiting can. Anya narrowed her eyes and stared at her hands securely cuffed to the table. She tried to imagine how she could get a finger down her throat. “What is drug in water?”

  Ignoring the question, White ordered, “Open your mouth, and if you bite me, I swear to you I’ll cut your head off with that pen clip you stole.”

  Anya shot another glance toward the door. “Open handcuffs.”

  White could feel the effects of the tranquilizer racing through his limbs. “I don’t have the key. It’s your last chance. If you want to stay awake, open your mouth.”

  Anastasia Burinkova had never suffered from the plague of indecision, knowing there was no greater killer of covert operatives than the inability to decisively take action. She leaned toward the can, looked up into Ray White’s eyes, and opened her mouth.

  The contents of her stomach soon joined his in the bottom of the battered metal can. He yanked the bottle from the table, tore off the lid, and added the remaining tranquilizer-laced liquid to the can. “I’ll be right back.”

  In Russian, she said, “I’ll probably be here when you return.”

  Ray suppressed a smile, but only barely.

  He pulled the plastic bag from the can, tied a knot in the top, and pushed the door closed behind him. Crossing the room in two strides, he deposited the bag of tainted water and stomach contents on top of Dr. Zabaggo’s legal pad. “Drug another of my detainees, and you’ll be writing anti-depressant prescriptions for bored, overweight housewives in Dump Truck County, Kentucky. Do you understand me, Doctor?”

  Zabaggo instinctually slid her chair away from the table and trash bag. “You don’t have the authority to threaten me, Agent White. And she is not your detainee. She is the property of the United States Department of Justice. Do you understand me?”

  White lifted the bag from the table, moved squarely in front of Dr. Zabaggo, and scowled. “Nine fifty Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest, seventh floor. That’s where the attorney general’s office is. I recommend you knock on his door and ask him who that woman in there belongs to. In the meantime”—he dropped the trash bag onto her lap—“I recommend you take out the garbage you created and leave the real work to those of us who know how to do it.”

  Zabaggo sprang from her chair, sending the bag sliding across the floor. “I’ll have your badge for this!”

  White grinned. “Do you want my badge because you don’t have one of your own, or because you like to play with shiny things?”

  When White returned from the vending machine, Dr. Zabaggo was nowhere to be found. Only a pair of junior agents and a technician remained in the observation room. “Where’s the shrink?”

  One of the agents said, “She stormed out right after you, sir.”

  “Good. We don’t need her on this. Who has the keys?”

  The second agent slid her hand into her pocket. “I’ve got them, but I don’t think it’s a very good—”

  White snatched the keys from her hand. “You’re not here to think, Davis. You’re here to learn, and the woman behind that door is about to teach a master class in how to be a badass. You might want to take notes.”

  He pressed himself through the door as the two other agents remained behind the glass. After three confident strides, he perched on the edge of the table and placed a pair of unopened bottles of water beside Anya’s hands. “Choose.”

  Through weary eyes, obviously the effect of the tranquilizer, Anya said, “Choose for you or for me?”

  White shrugged. “It’s up to you. I’ll drink one, and you’ll drink the other. I swear to you, neither has been opened, and there’s nothing inside either of those bottles besides water.”

  “You are trying to gain my trust.”

  White shook his head. “No, I’m smart enough to know that isn’t possible. You’re programmed to trust no one except your SVR handlers.”

  “I am not SVR.”

  Ray pulled the keys from his palm and opened the handcuffs. “No, not anymore you’re not, but you were. I know all about your past, Anya.”

  She rubbed her wrists where the cuffs had pressed indentations into her flesh. “Was not smart to take off handcuffs. You would know this if you really knew all about my past.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said, “but it’s going to be tough to drink your water without using your hands. I can put the cuffs back on if you want.”

  She twisted the blue plastic top from the bottle and heard the seal crack beneath her thumb. “Spasibo.”

  White nodded. “Ne upominay eto!”

  She took a long swallow from the bottle. “Your Russian is very good.”

  “My father was a diplomat in the U.S. ambassador’s office. I spent nine years in Moscow as a child.”

  Anya examined the agent’s eyes, the lines of years spent in the weather, and the scars of years spent in places he shouldn’t have been. “Your father was CIA, no?”

  White shrugged again. “Probably, but I’ll never know.”

  She was supposed to invite him to tell her why he would never know who his father worked for, but her training had taught her never to give a foreign operative an opportunity to lie. She said, “You are CIA, no?”

  “I told you, I’m with the Justice Department.”

  “That is not answer,” she said before emptying half of the water bottle into her mouth.

  “No, Anya, I’m not CIA. I’ve never been CIA, and I have no interest in becoming CIA. I’m a lawyer with a gun and a badge.”

  “I am still in America, yes?”

  “Yes,” he said, “you’re still in America.”

  “What if I demand lawyer? Is my right in America.”

  He checked his watch. “Yes, once you’ve been arrested, you have the right to an attorney, but you’re not under arrest . . . yet.”

