Russian, jerking a thumb over her shoulder in my direction.
The bouncer gave me a nod and let me pass.
Once inside the door, we had to pass through a metal detector. Yelena handed her purse to another bouncer, who took a casual look inside. The gun didn’t faze him—he closed the purse and handed it to her on the other side.
The closest thing I had to a weapon was the carbon-composite lockpick set I had stowed in the waistband of my underwear, so I made it through the detector without setting off any alarms. Taking my hand, Yelena guided me through the mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor to the rear of the club.
I couldn’t help worrying that she would feel the sweat on my palms. Maybe she would think I was too nervous about the operation and would abort. I was nervous, I realized, even though missions like this were almost routine for me. The difference was that this time I had an audience I needed to impress, and who could remember if I messed things up.
After Yelena vouched for me, the guard let us into the private rooms. As the door closed behind us, the club’s sounds faded to only mildly ear-shattering. Yelena led me up a narrow flight of stairs, then knocked on a solid-looking wooden door.
We were admitted by another guard. Thick red carpet—which looked just about the right color to hide bloodstains—muffled our footsteps as we entered the office. When the guard closed the office door behind us, the remaining sound from the club cut off. I couldn’t help but wonder if the soundproofing was to keep out the constant dance music or to keep in any gunshots or screams.
From the file I’d read on the Bukharin syndicate, the latter possibility did not seem unlikely, although Yelena had told me that in the secure area of the facility the Bukharins had a special interrogation room more suited to the task of torturing people they had business disagreements with.
A silver-haired man sat behind a large glass desk. I recognized him as Dmitri Ivanovich Bukharin, one of the three brothers running the syndicate.
When he saw us, he rose.
“Yelena, it is always a pleasure,” Dmitri said in Russian. “I just wired payment for the Barcelona job to your account.” He glanced at me and added, “And who is your guest?”
“His name is Nat Morgan,” she said. With one quick movement, her gun was out of her purse and shoved into my ribs.
“Yelena!” I said. “What are you—”
“Shut up.” Her voice was all business as she backed away, keeping her gun aimed at me. She continued in Russian, “He’s a CIA officer who interfered with me during the Barcelona job. He tracked me down, so I pretended to let him convince me to help find the Iranians’ lab.”
Dmitri chuckled, then spoke in English. “You should be more careful who you trust, Mr. Nat Morgan of the CIA.”
“Obviously,” I said.
Chapter Ten
Two of Bukharin’s black-suited goons handcuffed me and took me down two flights of stairs. One of them had his eyes scanned in order to unlock a steel vault door that slid smoothly into the wall to let us through.
“The CIA will figure out where I am,” I blustered. If I didn’t manage to get out of here, the CIA wouldn’t even remember me until Edward decided to clean up his files. “Then you guys are in for a world of trouble.”
We passed a door with a male stick figure on it, so I said, “Hey, can I use the bathroom?” When they didn’t respond, I tried it in Russian, but that didn’t fare any better.
They pushed me into a bare, windowless room, and locked my handcuffs to the back of the chair that was bolted to the floor in the center. The cement floor was stained reddish brown around the drain under the chair.
“This isn’t supposed to be the bathroom, is it?” I asked.
Ignoring me, they locked the door behind them.
Yelena had executed the first part of the plan to perfection: I was in the secured area of the Bukharins’ headquarters, and in less than a minute only she and
The bouncer gave me a nod and let me pass.
Once inside the door, we had to pass through a metal detector. Yelena handed her purse to another bouncer, who took a casual look inside. The gun didn’t faze him—he closed the purse and handed it to her on the other side.
The closest thing I had to a weapon was the carbon-composite lockpick set I had stowed in the waistband of my underwear, so I made it through the detector without setting off any alarms. Taking my hand, Yelena guided me through the mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor to the rear of the club.
I couldn’t help worrying that she would feel the sweat on my palms. Maybe she would think I was too nervous about the operation and would abort. I was nervous, I realized, even though missions like this were almost routine for me. The difference was that this time I had an audience I needed to impress, and who could remember if I messed things up.
After Yelena vouched for me, the guard let us into the private rooms. As the door closed behind us, the club’s sounds faded to only mildly ear-shattering. Yelena led me up a narrow flight of stairs, then knocked on a solid-looking wooden door.
We were admitted by another guard. Thick red carpet—which looked just about the right color to hide bloodstains—muffled our footsteps as we entered the office. When the guard closed the office door behind us, the remaining sound from the club cut off. I couldn’t help but wonder if the soundproofing was to keep out the constant dance music or to keep in any gunshots or screams.
From the file I’d read on the Bukharin syndicate, the latter possibility did not seem unlikely, although Yelena had told me that in the secure area of the facility the Bukharins had a special interrogation room more suited to the task of torturing people they had business disagreements with.
A silver-haired man sat behind a large glass desk. I recognized him as Dmitri Ivanovich Bukharin, one of the three brothers running the syndicate.
When he saw us, he rose.
“Yelena, it is always a pleasure,” Dmitri said in Russian. “I just wired payment for the Barcelona job to your account.” He glanced at me and added, “And who is your guest?”
“His name is Nat Morgan,” she said. With one quick movement, her gun was out of her purse and shoved into my ribs.
“Yelena!” I said. “What are you—”
“Shut up.” Her voice was all business as she backed away, keeping her gun aimed at me. She continued in Russian, “He’s a CIA officer who interfered with me during the Barcelona job. He tracked me down, so I pretended to let him convince me to help find the Iranians’ lab.”
Dmitri chuckled, then spoke in English. “You should be more careful who you trust, Mr. Nat Morgan of the CIA.”
“Obviously,” I said.
Chapter Ten
Two of Bukharin’s black-suited goons handcuffed me and took me down two flights of stairs. One of them had his eyes scanned in order to unlock a steel vault door that slid smoothly into the wall to let us through.
“The CIA will figure out where I am,” I blustered. If I didn’t manage to get out of here, the CIA wouldn’t even remember me until Edward decided to clean up his files. “Then you guys are in for a world of trouble.”
We passed a door with a male stick figure on it, so I said, “Hey, can I use the bathroom?” When they didn’t respond, I tried it in Russian, but that didn’t fare any better.
They pushed me into a bare, windowless room, and locked my handcuffs to the back of the chair that was bolted to the floor in the center. The cement floor was stained reddish brown around the drain under the chair.
“This isn’t supposed to be the bathroom, is it?” I asked.
Ignoring me, they locked the door behind them.
Yelena had executed the first part of the plan to perfection: I was in the secured area of the Bukharins’ headquarters, and in less than a minute only she and
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