The Domino Game by Greg Wilson Page A

side pocket of her pants and slid inside, digging inwards towards her groin then sliding out again, fingers closed around a plastic envelope filled with white powder.
    Nikolai glanced around. The traffic in the lobby had turned into a frozen tableau, riveted by the unexpected drama. The security guard shuffled backwards and held the plastic envelope aloft as if it were a trophy, displaying it to whoever might be interested, then pushed himself up from his haunches and started hauling the woman to her feet. She stumbled upright, her pale eyes glaring at Nikolai through the dark tumbling mass of hair that shrouded her face and suddenly he realized what was going on.
    He swung back to the elevators. The small group that had been gathered around them a moment before had been lured away by the diversion. An empty car stood waiting, doors open, beckoning with its soft ringing chime. Without looking back Nikolai stepped in. Pressed the button for level eight then, remembering Vari’s instructions, hit four as well. And six for good measure.
    The eighth floor lobby was deserted. He followed the signs, padding the long corridor until he came to 8020. Paused, took a breath then rapped twice on the door in quick succession.
    The age of the man who opened it was difficult to assess. Mid-forties was Nikolai’s first guess, but then he noticed that the hair was more silver than blond and the lines that creased his face were deeper than they had first appeared and it occurred to him that he may have miscalculated by as much as a decade. His height matched Nikolai’s. The build slim but solid, face, arms and hands richly tanned in a way that looked right with the yellow golf shirt. Everything about him seemed American, except his eyes. The eyes were gray and complex, the color and depth of the Moskva at dawn when it was impossible to even imagine what lay beneath the surface.
    They stared at one another for a moment across the threshold then the man’s neutral expression broadened into a disarming smile.
    “Forgive me for asking, but do you happen to have some ID?”
    Nikolai blinked, processing the question. Dropped a hand into his pocket, pulled out the small wallet that contained his FSB shield and ID and flipped it open.
    The American reached forward with his left hand and slid the leather case from Nikolai’s grasp, drawing it close, studying the laminated image. Nikolai noticed the unpretentious watch on his wrist, the simple gold wedding band on his third finger. Finally the older man nodded and stepped aside.
    “Thank you, Mr Aven. Come in.” He waited for Nikolai to pass then let the door go and held out a hand as the lock engaged. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Jack Hartman.”

7
    “Can I get you some coffee?”
    Hartman strolled across the suite, pausing beside a low table to look back. Nikolai’s eyes fell to the silver coffee service; the two fine china cups, linen napkins, silver sugar bowl and plate of delicacies arranged elegantly around it. This was incredible. He was about to commit what was effectively treason and the niceties of the deal were to be negotiated with this complete stranger over coffee and petit fours.
    He looked up blankly.
    No. Thank you.”
    He stepped forward, bypassing Hartman, and made his way across to the window. The room overlooked the southern end of Red Square: St Basil’s to the right, the gold domes of the Kremlin cathedrals rising behind the towering burnt sienna wall that ran down to the Embankment. Below him sightseers ebbed and flowed across the vast open expanse, splashes of color moving against the dark gray cobblestones. Nikolai sensed Hartman’s presence behind him and half turned. The American was smiling the same disarming smile. He inclined his head and Nikolai followed the direction. Below them, perhaps three hundred meters away, a lone figure stood at the edge of the square panning his digital camera in an arc that was about to take in the facade of the