  She held up her wrists still bearing the marks from the handcuffs. “I was cuffed, shackled, and brought here against my will by federal officers after committing crime. This is definition of arrest, no?”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way, but keep in mind”—he took another drink—“if you demand a lawyer, I’ll get one for you, but he’ll be a criminal defense attorney whose job is to defend you against capital murder charges, not to negotiate a deal.”

  Anya lifted her chin and stared into the mirror. “Who is behind looking glass? Maybe Alice in Wonderland?”

  White shot a look over his shoulder. “Two junior agents and a technician.”

  “These people are your students, no?”

  “The tech isn’t. He’s recording everything we say or do, but the other agents are still learning.”

  “Are you also still learning, Special Agent White?”

  Ray dismissed the question. “You’re a beautiful woman, Anya.”

  She frowned. “Russian women are most beautiful women on Earth. I think you are probably married to Russian woman, no?”

  He held up his left hand, devoid of a ring. “No, I married a girl from Kansas, but it took her less than two years to realize she didn’t like being a cop’s wife.”

  “In two years, do you have children with girl from Kansas?”

  “No, she had a miscarriage six months after we were married. It broke my heart at the time, but now . . . well, now I think it was probably the best thing for everyone involved.”

  She laid her hand on his arm with the gentleness of a kitten. “You want to now have Russian wife who understands responsibility of cop, yes?”

  He let his eyes wander across her long, delicate fingers, and for just a moment, he let himself imagine those hands caressing his skin and sliding through his hair. Then he pulled away. “You’re very good, Anya, but I’m too old to fall into a Russian honey trap.”

  “Was only question, not proposal for marriage.”

  “Nonetheless,” he said, “you’re very good. So, do you want me to formally arrest you so you can demand an attorney now, or do you want to help me take down the Russian mafia?”

  “You said you are lawyer with badge and gun. Does this mean you passed bar examination?”

  “Yes, I’m a member of the Virginia bar, among others.”

  “So, this is where I am, Virginia?”

  “I’m not practicing law here, Anya. I’m interrogating a killer and offering her an option other than life in prison.”

  “What if I want for you to be my attorney?”

  “That’s not how it works, I’m afraid. And as I said, you’re very good, but I must insist we stay on track. It’s a simple decision. Either I arrest you, and you spend the rest of your life in prison, or you help me dismantle the Russian mafia from the inside. Option one sucks, and option two is likely to get you killed, but the choice is yours. Do you want to go back in the handcuffs or back on the street?”

  She smiled, and White immediately agreed that Russians are, indeed, the most beautiful women on Earth. “Murder is not federal crime unless I kill government official . . . like you. What I did is crime against State of Florida, so you do not have yurisdikt
siya.”

  White picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Actually, one of the DOJ agents you shot didn’t survive, so, technically, I have all the jurisdiction I need.”

  “In that case, I am now Alice, and you are going to take me to Wonderland. I believe this makes you now Mad Hatter?”

  3

  PRAVILA

  (THE RULES)

  Anya focused on the cold, handleless door of the interrogation room. “Is time now for me to meet your students.”

  Ray White situated himself into the stainless-steel chair across the table from the woman who would likely end his career with Justice. “Not yet. First, we have to talk about the rules.”

  Anya stared into his soul. “If you know everything of my history as you say, you know I do not have rules.”

  “Everyone has rules. Even if you claim to have none, that in itself is a rule.”

  “Is game of words. Rules are only for those who are afraid.”

  White crossed his legs. “You’re right. That’s precisely why we chose you for this operation. You’re almost fearless . . . almost.”

  Anya’s eyes turned to stone. “You know nothing of me.”

  “I know you’ve been to the Black Dolphin Prison and that you never want to go back.”

  “This is not fear,” she demanded. “Is nenavidet'.”

  Ray pulled a pebble from the tread of his shoe and examined the smooth stone. “Now you’re playing word games. Fear and hatred are almost always interchangeable. You hate the thought of losing your freedom again. While we’re on the subject of freedom, let’s talk about Chase Fulton.”

  Anya swallowed hard and pictured the face of the man who’d fallen in love with her; the man who’d risked his life countless times to save hers; the man who’d rescued her from the most notorious prison on Earth; the man who’d given her the ultimate freedom: an American passport.

  “I do not know this person Chase Fulton.”

  Ray rolled the stone between the tips of his fingers. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m not your enemy. I’m just a man doing a job, and right now, that job is to embed you inside the Russian mafia and let you cut your way out.”

  “I have told you I will do this because I do not want to go back to prison—even soft American prison—but this has nothing to do with person named Chase Fulton.”

  Ray ran his hands through his hair and believed he could feel the difference between the strong, dark strands and the weak gray ones starting to appear at his temples. “This is the part I most despise, Anya, but you’ve forced me to prove that we know more about you than you know about yourself.”

