The Solomon Effect

BAKLANOV SALVAGE

Baltiskaya 23b

Telephone: 7-4112-21352

Fax: 7-4112-31698

She started to put the card back, then stopped to look around. “Do you see a phone?”

“There isn’t one,” said Jax, nodding to the fax machine that sat at a drunken angle on the edge of the desk. “Looks like he just had a dedicated fax line.”

“Who has a fax these days?”

“People who do business with the Third World.”

“But if he only had a fax, then why is there a telephone number on his business card?”

“Let me see that.” Reaching out, Jax took the card between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s a cell phone.” He gave her a grin. “See. You did find something.”

“This is good?” Tobie pushed to her feet. “Why is this good?”

“Because even as we speak, the geeks at the NSA are busy snooping on the telecommunications of the world. We like to think we’re the only ones doing it, but the truth is, every country with a good tax base does it, too.”

She took the card back and stuck it in her bag. “Which means?”

“Which means, now that we know Baklanov’s cell phone number, Matt ought to be able to pull his records.” He glanced toward the patch of smudged sky visible through the window. In the fifteen minutes they’d been in the office, the sky had grown significantly darker.

“It’s getting late,” said Tobie, following his gaze.

“No shit. We’ve got just enough time to make it back to the cathedral before Andrei turns us into pumpkins.”

It was when they were backing out the door that Tobie noticed the sheet of paper that had slipped beneath the desk, one small white corner protruding from the edge.

“What’s that?” Jax asked as she reached over to pick it up.

“It’s a fax. And oh, look; you’re in luck. It’s in English.”

“Very funny,” he said, pulling the door shut behind them. “When was it sent?”

She frowned. “According to the dateline, it came through less than an hour ago. From somebody named Kemal Erkan. In Turkey.”

“Turkey? Let me see that.”

He scanned it quickly, then grunted. “Listen to this. “Been trying to reach you for two days now. Have buyer lined up for steel from U-boat. Great price. Let me know when to expect arrival.’”

“Nothing ominous-sounding about that,” she said. She was walking ahead of him and had almost reached the stairs when she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and slowed.

“What is it?” said Jax, just as a black-leather-gloved hand appeared around the corner from the stairwell with a Glock 17 held in a professional grip.

She lunged forward, grabbing the unseen assailant’s wrist with both hands to yank the gun up just as he fired off three suppressed shots in quick succession.

Sounding like muffled pops, the percussions filled the narrow hall with the stench of burnt powder and a film of blue smoke, and knocked chunks of plaster off the dingy walls. The man let out a roar of rage, swinging around to knee her, hard, in the small of her back. She went down on all fours.

The black-jacketed motorcyclist was pivoting toward her, the Glock leveled at her head when Jax’s fist caught him under the chin, snapping his head back. Jax pounded him again and again, knocking the Glock flying and sending him stumbling backward toward the top of the stairs.

“You sonofabitch,” said Jax, landing a roundhouse kick that caught the assassin just above the ear. He wavered a moment, then tumbled back, falling heavily against the wall before pitching awkwardly down the rest of the concrete steps.

“That guy needs to learn to stay away from stairs,” said Jax, breathing heavily. He swung back to Tobie. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Just winded,” she said, wincing slightly as she tried to straighten.

Picking up the Glock, Jax went to stand at the top of the steps and brought the knuckles of his right fist to his mouth. “The sonofabitch,” he said again. “I hope this time he broke his neck.”

Andrei Gorchakove’s voice drifted up to them from the bottom of the stairwell. “From the looks of things, I’d say he did.”