The Bodyguard Contract. Donna Young
actress?” Ian remembered Sophia Franco. Late thirties. Never headlined. Her forte was horror movies. Got a lot of press over her blood-chilling screams.
“Davidenko’s mistress,” Cain stated. “A few months back, Father Xavier managed an introduction. She’s a Roman Catholic and has become quite attached to the old man.”
“Are you saying Sophia Franco managed to get the poison to the priest?”
“It fits,” Cain responded. “We have proof that Father Xavier controls her. It’s no secret Russian terrorism is a small step from the Russian Mafia.”
“So, Sophia Franco turns in the Katts Smeart hoping to save lives and her soul? Hell of a penance.” Ian frowned. “Where is she?”
“Dead, we suspect. But I haven’t been able to confirm it yet,” Cain said, then paused. “Lara’s the courier for the Katts Smeart. She’s headed for Las Vegas where Father Xavier is supposed to pass it to her later today.”
“So Lara gets the weapon, brings it in,” Ian said, relaxing somewhat. “One-two punch. She could handle this in her sleep. If you send me in to cover her and she finds out—it won’t be pretty.”
“Pretty is the least of my worries. After this assignment, I’m forcing Lara to take a leave of absence. For her benefit.” Another pause, this time longer. “And yours.”
“Mine? How in the hell do you figure that?” He followed Cain’s gaze to the VI equipment. “You’re not getting rid of her because the two of us can’t get along, are you? Because if that’s the case, I’ll step down. Lara’s hated my guts ever since the President fiasco two months ago.” And rightly so, Ian silently acknowledged. “If she loses her career because of me, you’re signing my death warrant.”
“A few days ago, I would’ve agreed with you,” Cain reasoned. “But now, circumstances have changed. If her mission goes wrong and you have to intervene…” Cain rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, let’s just say I’m betting she’ll accept your help. Past or no past.”
“And why is that?”
“Because whether I like it or not, in the last twenty-four hours this mission became personal,” Cain responded, the hard edge back in his tone. “Lara fainted during a workout here at the center. I ordered her to get a physical. At the time, our doctors suspected anemia and took some blood samples.”
“And?” Ian stiffened, not bothering to cover the thread of concern. To his knowledge, Lara had never been sick a day in her life. “Was it?”
“No,” Cain admitted slowly, studying his brother. “She’s two months pregnant.”
Chapter Three
Las Vegas, Nevada. Wednesday, 1400 hours
Father Xavier Varvarinski slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, placed them beside the Bible cradled in his lap, then eased back against his hard, pine chair. Instantly, a rush of relief flooded the ache between his shoulder blades.
Even so, Xavier held his sigh of pleasure in check, not wanting the soft sound to rupture the peace that surrounded him. It wasn’t the heavy silence of the faithful which dominated most Sunday masses. Instead, it was a comforting silence—a reassuring murmur so fluid, it slid easily past the miniscule gaps in the confessional’s aged maple walls.
With his joints aching from arthritis and his lungs frail from years of tobacco abuse, Xavier had little that comforted him physically.
A true sign of being old he supposed. Still, he found solace in the midweek confessions and had insisted on upholding St. Stanislaus’s tradition when the current, younger pastor would’ve forgone the routine.
The hinges of the confessional door creaked, interrupting his thoughts. The priest’s lips lifted into a small empathetic smile. There was nothing wrong with finding reassurance in the familiar.
After a few seconds, cloth rustled against the wooden kneeler, forcing Xavier to shift forward in his chair and put his glasses back on. Reverently, his palm slid over his Bible’s leather cover—his fingertips automatically settling into its aged creases. Another comfort. The most important.
“Good afternoon, Father.” The hushed feminine greeting penetrated the screen.
“Eos,” Xavier said, turning toward the familiar voice, wincing slightly at the sharp jab of pain deep in his chest.
The ceiling light cast a slim, feminine shadow against the confessional screen. The woman was young, not more than thirty, he assumed. Her temperament soft, serene.
Xavier reached in his pocket and withdrew his pills. “Once again, your promptness astounds me,” he answered in Russian, then swallowed two tablets, dry.
“I received your message this morning.” Her tone remained hushed, her dialect now Russian, also. “Do you have the package?”
“Yes,” Xavier responded quietly. “You’ve told no one?”
“No one,” Lara replied, the lie sliding easily off her tongue. “But time is not our friend right now, Father. I need that package.”
“First things first, my child.”
Lara’s lips tilted into a half smile, forgetting for a moment the priest inside the man. “Of course.”
Xavier made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” Lara answered.
“May God keep you safe in his kingdom, Eos.”
“Thank you. And you, also,” she responded automatically, somewhat taken aback by the gesture. Something is wrong.” She noticed it in his tone—an underlying despair that Lara had heard many times during her career as a government operative. “What is it?”
He sighed. “I had prayed that this day wouldn’t come, but it seems God’s will is stronger than my pleas.”
“What do you mean? Have you been discovered? Are you in danger?”
“Danger? No,” Xavier responded slowly, as if searching for the right words. “I’m too old, and no longer a threat to anyone.”
“Then why pray for—”
“Did you know that the true test of faith is when God doesn’t answer our prayers? Most always he has a higher purpose. One that may eventually come to light. Still it is hard for me to believe that he would not prevent this. No matter his purpose.”
“Surely, our purpose is the same, Father. To protect the innocent. You’ve done the government a huge favor by confiscating the substance. If there is anything I can do—”
“That’s exactly why I sent for you, Eos. I need help in saving a great deal of lives.” The priest hesitated, the uncertainty palpable. “I want to give you something. It’s under your kneeler.”
With deliberate movements, Lara reached under, her fingertips instantly touching small round beads. Slowly, she picked up the rosary. It was beautiful and old. “Is it yours?” A string of freshwater pearls looped a simple silver cross—on it, the image of Jesus suffering. The stark lines, the agonized expression were vivid in the dim light of the confessional.
“Yes. I’ve had it for many years.”
“It’s beautiful,” Lara murmured. She grasped the cross in her fingers, surprised over the chill of the metal against her skin. Somehow she’d expected it to be warm. “I can’t take this.”
“You must. It is the key to my situation.”
“I don’t understand.” Lara frowned, turning the cross over in her hand.
“You will.”
“Father, I don’t have time for cryptic puzzles. Tell me what you need.”