something to the group of men behind him. For a moment Hobart thought that they were going to be physically thrown off the dock.
“He has agreed to your terms,” Orloski said happily. “It wasn’t easy, but I finally convinced him that you are an upstanding member of the American academic community. You would be surprised at Mikhail’s respect for higher learning.”
The group of men hurried past them and began pulling the crates off the truck.
“Mikhail would like to know where he can reach you.”
“He can’t. I’m going to be on the road for the next month,” Hobart lied, leaning against the truck. “I was hoping that I could stay in touch with you, and you could let me know when my assistant should meet the ship.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Orloski replied. “We’ll discuss it on the ride home. And you can describe to me what it is like to live in North Carolina—I hear it is a wonderful place.”
Hobart walked toward the truck, glancing back one last time at the crates being moved across the dock. Leaving them there with no receipts, not even a handshake, was tying his stomach in knots.
Hobart snatched his last suitcase off the conveyor and headed toward the glass facade of the Baltimore-Washington International Airport. He started to jog as he passed through the automatic doors, his heavy luggage throwing him slightly off balance. The plane had been almost an hour late arriving, having sat on the runway in New York for what seemed like a lifetime. Bob Swenson was expecting to meet him in ten minutes.
He gunned his Jeep up 295, and in fifteen minutes was only a few miles from the warehouse. It had been nearly two weeks and five thousand miles since he’d left his hunting cabin. It felt like two years.
As he pulled up to the rented warehouse in Canton, little had changed. The only noticeable difference inthe building was the new front and loading dock doors, and the tasteful but sturdy-looking bars on the first-floor windows. Venetian blinds had been installed inside, and were closed.
He jumped out of the car and walked up to the new front door. A small metal box, painted the color of brick, was discreetly bolted to the door frame. He rapped on the door. Swenson let him in almost immediately.
The outer office had been completely renovated. A fresh coat of white paint covered the walls. Two antique sofas sat on plush beige carpeting. A small tree grew in the corner, enjoying the light filtering through the blinds.
“How was your trip?”
“Productive.”
“Good. You ready for a tour?”
Hobart checked the bottom of his suitcase for dirt, then laid it on one of the sofas. “Sure.”
Swenson led him into the back office. It was furnished in the same style as the reception area, though a large desk stood in the place of the sofas. A new-looking computer took up most of the top. A map of the United States was framed over a small love seat opposite the desk. Colored pins were stuck in New York, Chicago, Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, and Baltimore. A plaque on the desk was engraved with the words JOHN SEVEREN, PRESIDENT, CLIPPER CITY ANTIQUES AND ODDITIES. A crystal tray held business cards with the same inscription.
“Looks pretty good.”
“Yeah, they just finished. I’d rather deal with tenpissed-off coke dealers than one Baltimore contractor.” He sat down behind the desk. “I’ve barred all the windows and replaced the doors with steel. We’ve got motion detectors in the reception area, the office, and the warehouse. All the windows and doors are wired.” He threw Hobart a key chain. “The small key opens the panel on the keypad out front—you probably noticed it as you came in the door.”
Hobart nodded.
“The large gold one opens the front door. You can’t open the loading dock from the outside. The two silver keys are to the apartments upstairs. You’ve got the one on the second floor. The boxes you wanted me to pick up at your house are in the
“He has agreed to your terms,” Orloski said happily. “It wasn’t easy, but I finally convinced him that you are an upstanding member of the American academic community. You would be surprised at Mikhail’s respect for higher learning.”
The group of men hurried past them and began pulling the crates off the truck.
“Mikhail would like to know where he can reach you.”
“He can’t. I’m going to be on the road for the next month,” Hobart lied, leaning against the truck. “I was hoping that I could stay in touch with you, and you could let me know when my assistant should meet the ship.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Orloski replied. “We’ll discuss it on the ride home. And you can describe to me what it is like to live in North Carolina—I hear it is a wonderful place.”
Hobart walked toward the truck, glancing back one last time at the crates being moved across the dock. Leaving them there with no receipts, not even a handshake, was tying his stomach in knots.
Hobart snatched his last suitcase off the conveyor and headed toward the glass facade of the Baltimore-Washington International Airport. He started to jog as he passed through the automatic doors, his heavy luggage throwing him slightly off balance. The plane had been almost an hour late arriving, having sat on the runway in New York for what seemed like a lifetime. Bob Swenson was expecting to meet him in ten minutes.
He gunned his Jeep up 295, and in fifteen minutes was only a few miles from the warehouse. It had been nearly two weeks and five thousand miles since he’d left his hunting cabin. It felt like two years.
As he pulled up to the rented warehouse in Canton, little had changed. The only noticeable difference inthe building was the new front and loading dock doors, and the tasteful but sturdy-looking bars on the first-floor windows. Venetian blinds had been installed inside, and were closed.
He jumped out of the car and walked up to the new front door. A small metal box, painted the color of brick, was discreetly bolted to the door frame. He rapped on the door. Swenson let him in almost immediately.
The outer office had been completely renovated. A fresh coat of white paint covered the walls. Two antique sofas sat on plush beige carpeting. A small tree grew in the corner, enjoying the light filtering through the blinds.
“How was your trip?”
“Productive.”
“Good. You ready for a tour?”
Hobart checked the bottom of his suitcase for dirt, then laid it on one of the sofas. “Sure.”
Swenson led him into the back office. It was furnished in the same style as the reception area, though a large desk stood in the place of the sofas. A new-looking computer took up most of the top. A map of the United States was framed over a small love seat opposite the desk. Colored pins were stuck in New York, Chicago, Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, and Baltimore. A plaque on the desk was engraved with the words JOHN SEVEREN, PRESIDENT, CLIPPER CITY ANTIQUES AND ODDITIES. A crystal tray held business cards with the same inscription.
“Looks pretty good.”
“Yeah, they just finished. I’d rather deal with tenpissed-off coke dealers than one Baltimore contractor.” He sat down behind the desk. “I’ve barred all the windows and replaced the doors with steel. We’ve got motion detectors in the reception area, the office, and the warehouse. All the windows and doors are wired.” He threw Hobart a key chain. “The small key opens the panel on the keypad out front—you probably noticed it as you came in the door.”
Hobart nodded.
“The large gold one opens the front door. You can’t open the loading dock from the outside. The two silver keys are to the apartments upstairs. You’ve got the one on the second floor. The boxes you wanted me to pick up at your house are in the
Similar Books
