It would be harder still in a few days when he was wearing a waist chain, too, if I had any say in things.
An hour later, Sam and I pulled up in front of the consulate building (in a black Navigator Sam assured me was loaned to him by a very close friend who’d parked it in long-term parking at the Miami Airport) and parked in a space that was marked NO PARKING-RESERVED TONIGHT ONLY FOR MR. SIGAL. I was fairly certain that Mr. Sigal, whoever he was, wasn’t going to show up six hours early for anything, so his parking space seemed safe. If you’re important enough to have a one-night-only reserved parking spot, after all, you’re probably the kind of person who shows up right when the Chicken Kiev is being served and not a moment sooner.
“Mikey,” Sam said, “are you sure you should go in there alone?”
“We can’t risk both of us being seen ahead of time,” I said. “Besides, I want you listening in on those bugs I placed in Odessa.”
“Thus far, it’s just been a lot of people remarking on how good the butter cookies are when paired with the Prince Vladimir tea,” Sam said. “Unless that’s someone speaking in code.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. I got out of the Navigator and examined the street in front of the consulate. Even though it was hours before the event, already a valet service was getting set up at the corner, which meant it was going to be difficult to have a getaway car parked right where we’d need it, so I had to hope a million dollars was enough to get me a reserved space for the evening.
Unlike the consulates you might see in Washington, DC, or even Los Angeles or New York-the kind of big, ornate structures that announced the presence of an entire country, or at least the presence of a few key government and goodwill officials who were, most likely, spies themselves-the building that housed the Moldovan Consulate was more like a building that happened to house several very nice law firms, which in this case were called the Isle of Man, Morocco, Antigua and Moldova. There was a security presence in the outer foyer where three very large men who looked bored and tired and hot sat stuffed behind a sunken circular desk. All three wore black suits with white shirts and blue ties, and gold name badges, though no actual badges. They each had Bluetooth earpieces and matching BlackBerrys strapped to their belts, but no guns. Surrounding the men in the sunken area were a dozen closed-circuit televisions showing alternating shots of all sides of the building, including one that showed Sam sitting in his new Navigator. There were also several laptop computers open on the desk. One was running a program that controlled the closed-circuit cameras: Three of them showed open Facebook pages, two were on ESPN. com and the other one I could see appeared to be running an in-progress game of solitaire.
Behind the men and the security console was a bank of elevators that were guarded by yet another large, bored, tired, and sweaty gentleman. The only difference I could see between this man and the others was that he had a key card around his neck on a chain, which probably meant he had to scan visitors in who wished to go upstairs to the various consulate offices. That he also was holding a clipboard made it all the more clear that he was a man of terrible importance, at least in this ecosystem.
To the left of the security console, there were several tables being set up in front of the grand entrance to a surprisingly ornate ballroom that I could see was filled with people dressing tables and such. A woman with a walkie-talkie in one hand stood in the middle of the ballroom and barked out orders, first in English and then in Russian and then, for good measure, in Spanish. I couldn’t make out what she said exactly, but the general thrust was clear from the way the workers suddenly picked up their pace. Somewhere in the building food was being prepared. Prime rib. Something made primarily of garlic. A million-dollar meal, no doubt.
“May I help you?” one of the security guards asked. He had an accent that sounded vaguely British, but not like he grew up in Leeds. His name tag said MR. CHISOLM and beneath that THE ISLE OF MAN. I looked at the other two guards and saw that they were Mr. Plutak and Mr. Reigor, from Moldova and Antigua, respectively. Morocco must have been guarding the elevators.
“Yes,” I said. “My name is Dr. Liam Bennington. I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment, but I’d like to purchase a table for this evening’s benefit.”
“All of that is handled by the consulate’s press office,” Mr. Chisolm said. He began clicking away at the computer directly to his left, one of the Facebook-enabled ones, but nothing seemed to be happening, perhaps because it was on a page of photos of a young woman. “I’m sorry, sir. Just give me a moment.” He kept clicking, but all that was happening, as far as I could see, was that he kept letting everyone on the planet know that he was quite fond of a photo of the young woman standing in front of the Empire State Building. “Bloody hell,” he said under his breath.
I pointed at the computer. “Is that your wife?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “That’s the problem, sir.”
“Is it Reva who handles this? If so, I can find my way upstairs while you untangle this.”
“Oh, that would be a relief,” he said. He scribbled my name on a guest pass. “Just show this at the lift.”
I gave Mr. Chisolm a two-fingered salute and headed off to the elevator, where I showed my pass to the guard from Morocco, who barely looked at it before swiping his key card and hitting the UP button.
“Fourth floor?” I said.
“Third,” he said. Morocco had no accent at all and his name badge said CAPTAIN TIMMONS on it. I was right. A man of power. And a man without a country, apparently, since his name badge didn’t actually say MOROCCO beneath his name. What he was the captain of was anyone’s guess. “You are seeing?”
“Reva,” I said.
He finally lifted his head up and I saw that he was older than the other guards-where they were in their late twenties or early thirties, he was clearly in his late forties or early fifties. “Reva is the Mary of Moldova. What department?”
“Press office.”
“Oh, oh,” he said, with a laugh. “That’s Ms. Lohr. Ask for her by that name or else you’ll be greeted by eleven different women.”
“Could be worse,” I said.
“Don’t I know it,” he said. He looked down at my pass. “Dr. Bennington. What are you a doctor of?”
“What hurts?” I said. Another laugh. Just two old friends waiting for an elevator. “I’m a scientist, I’m afraid. I can’t get you any medication but I can get you an excellent deal on a Bunsen burner.”
Captain Timmons slapped me on the back. “Some days, a Bunsen burner would be just fine, if you know what I mean. Place it over one of the fire detectors and get me off early before all the fuss gets started here.”
“I’m afraid I’ll be part of that fuss tonight,” I said.
“Oh, you’re fine,” he said. The elevator doors opened then and I stepped in. “It’s all those Russians with machine guns that make me nervous.”
The doors closed in front of Captain Timmons and for a brief moment I was alone with his final observation. If I were still a spy, a full-time spy, I could have defused this whole situation in a much easier fashion. I would have placed a call to my handler in DC, told him about this poor kid wrapped up in a situation beyond his comprehension, and asked if there wasn’t something that could be done. My handler would call his counterparts in Ukraine and Moldova; they’d both probably be ex-KGB agents grown fat and happy on Yuri Drubich’s graft, but they would be able to see the value in averting an international situation. They would call Yuri personally and ask him to please stop tormenting a child and his crazy father and Yuri, ever the statesman, would say certainly, I will certainly do that, and it would be over.
But what I also knew was that one day Brent Grayson would die in a terrible, unexplainable car accident. Or one day Brent Grayson would be the victim of an apparently senseless home invasion robbery gone terribly wrong. Or maybe it wouldn’t be Brent Grayson at all. Maybe it would be his wife, a woman Brent didn’t even know yet, who would be walking down the street on her way to her job, or maybe she’d be walking her dog, or maybe she’d be pushing a stroller with their baby in it, and then suddenly she’d be on the ground, a bullet in her head. And then she’d be a statistic. An unsolved murder.