“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.”
THE 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.
ADAMS 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.
17
The concierge came striding out of the elevator toward Sokolov, moving purposefully, a walkie-talkie in his left arm, his right arm extended, his index finger jabbing aggressively at the Russian.
Sokolov faltered back, panicking.
“Sir?” the man bellowed.
The woman. The damn woman in the elevator. She must have called downstairs and ratted me out.
He swung a glance down the corridor behind him, but there was no movement coming from the far apartment.
“Sir!” the concierge called out as he came right up to him.
Sokolov pulled out his gun and waved it wildly at the concierge, cupping its grip in both hands.
“Stop right there. Don’t come any closer. I’ll shoot.”
The concierge stopped in his tracks and held up both his hands in front of him, open-palmed and defensive.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, take it easy, all right? Take it easy.”
Sokolov took another step back, up against the wall, his eyes jumpy as they scoured the corridor in both directions. “Dmitry Rogozin, from the Russian consulate. What apartment is he in? I know he’s on this floor.”
“Sir, calm down-”
“Which one?” Sokolov yelled as he stabbed the air with the handgun.
“Sir, you should know I’ve already called the police.” He held up his radio. “This thing’s live. They can hear everything we’re saying and they’ll be here any minute now. So maybe you should think of getting the hell out of here before it’s too late.”
“Shut up and tell me where he is,” Sokolov barked as he reeled under what the concierge had just told him. Was his radio really live? Would he have called the police already?
He stormed right up to the man, waving the gun excitedly just inches from his face. “Tell me where he is!”
“Sir, you’d better get out of here,” the concierge insisted, his tone steady, his gaze leaping from the gun to Sokolov’s eyes and back.
Sokolov was finding it harder to breathe. What good would it do anyway? Through the turmoil in his mind, he managed to see that even if he knew what apartment Rogozin was in, the Russian would never open his door. Sokolov would have to shoot his way in, and then what? The police would probably be there before he could force him out and he’d end up with a pointless, zero-sum hostage situation, with Daphne still held captive and him ending up in custody or dead.
He took one last look down the corridor, then blew past the concierge and rushed to the elevators. He found one of them there, its door blocked open. He didn’t really understand why that was, but when he got in, he saw a set of keys in the control panel and realized the concierge had locked them open while he investigated what the stranger was doing there.