Jad Bell: Bravo Part 19

"Miss Webber-Hayden, yes. She's expecting you?"

"She is not." The Architect thinks his English sounds stiff, wishes he'd taken more time using it.

The concierge reaches for the handset of the house phone. "And your name?"

"Dorogoy."

"Russian?"

"It's a Russian name, yes."

The concierge nods, smiling slightly, puts the handset to his ear, but not before the Architect can hear it ring. He turns away to look out the wide windows at the street, at the traffic, but it's an idle scan. He doesn't want the concierge to see his smile as he hears her voice, unmistakable if faint, the glee.

"You can head on up," the concierge tells him. "You know the number?"

"I do," the Architect says.

He knocks once, and before he can knock again, the door is open.

"Jordan," he says.

She doesn't move, so still for an instant. She looks tired, wearing just jeans and a sweats.h.i.+rt, and her hair, he sees, is wet. He smells the last traces of soap or shampoo on her, lemon and ginger. She doesn't smile.

"Perhaps you'd like to come in?" she asks.

"Very much."

She steps back, closes the door behind him, throws the locks, and when she turns back to him she says, "What is my name?"

"Zoyenka," the Architect says. "My little Zoya."

She plunges into him, throws her arms about him and her weight along with it, so forcefully he loses his briefcase and nearly his footing, stepping back, just managing to stay standing. She mashes her face against his breast, nose and mouth followed by her cheek, and he puts his arms around her, feels her shudder as she sobs.

"It's all right." He speaks softly, resists the urge to switch to Russian. "It's all right, I'm here now."

She shakes, sobs again, loudly, trying to m.u.f.fle it against him. He can feel her tears leaking through his s.h.i.+rt. He runs his fingers through her still-wet hair, tightens his other arm around her.

"I would do anything for you," she says to him, and her voice is hoa.r.s.e. "I would do anything for you, you know that, but please, dorogoy...please..."

He strokes her back, her hair. "I know."

"Never ask that of me again." She lifts her head, swipes at her nose. "Never ask me to do that again."

He brushes a tear along her cheek, erasing it with his thumb. He kisses her brow, then her nose, then her lips.

"I won't promise you that," he says. "I won't lie to you."

She blinks at her tears, and he feels her hands on him, fingers curling, nails biting at his skin. But her expression doesn't change, pained, staring up at him, and he doesn't look away, despite the urge to do just that, despite the urge to lie to her, to tell her anything that will make her anguish in this instant vanish.

"No," Zoya, who is Jordan Webber-Hayden, says. "No, you won't lie to me. So when I ask why you came, why you are here right now, you will not tell me what I want to hear."

"You wish me to say that I wanted to see you."

"Yes."

"I always want to see you," he says. "But that is not why I'm here."

"Tell me you missed me."

"In every moment."

"Tell me you want me."

"More than anyone I have ever imagined."

"Tell me you have been faithful, even if I have not."

"But you have been faithful. You give them your body, not your heart."

"And have you been faithful?"

"Yes."

She brushes at her cheek with the back of her hand, snuffles a last time. The hint of a smile appears.

"I like that," she says. "I like that you have been faithful."

He kisses her brow again. "I will prove it to you later, I promise. But I need something first."

"Tell me."

"I want to meet the soldier," the Architect says.

Zoya, who is called Jordan Webber-Hayden, makes a call and leaves a message, and they wait together to hear back, curled on the couch. Even when she is on the phone, she refuses to not be touching him somehow, a hand on his arm or her foot against his calf, and the Architect reciprocates, so eager to learn her again.

"How long does it normally take him?" he asks.

"He calls within twenty minutes," Zoya says. She puts her palms on his cheeks, fingertips tracing his cheekbones. "You changed your face."

"Do you like it?"

"I am getting used to it." She grins. "Did you change anything else?"

"No."

"Good." She kisses him, and he feels her smiling, feels her teeth pull at his bottom lip. Her hands unfasten his belt, unfasten his pants. "Undress me."

The Architect pulls the Georgetown sweats.h.i.+rt up and over her head, reveals her bare chest. He kisses each breast, greeting them, and she sighs as his fingertips stroke their swell, slide along her ribs. He thinks the years have made her even more beautiful, and he tells her as much, and she kisses him again, sliding down his body, sliding his clothes down with her. She works her way slowly up again, and he finds his fingers have become clumsy, and she helps him tug her jeans and panties off her hips and down her thighs until she can shake them free, kick them away. There's a fresh bruise on her thigh, above the knee, and when she moves to mount him he sees a line of scratches at her shoulder, but if she feels the pain, he can't see it through their shared desire. She rides him on the couch, staring at him with terrible intensity, and he clutches her closer and closer, aching to be surrounded by her, and that is when the phone rings, and she doesn't stop moving, just picks up the handset to answer.

