“How is that?”
“We have no reason to keep track of such a fluctuating number. It does not relate to our activities. You work in the Finance Ministry, do you not? How is it that you don’t know the answer?”
Kostov smiled. “Point taken. Is it a fair price?”
“Does it make any difference?”
Kostov shrugged. “No.” He handed a set of car keys to her. “Return my car to the airport this morning. Then check out of your hotel.”
She nodded.
“There is a service entrance to this hotel. Come for me at one. We shall travel in your automobile to the apartment. Flanetevsky will return here to pay my bill and check me out.”
“You were called away suddenly?”
“During the night—unless I meet any of the hotel desk staff as I leave.”
“In which case?”
“We shall improvise.”
Minatova laughed. “You? Improvise? Where did you learn to improvise, Colonel?”
“Lubyanka.”
Kostov dropped his bag inside the door. He gestured toward a seating of chromiumframed chairs covered in black leather. He, Minatova, and Flanetevsky sat. The chairs surrounded a chromium-and-glass cocktail table. The room was indirectly lit. The floor was carpeted in gray berber. The walls were covered in a lighter gray fabric. A large television set dominated a corner. There was a small kitchen with granite counters and white cupboards visible through café doors. The entire wall opposite the entrance was a series of glass windows and doors opening onto a deep balcony.
Kostov shook his head. “There are bedrooms for each of us?”
“Yes,” Minatova said. “With two and one-half baths.”
“What is a half bath?”
Minatova explained.
“How would you compare this apartment with your quarters in Washington?” Minatova nodded at Flanetevsky.
“Better than mine,” he said, “but not a great deal.”
Kostov shook his head. “Have you any idea what this apartment would cost in
Moscow?”
Minatova laughed. “No, but we are not anxious to return home any time soon.” Kostov nodded. “To business. How does your search proceed?”
“Nothing yet,” Minatova said.
“Does the task appear possible?”
“There is no reason to think otherwise. We have only begun our work.” Kostov nodded. “Back to work then.”
May 4
Two days later, Flanetevsky handed a photograph to Kostov. “I wish you to consider
my candidate.”
“Male, young, Caucasian.” He looked at Minatova. “Have you viewed the man?” “I have.”
“And?”
“His appearance is of no consequence. He has the two attributes we require. He
works for The Mannerling Trust and he’s someone I can query.”
“Proceed.”
At five-thirty, Minatova and Flanetevsky were seated at the bar of the Mellow Guitar. “You’re sure this is the place?” she said.
“I am.”
“I don’t appreciate listening to these singers whining to each other.” “I am aware of your likes and dislikes, but this is the place.”
Fifteen minutes later Bert Jarvis waved at Flanetevsky.
“Ugh!” Minatova said.
“Yes, but you agreed. And he is certainly a man who might be excited by a beautiful woman.”
“Bert!” Flanetevsky said. “Glad you could make it.”
“My pleasure.” There was no attempt to mask his examination of Minatova. “And I’m even happier that Jennifer could make it.”
Minatova and Flanetevsky joined in the hilarity.
When he recovered from the joke, Flanetevsky looked around the room. “Let’s get a table.”
An hour later, Flanetevsky was obviously drunk. “Got to go.”
Minatova placed her hand on his hand. “You all right to drive, cuz?” “Right—as—as rain.” Flanetevsky hesitated. “Don’t like being—being—odd man.” “Want me to get him a taxi?”
“No, he’ll be fine.”
Jarvis leered at Jennifer’s décolletage. “So will we.”
May 5
It was after midnight when Jarvis stumbled out of his bedroom and found Minatova,
nude, sitting at his kitchen table.
“What you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Come back to bed.”
“I can’t, Bert, I still have my problem.”
“What problem is—oh, that! Why in the hell do you need to meet somebody in
records? There are just two of them, a little old lady and a new punk.” He waited for her
reply. “Come back to bed! I’m just about ready again.”
“I’ve already told you why I want to meet those folks.”
“They just brought a new guy on board. They don’t need any more people.” “If I could just meet them, I’d be able to show what I learned in library science.” “I’ve got to tell you, baby, you’re about the least likely looking librarian I ever ran
into. Come on!”
“I want to, darling, but I just won’t be able to concentrate.” She smiled at him.
“And when you’re in action, I want to be able to concentrate.”
Jarvis scratched his stomach and yawned. “All right.” He wrote a name on a torn
envelope and handed it to her. “Now get yourself back to bed.”
“With pleasure, darling.”
Minatova and Flanetevsky were seated at the breakfast table when Kostov entered later that morning. Minatova handed Kostov Jarvis’ envelope.
“Byron Thompson. What do we know about him?”
“He’s a new employee.”
“Excellent. Arrange a meeting. Find out what he knows about any archival extraction on or after April twenty fourth.”
“And?”
“If he knows anything, ask him to secure a copy.”
“If the key is a physical key?”
