"Can I help you?" the guard called across the lobby.
"No thank you." Yeltsin's English was perfect. "I think I have the wrong building."
Yeltsin had an eidetic memory. One glance at the list was enough to imprint it firmly in his mind. He went back outside and got into the car.
"Well?" Vasily asked.
"Quiet. Let me think for a moment."
What stood out on the list? There had been several lawyers. If the letter had gone to one of them, it was going to be difficult to discover which was the correct target. A business consulting firm was listed but that didn't seem to fit. The top floor of the building was given over to an entertainment and booking agency.
"Go back to the hotel," Yeltsin said.
Back in his room, Yeltsin got out a laptop computer and began researching the names and firms on the list. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for.
"Clever old bastard."
"Major?" Viktor was confused.
"Sokolov sent the letter to a booking agency that handles entertainers and speakers. The woman probably uses the agency as a cut out to keep her address private."
"Why would she use a booking agency?"
"Because she is a well-known lecturer," Yeltsin said.
He turned the computer toward Viktor. Selena's picture and academic resumé showed on the screen.
"Her specialty is extinct languages. It explains why Sokolov would send the picture to her. He would want to know about the parts of the inscription he couldn't understand. He thought she'd be able to translate it"
"What do you want to do?" Vasily asked.
"Tonight we come back. The woman's address will be in a file in that office. Once we have that, the rest is simple."
Late in the evening of the same day, Michael Daly was still at his desk. Daly owned the booking agency that handled Selena's professional correspondence. At the moment, he was thinking that being the boss of a successful company wasn't always what it was cracked up to be. Today he'd had to soothe the egos of a B-list male film actor, cancel the next tour stop for a troupe of Mexican acrobats and placate an annoying Harvard professor. He was checking the final details for the acrobats' new itinerary when he heard the elevator stop at his floor.
Who the hell is that at this time of night? he thought. How did they get past the security desk?
He picked up his phone and called downstairs. Security didn't answer, which was odd. Daly was a veteran of Afghanistan. All at once he felt the odd sensation at the base of his skull that warned of danger. He hadn't had that feeling for a long time, not since Helmland Province. It made him wish he had a gun.
The District of Columbia had rigid gun laws that made it impossible to get a carry permit. Inside the Beltway nobody had guns except the bad guys and the cops. Daly had a pistol at home in his Alexandria apartment, but it wasn't much good to him at the moment.
This is foolish. Nobody's coming in that door with an AK or a grenade. Get hold of yourself.
That was when Yeltsin came through the door, a Makarov 10 mm pistol in his hand. Daly's mind went into overdrive.
shit what can I use I need a weapon he's got a suppressor on that piece three is too many
"Who the hell are you?"
"Be quiet," Yeltsin said. "Put your hands on top of the desk where I can see them. Cooperate, and you won't be hurt."
"What do you want? There's no cash here."
Viktor and Vasily moved to stand on each side of Daly's chair.
"I don't want cash," Yeltsin said. "Only information. Put your hands on the desk."
Yeltsin gestured with the pistol. Daly put his hands out on the desk.
"Okay. What information?"
"You received a package from Amsterdam recently. Don't lie. I can see you did in your eyes."
"No. I never received such a package."
"Viktor," Yeltsin said.
For a big man, Viktor moved with the swiftness of a striking snake. He grabbed the back of Daly's head and drove it face down into the hard wooden surface of the desk. There was the dull crack of cartilage breaking.
Viktor pulled him back up by the hair. Blood streamed down Daly's face. His nose was smashed, pushed to the side.
"I told you not to lie. Did you receive the package?"
"Yes, damn it."
"See? All you had to do was tell the truth. Where is it now?"
"I don't have it."
"Viktor…"
"Wait," Daly said. "It was addressed to someone else. I forwarded it."
As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't. The pain of his broken nose made it hard to think. There was a brass lamp with a heavy base and sharp corners on the desk, not far from his left hand. He ran a scenario through his mind.
Grab the lamp. Smash the guy on the left with a backhand to the head. Drop behind the desk and take the second guy down at the knee. He's gotta be armed. Get his weapon.
It was a stretch, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. He was damned if he was going to knuckle under to them. Besides, they didn't have the look of men who would leave him alive when they left.
Nothing to lose.
"Yes, I got a package. I don't know what was in it."
"You sent it to someone?"
"Yes, to a client."
"That client would be a woman named Connor?"
Daly made his move. He grabbed the lamp and brought it around in an arc and slammed it into the side of Viktor's skull. The big man grunted and went down. Daly pivoted toward the second man, aiming for his left knee.
Yeltsin's first shot took Daly under his arm. The second one blew out the side of his head. The body fell sideways to the floor.
"Shit," Vasily said.
Yeltsin put away the Makarov. "I'm going to look at the files on his computer. Help Viktor."
"He doesn't look so good."
"Do what you can."
Yeltsin began searching Daly's files on his computer. He scrolled through the directory until he found a folder labeled Current Clients. He opened the folder and looked for Selena's name. It only took seconds to locate it. He memorized her address.
Viktor was conscious. He sat up, holding his head.
"Bastard got me good."
Yeltsin went over to where Viktor sat on the floor.
"Vasily, help me get him up."
The two men got Viktor onto his feet.
"Can you walk?"
"Da."
The three Russians closed the door behind them as they left.
CHAPTER 9
The next morning Volkov's men waited outside the building of converted lofts where Nick and Selena lived. The target was inside with her husband. The Russians were waiting for them to leave.
Viktor lit a cigarette. The side of his face was purple and bruised.
"It's a soft target. Getting in will be easy."
Vasily coughed. "Do you have to smoke inside the car?"
"I like American cigarettes."
"At least roll down the window."
Viktor muttered under his breath and lowered the window partway. He looked in the rearview mirror at Vasily in the back seat.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
"I didn't think so," Vasily said.
"Stop this bickering," Yeltsin said. He sat up straight in his seat. "There she is. In the green Mercedes."
Selena's Mercedes emerged from the underground parking garage and turned right onto the street.
"We give them a few minutes, then go in," Yeltsin said. "The woman is rich. There might be servants. If there are, act as though it's a robbery."