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“A macchiato, please.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Bad dreams.”
“Sadly, I know that scenario.” She set aside the magazine. “I’ll bring it to your seat as soon as I’ve brewed it.”
“I’d rather stay here,” he said. “I need to stretch my legs.”
A slight flush ruddied her cheeks just before she turned away. “Of course.” The scent of rose attar lifted off her. “Whatever you fancy.” Her eyes were the color and shape of ripe olives, unexpectedly exotic against her Mediterranean skin and black hair. Like an Egyptian of ancient Alexandria, she had a Roman nose and delicate cheekbones, and stood very tall even in her flats. Perhaps as a child she had studied ballet.
Bourne watched her deftly making the macchiato. “Are you based out of Madrid?”
“Oh, no. Damascus.” She produced a tiny cup, which she placed on the diminutive saucer. “I’ve been living there for the past six years.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s difficult to make friends.” She shrugged. “But it pays for me to be there. I get a yearly bonus.”
“I haven’t been back to Damascus in some time,” he said truthfully. “I suppose there will be a lot of changes.”
She pulled the espresso and slid it across the counter to him. It had just the right amount of foam. “Yes and no. The modern parts are terribly congested, the traffic is a nightmare, the polluted air stifling, but the Old City is still filled with the gorgeous covered arcades, the leafy squares, and, of course, space around the great mosques.” She frowned. “But there are troubling aspects.”
“The state sponsorship of Hezbollah, for one.”
She nodded, her gaze falling gravely on him. “Also in the last year or so there’s a growing conservative segment of the population that looks favorably on Iran.”
Bourne seized the opening. “So there must be more in the way of security all over the city, starting with the airport.”
Rebeka gave him a rueful smile. “I’m afraid so. The airport, especially. Al-Assad has clamped down at entry points, partly due to pressure from the West.”
“There won’t be any difficulties, will there?”
She laughed softly. “Not for you. Anyway, there’s always a senior security official on hand when passengers deplane to guide you and answer questions.”
Having gotten what he wanted, Bourne threw back his macchiato. Rebeka tore off part of a page from her magazine and wrote on it. As he turned to go, she slid it over to him.
“I’m off for the next three days.” Her warm smile returned. “My number, in case you lose your way.”
Instead of piercing Boris’s flesh, the knife blade retracted into its handle. Laughing, Boris slammed the heel of his hand into Cherkesov’s nose. Blood gouted, the cartilage cracked, and Cherkesov fell onto his backside.
Boris took back the knife. He pressed a hidden button on the handle and the blade popped out. He pressed the button again, locking the blade in place so it would not retract.
He knelt beside Cherkesov. “Now we get to it, Viktor.” He shoved the tip of the blade into Cherkesov’s right nostril. “There are many things, precious to you, I’m sure, you will give up before you tell me what I want to know.”
Cherkesov stared up at him with reddened eyes. “I’ll die first.”
“You’re a liar, kitty cat,” Boris said.
“Huh?” Cherkesov looked up at him.
“You know what happens to liars? No? Wa
With one flick of Boris’s wrist, the blade slit open Cherkesov’s already bloody nose. Cherkesov arched up; Boris shoved him back down with the flat of his hand.
“Let me the fuck up!”
“Forget it, Viktor, it’s Chinatown.”
“Fuck you, you cocksucker. I’m not telling you a thing.”
“It’s not a question of pain, Viktor, but you already knew that.” Boris wiped the blade on Cherkesov’s trouser leg. “It’s a question of what you can tolerate living without.” He smiled, almost benignly. “Not to worry, I won’t let you die. There’s no escape.” The knife blade made a circuit of Cherkesov’s face. “I mean what I say; I’m an expert, and I have all night long.”
Hendricks was in his office, poring over the file of the three men found dead in Room 916 of the Lincoln Square Hotel. None of them was a guest, none had any identification on him. Their fingerprints had yielded nothing, and now their dental records were being sought, though this would probably be a dead end as well. According to the FBI, who had taken over the case from Metro Homicide, the dental work was definitely not American. Eastern European was the best they could do at the moment, but that covered a lot of territory.
Hendricks paused to drink some ice water.
The one strange thing about all of the victims was the suicide pill—the hollow tooth that contained liquid hydrogen cyanide, an old NKVD marker. Were these men Russians and, if so, what the hell were they doing in Room 916 of the Lincoln Square Hotel?
Hendricks turned the page. Room 916 was on a long-term lease through ServicesSolutions, a company with phantom headquarters in the Caymans. Hendricks had no doubt that ServicesSolutions was a shell corporation for God alone knew who. He rubbed his forehead. Whoever owned ServicesSolutions had some very nasty enemies. He called a colleague in Treasury, gave him what info he had on ServicesSolutions, and asked him to find out who actually owned it. Then he called the head of the task force he had assigned to find Peter Marks. Following the bombing of Peter’s car in the Treadstone garage, the whole building was in lockdown. Everyone who worked or had recently worked in the building was being run down and questioned, but nothing so far. Hendricks had been extremely relieved to learn that no human remains had been found in the car. On the other hand, this concerned him, given Sal’s testimony that he and Peter had been in the same elevator minutes before the explosion. The night watchman had exited at the lobby level, but he was certain Peter had continued down to the garage. So chances were good that Peter was in the garage when the car bomb was detonated, but had not been in the vehicle. What had happened; where was he? Had he gone to ground? That would be a reasonable assumption.
Hendricks rose and crossed the office to fetch more ice for his water pitcher. He stopped stock-still as something occurred to him. What if Peter had been injured? Back at his desk, he asked one of his assistants to call around to every hospital in the Greater DC area, starting with the ones closest to the Treadstone building. Then, as another thought occurred to him, he ordered the assistant to include all EMS and private ambulance services.
“Put every available person on it,” he concluded.
He sat back, swiveled his chair around, and stared out the window. It was a dreary, windswept day. Beads of rain slid down the panes of glass, and, beyond, on the street, people in shiny raincoats were hunched over, umbrellas trembling like leaves, as they slogged their way to and from work.
At the sound of his intercom, he turned back.
“What?” His mind was buzzing with a thousand possibilities.
“Package just arrived for you, sir. It’s been vetted by security.”
“What’s in it?”
“A DVD, sir.”
Hendricks frowned. “Bring it in.”
A moment later, one of his assistants placed the DVD on his desk. Hendricks looked up. “That’s it? No note?”
“Nothing, sir. But it was addressed to you and was stamped PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.”
Hendricks waved the assistant out, put the DVD aside, and returned to the case of the three dead men in Room 916. He studied the crime scene photos of their faces and bodies, noting that there were no tattoos, which ruled out the Russian mob. So who were these jamokes? They were armed, but that could mean anything. It certainly gave no clue as to their country of origin, let alone their affiliation. The FBI had concluded, however, that they constituted a hit team. Did that mean the team’s target was more than one person? And where was he/she/they now? He turned another page. The FBI had questioned everyone who worked in the hotel, as well as all the guests on the ninth floor. No one had seen or heard anything. Possibly someone was lying, but the FBI report stated its operatives didn’t think so. That left the other possibility: Whoever had been in that room knew how to get into and out of a public building without being spotted. All of this was interesting speculation, but Hendricks couldn’t see how it would help them find out who these people were and who their target was. It was imperative that he find the answers to those questions ASAP. The threat of terrorism overhung them all.