Chipping Through the Ice
Chapter 35
"Rick, it's been a long time," Sophia purrs. "And I see you have a new muse. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"
"Sophia, you made an off-handed comment once about my father being proud of me. But when I asked you what you meant, you claimed you were joking. I believed you then, but I'm less naïve now - about many things. I know my old man worked for the company then and still does. We've had a moment or two together when he laid a pile of crap on me. Now I need the truth from you and him. So where the hell is he?"
"You didn't use to be that blunt," Rick.
"I didn't use to be a lot of things, including being married to a woman who didn't sleep with me only to get bored and go onto her next conquest. You don't have to read me into any classified operations. Jackson Hunt, Anderson Cross or whoever he really is - just tell me where to find the old bastard."
"Tsk, tsk, Rick, that's no way to talk about your father."
"If he'd been willing to be one, I wouldn't be. So, where is he?"
"Actually, Rick, that is classified, but I can pass along a message that you want to talk to him, and tell him that when you're like this, you're too stubborn to let go. I experienced enough of that when we were working together. He should believe it. The apple didn't fall far from the tree."
"Far enough, I hope," Rick retorts. "I don't abandon my family."
"Well good for you, Rick. I'll see what I can do."
Jake is on his third cup of coffee as he slogs through the files of crimes taking place within the proximity of ATMs. Most of them don't apply; they were robberies that happened in the wee hours of the morning. Price's grandmother was attacked in broad daylight. In most of the other cases, no one was injured either.
What happened to Lillian Price was a relatively rare incident. Whoever raped and murdered her was one sick bastard. But then anyone who rapes and murders a grandmother - or any woman - is one sick bastard. So maybe it had nothing to do with the ATM. The fact that Lillian used one might have been the red herring that led the investigation astray.
Jake needs to start over, concentrating on rape-murders. Mercifully, there are fewer of those, but they are a lot more gut-wrenching than robberies.
For a moment, the grief he suffered when he lost his wife washes over him. The man who had taken her life hadn't been sick, just thoughtless. He'd been trying to retrieve the breakfast sandwich he'd dropped while commuting to work when he took his eyes off the road and smashed his monster SUV into the driver's side of Francie's energy-efficient compact. She'd endured pain Jake can't even begin to imagine, from numerous broken bones and damaged organs, before God ended her agony by taking her.
It's a strange coincidence that Martha Rodgers was his lifeline while he suffered through his darkest times. She and Francie were born in the same month, were almost the same age, and seemed to share the same wholehearted embrace of life. He watched her old TV shows - even the one with Bill Bixby turning into a green Lou Ferrigno. He listened to her music and went to her plays and musicals when he could scrape up the money. That he can do something now to try to help her - or her friend - seems only fair.
More coffee will burn a hole in Jake's stomach when he explores the cases more similar to Lillian's. He can deal with that. He'll stock up on antacids.
Hunt is surprised to see Sophia Turner. He's aware of her expertise with weapons as well as the other methods she uses in her tradecraft. Duchess can be of little help in preparing her for the types of missions she's assigned. Nevertheless, even newly married, he'll enjoy talking to a woman whose personal assets play such a substantial role in making her an asset to the organization.
"Hello, Hunt, or as your son called you when he phoned me this morning, Anderson Cross."
"What the hell? How could Richard know about Anderson Cross?"
"Rick's resourceful, Hunt - more than you know. He found out somehow. From the sound of what he said, he found out a lot more, and whatever it was, he was more pissed off than I've ever heard him be before, including when I broke things off with him."
"I could have told you never to sleep with a trainee, especially not my son. So what are you expecting me to do about it? I can't put him in the crosshairs. He's jumped in front of a bullet once. He might not survive another one."
"Then you're going to have to find some way of getting together with him out of the line of fire. Hunt, he's not going to give up. We both know that. And he might get himself killed anyway trying to track you down. Go see the man, sooner rather than later."
"Yeah, I guess I'll have to."
Volkov's diplomatic papers got him quickly through customs at Kennedy International Airport. The driver of the limousine sporting diplomatic plates isn't having nearly as easy a time delivering his passenger to Manhattan.
Anxious as he is to get to Hunt, Volkov uses the time in what he considers a decadently luxurious vehicle to go over his plans. Hunt won't be easy to locate. He never is, but the man has passions. One of them is for better types of ammunition, the kind developed in a facility the CIA believes is secret. The KGB planted a mole there years ago, now long gone. But the FSB still keeps tabs on the place. It's always good to know what an adversary has in the pipeline.
No doubt, Hunt will show up, if he hasn't already. Clever as the assassin is, Volkov is smarter. He always has been. He'll track Hunt to his lair. Once he does, he's not sure what methods of torture he'll apply, just that he'll relish every moment that Hunt suffers. As far as Volkov knows, there has never been anyone Hunt cared about as much as Gregor loved Anna. But things change. Once Gregor has eyes on Hunt, he'll find out if the man has let anyone breach the block of ice that masquerades as a heart. If there is someone that close to Anna's murderer, that person will be the key to a plan.
The limo finally pulls up in front of the diplomatic residence. The luggage the driver helps Gregor carry inside contains no weapons. Those will have arrived by diplomatic pouch to be delivered separately. But until they come, Volkov will use his access to a secure computer system and any surveillance reports generated while he was in route. He can also get some decent borscht and pierogies. A little vodka wouldn't hurt either, but not too much. Gregor can't afford to cloud his judgment or compromise his skills. Hunt has his flaws, but underestimating him could be fatal. Gregor will not be the one to die.