“Maybe they’re reading the wrong books,” Dana said dryly.
“Maybe. Right now the people are caught in the middle, between capitalism and communism, and neither is working. There’s bad service, inflated costs, and a hell of a lot of crime.” He looked at Dana. “I hope I’m not depressing you.”
“No. Tell me, Tim, did you know Taylor Winthrop?”
“I interviewed him a few times.”
“Did you ever hear anything about some big project he was involved in?”
“He was involved in a lot of projects. After all, he was our ambassador.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about something different. Something very complicated—where all the pieces had to fall into place.”
Tim Drew thought for a moment. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Is there anyone here that he had a lot of contact with?”
“Some of his Russian counterparts, I suppose. You might talk to them.”
“Right,” Dana said. “I will.”
The waiter brought the check. Tim Drew scanned it and looked up at Dana. “This is typical. There are three separate surcharges on the bill. And don’t bother asking what any of them are for.” He paid the bill.
When they were out on the street, Tim Drew said to Dana, “Do you carry a gun?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Of course not. Why?”
“This is Moscow. You never know.” He got an idea. “I’ll tell you what. We’re going to make a stop.”
They got into a taxi, and Tim Drew gave the driver an address. Five minutes later they pulled up in front of a gun shop and got out of the taxi.
Dana looked inside the shop and said, “I’m not going to carry a gun.”
Tim Drew said, “I know. Just come with me.” The counters of the shop were filled with every type of weapon imaginable.
Dana looked around. “Can anybody walk in and buy a gun here?”
“All they need is the money,” Tim Drew said.
The man behind the counter muttered something in Russian to Tim. Tim told him what he wanted.
“Da.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a small, black, cylindrical object.
“What’s this for?” Dana asked.
“It’s for you. It’s pepper spray.” Tim Drew picked it up. “All you have to do is press this button at the top and the bad guys will be in too much pain to bother you.”
Dana said, “I don’t think—”
“Trust me. Take it.” He handed it to Dana, paid the man, and they left.
“Would you like to see a Moscow nightclub?” Tim Drew asked.
“Sounds interesting.”
“Great. Let’s go.”
The Night Flight Club on Tverskaya Street was lavish and ornate and crowded with well-dressed Russians dining, drinking, and dancing.
“There doesn’t seem to be any economic problem here,” Dana commented.
“No. They keep the beggars outside on the street.”
At two o’clock in the morning, Dana returned to her hotel, exhausted. It had been a long day. A woman was seated at a table in the hallway, keeping a record of the movements of the guests.
When Dana got to her room, she looked out the window. She had a picture-postcard view of soft snow falling in the moonlight.
Tomorrow, Dana thought determinedly, I’ll know what I’ve come here for.
The noise from the jet overhead was so loud it sounded like the plane might hit the building. The man quickly rose from his desk, snatched up a pair of binoculars, and stepped to the window. The tail of the receding aircraft was rapidly descending as it prepared to land at the small airport a half mile away. Except for the runways, everything in the stark landscape was covered with snow as far as his eyes could see. It was winter and this was Siberia.
“So,” he said to his assistant, “the Chinese are the first to arrive.” His comment did not call for a reply. “I am told that our friend Ling Wong will not be back. When he returned from our last meeting empty-handed, it was not a happy homecoming for him. Very sad. He was a decent man.”
At that moment, a second jet roared overhead. He did not recognize the make. After it had landed, he trained his high-powered glasses on the men descending from the cabin onto the tarmac. Some of them made no effort to hide the machine pistols they were carrying.