CHASING THE WHITE LION
(Talia Inger, Book Two)
by
JAMES R. HANNIBAL
Date of Publication: March 3, 2020
Number of Pages: 384
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CHAPTER ONE, PART ONE OF
CHASING THE WHITE LION
BY JAMES R. HANNIBAL
VOLGOGRAD,
RUSSIA
WHARF
DISTRICT
PRESENT
DAY
The cabdriver cast a nervous glance at the alley’s unlit
streetlamps and blacked- out windows. An old man in a mud- stained coat
stumbled out of the darkness and passed through his headlights, muttering in
the singsong voice of the permanently delirious. The cabbie honked his horn and
shouted at the bum, then turned in his seat with a wrinkled brow. “Vot ? Ty
unveren ?”
HERE? ARE YOU SURE?
Talia Inger smiled, answering him
in flawless Russian, refined at the Central Intelligence Agency by America’s
top accent coaches. “Oh yes, my friend. This is exactly where I want to be.”
She climbed out and paid him, slipping in an extra five thousand rubles because
he hadn’t wanted to drive to that side of town in the first place .
The driver thumbed through the
money and gave her a soft, worried smile, as if his next words might be the
last she’d ever hear. “You are a nice lady,” he said in his native tongue. “I
will stop at St. Peter’s and light a candle for you.”
Talia reached through the open
window and squeezed his forearm. “Spasibo .” She took in a deep breath as
he drove away. The night air stank of drizzle and old fish.
Glorious.
The entrance to the Som— the
Catfish— lay at the base of a stairwell halfway down the alley. Like many of
the most interesting places in the world, the Catfish could be found only by
those who already knew where it was . The bar had no webpage, no neon sign, just
three Cyrillic letters scratched into a black- painted iron door. Talia pulled
it open and absorbed the blast of heat, noise, and cigarette smoke that greeted
her, then waltzed past the bouncer like she owned the place.
Several sets of eyes turned her
way. Most of the men seated at the bar or tucked into the dark booths were
murderers and thieves. Talia didn’t fit the profile, but she didn’t care. She
could handle them. She picked the beefiest patron looking her way and met his
eyes with a disgusted glare. “Na chto ty smotrish ’ , izvrashchenets ?” What
are you staring at, pervert?
He growled and went back to his
drink.
The others laughed.
A wooden table near the back sat
empty, lit by the faint red glow of the liquor shelves. Talia pulled out a
three- legged chair and checked the clock on her phone. Three minutes until her
target arrived. In the meantime, she was content to sit and wait— to soak it
all in. Volgograd, still known to most Americans as Stalingrad, was Cold War
Russia trapped in time. For Talia, this place embodied all her preconceived
images of intelligence work.
A seedy bar filled with the refuse
of Siberia’s prisons.
A rendezvous with a greedy criminal
ripe for the turning.
A shot at several years’ worth of
vital counterterrorism intelligence.
Like she’d told the cabbie. This
place— this dank, smoky, dangerous place— was exactly where she wanted to be.
Her fish entered the bar a few
minutes later. Oleg Zverev remained true to his file photo, down to the blue
leather motorcycle jacket. Talia guessed he thought the padding in the
shoulders made him look bigger. He thought wrong. Compared to the big gorillas
and lithe jaguars at the bar, Oleg looked like a rat wrapped in a blue leather
blanket.
The bouncer stepped in front of
him, folding his arms, and for a moment, Talia worried she might have a
problem. The rat answered with a sour look. The gorilla chuckled and stepped
aside.
“Vera Novak.” Oleg spotted Talia at
the table and greeted her with the cover name she’d given him. She stood to
take his hand, and he held her fingers far too long while his eyes passed up
and down her form. “What a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
What mass delusion made men from
every culture think women enjoyed leers and innuendo? Talia slipped her fingers
from his grasp. A little sweat. A little hair product. Gross. She sat again and
wiped her hand on her jeans under the table. “You can speak Russian, Oleg. I’m
fluent.”
“I want to practice my English.
Besides, it is safer. The overgrown morons around us can barely speak their own
language, let alone another.”
The music blaring from behind the
bar— some Russian knock-off of nineties American metal— would cover their
conversation, but Talia didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”
“I will. First round is on me. What
do you want?”
“I’m here for business. Not a
date.” The corners of his mouth turned up as he walked away. “Why can it not be
both, eh?”
GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY!
GRAND PRIZE:
Copy of Both Books in the Talia Inger Series
+ Bookstore Candle + $10 Starbucks Gift Card;
SECOND PRIZE:
Copy of Both Books in the Talia Inger Series
+ $20 Barnes and Noble Gift Card;
THIRD PRIZE:
Copy of Both Books in the Talia Inger Series
+ $10 Starbucks Gift Card
March 3-13, 2020
(U.S. Only)
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