Fisher hopped back onto the wall, then to the ground, and trotted to the warehouse door. He was about to get out his pick set when he decided to try another approach. He pressed his ear to the door. He heard nothing. Using his fingernail, he scratched at the steel. Waited. Scratched again, this time more loudly.
On the other side of the door he heard a voice grumble something, a curse, then feet clicking on concrete. Fisher stepped left, against the hinge-side wall, and pulled the SC from his waistband. The door opened; Fisher lifted his palm, rested it against the steel. When he saw the crown of Ivanov's head appear, he gave the door a shove and got a satisfying grunt in return. As Ivanov stumbled backward, Fisher came around the door and gave him a light heel kick to the chest, sending him sprawling. With a thump, Ivanov landed on his butt and stared up at Fisher. Even from ten feet Fisher could smell the alcohol on Ivanov's breath.
"Hi, Adrik," Fisher said pleasantly. He raised the SC level with Ivanov's chest.
Ivanov blinked several times as though waking from a deep sleep, then muttered, "Sam?"
"Yes."
"Is that you?"
"Yes." Fisher backed up, snagged the doorknob with his left hand, and swung the door shut. He looked around. The warehouse was divided down the right side by twenty-foot-tall rack shelves filled with boxes and crates. On the left, a glassed-in office occupied the far third of the wall. Closest to Fisher, fifty-five-gallon drums labeled in both Cyrillic and English--cleaning solution, floor stripper, sweeping compound--sat stacked three high.
"Why did you kick me?" Ivanov asked.
"Just my way of saying hello."
"You're not still mad, are you, about that thing in Minsk?"
"No, not mad. It just put our relationship in a different light."
"I'm sorry about that. I am. I had these guys after me--"
"I know. You can make it up to me, though."
"Stop pointing that gun at me."
"Are you going to behave?"
"Yes, of course."
Fisher lowered the gun but didn't put it away. He extended his left hand to Ivanov and helped him up. "What do you want?" the Russian said.
"You're going to get some visitors in a little bit. I need you to do a little acting."
"What kind of visitors?"
"The kind that hurt bad actors."
"Ah, Sam, don't--"
"Just play it like I tell you and nothing will happen to you."
"Can't I do something else? I have a sister in Karkiv--"
"Shut up, Adrik, and listen. . . ." When Fisher finished explaining what he wanted, he had Ivanov repeat it several times until he was satisfied. "One last thing," Fisher said. "Friends or not, if you burn me I'll shoot you dead. Do you believe me?"
"I believe you."
30
WHILEIvanov sat in his office and sulked, Fisher found his perch, the second tier of the central rack shelf. He climbed up and rearranged boxes and crates until he had a blind from which he could see the whole warehouse. Aside from a blind spot to the right of the office, and one around the main door, he had clear fields of fire.
He settled down to wait.
NOT bad, the logical part of Fisher's brain thought twenty minutes later as the warehouse door swung open silently and Ben Hansen stepped through and to the right, SC pistol extended. They'd picked the lock without a sound. Right behind Hansen appeared Gillespie, then Valentina, Noboru, and finally Ames. On flat feet, Ames and Valentina rushed the office and swarmed Ivanov, who was on the floor with a gun to his head before he had a chance to open his mouth. Using hand signals, Hansen ordered Gillespie and the other three to search the warehouse. Once done, they gestured back , all clear, and Hansen called, "Clear. Okay, bring him out."
Ames frog-marched Ivanov from the office and gave him a too-rough shove, sending him, belly first, to the concrete before Hansen. Ivanov tried to raise himself to the push-up position, but Ames stepped forward and rammed his heel into Ivanov's butt, shoving him down again. Gillespie and Noboru each shot Ames an irritated glance.
"Enough, Ames," Hansen ordered. "Leave him be." Ames offered a smarmy grin. "Just trying to soften him up a bit, boss."
Hansen ignored the sarcasm. He knelt before Ivanov and helped him to his knees. "Are you Adrik Ivanov?"
"Yes, I'm Ivanov. Who are you? What do you want?"
"We're looking for a man," Hansen said. "An old friend of yours named Sam."
"I don't know any Sam."
"Yes, you do. He's been here."
"No one's been here. I work alone. I came on at six o'clock and haven't seen anyone since--"
Hansen cut him off: "You owe some people money." "Hey, no! I paid them two months ago."
"Maybe so, but the people we're talking about don't keep paper records. They prefer computers. Computers can be hacked, records changed. Are you understanding me?"
"No. What are you saying? Computers . . . what computers?"
"Tell us what we want to know or we're going to make it so you owe a lot of people a lot of money."
"You can't do that."
"We can. And we will. You got a visit tonight from an old friend," Hansen repeated. "Tell us what he wanted."
Fisher knew Hansen was bluffing; he knewnothing. Still, the authority in his voice left little room for doubt.
Ivanov shrugged and spread his arms in bewilderment.
Hansen pointed at Valentina and said, "Make the call. Let's start him out at three hundred thousand rubles. What is that, about ten thousand dollars?" He looked at his companions for confirmation.
Noboru nodded and said, "Yeah, ten thousand, more or less."
Valentina got out her cell phone and started punching numbers.
Ivanov cried, "Yes, okay, fine. He was here." "When?" Hansen asked.
"About an hour ago."
"What did he want?"
"He was hurt. Something wrong with his ribs. He said he needed someplace to sleep. . . ." Ivanov's voice trailed off. He sighed with just the right amount of solemnity.
Attaboy,Fisher thought.
"Go on," Hansen said.
"I gave him the keys to my apartment."
Hansen spent the next five minutes firing questions at Ivanov--was Fisher armed, did he have a car, was he alone?--until seemingly satisfied that he'd wrung the Russian dry of information.
"You can forget about this visit," Hansen told him.
"Believe me, I will. What about--"
"If you cross us, I'll make the call. You'll have every Russian mobster in Odessa looking for you. Understand?"
"I understand."
Hansen nodded to the others, and they began heading toward the door. Hansen went last, taking a moment to help Ivanov to his feet. "Stay off the phone, too."
"Yes . . . yes . . ."
Hansen headed for the door.
Come on, Adrik.
"Hey, you're Hansen, aren't you?"
Hansen turned back. At the door, the others did as well.
"What?" Hansen said with some edge in his voice. "What did you say?"
"He told me to give you a message."
"What?"
Ivanov glanced toward the others. "In private."
Ames barked, "That's crap! What the hell is this? Hansen--"