She waited until he was through before she said, “Charles.”
He turned, smiled, and Chace didn’t return it, closing the door and then locking it once again, as she had done before. He was still standing exactly as he had been when she turned back, so this time Chace did smile.
Then she grabbed his crotch with her left hand, and shoved him back against the wall.
“Hey—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Chace said, and tightened her grip, feeling the heat and weight of his testicles in her hand. He was wearing boxers, which made the holding of him easier. He grimaced but didn’t move. As far as immobilization manuevers went, it was entirely inadequate, and Chace knew it; it kept his hands free, and it absolutely allowed for a counterattack, even if she were to bear down with all of her might. As a psychological move, however, it had no equal, and for the moment, it seemed to be doing its job quite well.
Maintaining her grip, Chace began patting him down with her right. She found a wallet in an inside jacket pocket, and a small digital camera in an outer one. She tossed both onto the bed. She ran her free hand through his hair, then along his neck, front, and back, then over the front of his chest, working lower until she had to crouch to check his legs.
“This might be fun if you loosened your grip,” Charles said.
Chace ignored him, working upward again, this time feeling along the backs of his legs, over his buttocks, checking the waistband of his pants, untucking his shirt, sliding her hand up over his back.
Satisfied, she let him go.
“Do I get a turn now?” Charles asked.
She continued to ignore him, moving to the desk, pulling out the chair there. She motioned for him to sit in it, and after a second, he complied. From the bed, she picked up the wallet and searched through it.
“Charles Riess?” Chace asked.
“Yeah. But I would have told you that if you asked.”
Chace tossed the wallet back to him, picked up the camera. “Why this?”
“I thought you might like to see some faces.”
Chace considered, then tossed the camera to him as well. He caught it as he had the first, but with a little more distress.
“Easy!”
“Show me.”
Charles Riess stared at her, then turned his attention to the camera in his hands, switching it on and then turning it, showing Chace the display window, offering it back to her.
“First picture is of Ruslan Malikov,” he said.
Chace took the camera again, peering at the tiny screen. The color and resolution were both good, the image clear, if small. The picture of Ruslan Malikov was a headshot, apparently taken from another document, rather than of the man in his actual life. It gave no sense of scale, no hint of the man’s height, but based on his face alone, Chace knew she would recognize him if she saw him. He was rectangular-faced, brown eyes, black hair cut short but well styled, with a strong jaw and a strong nose. Chace read him as more Russian than Uzbek, with no obvious Asian influence to his features.
“The next one is his son, Stepan,” Charles Riess said.
Chace pressed the button beside the screen, scrolling from one image to the next. Unlike the first one, the shot of the boy was of poor quality. The best Chace could tell from it was that Stepan was a toddler, with dark hair and dark eyes, and he owned a T-shirt with a happy bulldog printed on its front.
“Anything else?” Chace asked.
“Yeah, two others. Sevara and her heavy, Zahidov.”
The third headshot was of a beautiful young woman, her hair immaculately styled, her eyes almond-shaped and so green that Chace suspected contact lenses. In the picture, Sevara had her hands steepled, and her nails were long and lacquered a light tan. She wore jewelry, a necklace of precious stones, and earrings that matched. Unlike with her brother, Chace could see the Uzbek influence in her features.
“Same mother as her brother?”
“So we’ve been led to believe. Ruslan looks more like his father, obviously.”
Chace nodded, and scrolled to the last picture, the man named Zahidov. Like the pictures of Ruslan and Sevara, this one, too, was taken from a file shot, and was another headshot. Perhaps because Riess had described him as Sevara’s “heavy,” Chace had expected someone who appeared bigger and older, and it surprised her that the man she was looking at seemed to be no older than his early thirties, and, at least from his features, quite slight. His hair was brown, brushed back over a high forehead, and he wore glasses, and behind the lenses his eyes were brown as well. His mouth was small, his lips thin.
Chace looked at the picture of Zahidov for several seconds, then scrolled back, slowly, taking her time with each face, before handing the camera back to Riess.
“On the map.” Chace pointed to it on the desk behind Riess, and Riess turned in his chair to see what she meant. “Find Ruslan’s house and mark it. Mark Sevara’s as well, and this Zahidov fellow’s.”
Riess nodded and turned around in the seat. Chace took the complimentary hotel pen from the complimentary hotel notepad on her nightstand and handed both to him, then stepped back, watching. Riess unfolded the map and quickly marked four locations, then, using the pen, pointed each out to her in turn. She was pleased to see that he’d only circled the locations, making no other notation.
“Ruslan lives here, on Uzbekiston Street, number fourteen.” Riess moved the pen. “Sevara’s house is here, on Glinka; it overlooks Babur Park. She shares it with her husband, Denis Ganiev—Ganiev is the DPM in charge of the Interior Ministry. The marriage is for show, she’s rarely there.” He moved the pen again. “Mostly, you can find her here, on Sulaymonova—she’s got the penthouse suite.” He moved the pen a final time. “And Zahidov has an apartment here, on Chimkent, but as I understand it, he’s never there.”
“Why not?”
“He’s screwing Sevara, so mostly you can find him at the suite on Sulaymonova. Either that or at the Interior Ministry, where Zahidov seems to do his best work.”
“He’s NSS?”
Riess set down the pen. “Yeah, inasmuch as he uses his position at the NSS to support Sevara. It’s one of the things that’s made her so powerful. She’s got the secret police on her side.”
Chace nodded, picked up the map from the desk, studying the locations.
“There’s something else you should know,” Riess said.
“Hmm?”
“Malikov’s dying.”
Chace lowered the map. “What?”
“He had what appears to be a stroke before dawn this morning. He’s in the hospital, and the prognosis isn’t looking good.”
“A stroke? Is that likely?”
“I’d have thought a heart attack, but a stroke seems reasonable.”
“What was he doing when he had the stroke, do you know?”
Riess shook his head, raising an eyebrow at her.
“Was he alone?” Chace asked.
“There’s a rumor that he was with one of his mistresses.”
“He’s sixty-seven?”
“Sixty-eight, officially. Maybe as old as seventy-two.”
“There you go.” Chace refolded the map, dropping it back onto the desk. “It was an assassination attempt. Someone upped his Viagra dose, tried to give him another heart attack. Got a stroke instead. Messy.”
“And difficult to prove, if you’re right.”
Chace shrugged, turning back to the bed and sitting on the edge. The fatigue of the trip returned, sliding down her shoulders like oil.
Riess was looking at her, trying his best to not appear curious.
“I’m going to need weapons,” Chace told him.
The curiosity vanished into something close to mild panic. “That’s not my thing, I’m sorry—”
“No, not from you,” she interrupted, annoyed. “I’ll get them myself. Just tell me where I can make the buy.”