Fisher zoomed in on Drago, anticipating a round blasting through his skull and dropping him.
Tensing, Fisher detected the slightest crack from Briggs’s suppressed sniper rifle from across the street.
But something had gone wrong. Drago jerked, lowered his binoculars, and was immediately on his cell phone.
“Missed the shot!” cried Briggs.
“Fire again!” Fisher ordered.
Losing his breath, Fisher watched as Drago darted for the back door.
He reached out for the doorknob, then slumped before ever applying pressure.
“Jesus, Briggs, you’re giving me a heart attack,” Fisher said.
“Wind shifted on me.”
“It’s cool, Sam,” said Charlie. “Drago didn’t call out. He only tried to dial Uncle Harry.”
“Roger that. Heading over now.”
Fisher fired a line and grappling hook across the street. The hook struck one of three palm trees growing from enormous pots. The hook jammed between the heavy branches, and Fisher attached it to the undercarriage of the nearest car behind him. Next he slapped the ball-bearing guide belt over the line and zipped across, thumping softly onto the terrace. He turned back, thumbed another remote, and the carabiner attached to the line back at the garage automatically released the rope so he could retrieve it, leaving no evidence of how he’d entered the building. With that done and Drago’s body dragged out of sight behind some shrubs, Fisher was prepared to pick the rooftop door’s lock, but Drago was a fine lad and had left the door open. Fisher simply walked inside and reported that to Grim.
“At the next landing come out and make a left,” she instructed him. “Her penthouse suite’s door is at the end of the hall, straight ahead.”
“I see it,” said Fisher. He jogged quickly to the end of the hall, noting the security camera’s light from the ceiling.
“Okay, we see you at the door,” said Charlie.
“And the alarm?” Fisher asked.
“What about it?” asked Charlie. “I’ve gotten us into Gitmo. You don’t think I can get us in here?”
“Right.”
“So the alarm’s yesterday’s news. Completely bypassed and powered off so the monitoring company gets no call.”
Fisher reached into his breast pocket and produced his lock-picking tools; they included a hook pick, a half diamond with steep angles, a snake rake, a half diamond with shallow angles, an S-rake pick, a double round pick, and a long double ended pick.
“Sam, you’re so old-school,” remarked Charlie.
“You got a better way?”
“Melt the lock off with a laser, and who gives a shit if we were there.”
“That laser gives off smoke and a nasty smell. Good way to get your ass caught. You stick to firewalls and leave the locks to me.” He went to work, first opening the dead bolt, then moving on to the handle’s lock.
“Aren’t you done yet?” Charlie asked.
Fisher snorted. “Three seconds . . .”
“Sam, you’d better make this quick. Looks like a police car has just pulled up behind Uncle Harry. Maybe they think he’s a drunk fallen asleep in his car. Either way, you gotta move quickly.”
The lock clicked. “I’m in.”
Fisher pushed in the door and quietly shut it after himself. He switched on his penlight and moved through a hallway lined with tropical plants and into a broad living room with white leather furniture and an adjoining dining room with a black marble table. The décor was, indeed, rich and imported, and the paintings on the wall—all landscapes of Switzerland—were signed oil on canvas originals. Very mature furnishings for a twenty-year-old girl, and again, Fisher wondered how much her father had a say in this.
He crossed over to the spacious kitchen with ornate backsplashes of expensive glass and porcelain tiles. Every drawer had been pulled open and searched, every cabinet rifled through. He opened the refrigerator. Well stocked.
“How’s it looking out there, Briggs?”
“The cops are knocking on Harry’s door, but he’s not responding. Rest of the zone looks clear.”
“Roger.”
Fisher left the kitchen and shifted across the living room. He reached a pair of sliding glass doors leading to a broad balcony with seating for four around an ornate wicker table set. The city and lake views were incredible. Hell, Fisher wouldn’t mind retiring here himself. He shifted away, down another hall, then neared the bedroom, which looked a bit more like a traditional college girl’s dorm with dozens of stuffed animals thrown off the bed and lying across the rug. The king-size bed itself had been wrenched apart, the sheets removed, the mattress slid aside to allow inspection beneath it. The nightstand’s drawers were empty, their contents—books, pieces of jewelry, hair ties, and a few grooming products—splayed across the floor. He found the long dresser with attached vanity mirror equally torn apart, some of the drawers removed and sitting on the bed.
Fisher hurriedly inspected the items—tickets from concerts she’d attended, old ID cards from school, and a plethora of receipts from bars, restaurants, and cafés. She was big on saving her receipts. Nothing unusual or interesting caught his eye. He took a peek inside the walk-in closet. Her clothes had been shuffled apart, but most still hung from the hangers.
He moved on to the adjoining bathroom with the large garden tub and stall shower. Her medicine cabinet and drawers had also been emptied, with makeup strewn across the white tile floor.
“What’re we doing here, Sam?” Grim asked, her tone implying that they were, indeed, wasting their time.
“Details, Grim. Details.”
“I hope so. The cops can’t wake up Harry, so they’re trying to pry open the door.”
Fisher was about to leave when something flashed off his penlight. He crossed to the sink, where he found a very odd pendant on a gold chain. It was a glass orb encapsulating a bolus of clay-like material, and it reminded him of those once-popular sealed glass baubles containing mustard seeds. It was not the kind of fancy, stunning, ornate, or otherwise “flashy” jewelry he imagined a co-ed might wear. In fact, it appeared handmade, a souvenir from some vacation somewhere, perhaps. Fisher tugged open a Velcro pouch on his belt and slid the necklace and pendant inside. He left the bathroom and noticed Nadia’s desk on the other side of the room. The monitor was there but the computer was gone. No surprise.
With no more time to waste, Fisher gathered up a few more items of mild interest—those receipts and tickets, and lo and behold, a diary she’d kept in the nightstand that had been wedged inside the drawer. He hustled out to check the other two bedrooms. One was entirely empty, no furniture prints on the carpet, just never used. The other, a guest room, had been searched as well, but the nightstand and dresser drawers were empty. He checked the second guest bath, then the adjoining closets. Nothing.
He returned to the front door, stood there for a moment, and sighed. Maybe the diary or the jewelry would give them something. “All right, I’m coming out,” he said.
“Cops got Harry’s door open. They’ve called for an ambulance and are trying to revive him,” Grim reported.
“Well, that’s a nice diversion,” Fisher said. “Briggs, you there?”
“I’m here, Sam. Packing up my rifle, getting ready to head down.”
“Meet you at the rally point.”
“Will do.”
“Hey, Sam, we just got a call from Kobin back on the plane,” said Charlie. “Says he’s got a good lead on Kestrel’s whereabouts in Russia.”
“Oh, yeah. Where is he?”
“Kobin’s not saying. Says he wants to talk to you and only you.”
Fisher snickered. “You tell him he’ll be spilling his guts figuratively. And if not? Then literally.”
“Nice. I’d buy tickets to see that.”
Fisher returned to the roof, rappelled down the back of the building, then took off running to link up with Grim and Charlie.
* * *
WHILE in the SUV en route back to the airport, Fisher showed Grim the diary and necklace.