The Atlantis Stone Page 4

  "Why are the French so prickly? They always seem to take offense at nothing."

  "I'm not sure. I don't think they ever quite got over the loss of their empire under Napoleon."

  "Hell, that was more than two hundred years ago."

  "The world's center of power has shifted a long way from Paris. Pride is a hard thing to let go of."

  "My mother used to say pride and a dollar will get you on the bus."

  "It takes more than a dollar these days," Selena said.

  CHAPTER 8

  Three men sat in a car parked in front of an office building near Dupont Circle.

  "This isn't somebody's home."

  The speaker was Vasily Ivanov, one of the two men Borya Yeltsin had brought with him to America. The driver was named Viktor. Both were seasoned Spetsnaz veterans.

  Yeltsin looked at him. "Really? Your powers of observation astound me. This is the address where Sokolov sent the map and photograph. Wait here. I want to see who works in that building."

  He got out of the car, strolled over to the building and pushed through the glass doors. A security guard sat behind a counter at the back wall across from the entrance, reading a paper. He barely looked up as Yeltsin entered. A directory near the doors listed the building's occupants. Yeltsin scanned the list, looking for something to tell him where Sokolov's letter had ended up. He'd expected to find a residence, not an office building.

  "Can I help you?" the guard called across the lobby.

  "No thank you." Yeltsin's English was perfect. "I think I have the wrong building."

  Yeltsin had an eidetic memory. One glance at the list was enough to imprint it firmly in his mind. He went back outside and got into the car.

  "Well?" Vasily asked.

  "Quiet. Let me think for a moment."

  What stood out on the list? There had been several lawyers. If the letter had gone to one of them, it was going to be difficult to discover which was the correct target. A business consulting firm was listed but that didn't seem to fit. The top floor of the building was given over to an entertainment and booking agency.

  "Go back to the hotel," Yeltsin said.

  Back in his room, Yeltsin got out a laptop computer and began researching the names and firms on the list. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for.

  "Clever old bastard."

  "Major?" Viktor was confused.

  "Sokolov sent the letter to a booking agency that handles entertainers and speakers. The woman probably uses the agency as a cut out to keep her address private."

  "Why would she use a booking agency?"

  "Because she is a well-known lecturer," Yeltsin said.

  He turned the computer toward Viktor. Selena's picture and academic resumé showed on the screen.

  "Her specialty is extinct languages. It explains why Sokolov would send the picture to her. He would want to know about the parts of the inscription he couldn't understand. He thought she'd be able to translate it"

  "What do you want to do?" Vasily asked.

  "Tonight we come back. The woman's address will be in a file in that office. Once we have that, the rest is simple."

  Late in the evening of the same day, Michael Daly was still at his desk. Daly owned the booking agency that handled Selena's professional correspondence. At the moment, he was thinking that being the boss of a successful company wasn't always what it was cracked up to be. Today he'd had to soothe the egos of a B-list male film actor, cancel the next tour stop for a troupe of Mexican acrobats and placate an annoying Harvard professor. He was checking the final details for the acrobats' new itinerary when he heard the elevator stop at his floor.

  Who the hell is that at this time of night? he thought. How did they get past the security desk?

  He picked up his phone and called downstairs. Security didn't answer, which was odd. Daly was a veteran of Afghanistan. All at once he felt the odd sensation at the base of his skull that warned of danger. He hadn't had that feeling for a long time, not since Helmland Province. It made him wish he had a gun.

  The District of Columbia had rigid gun laws that made it impossible to get a carry permit. Inside the Beltway nobody had guns except the bad guys and the cops. Daly had a pistol at home in his Alexandria apartment, but it wasn't much good to him at the moment.

  This is foolish. Nobody's coming in that door with an AK or a grenade. Get hold of yourself.

  That was when Yeltsin came through the door, a Makarov 10 mm pistol in his hand. Daly's mind went into overdrive.

  shit what can I use I need a weapon he's got a suppressor on that piece three is too many

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "Be quiet," Yeltsin said. "Put your hands on top of the desk where I can see them. Cooperate, and you won't be hurt."

  "What do you want? There's no cash here."

  Viktor and Vasily moved to stand on each side of Daly's chair.

  "I don't want cash," Yeltsin said. "Only information. Put your hands on the desk."

  Yeltsin gestured with the pistol. Daly put his hands out on the desk.

  "Okay. What information?"

  "You received a package from Amsterdam recently. Don't lie. I can see you did in your eyes."

  "No. I never received such a package."

  "Viktor," Yeltsin said.

  For a big man, Viktor moved with the swiftness of a striking snake. He grabbed the back of Daly's head and drove it face down into the hard wooden surface of the desk. There was the dull crack of cartilage breaking.

  Viktor pulled him back up by the hair. Blood streamed down Daly's face. His nose was smashed, pushed to the side.

  "I told you not to lie. Did you receive the package?"

  "Yes, damn it."

  "See? All you had to do was tell the truth. Where is it now?"

  "I don't have it."

  "Viktor..."

  "Wait," Daly said. "It was addressed to someone else. I forwarded it."