“Tell him to make a copy and return the original to where it was.”
“Do you think it’s a physical key?”
“Possibly. Perhaps to a safe or strongbox.”
“What may I use to secure his cooperation?”
“Whatever we have. The assets of the Russian Federation are at our disposal.” He hesitated. “What did you use on the informant?”
Minatova stared at Kostov, but didn’t answer.
“Use whatever we have—along with what you describe as your excellent training.”
May 6
Flanetevsky looked at the entrance to Bud’s Place, then listened. “Any chance this is
the wrong place?”
“I think not,” Flanetevsky said. “Mr. Thompson’s voice and manner on the telephone
didn’t allow me to hope for violins and fine linen.”
Flanetevsky opened the door. Minatova covered her ears. A screeching electric
guitar was winning a competition with a full set of drums.
Flanetevsky escorted Minatova to a wide bar covered in zinc.
“I’ve seen pictures,” Flanetevsky said, “but—”
“We must recommend that this place be replicated at school. Words and pictures
cannot prepare one.”
Flanetevsky was about to signal the bartender when a tall, slender man in a yellow
golf shirt appeared at Minatova’s side. He looked down at her and chuckled. “I like your
clothes, folks. Dressed in those duds, only the folks who are already passed out will miss
picking you two out as tourists.”
Flanetevsky shrugged. “Mr. Thompson?”
“In the flesh.”
Flanetevsky extended his hand. “I’m Bruce. This is my cousin, Jennifer.” “Bruce? You look like you’d be named Bruce, Bruce.” He turned to Minatova. “But
you, you could be named Aphrodite.”
“Aphrodite? A classic education?�
��
“The old folks headed me off in that direction,” he smiled, “but it didn’t take. He signaled the bartender. “Usual for me, Ter. See what this pair will have. And
give the tab to Brucey here.”
Thompson led them to a table away from the noise.
“Can’t hear Otis very well from here, but we’re here on business, aren’t we?” “Yes,” Minatova said.
“First, how’d you get my name?”
“A friend.”
“Yours or mine?”
Minatova smiled. “Mine.”
Thompson chuckled. “Folks, I’ve been wondering why we’re having this little
meeting. Tell me if I’ve got it figured. I’ll bet a round of drinks we’re here because of
my new job.”
Minatova nodded.
“My uncle’s been trying to help out. Christian duty and all that. I’m kind of
unemployable these days and he arranged for me to work at the Trust.” He hesitated.
“Now what is it about my job that appeals to you two?”
“I have a degree in library sciences,” Minatova began, “and I’ve been trying to think
of a way to—”
Thompson raised his hand. “Now, you see, you’ve presented me with a quandary.” “Quandary?”
“I like sitting here with you two—especially you, Jennifer—and knowing ole Bruce
here is going to pick up the tab, but I’ve got a low tolerance for bullshit. Being
unemployable doesn’t necessarily mean stupid.”
Minatova nodded.
“So why don’t we get rid of my quandary by getting to the point?”
“Good idea,” she said. “Were you working at The Mannerling Trust on April twentyfourth?”
Thompson hesitated, then nodded.
“You work in the records department?”
He nodded.
“How many employees work there?”
“Two.”
“On April twenty-fifth—or perhaps the next day—we believe there was something
special extracted from The Mannerling Trust records.”
Thompson didn’t respond.
“If there was, we want a copy.”
Thompson smiled and leaned far back in his chair. “How bad do you want it?” “More than you can imagine.”
“Not very good negotiating tactics, lady.”
“Maybe.”
“It was a hanging file with an old envelope in it.”
“Did the envelope have a key in it?”
“Like a door key?”
“Yes.”
“No. Paper. Couldn’t have been more than one or two sheets.”
“We want a copy of what was in the envelope.”
“Copy? Why don’t I just steal the thing for you?”
“It’s important to us that the original be returned to storage. We only want to know
what’s written on the paper.”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise our play will be ruined. I wasn’t trained to threaten people, Mr.
Thompson, but let me assure you that if you cooperate with us and then the original does
not thereafter find its way back into the file, we’ll know it.” She smiled brightly. “And if
that occurs, I promise you’ll discover how displeased we are.”
Thompson nodded. “I’ve got it.”
“Good.”
“Now to the important part. How much?”
“Since you’ve already determined I’m a bad negotiator, you tell me.” “No, you go first.”
“A thousand.”
Thompson frowned.
“Ten thousand.”
“I already said you’re a bad negotiator, lady.”
“One hundred thousand. My tops.”
Thompson rubbed his chin again. “You got anything better?”
“Better than money?” Flanetevsky said.
“I figured you two for narcs. Maybe trainees, the way you’re dressed. I don’t think
so anymore.”
“DEA is a concern of yours?”
“Led to my current level of employability.”
“What would you find more valuable than one hundred thousand dollars—in small,
unmarked bills?”
Thompson rolled his head around his shoulders. “One brick. A key.” He laughed.
