Rasputin's Shadow

15

Sokolov slipped behind a column and gripped the gun in his pocket just as Rogozin walked past a glass enclosure and into the small foyer, where the Russian diplomat pressed the elevator call button.

He was right there, within reach-and alone.

Sokolov’s entire body sizzled with apprehension.

Do it. Do it now.

Grab him. Take him somewhere quiet. Force him to call his people and arrange for Daphne to be set free.

Sokolov’s fingers tightened against the gun as he emerged from behind the column, but he hadn’t taken two steps before he heard a small telltale ping and saw his quarry disappear into the elevator.

No!

He rushed the foyer, moving as fast as his legs could muster-but he was too late. The elevator doors had already shut by the time he reached them.

He felt the throbbing of blood against his temples as the sequence of tiny bulbs rose through the bronze-effect Roman numerals until they finally came to a stop on the seventeenth floor. Inside the thick coat, his right hand had sweated so much it had made the butt of the gun slick with moisture. He loosened his grip, took out his hand, and wiped it down the front of the coat, but it had little effect. He was sweating too much.

He hesitated for a moment, then he tapped the call button repeatedly with his other hand and shifted nervously from foot to foot while he waited. He pulled his sweat-stained hat and his scarf off as the lift arrived with a soft ping and its doors glided open. He hesitated again, then stepped inside. The doors closed after him.

He pressed the button for 17. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. Then he noticed a security-card slot above the floor buttons. A sign above the slot clearly stated: ENTER SECURITY PASS TO ACCESS FLOORS ABOVE L.

More blood welled up inside his skull.

His only option was to take the elevator to the lobby and try to use one of the main elevators-but there would inevitably be a concierge or a doorman he’d have to get by first. He didn’t have much choice. He knew he’d never survive seventeen flights of stairs, and even if he did, the doors on the residential floors probably wouldn’t open from the stairwell.

He pushed “L” and suppressed a surge of bile as the elevator doors started to glide shut-and just then, he heard a voice calling out.

“Can you please hold the elevator?”

His hand struck out instinctively and intercepted the closing doors. As they receded into their slots, he leaned out and saw a fortysomething woman in high heels and a skirt suit carrying a couple of big Whole Foods paper bags and hurrying into the foyer.

“Thanks,” she said in a small fluster as she stepped into the back of the cabin. “Twenty-four, please.”

His body went rigid. He tried to contain his alarm as his mind raced for a way out, with her staring at him and expecting him to hit that button.

Which he couldn’t do. Not without a security card.

“Of course,” he blurted as he started patting his coat as if he were looking for his wallet. He smiled sheepishly at her and put on his meekest, most heart-warming old immigrant’s tone. “Let me just find my card for you, I was just going up to the lobby, you see. I needed to see the concierge before going upstairs. There’s a package I’ve been waiting for and, anyway,” he kept patting his coat, “where is that wallet of mine?”

She studied him curiously, then her impatience took over and she huffed and reached into her handbag and pulled out her own pass from her wallet.

“Here,” she said, her tone annoyed, “this’ll be faster.”

She slipped it in and out of the slot brusquely and hit 24, then stepped back, clearly bothered by the delay.

The elevator swiftly ascended the two floors to the lobby, where it stopped with another ping. The doors parted.

Sokolov had to get out. He peered out into the lobby. It was marble-floored, with walls that were paneled in dark wood and a huge chandelier dangling from the ceiling, beyond which he spotted the building’s other elevator bank. A concierge’s counter was between the two, positioned so that it protected the main lifts from unvetted guests, and the concierge, a tall man with stern features and gelled-back hair, was at his post.

Sokolov glanced at the woman. She eyed him curiously, evidently waiting for him to get out. He gave her a slight smile, his mind racing through his limited options. He couldn’t get to the main elevators without getting by the concierge, and he couldn’t think of how he’d be able to bluff his way past him. Then again, he couldn’t stay put. Not when he’d said he was going to the concierge.

He had to step out.

And just then, as he took his first step and the elevator doors started to close behind him, Sokolov saw the concierge brighten up and heard him say, “Good evening, Mrs. Greengrass,” just as a small, immaculately groomed terrier trotted into sight, trailing a small, immaculately dressed elderly lady.

“Hello, Diego,” she said as she went up to the desk.

Sokolov froze in place.

He spun on his heels and reached out just in time to catch the elevator doors. He slipped back inside and gave the woman an embarrassed half-smile.

“I’ll come back down for it later. That Mrs. Greengrass… Once she gets going with Diego, they’ll be chatting for hours.”

The woman didn’t seem amused.

He gave her a sheepish nod, then reached out and hit the button for 17.

It lit up.

A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead as the doors slid shut and the elevator started moving.

He was on his way.

“ADAMS,” THE DETECTIVE GRUNTED.

It was late, he was tired. A cold beer and a foot stool beckoned.

“Detective? Officer Frank Mazzucchelli here, from the hundred-and-sixth. You’ve got an APB out on a maroon SUV, a Ford Escape. As related to a suspicious death over in Astoria?”

Adams perked up. “What about it?”

“I’m looking at it.”

Adams was already on his feet and waving his partner over as he got the rundown and took down the location of his caller.

Before hanging up, he asked, “You already call the feds about this?”

“You’re my first call. Figured I’d keep it in the family.”

“Appreciate the heads-up, Frank. We’re on our way.”

Adams hung up and grabbed his jacket. “The SUV the feds flagged from outside the Russians’ place?” he told his partner. “It’s at a motel down in Howard Beach.”

“Let’s go,” Giordano said, grabbing his own jacket. “We can call it in from the car.”

Adams stopped and turned to face him, his arms spread open, palms out, his expression mystified. “You kidding me?”

“What?”

“Screw the feds,” Adams said. “Our backyard, our squad car, our collar. We can call them once we’re done.”