Rasputin's Shadow (9 page)

S
o
kolov slipped behind a column and gripped the gun in his pocket just as Rogozin walked past a glass enclosure and into the small foyer, where the Russian diplomat pressed the elevator call button.

He was right there, within reach—and alone.

Sokolov’s entire body sizzled with apprehension.

Do it. Do it now
.

Grab him. Take him somewhere quiet. Force him to call his people and arrange for Daphne to be set free.

Sokolov’s fingers tightened against the gun as he emerged from behind the column, but he hadn’t taken two steps before he heard a small telltale ping and saw his quarry disappear into the elevator.

No!

He rushed the foyer, moving as fast as his legs could muster—but he was too late. The elevator doors had already shut by the time he reached them.

He felt the throbbing of blood against his temples as the sequence of tiny bulbs rose through the bronze-effect Roman numerals until they finally came to a stop on the seventeenth floor. Inside the thick coat, his right hand had sweated so much it had made the butt of the gun slick with moisture. He loosened his grip, took out his hand, and wiped it down the front of the coat, but it had little effect. He was sweating too much.

He hesitated for a moment, then he tapped the call button repeatedly with his other hand and shifted nervously from foot to foot while he waited. He pulled his sweat-stained hat and his scarf off as the lift arrived with a soft ping and its doors glided open. He hesitated again, then stepped inside. The doors closed after him.

He pressed the button for 17. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. Then he noticed a security-card slot above the floor buttons. A sign above the slot clearly stated:
ENTER SECURITY PASS TO ACCESS FLOORS ABOVE L.

More blood welled up inside his skull.

His only option was to take the elevator to the lobby and try to use one of the main elevators—but there would inevitably be a concierge or a doorman he’d have to get by first. He didn’t have much choice. He knew he’d never survive seventeen flights of stairs, and even if he did, the doors on the residential floors probably wouldn’t open from the stairwell.

He pushed “L” and suppressed a surge of bile as the elevator doors started to glide shut—and just then, he heard a voice calling out.

“Can you please hold the elevator?”

His hand struck out instinctively and intercepted the closing doors. As they receded into their slots, he leaned out and saw a fortysomething woman in high heels and a skirt suit carrying a couple of big Whole Foods paper bags and hurrying into the foyer.

“Thanks,” she said in a small fluster as she stepped into the back of the cabin. “Twenty-four, please.”

His body went rigid. He tried to contain his alarm as his mind raced for a way out, with her staring at him and expecting him to hit that button.

Which he couldn’t do. Not without a security card.

“Of course,” he blurted as he started patting his coat as if he were looking for his wallet. He smiled sheepishly at her and put on his meekest, most heart-warming old immigrant’s tone. “Let me just find my card for you, I was just going up to the lobby, you see. I needed to see the concierge before going upstairs. There’s a package I’ve been waiting for and, anyway,” he kept patting his coat, “where is that wallet of mine?”

She studied him curiously, then her impatience took over and she huffed and reached into her handbag and pulled out her own pass from her wallet.

“Here,” she said, her tone annoyed, “this’ll be faster.”

She slipped it in and out of the slot brusquely and hit 24, then stepped back, clearly bothered by the delay.

The elevator swiftly ascended the two floors to the lobby, where it stopped with another ping. The doors parted.

Sokolov had to get out. He peered out into the lobby. It was marble-floored, with walls that were paneled in dark wood and a huge chandelier dangling from the ceiling, beyond which he spotted the building’s other elevator bank. A concierge’s counter was between the two, positioned so that it protected the main lifts from unvetted guests, and the concierge, a tall man with stern features and gelled-back hair, was at his post.

Sokolov glanced at the woman. She eyed him curiously, evidently waiting for him to get out. He gave her a slight smile, his mind racing through his limited options. He couldn’t get to the main elevators without getting by the concierge, and he couldn’t think of how he’d be able to bluff his way past him. Then again, he couldn’t stay put. Not when he’d said he was going to the concierge.

He had to step out.

And just then, as he took his first step and the elevator doors started to close behind him, Sokolov saw the concierge brighten up and heard him say, “Good evening, Mrs. Greengrass,” just as a small, immaculately groomed terrier trotted into sight, trailing a small, immaculately dressed elderly lady.

