Pivoting sharply, I hurry the opposite way down the hall to the large master suite. The double doors are closed but never locked. I stride into the room with purpose, acting as if I own the place. The best way to promote efficiency in undercover work is to move with utter confidence. I close the door behind me, leaving it cracked just an inch so I can keep an ear on the situation outside the room.
I’m not overly familiar with Bogachev’s bedroom, only having been in here maybe five times and usually only to grab something at his request. But I do know he has built-ins that house a large, flat-screen TV. I move quickly to the unit, dismayed over the minimal lack of clearance between the edge of the TV and the edges of the custom-built cabinetry. The TV is mounted to the wall and pulls out slightly, but not enough to give me a clear view.
I can’t quite see the ports, so I have to quickly wedge my fingers around the edges of the television. I make it around one time without finding anything, realize I’m moving too fast. Taking a deep breath, I start another search, moving my way around the back portion of the TV, reaching as far back as I can without being hindered by the cabinet edges.
Finally, I stumble upon slight divots and know I’ve hit the right spot. It takes more careful examination to determine the difference between the HDMI slots and those for the USB cables. Two of the five slots are already housing cables, and I locate what I think is the correct port. I pull Bebe’s device out of my front pocket, remove the cap that covers the plug-in portion, and maneuver it into the slot.
I breathe out a sigh of relief, push the TV back into place, then immediately break out into a cold sweat when I hear Anatoly’s office door open.
His booming voice filters down the hall, coming through the crack of his bedroom door. “Those motherfuckers think they can be late with my product and not suffer the consequences?”
No clue who he’s talking to, but it’s clearly someone on his cell phone. He doesn’t talk business with his muscle.
My entire body freezes and I hold my breath, waiting to see if his voice gets closer to the bedroom door. There’s no way I can legitimately explain being in here. And hell, all he has to do is glance this way to see the door is opened just a crack. If he does, he might come this way to check it out.
“You tell Kolisnyk he has until close of business today to come through or he’s going to be sipping his cheeseburgers through a straw for a long time coming,” Anatoly promises darkly. That means Karl will be having a visit with Kolisnyk later this evening if he doesn’t comply, and Karl’s knuckles will be busted up nicely from breaking the guy’s jaw. I grimace in distaste, having had to carry out those orders for Bogachev before.
I hear nothing. My ears strain to pick up the sound of footsteps if they start coming this way, but it’s just silence.
And then finally, from farther away—somewhere in the living room I think—Bogachev continues talking into the phone. My body relaxes when he says, “Yeah… eating an early lunch, then heading out for an appointment. Call me later.”
An outflow of air gushes from my lungs. I move quietly to the door, thankful for the thick carpeting in his room, and put my ear up to the crack. I hear muffled voices now, so I assume everyone is in the kitchen.
Carefully, I open the bedroom door enough for me to slip through, and I slowly pull it closed behind me. I turn the knob as I do so, muffling the clicking sound of the latch. When I release it, I let out another breath of relief.
Walking calmly but assuredly down the hallway, I pass Bogachev’s office. I don’t spare it a glance, knowing the door will be locked. He never leaves it accessible to anyone but himself.
Hitting the living room, I cut my eyes across to the entryway to the kitchen. I can only see a portion of the island and fridge, but the clink of dishes and silverware says Bogachev is being served. Heading toward the door, I take two steps before a heavily accented voice stops me in my tracks.
“What are you still doing here?” Karl asks.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see him walking out of the kitchen. My expression remains bland as I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Had to use the john.”
He frowns, but he can’t really dispute it. The bathroom is in the same hallway as Bogachev’s office. The Russian just nods, because I can tell he doesn’t have the smarts to question me past that.