The Hunted

Chopra blushed. “That’s rather shocking.”

“Because of the age difference?”

“Because I’m a Hindu.”

She nodded her understanding. “He’d had some wine. I think he meant that I should marry a man with your qualities.”

“Well, I hope you find him.”

“Given the way I must live my life now, that is very, very difficult.”

Chopra nodded. “You’ve done a remarkable job of hiding. It’s taken me this long to locate you — and all I want to do is help.”

“There are so many who want to manipulate us, especially my brother.”

“I need to speak to him.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s time for him to lead your country back from the ashes. I want to return to him what is his, and I want to help him rebuild your nation. It’s the least I can do to thank your family for all you’ve done for me. That’s all I want. I have no other motivation. I have all the money I could possibly need. This is not about that. This is about restoring a family, an ideal… a country.”

Warda began to choke up. She grabbed his hand. “I believe you, Manoj. I believe you.”

“Then take me to him.”

“Unfortunately, he’s not here.”

Chopra sighed deeply in disappointment. “According to the information I had—”

“He was only here for a few days. A short holiday. He just returned to London. He’s been attending a private prep school there, at my insistence. My other sisters have a place nearby.”

“Excellent. He must continue his education.”

“He doesn’t exactly agree. I think you’ll find him an interesting — and challenging — young man. That’s all I can say about my brother. We disagree over many subjects.”

“I understand. Well, then, can you give him my contact information? I’ll leave for London in the morning.” Chopra reached into his wallet and withdrew his card.

She rose and accepted the card. “I will. I’ll have him call you. It was wonderful to see you again, Manoj. And I hope this dream of rebuilding our country comes to pass. I’m tired of hiding.”

He glanced around. “It’s not entirely unpleasant.”

“No, but the company…” She glanced at her bodyguard and rolled her eyes.

He smiled wanly. “I see.”

She offered to have dinner with him, but he declined. It would be a form of torture he could not endure. He left and returned to his villa, where he sat in the living room, computer balanced on his lap, and began the process of chartering a private jet back to London.

* * *

A short time later, Chopra had dinner with Westerdale and shared the good news. The Brit reminded Chopra of the bonus attached to his contract, and Chopra assured him that he’d receive it. Westerdale had been scanning the news, and by his second glass of wine he’d launched into one of his trademark tirades about world events.

Argentina’s new offshore oil discoveries, with the aid of Russian technology, were a windfall of the highest magnitude for the Russian Federation. The thick ooze pumping out of the Argentine ocean bed wasn’t the sweet crude of the Middle East, but in a world starving for oil, the industrial world’s lifeblood, there’d be no difficulty passing the excessive refining costs on to the Europeans. So yes, Westerdale, said, the Russians had found yet another way to screw over the Brits. The new fields kept product moving through the world markets, filled Russia’s coffers, and reduced the demands on Russia’s own oil production and reserves.

The Russian Federation’s growing financial power unnerved Westerdale and Chopra and increased Chopra’s sense of urgency in helping the young sheikh put Dubai back on the map. The Russians had no idea how vast Dubai’s secret reserves were, and Chopra wished he could see the look on President Kapalkin’s face when some of his European clients began to turn away oil sales in favor of doing business with Dubai and the other emirates.

Westerdale and Chopra finished dinner, and as Chopra was about to leave, he spotted that same woman again: lithe, muscular, short black hair. She was eating alone this time. Oh, how he wished he had the nerve to go over and speak to her. But he was leaving in the morning. And nothing would come of it, of course. She was probably a full head taller than him, and he was at least ten years her senior. He sighed as she took a phone call, then bid Westerdale a good evening. With a full belly and a renewed longing for female companionship, Chopra began the uphill hike for his villa.

* * *

The Snow Maiden could have abducted her prey within the first hour of his arrival in the Seychelles, but she planned to study him for a while. What was he doing here? What did he want? She wasn’t foolish enough to blindly take orders from her employers. She was ever the opportunist.

Patti had said that Chopra was the key to getting them inside Dubai’s vaults. The Ganjin wanted the locations of Dubai’s secret oil reserves and the gold stored in one of the vaults. That was simple enough, but the Snow Maiden believed that Chopra was involved in something else that both intrigued and unsettled her.

She’d already dusted his villa with nanobots so she’d be able to track him; consequently, she would keep him on a leash for a while, let him wander, let him provide a few more answers that could prove useful. She’d been in the hills near his villa and had electronically observed and listened in on his meeting with the woman. She had learned via a surveillance photograph sent back to the Ganjin that the woman was Warda Al Maktoum, daughter of the royal family of Dubai. Now Chopra was heading back to London in the morning to continue his mission to restore the old Dubai. It was hard to fathom that he had no ulterior motives. Those kind of people rarely existed in the Snow Maiden’s world. At once she admired and pitied him.

And she resisted the temptation to move in now. Let him go to London. Let him make contact with the young sheikh he’d been struggling to find all these years. And certainly any more information about him was better kept from the Ganjin.

She leaned back on the sofa of her own villa, staring at the signal superimposed over the satellite map on her computer. With a click she brought up views from the micro cameras she’d planted in his villa. Chopra was still there, preparing to settle down for the night. She would do the same. She’d already hacked into his computer and had his itinerary. She could relax for the moment. She closed her eyes, and they were there. Always there. Her husband. Her brothers.

And now her cousin Andrei.

He was too young and just a victim, and she was entirely responsible for his death. They killed him to hurt her, to demoralize her, to weaken her… so they could move in. But they had no idea what they had just done. Her rage was now a fiery maw that would consume them.

Oh, yes, she felt certain the Russians had hired the Brigade. The terrorists had become too good at tracking her. Izotov was training and equipping them, letting them get their hands dirty while the smug bastard sat in his office and stuffed his face with gourmet food.

Revenge would not bring back the dead, of course. Revenge was foolish, she knew. So she no longer called it revenge. She called it justice — for the future generations of Russia. The richer her nation became, the more corrupt grew its leaders. It would end. It must end.

She was with Nikolai again, holding his hand while he lay in that hospital bed. The chemotherapy had turned him into a pale skeleton, but behind those sunken cheeks and hollow eyes was the man she loved.

“Don’t cry,” he’d told her.

“They did this to you.”

“No, I did this to me. I chose. But it’s okay. This life is only temporary, and we’ll be together again.”

“They knew this would happen. They didn’t care. They sent my brother in there. And they sent you to clean up the mess.”

“Don’t be angry. You have a beautiful heart. Keep it warm for me.”

She laid her head on his chest and cried.

The Snow Maiden took in a long breath and opened her eyes. Her wineglass was nearly empty. As she sat up and reached toward the bottle, the door to her villa smashed open and was split in two.