“Hello, Diego,” she said as she went up to the desk.

Sokolov froze in place.

He spun on his heels and reached out just in time to catch the elevator doors. He slipped back inside and gave the woman an embarrassed half-smile.

“I’ll come back down for it later. That Mrs. Greengrass . . . Once she gets going with Diego, they’ll be chatting for hours.”

The woman didn’t seem amused.

He gave her a sheepish nod, then reached out and hit the button for 17.

It lit up.

A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead as the doors slid shut and the elevator started moving.

He was on his way.

***

“A
DAMS
,”
THE DETECTIVE GRUNTED
.

It was late, he was tired. A cold beer and a foot stool beckoned.

“Detective? Officer Frank Mazzucchelli here, from the hundred-and-sixth. You’ve got an APB out on a maroon SUV, a Ford Escape. As related to a suspicious death over in Astoria?”

Adams perked up. “What about it?”

“I’m looking at it.”

Adams was already on his feet and waving his partner over as he got the rundown and took down the location of his caller.

Before hanging up, he asked, “You already call the feds about this?”

“You’re my first call. Figured I’d keep it in the family.”

“Appreciate the heads-up, Frank. We’re on our way.”

Adams hung up and grabbed his jacket. “The SUV the feds flagged from outside the Russians’ place?” he told his partner. “It’s at a motel down in Howard Beach.”

“Let’s go,” Giordano said, grabbing his own jacket. “We can call it in from the car.”

Adams stopped and turned to face him, his arms spread open, palms out, his expression mystified. “You kidding me?”

“What?”

“Screw the feds,” Adams said. “Our backyard, our squad car, our collar. We can call them once we’re done.”

A
nothe
r soft ping and the elevator doors opened on the lobby of the seventeenth floor.

Sokolov gave the woman a quick, courteous bob of the head before stepping out. He glanced back and just caught sight of her studying him before the doors liberated him from her icy stare.

He took in his surroundings. The lobby, which was darkly lit and finished with a moody contemporary wallpaper that depicted a forest of thin tree trunks, led to two corridors, one on either side. A discreet sign indicated that apartments A through C were to the left, with D and E to the right.

Five apartments.

Sokolov cursed inwardly and choked his hat and scarf with his left hand. He had no idea which one housed Rogozin.

His eyes darted left and right, his mind struggling for an insight to grab hold of. He wondered about waiting for someone else to arrive on that floor, someone he could ask, then quickly dismissed the idea. People in buildings like these would be suspicious. They’d wonder how he got up there in the first place if he hadn’t been invited up by a resident whose apartment number he would obviously have to know. His mind was overflowing with worry and counter-worry, and he decided he had to do something, so he just headed left and went up to the first door.

He swallowed hard and composed himself as best he could and, with his right hand clenched tight around the handgun in his pocket, he hit the apartment’s doorbell.

No one showed up, and neither could he hear any movement in the apartment.

Sokolov wiped his sweaty hands on his shirt, then went up to the second apartment, but before hitting the buzzer, he leaned in and pressed his ear against the door to see if he could hear anything. He could hear something faint, he wasn’t sure what it was—a TV set maybe?—then a ping from behind him startled him. He stepped away from the door and spun around just as a firm voice asked, “Sir, you mind telling me who you are and what you’re doing here?”

***

A
DAMS SLOWED DOWN AND
pulled up behind the parked squad car. The two officers were standing by their car, waiting. The maroon Escape was parked where they’d said it was, outside the tired motel. There were only two other cars in the parking bay, which wasn’t surprising on a weeknight at this time of year. The place was enough of a fleabag to make Adams wonder who in his right mind would choose to stay there and what his reason would be for doing it.

Had to be someone having a seriously skanky affair, he reckoned. That, or someone needing to lie low.

The two detectives conferred briefly with the uniforms. Mazzucchelli told them he’d been in and had a word with the receptionist.

“Based on where the car’s parked, he thinks it belongs to the guest in 107,” Mazzucchelli informed them. “Russian guy, according to the receptionist. Seems they get a lot of Russkie clients staying here. Anyway, our guy checked in this morning, early. Alone. Paid for three nights. Desk guy hasn’t seen him since.” He gave the detectives a knowing grin. “Our guy paid in cash, naturally.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Adams snorted. He reached out to shake the officer’s hand. “Thanks, guys. We’ve got it from here.”