  As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't. The pain of his broken nose made it hard to think. There was a brass lamp with a heavy base and sharp corners on the desk, not far from his left hand. He ran a scenario through his mind.

  Grab the lamp. Smash the guy on the left with a backhand to the head. Drop behind the desk and take the second guy down at the knee. He's gotta be armed. Get his weapon.

  It was a stretch, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. He was damned if he was going to knuckle under to them. Besides, they didn't have the look of men who would leave him alive when they left.

  Nothing to lose.

  "Yes, I got a package. I don't know what was in it."

  "You sent it to someone?"

  "Yes, to a client."

  "That client would be a woman named Connor?"

  Daly made his move. He grabbed the lamp and brought it around in an arc and slammed it into the side of Viktor's skull. The big man grunted and went down. Daly pivoted toward the second man, aiming for his left knee.

  Yeltsin's first shot took Daly under his arm. The second one blew out the side of his head. The body fell sideways to the floor.

  "Shit," Vasily said.

  Yeltsin put away the Makarov. "I'm going to look at the files on his computer. Help Viktor."

  "He doesn't look so good."

  "Do what you can."

  Yeltsin began searching Daly's files on his computer. He scrolled through the directory until he found a folder labeled Current Clients. He opened the folder and looked for Selena's name. It only took seconds to locate it. He memorized her address.

  Viktor was conscious. He sat up, holding his head.

  "Bastard got me good."

  Yeltsin went over to where Viktor sat on the floor.

  "Vasily, help me get him up."

  The two men got Viktor onto his feet.

  "Can you walk?"

  "Da."

  The three Russians closed the door behind them as they left.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next morning Volkov's men w
aited outside the building of converted lofts where Nick and Selena lived. The target was inside with her husband. The Russians were waiting for them to leave.

  Viktor lit a cigarette. The side of his face was purple and bruised.

  "It's a soft target. Getting in will be easy."

  Vasily coughed. "Do you have to smoke inside the car?"

  "I like American cigarettes."

  "At least roll down the window."

  Viktor muttered under his breath and lowered the window partway. He looked in the rearview mirror at Vasily in the back seat.

  "What did you say?"

  "Nothing."

  "I didn't think so," Vasily said.

  "Stop this bickering," Yeltsin said. He sat up straight in his seat. "There she is. In the green Mercedes."

  Selena's Mercedes emerged from the underground parking garage and turned right onto the street.

  "We give them a few minutes, then go in," Yeltsin said. "The woman is rich. There might be servants. If there are, act as though it's a robbery."

  "The Americans must pay their spies well," Vasily said.

  "Idiot. She inherited the money," Yeltsin said.

  He looked at his watch. "It's been long enough. Let's go. Drive into the parking garage. There'll be an elevator or stairs."

  They drove into the underground garage and parked. The elevator was at the far end. There were only a few cars, leaving most of the garage empty. The target lived on the top floor. Yeltsin pushed the button and the doors opened.

  "You need a key for each floor," Viktor said.

  "It's not a problem," Yeltsin said. "Remember your training."

  He took a small leather pouch from his pocket, opened it and extracted two tools from a set of lock picks. It took seconds to turn the lock. He punched the button.

  They rode the elevator to the top floor and stepped out into an entrance foyer about twenty feet square. The floor was of polished oak, the walls painted a soothing peach color. A pair of framed watercolors decorated the space. The door to the loft was opposite the elevator on the other side of the foyer. There were two locks on it. A discrete camera peered at them from over the door.

  "She has the entire floor?" Vasily asked.

  "I told you, she's rich. Her husband is also a spy. She's the one with the money."

  Yeltsin manipulated his picks. After a minute the first lock clicked.

  "This is high-end stuff," he said.

  He worked with the picks until he could open the door. The three men entered the loft. An alarm blinked yellow on the wall next to the door. A digital clock counted down seconds until the alarm would sound. There was a camera farther along the wall. A steady red light showed it was powered on. Yeltsin took out a small, electric screwdriver and had the cover off the box in seconds. He took a device from his other pocket and hooked two wires to terminals inside the box and twisted a dial. The counter stopped with three seconds to go. The light on the camera died.

  Vasily looked around the loft and whistled.

  "All this space for two people?" He walked over to the wall of windows facing the Potomac and Virginia. "Look at that view."

  "Were not here to sightsee. Start looking for the map. Try not to mess everything up. We don't want them to know we were here. Vasily, take the bedrooms. Viktor, you take those rooms on the right. I'll start with the living area."

  An hour and a half later they were still looking.

  Viktor called from the room he was searching.

  "I found a safe."

  Yeltsin and Vasily joined him. Viktor had turned back a Persian rug, revealing a safe with a combination dial set into the floor.

  "You don't see these much anymore," Vasily said. "Everything's digital and biometric now."

  "A combination lock is a better bet. Safer," Yeltsin said. "Electronic locks and biometric readers fail, even the good ones. With a combination, you can always get it open."

  "Can you open it?"

  "Of course I can. It may take some time. Find a glass. A wine glass, with a stem."

