I didn’t know either of my Russian employees well enough to trust them with full disclosure, but saying nothing would have been counterproductive.
“I’m investigating the murder of Karl Parker,” I replied. “He was a friend.”
“I’m sorry,” Dinara offered.
“I appreciate it,” I replied. “We’d better go. It sounds like you’ve got to clear up this morning’s mess.”
“Not a problem,” Leonid said. “The police in Moscow are experts at making things vanish. My old friends on the force will know how to handle this. As long as I can get my car insurance to pay up. I’m not sure it covers hijacking and gun fights.”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll make sure you don’t lose out,” I said.
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” Leonid replied. “That means a lot.”
“Not a problem. And please, both of you, call me Jack.”
I followed Dinara and Leonid through the terminal and we were soon outside with the ice and snow. I couldn’t say whether Moscow or New York was colder. Both had been hit by vicious snowstorms and were still in the grip of a big freeze.
The cab driver took my suitcase and put it in the trunk of his Volkswagen Passat while Dinara and I climbed in the back, and Leonid took the front passenger seat.
The driver jumped behind the wheel and slammed the door. He removed his gloves and blew on his hands, before saying something in Russian.
“Where to?” Dinara translated.
“The American embassy,” I replied.
CHAPTER 42
TWO HOURS LATER, I was finally shown into the office of the US Ambassador to Moscow, Thomas Dussler. He was from old Wall Street money and it showed in the traditional furniture and dark bookcases that lined the walls of the room. The décor was out of keeping with the rest of the contemporary nine-story building, which lay in a heavily fortified compound a few miles west of the Kremlin. There was the obligatory photograph of Dussler with the President, and framed artwork that dated from shortly after the Revolutionary War. The antique furniture was designed to impress, as was the view, which took in a few snow-capped high-rise hotels and the Moscow River, but I wasn’t much interested in the trappings of power: it was Dussler’s life that concerned me.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Marlon West had taken the threat very seriously, but hadn’t been able to convince the ambassador to change his schedule in light of the intelligence, and I got the impression I was West’s last hope at convincing Dussler to recognize the danger.
“Ambassador,” I said.
“Mr. Morgan,” he replied, rising from behind his large desk. “I know your firm by reputation. You have quite a record.”
“Thank you,” I responded. “This is Dinara Orlova, the head of Private Moscow, and one of our investigators, Leonid Boykov.”
We’d stopped at the Private Moscow office en route from the airport, so both of them could shower and change. Dinara was in a dark trouser suit, and Leonid wore chinos and a tweed jacket.
“Pleased to meet you,” Dussler said, shaking our hands. “Have a seat.”
He ushered us toward a long conference table.
“This is my security adviser, Carrie Underwood.” He introduced us to a somber woman in a formal navy blue dress. “And you know Master Gunnery Sergeant West.”
I nodded at the Marine as Dinara, Leonid and I took seats at the table. West had a hopeful look in his eyes.
“Master Gunnery Sergeant West tells me you’re the source of the intelligence report indicating there might be a threat on my life,” Dussler remarked with a smile.
“That’s right, sir,” I replied. “I got the information from a device we found on a man who was involved in the assassination of Elizabeth Connor.”
“Tragic,” Dussler observed.
“We believe Miss Connor’s death is also linked to the shooting of Karl Parker,” I said.
“Ah yes, the Ninety-nine,” Dussler remarked.
“No, sir,” I replied. “I don’t think so. The man I apprehended, well, he was Russian.”