  Anya sat in defiant silence, waiting for Special Agent Ray White to show his hand. He would walk to the door, and one of his minions would hand him a dossier on SVR Captain Anastasia Burinkova prepared by the American CIA. He would put on the reading glasses he so hated, thumb through the folder, and in a vain effort to demonstrate his superiority, divulge tidbits of what the Americans thought they knew. She knew the playbook. She knew every trick Ray White had up his rolled-up sleeve.

  To her disbelief, White didn’t stand. He didn’t walk to the door. And he didn’t read from her dossier. Instead, he closed one eye, lifted the smooth, round pebble toward the fluorescent fixture in the ceiling, and peered at the stone. “How old do you think this rock is?”

  She gave no answer but found herself focused on the white piece of quartz as the yellow-white light from the bulbs above reflected from its smooth surface.

  “We did it,” he said. “I knew we could, but I didn’t think it would be so easy.”

  Anya examined his words in search of the trap he’d lain, but no matter how hard she searched, she couldn’t see it. “What did we do?”

  He laid the stone on the edge of the battered table in front of her. “We focused on the same thing, and all it took was for me to hold it up to the light. Keep that in mind. That’s essentially what my job is—holding things up to the light so we can focus on them together.”

  He is also very good, Anya thought, and she tried but failed to look away from the pebble Agent White had likely planted in the sole of his shoe, specifically for the game he was now playing.

  “It was nineteen seventy-six,” he began. “The Cold War was still cold, and Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev was the General Secretary of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union. You were an innocent, four-year-old little girl in a cold, dark apartment in the Severnoye Izmaylovo District of Moscow. A senior Communist Party official named Dmitri Alexandrovich Barkov came through the door and cut out Katerina Nikolovna Burinkova’s heart, at the kitchen table, in that dank, miserable apartment, and you had to watch your mother die because she was in love with your father, an American CIA operative named Robert Richter.”

  Anya forced back the tears welling in her eyes. “Stop! Is enough. You do not have to be cruel. I will do for you what you ask.”

  Ray licked his lips. “I’m sorry, Anya. I told you this is the part I hate the most, but it has to be done. You have to understand the depths to which we’ve gone to make this operation possible.”

  “You do not have to speak of my mother for this reason. Is only cruel.”

  He lowered his foot from across his knee and leaned forward. “No, what I’m doing is not cruel. What I’m doing is holding cruelty up to the light so we can both focus on it. They killed your mother and took you into state custody. What they did to you is unthinkable.”

  “What you are doing is no better,” she said.

  He ignored the jab. “You were to become a skater, but you hated the cold so badly you wouldn’t stay on the ice.”

  “I am terrible Russian. I detest cold. This is true, but. . . .”

  Ray stared into the corner of the room where one of the dozen microphones rested. “So, they tried to turn you into a gymnast, and you trained with Svetlana Boginskaya, but by the time you were eight years old, you were already too tall and aggressive to be an Olympic gymnast. That’s when you caught the eye of a KGB officer named Nicolai Kuznetsov. I’m sure that wasn’t really his name.”

  Anya couldn’t stop her mind from returning to the day she met Nicolai Kuznetsov. “His name means blacksmith, person who uses fire and hammer to turn iron into tool.”

  Ray whispered, “Yes, I know. Is that what he did to you?”

  She didn’t answer, but the agonizing memories poured through her mind like molten lava descending the slopes of a volcano—slow, hot, and unstoppable.

  The Academy of Foreign Intelligence is its official name, but when nine-year-old Anastasia Burinkova walked through the gates of the infamous Soviet spy school in Chelebityevo, she had been instructed to consider herself a proud Soviet student of the Yuri Andropov Red Banner Institute, where she would become a weapon of the state. While the other girls on the ice and in the gymnasium would destroy their bodies in pursuit of a gold medal, Anya would hone and develop hers upon the anvil and beneath the hammer of the blacksmith to become a sword for the Kremlin.

  White broke her trance. “When did you leave Chelebityevo for Yurlovo?”

  She forced the screen in her mind to fall dark. “I do not know. I think I was sixteen or maybe seventeen. You want to know of Sparrow School, no?”

  “No, Anya, I don’t want you to tell me about Sparrow School.”

  Just as she’d been taught during hundreds of hours of training in seduction, she tilted her head and focused her blue-gray eyes on an imaginary spot just between his. “Perhaps, then, you would like for me to show you what I learned there.”

  He felt fire descend his spine and smolder somewhere near its base. The thought of the tall, lean blonde wrapping herself around him temporarily left him willing to surrender his badge to Dr. Zabaggo, or anyone else who wanted to play with it while he played with the seductive beauty chained to the floor only a few feet away from him.

  “No, I don’t want . . . I mean, I’m not . . .” He shook his head. “I want to focus on Chase Fulton, the American operative you were tasked to seduce and flip. We know who and what he is. What I want to know is exactly what he is to you.”

  Anya’s mischievous smile came. “This is revnost', no?”

  “No, this is not jealousy. This is my job. I think we can move on.”

  Anya watched as tiny beads of sweat formed on White’s forehead. She was winning.