“The anesthesia and a special kit. We can’t have him suspicious,” Ivan said, now fully grinning.
“Kit?”
“It should be self-explanatory. We’ll leave you to take care of the scene,” he said, signaling for the other man to leave.
She didn’t like the way this sounded. When Ivan closed the door, she threw the deadbolt and cautiously retrieved the bag, placing it on the kitchen counter. She fought away all of her irrational fears about what might be waiting for her in the bag. It made little sense for them to hurt her at this point in the operation, especially at this exact moment in Roskov’s apartment. She was a phone call away from the very hasty arrival of her own teammates, who had followed her to the apartment from a distance. Grudgingly, she opened the bag and started to remove the contents.
The mask and connected aerosolizing unit was intact and ready for use. A portable battery unit had been provided to ensure continuous uninterrupted power in the unlikely event that Roskov’s bed wasn’t near an electrical outlet. Nothing unexpected so far. She delicately lifted a large zip-lock bag out of the duffel and examined the contents, shaking her head in disgust. Now she knew why they were smiling. Ivan and his friends had been busy in the car while she worked Roskov in the club. Unfortunately, they appeared to have enjoyed themselves more than she cared to imagine. She had to hand it to Viktor’s people. They were excruciatingly thorough and took a perversely twisted pride in their work.
Chapter 34
Pyotr Roskov slowly tried to open one of his eyes, which stayed mostly shut in protest of the sunlight pouring into his bedroom. A pounding headache and waves of nausea rippled through him simultaneously, driving his simple desire to get out of bed. He desperately needed water and aspirin, but his body wasn’t responding very well to commands. He lay there for several minutes in agony, wondering what had happened to him. He vaguely remembered meeting a woman at a nightclub. An Australian woman he seemed to recall, but details were hazy beyond that. He certainly didn’t remember the trip back to his apartment.
The lack of memory disturbed him. He’d never blacked out from drinking before, despite some serious partying at university. His hangover felt different, worse than before, causing him to question the night’s events. Had he been drugged? Robbed? Shit. Now it made sense. He had finally been taken for a sucker by a con artist. The thought of being duped angered him enough to turn his head and stare at his alarm clock. He was normally in the lab by now, enjoying the weekend tranquility of an abandoned facility. He wondered what they took. He let this thought linger for a few moments before sitting up suddenly and sending a shockwave through his skull.
He focused his blurry vision on the top dresser drawer, which was closed. He was well paid by Russian standards, but far from wealthy. He could think of several dozen better targets than himself in that nightclub. Regulars that would be easy to target. Maybe the thief was after something different. He struggled out of bed, feeling a little more connected to his body. He was naked, which was unusual. He typically slept in shorts and a T-shirt. He didn’t want to think of what they might have done with him while he was passed out. The pictures that might surface in an email…further blackmail opportunity.
His feet found the floor, and he walked unsteadily to the dresser. Upon hesitantly sliding the top drawer open, he stared inside for a moment, not immediately finding his Vektor security card. Aside from money and some second-rate jewelry, his security card was the only other thing worth stealing. He dug between the two rows of socks and felt the plastic card. He removed it from the drawer and examined the card, half-expecting to find a low-quality fake with a picture of Lenin. Nothing was wrong with his card.
Now he felt foolish. He was clearly not as important as he’d momentarily thought. They’d apparently just taken what little money he kept on hand, along with a few watches and an heirloom ring from his grandmother. He opened his valet box, shocked that it hadn’t been emptied of these petty valuables. Now he was intrigued. Had he just drank too much, while enjoying the company of a beautiful woman? It was almost more plausible to believe that he had been the victim of a plot to steal a deadly flu strain from his laboratory.
He turned toward the bed with the full intention of going back to sleep, when he saw a littered mess on the rough hardwood floor in front of the nightstand. He walked a little closer, to allow his eyes to better focus on the incongruous untidiness. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Now he really felt like an idiot. An idiot for drinking enough to stay passed out long enough for that Australian beauty to leave on her own accord after such a passionately crazy night. He wondered if she was waiting downstairs in the small café. He must have mentioned that place at some point during their sexual tryst. She had probably just gone downstairs to recharge herself for more.
What a shame he had blacked out. He counted three used condoms and their associated wrappers tossed on the floor with the casual abandon of lovers that couldn’t be bothered with proper waste disposal procedures. The thought energized him enough to consider an alternative to sleeping off his hangover. He was torn between cleaning up the mess and rushing downstairs to search for this incredible woman. The mess could wait, he supposed, though he had been extremely lucky to have avoided stepping on one of the condoms in his bare feet. He’d better tidy up this mess. Used condoms would be the last thing she would want to see when they returned.
Five minutes later, bleary eyed and still a little wobbly, he sat alone in the café with a hot coffee and a tiny glass of water, waiting for an order of blini. He’d clearly taken too long to wake from his drunken stupor and she’d left. The middle-aged woman behind the counter held up under interrogation, swearing that no foreigners had been in the café this morning.
He rubbed his stubble-covered chin and contemplated the day. He’d shower off and head to Vektor. He didn’t want to waste the day lamenting over his loss, eventually wandering the city like a lost puppy in search of its owner. No. He’d bury himself in work for several hours, emerging for dinner. After that, he’d count down the hours until Diesel opened and he could claim his usual perch near the dance floor. Based on the mess he had found on the bedroom floor, he felt that his chances of seeing her again were better than average.
Chapter 35
Richard Farrington joined Grisha near a bank of flat-screen computer monitors mounted to a thick wooden table nestled into the far corner of the warehouse. Three forty-watt bulbs dangled precariously from wires nailed to the ceiling’s vaulted beams. The Solntsevskaya Bratva didn’t have to worry about building codes or surprise inspections, so everything added to the warehouse beyond the foundational structure looked half-finished and ready to collapse at any moment.
Despite the complete lack of creature comforts, he could hardly complain. From an operational standpoint, Viktor had arranged everything they needed to this point. Detailed surveillance of Pyotr Roskov and Vektor, state-of-the-art electronics and computer gear, suitable modern weapons, and working vehicles. Everything at their immediate disposal with no questions asked. He had even provided the team with Russian internal passports, in the unlikely event that one of them was pulled over and questioned while moving around the city. The bratva may be a veritable rogue’s gallery of despicable human beings, but they were extraordinarily thorough and discreet, something he hadn’t expected from street criminals. Based on what he had seen so far, he could understand why the Solntsevskaya mafiya dominated the international organized crime scene. They were organized, disciplined and skilled, a combination he could appreciate.