“You don’t believe her either,” Yates said.
“It's not that. Do you think EAF could be caught up in moving the stolen art? I have to go there. Could that be what she’s hiding?”
“Cassie? Never.”
“What about Devereaux?”
“He was her father’s COO. Oh, God.”
“It’s starting to add up. I need whatever you have on Sabitov, Sucov, and their US operation.”
Ian stood over Cassie’s sleeping form after he hung up. “Sweetheart, what are you hiding?”
At no sign of Cassie waking, Ian looked at the phone number in the dossier. It was eight o’clock in Moscow.
A deep male voice picked up the line. “Mr. Chase, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call? Are you looking for another Titian?”
“Ya khotel by pogovorit’s vami o Kassiopei Ellis,”Ian spoke in perfect Russian.
“Ah, Cassiopeia Ellis, lovely woman. I hear she is dead. Sad.”
Ian continued to engage in their chess match. “Blagodarya vam i vashim RPG.”
Sabitov chuckled. “Mr. Chase, if you buy meat at a store and undercook it, making people who eat it sick, is the store that sold it to you at fault? The RPG was business.”
Ian couldn’t believe his ears. Sabitov admitted his rocket killed Cassie. “Who bought the rocket?”
The Russian laughed. “I am a businessman, Mr. Chase. I stay in business because I keep many secrets. I would be cautious when you ask these questions.Dobryy den’, g-n Cheyz. Good day, Mr. Chase.”
“Mr. Sabitov, would you like me to give a message to Mr. Sucov? I do not believe he will be returning to your employ.”
Sabitov disconnected the call, and Ian smiled.
* * *
As the sedative wore off, Cassie tossed in her sleep. The visions in her recurring dream focused on a Caravaggio painting of the nativity. It wasn’t Baby Jesus—it was William. She screamed, making it to the side of the bed before she threw up on the floor. The feeding tube came up with the force.
“Cassie, I’m here. Tell me what I can do to help.”
Her eyes flitted around the room as she covered her mouth. This time, she made it to the bathroom.
Ian scrambled after her. All he could do was hold her hair out of her face. “Sweetheart.” Ian filled a small cup. “Try some water…a few sips to rinse your mouth.” He helped her back to bed and cleaned up the mess. Curled up in a fetal position, her hand held her stomach, trying to stifle the nausea. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m calling Eric.”
“My dream, I…I saw…Young Woman in Pink. Then the Caravaggio, the Nativity; Baby Jesus was William. The man with the scar, he looked at me.Ty mertvaya devushka.”
“You’re a dead girl. Cassie, it was a dream.”
She shook her head. “No, it was a memory. I saw him. Sucov.”
Ian opened the door for Eric and Tucker. “She’s thrown up twice. She had a nightmare.” Panic tinged his tone.
Ian stepped into the hallway and called Yates again while they examined Cassie. “I need to know if David Sucov was ever in the States—and when?”
“Hold on. I’m checking.” A computer whirled in the background. “It would be a while ago. Sabitov is on the terrorist watchlist as of four or five years ago… if memory serves me right.”
“What do you know about a Caravaggio with a Nativity in it?” Ian asked.
Yates laughed. “Which one? The Nativity was a favorite subject of the artist.”
