“Alex,” Adrian says. “My apologies for the hour, but I know you’re an early riser, and I figured you’d want to hear this without delay.”
I tighten my grip on the phone. “Tell me you found Mukha.”
“I did. It wasn’t easy, but my hacker finally discovered a loophole in Mukha’s cyber tracks. We planted a bug in the electronic currency I sent him as payment for the information he gave me. The bug piggybacked on the currency all the way to the Cayman Islands and back to Russia. It turns out he pays for his mother’s care at a nursing home in Moscow. I paid her a visit.”
“Spare me the details,” I say with impatience. “Where is the son of a bitch?”
“He’s renting a house on the outskirts of Moscow. I’m on my way there now.”
I sit up straighter, anticipation tightening my gut. “Pay him any price he wants for that file, and if he’s still not willing to sell, get the information any way you have to.” I put emphasis on the next words. “At any cost.”
“Understood. I’ll get back to you tonight.”
The line goes dead.
Finally. It’s about time. If all goes well, by nightfall, I’ll know the reason Stefanov wants me dead.
22
Residence of Vladimir Stefanov, St. Petersburg
Vladimir bounces his leg under his desk. He feels especially on edge tonight. Alex Volkov knows he’s behind the assassination attempt. That’s the message Volkov was sending by letting Vadim’s head soak in a toilet bowl full of shit. That’s why Volkov is having his house surveilled. The only reason Volkov hasn’t struck yet is because he doesn’t know why Vladimir tried to put a bullet in his brain. The only people in the world who do know that are Oleg and Vladimir himself.
Oleg is the weak link. Why else did he run like a dog with his tail between his legs to hide with his family in California? The only thought soothing Vladimir is that this mess will soon be over. Before the clock strikes twelve, one more nagging worry will be something of the past. At last, he’ll be able to seal that closet full of skeletons and let it sink to the bottom of the Neva River with the bodies he plans on dumping there.
As it turns out, Oleg Pavlov arrived a short hour ago at the airport and should be ringing his doorbell just about—
Ding dong.
Now.
Inwardly, Vladimir smiles.
For security reasons, his study is soundproof, but he’s left the door open so that he can follow the sound of the footsteps as they advance.
Oleg’s voice bounces off the arched ceiling of Vladimir’s stately home. “How’s the family?”
“Good, thank you,” Vladimir’s wife, Galina, says. “How about Annika and the children?”
“All good,” Oleg replies in a strained tone.
Galina enters the study, followed by Oleg. “I’ll leave you to your business.”
“Galina,” Vladimir says. “Go buy us some of that Napoleon cake that Oleg likes so much. The one from the bakery in Nevsky Prospekt.”
Her smile is uncertain. “That’s so far away. It’ll take me an hour or more in the traffic. I’ll just go to Lastochka.”
“No.” Vladimir’s double chin quivers as he shakes his head. “That one is no good. Go to the one I told you. Tell the owner I sent you.”
“All right,” she says with a nod, giving Oleg a tight smile as she leaves the room.
Oleg’s shoulders sag in obvious relief. Vladimir knows how Oleg’s mind works. Oleg thinks that if Vladimir is sending his wife to buy him some cake, he has nothing to be worried about. He’s less nervous about why Vladimir ordered him to fly all the way here from California. He feels exactly the way Vladimir wants him to—safe.
“Sit,” Vladimir says jovially, motioning at the chair facing his desk.
Oleg pulls on the knot of his tie as he takes a seat. “What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait until after my vacation?”
Vacation, his zhopa. After selling Vladimir out to Bes, Oleg was hiding in a hole like the rat he is.
Vladimir studies him with a sly gaze. “We have a problem.”
Oleg sits up like a stick man. “What problem?”
“Volkov is on to us.”
Oleg pulls on his tie again. “He is? How do you know that?”
Vladimir flicks the picture of Vadim’s body across the table. For the purpose of setting today’s plan in motion, Vladimir kept the news of Vadim’s murder to himself. Better to catch Oleg off guard.
Oleg blanches as he studies the photo. It’s not a pretty sight. “How do you know it was Volkov?” he asks, turning the photo upside down.
Vladimir points at the photo. “Because that’s the man I sent to grab Katherine Morrell.”
“I knew it.” Oleg shifts to the edge of his seat, his voice growing in volume. “It was a mistake to interfere.”
Vladimir adopts the appropriate hard look. “Are you criticizing me?”