I would know that. Now it was my turn.
It took a couple of minutes to get one of the lockpicks out from the waistband of my underwear. Fortunately, the Bukharin syndicate had not yet upgraded to magnetic-lock handcuffs, so it only took me moments to undo them. I slipped them into my pocket just in case.
I removed the rest of the lockpick set from my waistband and made quick work of the door lock.
I looked back at the chair. Its solid construction might make it useful. Using a pair of pliers decorated with some suspiciously bloodlike stains, I managed to unbolt the four legs from the floor.
Peeking out, I made sure the hallway was clear and then, carrying the chair, made my way back to the bathroom I had spotted. I waited in one of the stalls.
Eventually, someone would have to go.
Since they’d taken my watch, I wasn’t sure how long it took, but it seemed like hours before someone entered the bathroom and walked to a urinal.
I flushed the toilet and opened the stall door. The man at the urinal, back toward me, wore the type of black suit that seemed to be the security guard uniform of the Bukharins. I lifted the chair and charged.
The chair legs squeezed on either side of him, pinning his arms in front of him, and the crossbars pushed him up against the wall and urinal. The urinal flushed as he yelped in surprise.
Leaning against the chair with as much strength as I could muster, I reached under his suit coat and pulled his gun from its holster.
He pushed back against the chair. I couldn’t hold him, so I let go and jumped out of the way, allowing him to crash to the floor.
Aiming the gun at his chest, I said, “Nye dvigat’sya,” and added, “Don’t move,” in case he was bilingual.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“CIA assassin,” I said. “But I’m not after you. Turn facedown and you will live.”
He complied.
“I’m going out into the hall. If you come out of that door in less than five minutes, I will kill you. Understand?” He’d forget my warning in less time than that, but for now I wanted it to sound convincing.
“I understand.”
“Good. I’m going to ask you a few questions, some of which I already know the answer to. If you lie, you die. Where is the records room?” While Yelena had been to both the interrogation room and the records room a few times, she wasn’t able to give me detailed instructions as to how to get from one to the other.
“Turn right, go to end of hall. Turn left. Is glass doors on left.”
“How many guards inside?”
“One.”
“Thank you. Now stay here.”
Gun held tightly in one hand and chair in the other, I slipped out into the hallway. I took the chair because I didn’t want to give the guard any physical evidence that he did anything but slip and fall. He might spend some time looking for his gun before probably concluding that he had left it somewhere accidentally.
I left the chair in the hallway. If someone recognized it as the chair from the interrogation room, they might waste a little time trying to figure out why it was there. Anything that kept people away from the records room helped.
The guard hadn’t lied—I found the records room exactly where he said it was. Beyond the glass doors, I saw a man’s head and shoulders above dual computer monitors.
I ducked away and considered how to proceed. According to Yelena, the doors to the records room were always locked from the inside by the guard on duty. There was a keyed lock to get in, though, in case of emergency, but only the guard on duty and the three Bukharin brothers had keys. At least that meant there was something for me to pick.
However, Yelena must have forgotten that the doors were made out of glass. I felt a twinge of satisfaction at the evidence that she could be “sloppy,” too. But that didn’t solve the problem: picking the lock would take time, and the glass doors would allow the guard to see me.
And there was no way I was going to break through the glass, even
It took a couple of minutes to get one of the lockpicks out from the waistband of my underwear. Fortunately, the Bukharin syndicate had not yet upgraded to magnetic-lock handcuffs, so it only took me moments to undo them. I slipped them into my pocket just in case.
I removed the rest of the lockpick set from my waistband and made quick work of the door lock.
I looked back at the chair. Its solid construction might make it useful. Using a pair of pliers decorated with some suspiciously bloodlike stains, I managed to unbolt the four legs from the floor.
Peeking out, I made sure the hallway was clear and then, carrying the chair, made my way back to the bathroom I had spotted. I waited in one of the stalls.
Eventually, someone would have to go.
Since they’d taken my watch, I wasn’t sure how long it took, but it seemed like hours before someone entered the bathroom and walked to a urinal.
I flushed the toilet and opened the stall door. The man at the urinal, back toward me, wore the type of black suit that seemed to be the security guard uniform of the Bukharins. I lifted the chair and charged.
The chair legs squeezed on either side of him, pinning his arms in front of him, and the crossbars pushed him up against the wall and urinal. The urinal flushed as he yelped in surprise.
Leaning against the chair with as much strength as I could muster, I reached under his suit coat and pulled his gun from its holster.
He pushed back against the chair. I couldn’t hold him, so I let go and jumped out of the way, allowing him to crash to the floor.
Aiming the gun at his chest, I said, “Nye dvigat’sya,” and added, “Don’t move,” in case he was bilingual.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“CIA assassin,” I said. “But I’m not after you. Turn facedown and you will live.”
He complied.
“I’m going out into the hall. If you come out of that door in less than five minutes, I will kill you. Understand?” He’d forget my warning in less time than that, but for now I wanted it to sound convincing.
“I understand.”
“Good. I’m going to ask you a few questions, some of which I already know the answer to. If you lie, you die. Where is the records room?” While Yelena had been to both the interrogation room and the records room a few times, she wasn’t able to give me detailed instructions as to how to get from one to the other.
“Turn right, go to end of hall. Turn left. Is glass doors on left.”
“How many guards inside?”
“One.”
“Thank you. Now stay here.”
Gun held tightly in one hand and chair in the other, I slipped out into the hallway. I took the chair because I didn’t want to give the guard any physical evidence that he did anything but slip and fall. He might spend some time looking for his gun before probably concluding that he had left it somewhere accidentally.
I left the chair in the hallway. If someone recognized it as the chair from the interrogation room, they might waste a little time trying to figure out why it was there. Anything that kept people away from the records room helped.
The guard hadn’t lied—I found the records room exactly where he said it was. Beyond the glass doors, I saw a man’s head and shoulders above dual computer monitors.
I ducked away and considered how to proceed. According to Yelena, the doors to the records room were always locked from the inside by the guard on duty. There was a keyed lock to get in, though, in case of emergency, but only the guard on duty and the three Bukharin brothers had keys. At least that meant there was something for me to pick.
However, Yelena must have forgotten that the doors were made out of glass. I felt a twinge of satisfaction at the evidence that she could be “sloppy,” too. But that didn’t solve the problem: picking the lock would take time, and the glass doors would allow the guard to see me.
And there was no way I was going to break through the glass, even
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