Russell was already in the passenger seat of the sedan, his thermos raised to his lips. “Find out anything?”
The response from Washington had been impressive, but it didn’t mean Haskel was pleased with their efforts. They’d both been sidelined, for the second time in a week. She shook her head. “They don’t know anything to tell. The place is sterile — and Abu Kareem’s lawyer arrived five minutes ago.”
The negotiator nodded patiently. “Any idea where his employer is?”
“Negative. Not likely to find out either, not for days. All that, and all we have is a hermetically sealed room. No trace of any toxins, nothing.” A wry smile turned up her lips. “I think we did ourselves in this time, Russ. Sorry to take you down with me.”
He shrugged. “I’ll be fine. Spend some time with my grandkids. They’re growing up fast. Go on that deep-sea fishing trip my brother is always talking about.”
My brother.
“Hand me my laptop,” Marika instructed suddenly, pulling off her gloves and turning the car’s heater all the way up.
“What are you thinking?”
“Something our CI said.” She balanced the laptop on her knees, opening the FBI database. Her access codes still worked, though it was hard to tell for how much longer. “Nasir’s roommate — the university student — what was his name?”
“Jamal al-Khalidi,” Russell said, after a moment’s thought. The negotiator never forgot a name.
“What was his major?”
“We didn’t check.”
Marika scrolled down the screen. “I’m thinking that was a mistake. According to this…he was a chemist, enrolled in their postgraduate program. Going for his Master’s.”
“Are you sayin’…”
“Worse,” she replied, pulling up two photos side by side on the screen. “Look at this.”
An expression of surprise crossed the negotiator’s face. “They’re brothers.”
“Our CI lied to us.”
The world over, gentlemen’s clubs were all built around one central theme. The casual observer might have said that it was sex, but the truth was far more elemental.
Power.
Being above the law was its own aphrodisiac, as men like Andropov knew so well.
The music was still slow this early in the evening, the tension just starting to build. Piano music, supplied by a grey-haired man up there stage left, his thin fingers dancing over the ivory keys.
“Any sign of Andropov?” Harry asked, nursing his club soda as his eyes moved around the club.
“Negative, tovarisch. But I am certain this is where he would come. The man’s…how would you say? A security freak. Here among the mafiya, he is safe.”
“And this safety extends to you as well?” Harry leaned back in his chair, hands resting easily on the tabletop. Only inches away from his gun, had he worn it. After all these years, the posture came naturally.
Vasiliev shrugged. “In Russia, the government is the mafiya and the mafiya is the government. Doesn’t pay to piss either party off. We have what I would call a…‘working relationship’.”
“You come here often?”
“Often enough,” the Russian replied, turning his shot glass between his fingers. “If I have an asset in need of cultivation. It’s the atmosphere, I think. The liquor. The women. Men talk under such circumstances…and even more later on, when they fear the danger of their wife seeing the pictures.”
It was the way the game was played. The way it had always been played.
“I’ll be glad to be out,” he said, more to himself than Vasiliev. “Put this life behind me.”
His gaze drifted toward the bar, momentarily catching the eye of a young prostitute working the johns there. She looked Eastern European, dark-haired and artificially tanned. Maybe eighteen or nineteen at the most.
Prostitution was officially illegal in Vegas, but such regulations were subject to such nuance and parsing as to be effectively useless. It didn’t protect girls like her.
“Tell me we’re not wasting our time sitting here.”
“We’re not,” Vasiliev retorted evenly, reaching into his shirt pocket. Gold glinted between his fingers as he slid a coin across the table toward Harry.
“What’s this?” It was a ten-ruble coin from 1911, the face of Tsar Nicholas II decorating the obverse. Pure gold, evident from its heft.
“It is a key, tovarisch.” A smile. “And oh, the doors that it will open.”
He flipped it between his fingers, staring at the double-headed eagle of imperial Russia. “Cut to the chase, Alexei.”
“When doing business with the mafiya, it is always good to have an edge…cards under the table, if you will. Take the piano player for instance — his stage name is Mike Carroll. His real name is Mikhail…”
The Russian lifted the shot glass to his lips, grimacing as the vodka slid down his throat. He smiled. “If Andropov has been through these doors tonight, Mike will know. Go talk to him. I have your back.”
The chords of “Some Enchanted Evening” rose from the piano as Harry rose from the table, the man’s fingers conveying a vibrant touch.
Harry paused as the pianist began to sing, a mellow voice rising above the low murmur of the club noise. It was an incongruous song for the surroundings, a throwback to a simpler day.
A song of hope. Of love. Never in his life had he been able to carry a tune, but he found himself humming along, despite himself.
A dream — of another life. No more deception. No more pain.
He glanced over to find the young prostitute staring at him, her face bringing him back to reality. He had a mission to perform.
The pianist glanced up at him as he stepped onto the stage, a gentle smile crossing the old man’s face. It wasn’t the face of an operator…or was it?
Harry’s hands came out of his jacket, the coin in one palm, the photo of Andropov in the other. “Have you seen this man?” he asked in perfect Russian.
“Who are you?” the man asked, his voice low. The smile was still plastered to his face, but he had paled — fingers trembling as he spoke.
“My name doesn’t matter, tovarisch. You know who sent me.”
The pianist cast a long glance out into the darkness of the club. “I do,” he replied slowly, turning toward Harry. “The man you are looking for…arrived an hour ago. He and his bodyguards are in the VIP.”
“Is there anyone in there with them?”
A shake of the head. “No. They’re waiting…”
The taillights of the tractor-trailer glowed red against the sheet metal of the warehouse as Nasir tapped the brakes, holding his breath as the big truck eased back, passing within inches of the doorframe as it rolled under cover.
He looked over into the smiling eyes of the negro. “Hey, bro, you survived.”
Yeah. The irony of the words did not escape him. They were all on a suicide mission. All to be welcomed to paradise soon enough, if paradise indeed awaited the evil-doer. Nasir shoved open the truck door, feeling the chill night air envelop his tired limbs. It had been a long drive.
Tarik Abdul Muhammad was standing in the middle of the warehouse floor, flanked by the remnants of his Pakistani contingent. A round metal barrel was before them, flames leaping from its depths — casting strange shadows against the shaikh’s face.