  Vasily went to the kitchen and came back with a glass. Yeltsin knelt by the safe and placed the glass upside down on the door. He laid his left ear on the thin base and began to turn the dial with his right hand.

  That was when Selena came home.

  CHAPTER 10

  Selena had come back for some notes she'd forgotten. The first sign something was wrong was the elevator in the garage. The light behind the button for her floor was lit, waiting for someone to push it.

  It should have been off.

  She eased her pistol from its holster as the elevator rose. She carried a SIG-Sauer 229 chambered for .40 Smith & Wesson. She liked the shorter barrel and lower weight of the 229, plus it came out of the holster a little bit faster. At the distance where personal shootouts happened, the extra barrel length of the 226 favored by many in the specialized services didn't make any difference. She could empty a magazine into the center mass of a target with either one.

  The gun was fully loaded, a round in the chamber. Selena eased the hammer back and laid her finger alongside the trigger guard.

  The elevator opened onto the empty foyer. The door to the loft was ajar. She thought about calling Nick but discarded the idea as quickly as it came. The noise would give her away if someone was inside. If no one was there, so much the better. If they were, they weren't going to violate her personal space without paying for it.

  Whoever it was, they were good. Getting through the locks was the least of it. Somehow they'd managed to turn off the alarm.

  With a gentle push, she eased the door partway open. She heard voices.

  Russian. They're speaking Russian.

  Her heart began pounding as adrenaline flooded her. She took a deep breath and listened to what they were saying.

  They found the safe.

  She pushed her shoes off in the foyer and slipped through the door. Her feet made no sound as she padded across the floor. She moved to the wall and worked her way along it until she was outside the entrance to her study.

  "I have three numbers," someone said. "One more and I'll have it open."

  "We've been here a long time," someone else said. "Can't you hurry it up, Major?"

  At least two, she thought.

  "Don't bother him, Vasily. You wouldn't have gotten through those locks on the door."

  Three.

  "What if they come back?"

  "They went to work. They're not coming back. If they do, we take care of it."

  "Will you two shut up? How can I hear what I'm doing with your yammering?"

  Selena heard the click as the last tumbler fell into place, then the metallic ratcheting of the handle that pulled back the locking bars inside the safe door.

  "It's open," the first voice said.

  "Is the map in there?" The second voice said.

  "I don't see it."

  Time to introduce myself, Selena thought.

  She was angry. These thugs had come into her home, into her private space. She stepped into the room with her pistol held in front of her in both hands. One man knelt over the open safe. The other two stood nearby.

  "Don't fucking move," she said in Russian.

  Yeltsin looked up from the floor and saw an angry woman with intense violet eyes, holding an automatic pistol pointed at him. Without thinking he reached for his Makarov.

  Selena's first shot sounded like a cannon in the confines of the room. It hit Yeltsin and bowled him over. She shifted to the right and shot Vasily, two rounds into his chest. He staggered and fell onto his back, knocking over a floor lamp as he went down. She swiveled toward the third man. He was trying to free his gun from his pocket. He grabbed a book from her desk and hurled it at her. The book struck her hand as she fired. The round missed. The slide locked halfway back and stopped.

  Jammed!

  She didn't have time to think about it. Viktor charged her. He was a big man, fast for his size. She threw her gun at him. It bounced off his shou
lder. He barreled into her and knocked her down. As she fell she swept her leg around and took his foot out from under him. He went to the floor, cursing. She arched and flipped backward onto her feet. Viktor reached out and grabbed her ankle and pulled. She twisted and felt a jolt of pain as she went down. She fell on top of him and drove her thumb into his eye.

  He screamed and grasped at her. She brought her elbow down hard on his face and heard bone break under the blow. She slammed his throat with her elbow, once, twice, and rolled away. He thrashed on the floor trying to breathe.

  The first man she'd shot lifted his pistol. She rolled to the side as he fired. Hot, electric pain shot up her leg from the injured ankle. The barrel of the Makarov was aimed straight at her.

  No.

  The pistol wavered. Yeltsin coughed. Bright red blood vomited from his mouth. He collapsed and lay still. His bowels let go and a sewer stench filled the room. Selena gagged.

  Shaken, she crawled to the desk and pulled herself up on her good leg. She tried to put weight on the injured foot and felt the warning pain. She looked at the bodies of the men she'd killed. The clock on her desk showed a few minutes after ten in the morning.

  Hell of a way to start the day, she thought.

  She picked up the phone and called Elizabeth.

  A cleanup team arrived at the loft less than half an hour after she'd called. Nick showed up ten minutes later.

  "You're all right?"

  "Yes. I hurt my ankle when that asshole grabbed it." She gestured at Viktor's body. "I can't put any weight on it."

  "Stinks in here. Come on, let's get out while the cleaners finish up. Lean on my arm," Nick said.

  "It's a good thing there's no one on the floor below us," Selena said. "No one heard the shots."

  She hobbled with him over to the elevator. They descended to the parking garage.

  "Wait here."

  Nick got the car and brought it over. He opened the door and Selena dropped into the passenger seat.

  It wasn't until they'd crossed over into Virginia that she began shaking.

  Nick pulled over to the side of the highway. He took off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.