C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

But all he said was, “Just watch out for broken glass.”

They worked in a tense silence punctuated by the rustle of paper, the thump of furniture being righted. She was gathering up the last of the scattered files when she found a half-spilled box of business cards, printed on cheap stock. They looked new.

She pulled one out and held it up to the fading light.

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.”

“How did he find us here?” whispered October.

Jax threw her a warning frown and shook his head. “Just let me do the talking, okay?”

“I don’t know what it is you’re always so afraid I’m going to say,” she hissed as they walked down the stairs to where Andrei stood leaning against the grimy concrete wall, the dead man at his feet.

At their approach, Andrei reached inside his jacket and came up with a half-empty pack of cigarettes. “Must you always leave a trail of bodies wherever you go, Jax?”

“Body. One body.”

“What about the two motorcyclists the militia found on the road from Rybachy?”

“Motorcyclists?”

“The ones who shot up your Lada.”

“Ah. Those guys.” Jax hunkered down to study the dead man’s ruddy-cheeked face. Wide and sightless blue eyes stared up from beneath straight, sandy-colored brows. It was the motorcyclist from the cathedral.

Andrei stuck a cigarette between his lips. “Ever see him before?”

“No,” lied Jax, pushing to his feet. “Any idea who he is?”

“You tell me. He’s not carrying ID, but I checked the labels on his clothes. They’re American. If this is one of your terrorists, Jax, I’d say Washington needs to rethink some of their suppositions about what’s going to happen come Halloween.”

Jax stared beyond Andrei, to where the blue-and-white militia van waited, its Tatar driver beside it, beefy arms crossed at his chest. “I must be losing my touch. I’d swear I wasn’t being followed. Either by you or”-he jerked his head toward the dead motorcyclist sprawled at their feet-“by him.”

Faintly smiling, Andrei pushed away from the wall to saunter outside. He reached beneath the Lada’s right front fender to come up with a small black box with an antenna.

“Shit,” said Jax. “How did that get there?”

“After I dropped you at the cathedral, I had every car rental agency in the area notified that you might be coming. They were told to give you the ‘special.’”

“It’s nice to be predictable.”

Andrei struck his lighter, his eyes narrowing against the cigarette’s harsh blue smoke. “Did you find anything?”

“Not really.”

Andrei nodded to his driver. “You won’t mind if we verify that?”

The Tatar patted down Jax’s pockets and drew out the fax from Turkey. “Well, there was that,” said Jax.

His jaw silently bunching and flexing, the Tatar grasped October’s bag and upended its contents across the hood of the Lada.

While Attila pawed through her iPod, passport wallet, lip balm, and sunglasses case, October said, “The tracking device explains how you found us.” She jerked her head toward the dead man in the stairwell. “But what about him?”

“Perhaps he was here waiting for you.” Andrei took one last drag, then dropped his half-smoked cigarette to grind it beneath the sole of his boot. “Come. You have a plane to catch.”

“Are you done with my bag?” said October. When Andrei nodded, she scooped up her things and shoved them back inside.

No one had even glanced at Jasha Baklanov’s business card.

Jax stared out the wide plate-glass window at the darkened runway below. The window was filthy, streaked with water marks on the outside and smeared by children’s sticky fingers on the inside. Andrei had personally escorted them to the departure section of Kaliningrad’s decrepit airport, and he didn’t seem to be going anytime soon. Jax had been reduced to calling Matt from the men’s room to ask him to look up a guy named Kemal Erkan in Turkey, and to pull Baklanov’s cell phone records.