Page 93 of Tamed Enemy
“And Kate?”
“Cameron's bringing her over first thing tomorrow morning. She’ll be behind the two-way when the fun starts.”
Best studies the closet door. If Tarasov is calling for help in there, we can’t hear a whisper.
“You’ve got my number if you need me,” he says.
I tap my phone in my pocket. “I do.”
I walk him out to the elevator bank. When I come back, the Sawgrass guys are eating sandwiches in the break room, playing cards and talking shit. They jump to their feet when I come in for a fresh bottle of water.
“At ease,” I say with a smile. Each man shifts his feet to a stance shoulder-width apart, folding his hands at the small of his back. I expected their reaction to be somewhat more relaxed.
I gesture toward the closet. “Got everything you need?”
“Yes, sir,” says the taller man. “We’ll bring the prisoner a bottle of water and a bucket at twenty-two-hundred. An apple and a bread roll at oh-six-hundred. He’ll be ready for interrogation at oh-nine-hundred.”
As I leave them to their card game, I consider having Cameron bring Kate over now. We can call in Richardson and Bennett, get an early start on questioning.
No.
We have a plan, and we’ll stick with it.
Questioning begins tomorrow.
37
KATE
Megan claps her hands at the front of the room, demanding the undivided attention of the team she’s assembled. Unrecognizable behind her wig, fake teeth, and dark contact lenses, she calls out: “Places, everyone. Remember—we have three days to make this happen. If you have any questions, text me through your computer terminals. Everyone stays in character at all times. That boardroom door can open without warning. Questions?”
No one has questions. Every one of Megan’s recruits is a professional grifter.
The whiteboard on the far wall has been carefully decorated. One side is filled with names of Irish mob bosses—Kelly, Boyle, Moran, Lynch. The other has bratva pakhans—Tarasov, Federov, Sobolev, Kuznetsov. Photos accompany each label.MoranandTarasovare ringed in red.
“All right, folks,” Megan cheers. “Show time!”
Cole and I lock ourselves in the observation room. A small two-way mirror allows us to view most of the cubicle farm through the door. A larger mirror looks into the boardroom, where a complex of cameras will transmit audio and video to our computers. While I’m coaching Richardson and Bennett, Cole will edit the data we’ll ultimately distribute with the help of Ariadne’s Daughters.
I settle a pair of headphones over my hair. Sawgrass has equipped Richardson and Bennett with earpieces so high-tech they’d be the envy of security services in most countries around the world. I’m ready to feed the interrogators questions as needed, drawing on my life in the Canton Crew.
Fiona Moran stands in the doorway to the boardroom, facing Richardson and Bennett. She’s carefully positioned to be visible from the sound-proof closet that was Nikolai Tarasov’s overnight cell. The Boston Queen is dressed like she’s on her way to the board meeting of a company that sells high-end lingerie—a white double-breasted jacket with nothing underneath and a microscopic black skirt.
When Megan saw the outfit, she whistled. Apparently, it’s Brioni, and those two garments cost more than all the clothes I’ve ever bought in my life. I have a lot to learn about fashion.
Now, Megan takes her place at the receptionist desk. Tapping the over-size brooch on her orange-and-green-plaid lapel, she speaks into the microphone planted there. “Cocoa Puff!” The sound comes out of the speaker on Cole’s computer. “Mom would be so proud!”
My attention is snagged by a scramble of activity on the far side of the floor. The door to Tarasov’s closet opens. Two Sawgrass soldiers emerge from the shadows, their dark-blue assault uniforms emblazoned with yellow letters shoutingFBI. Their hands are clamped on Nikolai Tarasov’s biceps.
Unhooded, the bratva pakhan blinks in the bright lights of the main room. His hands are chained in front of him. Shackles connect his ankles. He’s far too smart to attempt to run.
Even from behind the observation-room door, I can see the shitehawk’s eyes are bloodshot. His hair stands on end, as if the hood he wore was charged with static electricity. His clothes look as if he’s slept in them, but that’s not precisely true. Between thrash metal and the attention of his guards, I suspect Nikolai Tarasov didn’t get a single minute of sleep last night.
Right on cue, Fiona Moran says, “You’re leaving me with no options.” She strikes the perfect aggrieved tone, angry enough that her voice carries across the cubicle farm.
“Twenty-four hours, Ms. Moran,” Bennett insists from inside the boardroom. “If we don’t have a complete list of your so-called donors by this time tomorrow, we begin picking up every known member of the Old Colony Crew. Starting with that rowhouse you call thedún.”
Tarasov zeroes in on Bennett’s voice first—it’s the loudest thing in a room filled with the clatter of typing on keyboards, with the occasional murmur of hard-working employees speaking into phones. I clock the precise moment he recognizes Fiona. His eyes go wide in a reaction he might have hidden if he wasn’t already swaying on his feet.