"When can you come?" she asks, and the Architect has to stifle his laugh between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "As soon as you can. I need to see you. No, I understand. I need to see you. Please."

She thumbs the phone off, drops it, and the Architect thrusts, relishes the quick intake of her breath in response. Her hands find his shoulders, grip tightening.

"He says an hour," she tells him. "Say you love me."

"I love you."

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Say it again."

He says it again, and again, feeling her tremble around him, says it again as she voices her climax. He shouts it against her neck in his own o.r.g.a.s.m, murmurs it in her ear following, whispers it as a mantra as she lies against him, breathless, light-headed.

"I believe you," Zoya says.

They are dressed when Brock arrives, and the Architect waits in the kitchen as Zoya goes to answer the door. The Architect wonders if he should have brought a gun for this part, but the plan, as of now, does not call for one. When he asked Zoya what she had done with hers, she told him it was in the Potomac.

He hears her greet him, hears the man's voice in response, hears the door close. Hears the moment of silence and stillness that tells him Brock has his hands on her, his mouth on her, and for the first time since sending Zoya away from him, sending her here, he feels a twinge of jealousy.

He hears them moving, watches as Zoya leads Brock into the room. The soldier's eyes are on her, and she's pulling his vision away from the kitchen, and he turns to follow her as she moves toward the bedroom.

"You needed to see me," Brock says. "Why?"

"I'll be right back," Zoya says. "Just a moment."

She disappears into the bedroom. The Architect watches as Brock stands there, back to him, looking after her. He's changed out of uniform, he's in a blue cloth windbreaker and khakis, and he looks uncomfortable in them. The Architect wonders if he showered before coming over.

"You're going to do something for me," the Architect says.

To his credit, Brock doesn't react as if surprised. He turns slowly, looks the Architect over. His hands go into the pockets of his jacket, and his chin drops a fraction, and the Architect imagines this demeanor must be very effective on those of inferior rank.

"You're him," Brock says. "Holy f.u.c.k and angel choirs, you're the Architect."

"Is that what you call me? I'm vaguely flattered."

"In lieu of some other things."

"That's very generous, considering everything I've done on behalf of you and your partners. Considering everything you've failed to do."

"I gave you everything you asked for."

"No, you didn't. As of twenty-four hours ago, Tohir was still alive, General Emmet Brock."

Brock's brow creases. "You did him."

"No; you a.s.sumed I had. Our agreement was that you would take care of that, if you recall. Someone played us. Which brings me to what I need you to do."

The Architect can see Brock processing what he's said, the ramifications. He starts to speak, but the Architect cuts him off.

"I had to do what you failed to do, General. But I need it confirmed, and that is what I need you to do now. It shouldn't take more than a phone call or two."

"Bulls.h.i.+t," Brock says. "You're playing games with me, you're trying to get something more."

"You think this is about your contingency?" The Architect shakes his head. "It's all set. It's ready to go. Just a little over forty-eight hours away now. If I give the word."

"So you are playing a game."

"I suppose I am. Two phone calls. Make them, get me the answers I need. Do that, and we can discuss what happens next."

"I should take you down."

"You shouldn't make idle threats."

"It's not an idle threat."

"Then you're not thinking things through," the Architect says. "Never mind my guilt-let's talk about yours. You want to end me, you're welcome to do it. You might succeed. But you and your partners will tumble down with me. And we're not even talking about Jordan, what will happen to her."

"You're a piece of s.h.i.+t."

"I'm not the one committing treason. Two calls at the most, General. Make them now."

Brock's hands come out of his pockets in fists. The Architect watches as he unrolls his fingers, stretches them to reveal empty palms, then reaches again into his jacket for his phone.

"And who am I calling?"

"Whoever you need to," the Architect says. "Just confirm that Tom O'Day has killed Vosil Tohir."

It takes Brock only one call.

"He's dead," Brock says. "They're all dead."

"You're certain?"

"I'm as certain as I can be without drawing a line directly from him to me to you," Brock says. "You realize what you've done?"

"Yes."

Brock continues as if he hasn't heard him. "You leaned on him. Leaned on his family. You used information I gave you."

"Yes."

The Architect watches as Brock makes his hands into fists again. They are big hands, and clearly strong, and what Brock wants to do with them now isn't in doubt, but he keeps himself in check.

"They're going to know," Brock says. "There's only so many places that information could've come from. You've driven them right to my doorstep. You've exposed all of us."

"Including myself, yes."