“Aw, look what I’ve done. We have symmetry.”
“Symmetry?”
“A key for a key. One kilogram, lady.”
“Of?”
“Heroin.”
Minatova stood. “Not our usual area of business, but a possibility. You begin
thinking about how to copy the contents of that old file while I look into what we might
be able to do. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
May 7
Kostov, coffee cup in hand, was waiting for them the following morning. “We know this key is something printed on paper. And no more than two sheets.” “You can secure a copy?” Kostov said. “The Mannerling Trust will retain the
original? No one will know?”
Minatova nodded. “Yes to all.” She explained her idea.
“But we must barter in drugs? You have no other means?”
“I did not explore other means, Colonel. I believe that my solution is acceptable. I
was informed, quote, the assets of the Russian Federation are at our disposal, end quote.” “But drugs? Us, using drugs?”
Minatova didn’t respond.
Kostov stared through a window overlooking the city. “Very well. From where will
the materials come?”
“From the south.”
“How will they travel?”
“That is beyond your need to know, Colonel.”
“What happens when the materials arrive?”
“I’ll arrange an exchange.”
Minatova called just Thompson before noon. “It’s Jennifer.”
“Who?” The voice was constricted.
“Jennifer. We met last night.”
“At Bud’s, sure.”
“We’re on.”
“On? The transaction we discussed?”
“Yes.”
“One for one?”
“As agreed.”
“I’ve got to be straight with you, Jenn, this smells. Way too easy. A kilogram for a
piece of paper.”
“Copy of a piece of paper.”
“Right. Copy.”
“And.”
“You know what a brick of that stuff is worth on the street?”
“Not my line of work.”
“But you can get it?”
“Yes.”
“Let me think. Call me in fifteen.”
“That will be my last call. If you aren’t ready to go, I’ll have to go another route.” Thompson snorted. “And what might that be, little lady?”
“I’ll contact your replacement.”
“Replacement? I’m not planning to—ah. Well, you’re sure a persuasive little thing,
aren’t you.”
“Aren’t I, though?” Minatova called Thompson an hour later.
“Where you been?”
She chuckled. “All part of the sales program. If you’re ready, you’re eager. If
you’re not ready, it doesn’t make any difference.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Good.”
“When?”
“Any time after eight Tuesday evening.”
Chapter 16
May 9
Larson had just closed his positions for the day when The Mannerling Trust line light
flashed.
“Sam Larson.”
“It’s Norm. I just called to say I’ve approved your fee computation. FedEx
tomorrow morning.”
“Two million, five hundred thirty thousand, two hundred ninety-eight dollars. Lot of
money.”
“Lot of mone
y, well-earned. Tap the London account.” Hazlett paused. “And we’d
like for you to take another fifty.”
At six forty-five that evening, Flanetevsky turned south on Route 280, drove eleven and one-half miles, and parked his rental SUV at an abandoned Pure Oil service station. He removed a plaid, soft-side suitcase from the second seat, walked across the road, and began hitchhiking back toward the city.
At seven-ten a yellow school mini-bus stopped beside him. An older man in overalls, blue work shirt, and a straw hat looked at Robert’s suitcase. “Not supposed to pick up hitchhikers, but I don’t have any kids on board, so what the heck. I’ll take a chance on you.”
Flanetevsky nodded, then took the right-front seat. “Might want to take the next seat back,” the driver said. “There’s a busted spring in that front one.”
Flanetevsky shifted to the second seat and found a heavy shoebox on the window seat. He opened the box. There was a mass, shaped like a brick and covered in clear shipping tape. He opened a penknife and punctured the tape. He glanced at the driver. The man was concentrating on the road. He licked a finger, touched the opening, and tasted the powder adhering to his finger. He closed the box and placed it in his suitcase.
“I just remembered something,” the driver said. “I’ve got to make a right at the next crossroad.”
“I understand.”
The driver stopped the mini-bus at the next intersection.
Flanetevsky stepped down, crossed the road, and begin walking back to his SUV.
It was eight fiftyfive when Thompson called. “Ready?”
“Of course,” Minatova said.
“Great! Ready to copy?”
“Yes.”
“Go to the Convention Complex downtown. There’s a parking lot between twenty-
second and twentythird. There’ll be a cab outside the entrance to a building called the Medical Forum Conference Center. Look in the back.”
“Okay,” Minatova said
“Who’s coming?”
“Bruce. The time?”
“Ten.”
“What if there’s more than one cab?”
“Won’t be. Nothing going on there tonight.” “What if there’s no cab.”
“There’ll be a cab.”
“Fine.”
“That’s it. Nice doing business with you, Blondie.” “Me, too.”
“Might catch up with you again sometime.” “Might.”
Flanetevsky handed an envelope to Kostov.
“Any problems?”
“None. The cab was empty. The envelope was lying in the middle of the rear seat. I
left the package where the envelope had been lying.”
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