Silent Assassin(4)
“I’ve got a standing appointment with Lubarsky,” said the man coolly.
“It’s not in my book,” she said, pointing at the leather-bound planner and shrugging to signal her utter incapacity to do anything about this situation.
“Oh, I think he’s going to want to see me anyway.”
This was getting tiresome. Her tone took on an edge of annoyance. “I insist, sir, that even if you are His Holiness the Pope himself, Mr. Lubarsky will not—” She was interrupted as Marko and Lyudmil emerged from the louvre door next to the reception desk and flanked the American. She couldn’t help grinning slightly as the balance of power shifted in her favor, and became altogether less subtle.
“This guy giving you trouble, Rositsa?”
“Some men just can’t take no for an answer,” she said, teasing the man by looking straight into his eyes as she spoke. She loved having the muscle behind her.
The man did not stop smiling. “Some men just know when not to fold.”
“Come on, asshole,” said Lyudmil, grabbing the man’s left arm. “The lady has had enough of you.”
The American, totally unfazed, did not move. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket. The two men seemed alarmed by the gesture and began to move to restrain him, but relaxed when they saw him pulling out a business card. The American proffered it to them, holding it between two outstretched fingers. Marko took it, examined it, and then handed it to Lyudmil. They nodded between them.
“Please follow us this way, sir,” said Marko. “We apologize on behalf of the girl. Mr. Lubarsky will see you very soon.”
The three disappeared into the louvre door into the employees-only area of the ground floor. The girl from reception looked down and the counter and saw that they had left the card. She picked it up and looked at it curiously. On it was no name—in fact, no words at all. All there was on the rich white stock was a simple black ink drawing of a snake, a cobra, coiled and ready to strike.
CHAPTER 3
Budapest, December 27
Dan Morgan, Code Name Cobra, was taken into a back room of the lobby of the Sárkány, where the bare concrete walls and fluorescent lighting stood in stark contrast to the elegant wood paneling and soft, old-world incandescents of reception. There was no stage dressing here, just the bare essentials. He had been led there by the two hulking grunts in black suits who had come, originally, to kick him out and maybe leave him in the back alley with a couple of cracked ribs and internal bleeding. Instead, they were taking him to their boss.
One of the two, tall and broad-shouldered with a jutting chin, scowled down at him while the other, a squat and wide man who might have been mistaken by an ape if he weren’t wearing such a dapper suit, tried to take his Walther. No guns in the hotel, he said, though of course he meant no guns that weren’t in their possession.
“The gun stays with me,” said Morgan.
“Are we going to have to take it away from you?” said the tall one.
“From my cold dead hands.”
“You do not let us have the gun, you do not see Mr. Lubarsky.”
“You can tell Lubarsky that if he wants to see me, he’d best not take my gun away. Consider it a token of good faith on his part.”
The two looked at each other, and then at him like they wanted to take turns wringing his neck. Then the short, squat one picked up the phone and exchanged a few words with Lubarsky, presumably, on the other end. Then he hung up and said to Morgan, “He will allow you to carry your gun upstairs.”
“How gracious of him,” said Morgan.
“Any funny business,” he said, “and you leave this hotel in little tiny pieces, is it clear?”
“Crystal.”
They x-rayed his briefcase, scanned him for bugs, and then escorted him back to the lobby. Then they ushered him to an elevator that they opened with a key. The interior was red-carpeted and wood-paneled to match the lobby, and it had only two floor buttons, unmarked. The short one turned another key and pressed the top button.
The elevator was not large, and Morgan was wedged uncomfortably between the two guards. The cabin began its ascent, the movement imperceptible but for a gentle tug at Morgan’s gut and at the Samsonite he held in his right hand.
The elevator stopped as discreetly as it had started, after what seemed like not enough time to cover the necessary distance. The doors slid open, right into the penthouse foyer.
The first thing to hit him was the smell. It was a heady mixture of stale vomit, food fresh and rotting, alcohol, and sweat mingled with a few other bodily odors. Obscene squeals and moans from a pornographic movie emanated into the foyer, and it seemed like a very appropriate soundtrack. The room was decorated in the most expensive poor taste achievable. He briefly wondered how much worse the décor would seem to his wife Jenny’s professional eye—only a fleeting thought, before his mind began to formulate his reaction in case things took a turn for the worse.