“And what is this inheritance?”

“You expect me to believe you don’t know?”

“I’m tired of your games, Reuben. Tell me what this is about.”

“Cousin Andre didn’t tell you?”

“He’s not my cousin.”

“Step-cousin, then.”

“He’s not my step-cousin either. But you knew that already.”

“Yes, but do you know what he is?”

She tightened her jaw. She was sick of these conversational circles. “Not a single fucking clue.”

“Such language is unbecoming, my dear.”

“I don’t fucking care. Now tell me what the man who calls himself Andre Stoltz is.”

“He, my dear, was your father’s handler with the FSB.”

“FSB—You mean Russia’s Federal Security Service, the successor to the KGB?”

“Yes. Of course, Cousin Andre wasn’t always your father’s handler. He was assigned to him eight…maybe ten years ago. Prior to that, your father had a different handler, who moved with him from KGB to FSB. You see, your father has been a Russian asset since the mid-1980s.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rand wished he’d tagged Kira with a wire, to hell with the consequences. But that would have been a bridge too far—forget that he’d already crossed several bridges that exceeded his reach.

Now he wondered what the hell kind of bombshell Kulik had dropped on Kira, because she wasn’t faking the shocked look. And this was after a day of surprising revelations.

He’d sat as close as he dared, but the music from another restaurant ensured he’d only hear intermittent words, meaningless without context.

The waiter arrived with Rand’s Cisk, a local lager. He then delivered drinks to Kira and Kulik, placing two fruity cocktails in front of her.

Rand sipped his beer, staring at Kulik as he said what were clearly shocking secrets. She reached for her first drink and took a long sip from the straw.

Not only was she surprised, she was also rattled.

If Kulik had threatened her, he’d take him down faster than he’d tackled Cousin Andre.

His phone pinged with a message from Freya. She’d emailed him the report on Kulik. He’d given her an update on Andre as soon as he sat down. Now he opened his email and read the intel Freya had gathered on Reuben Kulik.

Forty-two years old. Born in Russia. The son of Russian oligarch Luka Kulik. They had homes in multiple countries but spent most of their time in St. Petersburg, Russia, and a lavish villa in Malta, not far from the city of Mdina.

Not a lot was known about the elder Kulik before the Soviet Union collapsed, but he had been high in the Communist Party at the end and had scooped up mineral rights in Russia and Belarus. His wealth rapidly accumulated as it did for so many other communists who cashed in on their status within the government when the Iron Curtain fell.

The Maltese villa had been the Kulik family’s vacation home since the late eighties. Kira had said she was looking for a former high-ranking Soviet who’d been doing business in Malta since the first business agreement between the USSR and Malta had been struck in 1979. Luka Kulik could fit the bill.

Several years ago, when father and son applied for their golden passports, Reuben Kulik’s Maltese investment had been the art gallery they’d been to the previous night. He’d paid an enormous sum for the real estate and business. Luka Kulik had invested in hotels on the islands of Malta and Comino to gain his citizenship.

Luka’s wife and daughter had perished in a boating accident in Malta when the daughter was four years old. The girl had been five years younger than Reuben, who now, as Luka’s only surviving child, stood to inherit billions when the aging oligarch passed.

As an oligarch, Kulik faced the usual controversies surrounding his wealth. His money had been accrued on the backs of impoverished Russians and Belarusians. Shady deals with the Russian government. Bratva ties.

Outside of Russia, the money appeared clean. The Maltese hotels were quite successful, and their employees received above-average wages for Malta’s hospitality industry. The art gallery appeared to be more hobby than business, but Reuben could afford to run the gallery at a loss until the sun went supernova.

The elder Kulik was actively seeking to expand his hotel business throughout the European Union, while the son seemed to be angling for a political appointment in Russia. He’d set his sights on a ministry position at the top of the pecking order and, according to Freya, was likely to get it.

Given the family’s interest in art and the status of the elder in the Communist Party before the collapse, there was a very good chance the Kuliks had been recipients of art stolen by Nazis.

Had Luka Kulik been Conrad Hanson’s correspondent, or was their relationship adversarial?

Rand couldn’t begin to guess based on Kira’s interaction with Reuben. She was interested in what he was saying, but her unease was palpable. She’d finished one cocktail in record time and started in on the other.

Rand hoped to hell she’d share with him whatever it was the man was saying, but even more than that, he prayed she’d let him sleep in her hotel room, because he didn’t relish the idea of sleeping on the floor outside her door.

Kira couldn’t deny the possibility that her father had been a spy, but for the KGB? And later for the FSB?

No.

The only way that would make sense was if he was a double agent, but her father didn’t even speak Russian.

Of course, her mother did. She’d translated documents for him when needed for his research. She’d refused to teach Kira the language. Rarely even spoke it in front of her.

What was the motive there? So Kira couldn’t take over the spy translation job if something happened to Anna Hanson?

Her brain was spinning, and she wanted more than anything to talk to Rand. But dammit, he was taking orders from Freya, who wasn’t even part of this.

“You’ve opened Pandora’s box by coming here. Many think you’ve taken up your father’s mantle.”

“Are you one of those many?”

“I was, but your surprise appears genuine. Which makes me wonder what else your father didn’t tell you.”

“I’m here because I was hoping to find the Stoltz family art.”

“But that, right there, is the problem.”

“How so?”

“That was the code your father used when he had information to share.”