Smolev was going to protest but he could see that Discenza was in considerable discomfort. He went to the bathroom and filled a glass tumbler with water. ‘Why did Vander Mayer kill your brother?’ he called through the open doorway.
‘He’s got this assistant, this Oriental girl. Chinese or something. She’s always with him, he never goes anywhere without her. She’s some sort of adviser to him, and God knows what else. She took an instant dislike to Rick. Wouldn’t have anything to do with him. You got that water?’
‘Coming,’ said Smolev. He carried the glass of water out to Discenza, taking care not to spill any.
‘Seems she told Vander Mayer that Rick wasn’t to be trusted,’ said Discenza, taking the glass from Smolev and drinking greedily. He drained the glass and put it down on the coffee table. ‘Funny thing was, she was right. Even I didn’t know. He was planning to put Mafia money in the investment through a company in the Bahamas. He’d lost a bundle gambling and some pretty heavy guys were putting the screws on him.’
Smolev went over to the window and stood looking out. The laundry truck was driving out of the car park. ‘So Vander Mayer had him killed?’ Smolev asked.
‘Not right away. Rick went around to talk to the girl. Things got out of hand.’
‘Out of hand? How exactly did they get out of hand?’
‘Depends who you believe. Rick said she led him on, she says he tried to rape her. Two days later Rick disappeared and the deal was off.’
Smolev saw a man walk out of the front entrance of the hotel. Smolev vaguely recognised him but couldn’t place the face.
‘I knew it was Vander Mayer, but I could hardly go to the cops, could I? A friend in Dallas gave me a number, told me that a Swiss banker could get the job done for me for half a million dollars. Jimmy, I don’t feel so good. Maybe I need a doctor.’
Smolev tapped his fingers on the windowsill as he stared at the man walking away from the hotel. He frowned. Suddenly he realised that the man was the waiter who’d delivered Discenza’s food. But his appearance had changed: his hair was shorter now, and he was missing his moustache. Smolev turned around. Discenza was lying back on the sofa, his mouth open, his chest heaving. Frothy white saliva dribbled from between Discenza’s lips and his eyes were wide and staring. ‘Oh shit,’ Smolev gasped. He rushed over to Discenza. ‘Ted!’ he yelled. ‘Get in here.’
Discenza’s legs began to thrash about and Smolev pushed the man’s shoulders down onto the sofa. ‘Try to lie still, Frank. The more you move, the faster it’ll spread.’
The door opened. ‘Did you want. .?’ Verity began, but he stopped when he saw what was happening. ‘What the. .?’
‘The waiter!’ Smolev interrupted. ‘He’s lost the hair and the moustache and he’s wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. He was on foot but he must have a car nearby. Go!’
Smolev stood up and went over to the telephone as Verity rushed out and ran down the corridor. He told a girl on reception to call for an ambulance and to see if there was a doctor staying at the hotel. He slammed the receiver down and went back to Discenza. Discenza’s back was arched and the tendons in his neck were as taut as steel wires. Discenza grunted and his right hand fastened on Smolev’s shoulder, gripping like a vice. Discenza began muttering, but Smolev couldn’t make out what he was saying. ‘It’s going to be okay, Frank,’ Smolev said. ‘Lie still.’
Discenza kicked out and one of the Budweiser bottles skidded across the carpet. The poison must have been in the beer, Smolev realised. He cursed himself and he cursed the waiter and his white cotton gloves. No fingerprints, and a description that was worse than useless. His only hope was that Verity would apprehend the man, but Smolev knew that was no hope at all. The killer was a pro. Suddenly Discenza went rigid, and then he flopped back onto the sofa. Smolev searched for a pulse in the man’s neck, but he knew he was wasting his time. Discenza was dead. And so, thought Smolev bitterly, was his career with the Bureau.
The intercom on the desk buzzed. Cramer looked at Su-ming expectantly and she walked over and pressed a button on the device. ‘Yes, Jenny?’ she said.
‘It’s Mr Tarlanov,’ said the secretary.
Cramer got to his feet and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as Su-ming opened the office door. He heard Allan arguing with the visitor and went over to see what the problem was. A tall man in a fawn raincoat was standing by Jenny’s desk clutching an aluminium case to his chest, a look of alarm on his face. He was in his late thirties with thick eyebrows that almost met above a thin nose. He had several days’ stubble on his cheeks and chin and his face was drawn and tired.
Allan was standing in front of the man, his arms out to the sides, blocking his way. Tarlanov was saying something rapidly in Russian and shaking his head. Then in heavily accented English he said, ‘No. No. Leave me.’
‘Stay where you are, Mr Vander Mayer,’ Allan said as he continued to obstruct Tarlanov.
Martin moved over to stand next to Cramer, putting his body between Cramer and the Russian.
‘What’s the problem?’ Cramer asked Su-ming.
She spoke to Tarlanov and he answered, clearly relieved to find someone who could speak his own language. ‘He won’t open the case,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
The Russian must have understood because he spoke to Su-ming again. She nodded and looked at Cramer. ‘He says he’ll only open it in front of you.’
‘We have to search him, Su-ming,’ said Allan. ‘Tell him that.’
Su-ming began to translate but Tarlanov was already shaking his head. Cramer could see that the man understood at least some English.
‘Go back into the office and close the door, Mr Vander Mayer,’ said Allan.
‘It’s okay, Allan,’ said Cramer. ‘Su-ming, tell him that we’re just going to pat him down, nothing more. He can open the case in my office, we just want to make sure he doesn’t have a weapon.’
Su-ming moved past Martin and she spoke softly to the Russian, as if she was trying to calm a spooked horse. He nodded, still nervous, and then put the aluminium case on the floor and held up his hands. He watched Cramer as Allan searched him.
‘Hello, hello, what’s this?’ Allan said, reaching behind Tarlanov’s back. His hand reappeared with a small automatic and he held it up for Cramer to see. Martin pushed Cramer back into the inner office and took out his own gun.
Tarlanov spoke quickly in Russian as Allan continued to search him.
‘He says it’s for his own protection,’ Su-ming explained. ‘He says London is a dangerous city.’
Allan took a small aerosol from the Russian’s pocket. He examined it and then sniffed it warily. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Mace,’ he said.
The Russian nodded eagerly. ‘For protection,’ he said.
‘You speak English?’ Cramer asked.
Tarlanov smiled ingratiatingly. ‘A little,’ he said.
‘That’s all,’ said Allan, stepping back. He wiped his eyes which had started watering from the mace. He looked at the gun in the palm of his hand. It was a small automatic, not much bigger than the one Cramer had in his underarm holster.
‘May I?’ Cramer asked, holding out his hand. Allan gave him the weapon. Cramer didn’t recognise the make, though there was Russian writing along the barrel.
‘For protection,’ the Russian repeated. Cramer ejected the clip, slipped it into his pocket and gave the empty gun back to the Russian.
‘I’d feel happier searching the case,’ Allan said to Cramer.
‘No. Only Mr Vander Mayer,’ Tarlanov insisted, in his heavy accent.
‘Watch him, Martin,’ said Allan. Martin grunted. He still had his VP70 machine pistol in his hand. Allan nodded at Cramer to back into the inner office and he followed him inside, closing the door behind them. ‘He’s the right build, give or take, I’m not sure about his accent and he had a gun. It could be him, Mike.’
Cramer pulled a face. ‘I don’t think he’s faking it. And our man wouldn’t just walk in here like that, he’d have shot you and Martin and then blown me away. He’s never given anyone time to search him before, he just starts shooting.’