“You sure you don’t need us to stick around?” Miller asked.

“Nah, we’re good,” Adams replied. “Domestic dispute. Not a biggie.”

Miller didn’t seem convinced. “The BOLO had an FBI contact listing on it too,” he queried. “Seems like a lot of manpower for a domestic.”

Adams gave him a confident wink. “It’s under control. Thanks again. Appreciate it a lot. You take care now.”

His body language was dismissive enough for Miller to get the unsubtle message. He gave Mazzucchelli an uncertain look. Mazzucchelli shrugged and made a slight nod of the head in the direction of their car. “We’ll see you around.”

***

T
HE TWO MEN ASSIGNED
to keep an eye over the motel watched from their car as the two cops climbed back into their cruiser and took off.

They kept watch as the two plainclothes detectives stood there for a moment while the squad car departed, then headed toward the motel’s lobby.

“What do we do?” the first man asked. “They’re gonna mess this up.”

“Can’t have them do that,” the second man replied. “Our orders are clear. We need to keep Sokolov’s bait in place.”

A quick glance was exchanged, then they both climbed out of their car and strode up to the lobby.

***

A
DAMS HAD JUST SHOWN
the weedy receptionist his badge when he saw the two sharp-suited men come through the front door.

They looked completely out of place in that fleabag, but Adams didn’t get too much of a chance to wonder about them. They had the sunglasses, the telltale bulges under their jackets, the swagger, and the attitude, and one of them had his hands out in a halting gesture.

More goddamn feds
, he thought.

“Gentlemen, please, a word,” one of them told the two detectives brusquely, motioning for them to join him to one side, away from the receptionist.

Adams’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Call it a friendly intervention,” the suit told him.

“Come again? Who the hell are you?”

“I’m afraid that’s above your pay grade.” The other suit took over. “All you need to know is, you’re interfering with an ongoing investigation. We need you to cease and desist, effective immediately.”

Adams glanced at his partner in amazement, then laughed. “Can you believe these jokers? ‘Cease and desist’?” He turned to the agent. “What planet are you from?”

The suits didn’t seem amused. “We need you to pack up and head on home, is what he’s saying,” the first agent offered. “You’re about to mess up a sensitive op.”

Adams pulled open one side of his jacket, making a point of exposing his holstered gun. “Well, how about you get your ass out of here before it ends up needing a different kind of sensitive op, if you get my drift.”

The suit smirked and reached under his jacket.

Adams went for his gun, the other arm out, fingers splayed, and yelled, “Hands where I can see them. Do it!”

The suit quickly spread his arms wide and flashed the detectives an easy smile. “Just relax, all right? I think you need to talk to someone.” He paused, then added, smugly, “At Langley.”

This got Adams even more riled.

First the FBI, now the CIA?

“Hey, buddy, in case you haven’t noticed,” he scoffed, “this isn’t Iraq or Iran or wherever the hell else you’re supposed to be doing your snooping. You’re a couple thousand miles off your jurisdiction.”

The suit slid his partner a wry look and was about to say something back to Adams when Giordano stepped in, his tone hushed and conciliatory. “What’s going on here, guys? What’s this all about?”

Before the suit could answer, the front door jangled and swung open.

All four men turned to see who was walking in.

It was a man, alone. Tall, slim, fit. Bushy goatee, longish dark hair parted down the middle, tortoiseshell glasses. Charcoal-gray suit, black shoes, polished.

Also, wearing a glove on one hand. The one that wasn’t behind his back.

The man didn’t slow down, didn’t stop moving. Just kept advancing fluidly toward the quartet, taking big strides. Expressionless, cool, calm, collected. Like he was riding on rails. And as he did, his other hand swung out from behind his back, elegant and lightning quick, rotating out until it was pointed right at them.

Like his other hand, it was also sheathed in a black glove.

Unlike the other, this one had a gun in it.

Automatic. Sound-suppressed. Twenty-round clip.

Sixteen more than he needed.

Fifteen, if you included the receptionist.

Koschey was not one to waste bullets.