She just hated to be leaving Russia alone.
A knock on the cracked door. Anastasia saw Xenia standing in the gap with wide eyes.
“Need the bathroom, honey?”
The girl nodded twice sharply.
Anastasia gave her robe belt a reassuring tug, grabbed her wet towel, and changed places with the girl. Back in her room she dried her hair and dressed and wandered out to join the others. She skipped the oat meal and peeled a banana instead. More small comforts—fresh fruit was something she couldn’t live without.
Ravkin and Stiletto invited her to the table where they talked over the information in the email, and went over a plan of action.
When Stiletto said, “What about those weapons we talked about?” Anastasia was as curious as the American when Ravkin stood up and told them to follow him.
Down the hall to his bedroom. Ravkin tossed aside a throw rug on the concrete floor and opened a trap door. The hidden compartment was dusty and puffs of dust drifted into the room, Anastasia covering her mouth, Stiletto turning to cough. Ravkin lifted out a long rectangular Pelican case.
Ravkin undid the clasp in front of the case and lifted the lid.
“If you can’t do it with what’s in here,” he said, “you shouldn’t try.”
Stiletto whistled. Anastasia approached almost reverently. Several weapons with assorted ammunition filled the foam case. Scott lifted out a SEA Bears Bark 20-gauge sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. Twin triggers with concealed hammers, the barrels were scratched and the wooden grip a little rough but it looked good enough to use. A fully-automatic Glock-17C caught his eye, along with an AR-type MK18 MOD0 .223 short-barrel submachine gun. Full-auto. Anastasia lifted out a Dakota Tactical D54R-N A3, which resembled a compact HK MP5K. Stiletto put the shotgun down and said, “All U.S. weapons.”
“From our mutual friends.”
Stiletto scanned the rest of the case. Suppressors, shotgun shells, loaded mags. A heck of a lot more than his .45 pistol.
“Well, I guess we’ll take one or two things, right?”
Anastasia snapped the breech of the D54R. “I get this one.”
Ravkin said, “Pushkin will never know what hit him.”
ANASTASIA DROVE Ravkin’s car. Stiletto sat in the passenger seat wearing a long overcoat. He had the sawed-off shotgun slung under one arm and the short-barreled MK18 MOD0 under the other. The .45 rode behind his back and he doubted he’d even need that.
Anastasia’s slender fingers held the wheel loosely as they moved through late night traffic. It had been a long day at the safe house, the routine broken only by a quick stroll around the block and back, in shifts, just for fresh air. Glinkov’s daughter was having the hardest time, her mother now worried that she was talking less and less for reasons she didn’t understand.
They stopped for a traffic light.
“How did you know Vlad?” she asked.
“He helped us out on a few joint missions,” Stiletto said. He dared not mention the information Vlad covertly passed to the U.S. “One of them took place here in Russia.”
“When?”
“About a year ago, maybe. I was looking for some neo-Nazis and they decided to hide here.”
Anastasia laughed. “I suppose they could have done something more stupid than that.”
“They did.”
“Oh?”
“They killed a bunch of our people and got away.”
“Now I remember,” she said. “We had many bad days after that. You got them all?”
“Every last one.”
Anastasia pressed the gas as the light changed. Stiletto noticed something he hadn’t seen at all since meeting the woman. She smiled. It was a half-smile, one of satisfaction knowing that an enemy has been removed from existence. Scott thought maybe they could actually get along now.
“DID RAVKIN tell you about me?” she asked.
Traffic creeped along.
“Couple things,” Scott said.
“Like what?”
“You lost a lover to the mob. He was undercover.”
“Yes.” Her voice softened. “The night he died we had an argument about whether or not we were going to get married. He wanted to, I didn’t. We never finished talking about it.”
She drove some more.
“What happened to the gang that did it?”
“They’re gone. Every last one.”
“You?”
“Me, and some others.”
“Ravkin?”
“All he did was find them for us.”
Stiletto said nothing.
“Here we are,” she said.
They passed the neon-fronted club, the word PULSE flashing on and off. Anastasia turned a corner and found an open curb space. There was barely enough room but she wedged the sedan into the spot and they exited the car.
She wore a long coat, too, with the sleeves too long for her arms. The cuffs were rolled back. She carried the full-auto Glock-17C and the Dakota Tactical D54R. No bulges showed under either of their coats.
Scott followed Anastasia across the street and she pushed through the cluster of young people on the sidewalk to get to the front door. No line, no doorman with a list. Stiletto frowned. He’d have expected that. He followed in her wake, his eyes scanning for threats. He spotted a few not-so-hidden cameras, but no muscle. The wide alcove of the entrance felt like daytime; bright lights, radiating body heat; music thumping; fresh air mixed with cigarette smoke and laughter.
Inside Scott had another surprise waiting.
Pulse was a karaoke club, with a trio of inebriated patrons on a small stage belting out, off key, some sort of Russia pop song.
Even with that it wasn’t the rowdy dance place he expected. Plush couches sat against the left side walls; the bar occupied the right side. The center of the club was less of a dance floor and more of a dining area, with tables and chairs, the tables polished glass. The floor had a black-and-white zigzag pattern. Track lighting provided plenty of illumination, and big speakers hung from the ceiling. There was no way not to hear the singers or music. The floor vibrated with the bass.
Stiletto let out a sigh. He hated karaoke. But while he grumbled, he noticed a set of stairs beside the stage leading to a second floor.
“Pushkin’s office is up those steps,” Anastasia said.
“This place was his idea?”
“He’s a frustrated performer.”
They were not totally out of place with their long overcoats. The attire of most customers was business casual or semi-formal. Not everybody was watching the singers.
It was all so Americanized Stiletto decided that had it not been for the language, he might be in New York City.
“Stop gawking,” Anastasia said. She started forward, waving off a hostess who was about to ask if they wanted a table. Stiletto followed her across the zigzag floor to the stairs.
They went up the steps. The landing and short hallway above them were lit brightly and a lone guard stood at the hallway entrance, out of sight from patrons below. He stepped forward as Anastasia cleared the final step.
“Can’t come up here.”
She stepped to one side as Stiletto slipped the sawed-off from under his coat and bashed the guard on the side of the head. The floor shook when he hit the carpet. Anastasia drew the suppressor-fitted Dakota Tactical and advanced down the hall to a door at the end. She kicked it open. Stiletto followed her through.
“What is this?” shouted the man behind a desk. He wore a dark suit with a full head of hair despite the wrinkles on his face and pronounced jowls. He turned a lighter shade of white when he saw the gaping end of the sawed-off. Anastasia swept the room with the muzzle of her weapon, but there were no other guards to deal with.
“Where is Glinkov?” Stiletto said.
“You’re American?”