“No.”
“Were you able to open the trunk, or was the vehicle too badly damaged?”
“We checked the trunk,” said Nyström. “What you see in front of you is everything he was carrying.”
“I’d like to see his car now, please.”
The Chief Inspector looked at his watch and then back at Harvath. “Let me make a call.”
CHAPTER 23
* * *
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Lydia Ryan was in the middle of preparing an updated briefing for U.S. Ambassador to the U.N. Rebecca Strum, as well as running down all of Scot Harvath’s requests, when a call came in from Artur Kopec. He had an update for her. He claimed it was urgent and he needed to see her right away.
It was two o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Whether his update was truly urgent or not, she figured it was probably no coincidence that it would take him out of the office for the rest of the day. Her suspicions were all but confirmed when he suggested that they meet at a particular D.C. watering hole. Though the traffic would be a pain in the ass, she told him she was leaving right then and would get there as soon as she could.
Kopec wasn’t exactly subtle with his choice, but considering the cuisine and ambiance dovetailed with Poland’s, she supposed he could be forgiven. Even so, the Russia House Restaurant and Lounge near DuPont Circle at Connecticut and Florida avenues was a bit over the top.
She parked at the Washington Hilton and went the rest of the way on foot—careful to make sure she wasn’t being followed.
The Russia House Restaurant and Lounge was like escaping back in time to czarist Russia. It was decorated in rich mahoganies, ornate carpets, red silk draperies, and ornate gold brocade.
The only thing that outdid the décor was the menu. It included every Russian staple imaginable—from borscht and wild boar to kulebiaka and shashlik.
Not to be outdone in the food department, the Russia House boasted an astounding collection of vodka. It was not only one of the best in D.C., but it was one of the best in the United States.
The vodka menu listed more than forty different kinds from Russia and twenty from Poland, and included vodkas from Moldova, Ukraine, Lithuania, Estonia, England, Sweden, Holland, and even Israel.
On top of everything else, the Russia House was less than a mile and a half from the Polish Embassy.
She found Kopec at a small table on the second floor, in the cozy, seductively lit “Czar’s Bar.”
In his typical fashion, he had started without her. A bottle of Chopin potato vodka sat next to a silver serving dish filled with crushed ice and chilled caviar. It was encircled on a plate by small Russian pancakes known as blini. A colorful trio of minced red onion, chopped egg, and sour cream sat on a plate to the side.
When Ryan entered, Kopec stood and watched her as she walked over. She looked stunning.
Though he wasn’t an expert on designer labels, he assumed the suit she was wearing was Italian. If he had to guess, Armani. It was sleek and black and complemented her long, thin frame.
Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her full lips accentuated by the peach lipstick she had chosen. He never got tired of looking at her. She was a vision.
After giving her a quick kiss on each cheek, he pulled out her chair and assisted her in sitting down.
“I hope the traffic wasn’t too awful,” he said as he retook his seat.
“Friday in D.C.,” she replied, putting her napkin in her lap. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get here sooner.”
“That’s quite all right. I hope you don’t mind. I started without you.”
“It depends. What kind of caviar did you order?”
Leaning forward so that no one could overhear him, he whispered, “Royal Osetra.”
Two hundred bucks a tin. Ryan wondered how much of the money she had wired into Kopec’s account was funding this gourmet outing, but she kept her curiosity to herself. She hadn’t believed all of the money would go to tracking down the missing missile kits. A certain amount, undoubtedly, would wind up in Kopec’s pocket and be justified as “handling.”
Figuring she, or rather The Carlton Group, had helped pay for it, Ryan availed herself of a large serving, but demurred when the Pole attempted to pour a shot of vodka for her. “I have to drive back to the office after this.”
“Then just have one,” he said, using the bottle to gently brush her hand aside.
Next to cash, alcohol was the lubricant that greased the wheels of the espionage world. Drinking was just part of how the great game was played, especially with older operatives. Retracting her hand, she allowed him to pour. Ryan could handle her liquor.
“To Peaches,” he said, raising his glass.
In addition to being a brilliant intelligence officer, Reed Carlton had also been known as a ruthless interrogator. It wasn’t something he relished, but it wasn’t something he shied away from either. When tough work needed to be done, his colleagues knew he could be counted upon. His most aggressive interrogating was reserved for the worst actors.
Because of his ability to break the toughest, most evil of men—by any means necessary—Carlton had been given the amusing sobriquet Peaches. In time, it grew to be a term of endearment.
“To Peaches,” Ryan replied, clinking her tiny glass against Kopec’s and throwing the vodka back in one shot.
The Pole refilled his glass, but before he could do the same for hers, she slid it away and turned it upside down.
“Na Zdrowie!” he cheered with a smile, To health, and then knocked his back.
He was an amazing drinker. She could only imagine what his liver looked like. They probably could have used it for a doorstop back at the embassy, which got her to thinking.
“Aren’t you concerned someone from work might see us here together?” she asked.
“Concerned? I’m counting on it!” he replied. “Do you know what being seen with a beautiful woman like you would do for my standing in the diplomatic corps? In fact, I’m not allowing you to leave until someone does see us.”
Ryan smiled politely. “Even you are not that careless, Artur.”
“True. But being seen with the recent Deputy Director of the CIA, is a resume enhancer. The fact that she is also very attractive is a plus.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” he said. “And don’t be worried. No one at my embassy has the courage to leave before five o’clock—especially on a Friday. Most are career civil servants with the lingering fear of authority beaten into them during the Soviet days. Besides, it’s cheaper for them to stay at the office and drink. This way, when five o’clock rolls around and they’re ready to go out and party, they’re already drunk.”
Ryan laughed. She had had lots of overseas postings, and drinking before going out, in order to save money, was the rule, not the exception.
Knowing that Kopec would keep her here boozing with him as long as possible, perhaps indeed hoping they’d be spotted together, she decided to professionally move things along. “So, what is the urgent update you have for me?”
She had caught him just as he was putting a blini loaded with caviar, red onion, and sour cream into his mouth.
It took him a minute to chew it all and swallow. She was relieved to see him reach for his ice water, rather than another vodka, to wash it all down.