Free The Final Fabergé by Thomas Swan

Mr. Akimov, but there’s considerable damage in his throat. In fact I’m
surprised he’s alive, and he wouldn’t be except the bullet missed the carotid artery and didn’t shatter his spinal cord. Another miracle.”
    â€œHe’ll live?” Mike asked.
    â€œIf the tracheotomy holds, he should make it.”
    â€œWill he be able to talk?” Patsy asked.
    Kaplan sighed wearily. “He needs a laryngoplasty—a reconstruction of the larynx. With luck, and a lot of therapy, he’ll be able to squeeze out some sounds. I can’t say more right now.”
    â€œHe’s visiting,” Mike said. “He’s Russian.”
    Kaplan nodded. “They told me. They’ve got good people over there, but he couldn’t tolerate a long trip.”
    â€œSuppose he doesn’t go back. Where can a larynx—whatever it is, where can it be done?”
    â€œHere . . . any good hospital, it’s not like open heart. What’s important is to have someone with experience do it. There’s also the cost.”
    Mike said, “I’ll cover it.”
    â€œIt’s an involved procedure,” Kaplan said. “Expensive.”
    â€œI said I’d cover it,” Mike repeated with finality. “How’s LeGrande . . . the big guy?”
    Kaplan showed animation for the first time. “He’s okay, except for a high fever we’re not too happy about. Everyone recognized Dennis. At least the Giants fans did.”
    â€œFever? What’s that about?”
    â€œHe lost a lot of blood, and they put a lot back. Sometimes that causes it. Or he picked up a bug, or he was coming down with something. They’re watching him.”
    â€œAnd Akimov. They’re watching him, too?”
    â€œHe’s in intensive care where he’s monitored continually.”
    â€œNot good enough,” Mike said. “I’ll put one of my people with him.”
    â€œNot unless we say you can,” Pete Crowley said. “You got a problem with hospital security?”
    â€œSomebody was clever enough to get into my office wearing one of our uniforms and shoot Akimov. That somebody wants him dead. I want him alive.”

Chapter 7
    O utside was a prototypical London day complete with fog and raw dampness, and inside, on the fifteenth floor, in the corner office of Elliott Heston, Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Operations Command Group (OCG), New Scotland Yard, the air was thick with the deep emotions of old friends arriving at a minor crisis in a long relationship. It was mid-afternoon, on Saturday. But that wasn’t a consideration; personal matters are given attention, whatever the day. Heston let his tall, lean body slump back in his chair.
    â€œYou promised to give this more thought and I’m sure that if you had, you would have changed that damned stubborn mind of yours.” He brushed away the hair that had strayed across his forehead. “It means of course that it’s unlikely we’ll ever go fishing together.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, then added a touch of the martyr in his voice, “like old times.”
    Detective Chief Inspector Jack Oxby had taken a position by the corner window and was leaning against the sill, his arms crossed over his chest, his head cocked slightly in that reflective way one cocks the head to hear more clearly, or on occasion to create the impression of listening intently. He wore an Oxby smile, the one that was disarming or misleading, depending on his purpose, a smile that spread over his face to a pair of blue-gray eyes that were capable of expressing humor or compassion, eyes that were trained to see beyond the obvious, that at times could intimidate or taunt. He stood five nine but he seemed taller. A rather long nose was a noticeable feature though not one that detracted from his agreeable good looks. He was blessed with a rich voice, one that he had put to good use when