background noise. No sounds of anyone typing, no conversation. He spoke in broken Russian. “May I speak to Viktor Harkov please?”
“I am Harkov.”
Aleks noted an asthmatic wheeze in the man’s breathing. He was ailing. Aleks glanced at the bank on the corner. “Mr Harkov, I am calling from First National Bank, and I would like to – ”
“We do not have an account with your bank. I am not interested.”
“I understand. I was just wondering if I might make an appointment to – ”
The line went dead. Aleks closed the phone. The brief conversation told Aleks a few things, first and foremost was that, unless the man subscribed to call forwarding, Viktor Harkov was indeed in his office, and that he did not have a secretary or receptionist. If he did, she was not in the office, or perhaps she was in a restroom. By the looks of the building, the signs, and the fact that Harkov answered his own phone, he doubted it. Harkov may have answered the phone with a client in his office, but Aleks doubted this, too.
Kolya got back in the vehicle.
“There is a rear entrance, but you have to go by the back door of the Chinese restaurant,” Kolya said. “Two of the bus boys are back there right now catching a smoke.”
Aleks glanced at his watch. He opened his laptop. Within moments he got on a nearby wi-fi network. He entered the address for People’s Legal Services on Google Maps and zoomed in. If the image was accurate, there was access to the target building via a fire escape from the roof to the top floor. He pointed to the image.
“Is this still there?”
Kolya squinted at the screen. He probably needed glasses but was far too vain to get them. “I didn’t see it. I wasn’t looking up.”
Aleks had given the man a simple task, an undemanding reconnaissance of the rear of the building. He was clearly not his father.
Aleks knew he needed Kolya. But not for long.
“Wait here,” he said. “And keep the engine running.”
P EOPLE ’ S LEGAL SERVICES was at the end of a long hallway on the second floor. Aleks entered the building one door east of the building, and then taken the stairs to the roof. Once there, he crossed over and descended the fire escape and entered Harkov’s building on the fourth floor.
On the way down the back stairs, Aleks scanned the landings for surveillance cameras. He saw none. Still, as he entered, he put on a ball cap and pulled up the collar on his leather coat. He met no one.
When he reached the door to 206 he stopped, listened. From inside the office he heard the sound of a Russian-language radio program. He heard no other voices. He glanced both ways down the hallway. He was alone. He took a cloth from his pocket, turned the doorknob. The door opened onto a small, messy anteroom. To one side was an old pickled oak desk, covered with newspapers, magazines, and advertising flyers, all yellowed, all coated with the dust of months. Against one wall was a rusting file cabinet. The room was empty. As he had thought, there was no secretary.
Aleks closed the door gently behind him, turned the lock. When he appeared in the doorway to the inner office the man at the desk appeared startled.
“Are you Viktor Harkov?”
The old man looked at Aleks over the top of his filmy bifocals. He was lank and cadaverous, with thinning gray hair, a liver-spotted scalp. He wore a drab suit, tattered at the cuffs, a yellowed shirt and knit tie. The clothes sagged on his skeletal frame.
“The son of Jakob and Adele,” the old man said. “How can I help you?”
Aleks stepped into the inner office. “I am here to enquire about your services.”
The man nodded, looked Aleks up and down. “Where are you from?”
Aleks closed the door behind him. “I am from Kolossova.”
Color drained from Harkov’s face. “I am not familiar with this place.”
The man was lying. Aleks had expected this. “It is a small village in south-eastern Estonia.” He glanced toward the smudged windows. The
“I am Harkov.”
Aleks noted an asthmatic wheeze in the man’s breathing. He was ailing. Aleks glanced at the bank on the corner. “Mr Harkov, I am calling from First National Bank, and I would like to – ”
“We do not have an account with your bank. I am not interested.”
“I understand. I was just wondering if I might make an appointment to – ”
The line went dead. Aleks closed the phone. The brief conversation told Aleks a few things, first and foremost was that, unless the man subscribed to call forwarding, Viktor Harkov was indeed in his office, and that he did not have a secretary or receptionist. If he did, she was not in the office, or perhaps she was in a restroom. By the looks of the building, the signs, and the fact that Harkov answered his own phone, he doubted it. Harkov may have answered the phone with a client in his office, but Aleks doubted this, too.
Kolya got back in the vehicle.
“There is a rear entrance, but you have to go by the back door of the Chinese restaurant,” Kolya said. “Two of the bus boys are back there right now catching a smoke.”
Aleks glanced at his watch. He opened his laptop. Within moments he got on a nearby wi-fi network. He entered the address for People’s Legal Services on Google Maps and zoomed in. If the image was accurate, there was access to the target building via a fire escape from the roof to the top floor. He pointed to the image.
“Is this still there?”
Kolya squinted at the screen. He probably needed glasses but was far too vain to get them. “I didn’t see it. I wasn’t looking up.”
Aleks had given the man a simple task, an undemanding reconnaissance of the rear of the building. He was clearly not his father.
Aleks knew he needed Kolya. But not for long.
“Wait here,” he said. “And keep the engine running.”
P EOPLE ’ S LEGAL SERVICES was at the end of a long hallway on the second floor. Aleks entered the building one door east of the building, and then taken the stairs to the roof. Once there, he crossed over and descended the fire escape and entered Harkov’s building on the fourth floor.
On the way down the back stairs, Aleks scanned the landings for surveillance cameras. He saw none. Still, as he entered, he put on a ball cap and pulled up the collar on his leather coat. He met no one.
When he reached the door to 206 he stopped, listened. From inside the office he heard the sound of a Russian-language radio program. He heard no other voices. He glanced both ways down the hallway. He was alone. He took a cloth from his pocket, turned the doorknob. The door opened onto a small, messy anteroom. To one side was an old pickled oak desk, covered with newspapers, magazines, and advertising flyers, all yellowed, all coated with the dust of months. Against one wall was a rusting file cabinet. The room was empty. As he had thought, there was no secretary.
Aleks closed the door gently behind him, turned the lock. When he appeared in the doorway to the inner office the man at the desk appeared startled.
“Are you Viktor Harkov?”
The old man looked at Aleks over the top of his filmy bifocals. He was lank and cadaverous, with thinning gray hair, a liver-spotted scalp. He wore a drab suit, tattered at the cuffs, a yellowed shirt and knit tie. The clothes sagged on his skeletal frame.
“The son of Jakob and Adele,” the old man said. “How can I help you?”
Aleks stepped into the inner office. “I am here to enquire about your services.”
The man nodded, looked Aleks up and down. “Where are you from?”
Aleks closed the door behind him. “I am from Kolossova.”
Color drained from Harkov’s face. “I am not familiar with this place.”
The man was lying. Aleks had expected this. “It is a small village in south-eastern Estonia.” He glanced toward the smudged windows. The
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