“Listen,” he said, “if we had simply wanted to lose my shadow, we would have handled things differently. But the truth is that we have to question him. The sooner, the better.”
“I don’t get it. Why do you have to talk to him?”
Jones groaned. “Do you want the truth, or do you want to stay calm?”
“To hell with calm. I want the truth.”
“Simply put, we’re doing it for your safety.”
“My safety?”
“Think about it. The guy knew where Richard was staying. How long would it take him to figure out that Richard paid for two rooms, not one? Hell, he probably knows already.”
“But I thought you cleaned my room?”
“I did. But I didn’t have a chance to erase the video surveillance from the lobby. For all we know, he bribed a security guard and has your picture in his pocket right now.”
She gulped at the thought.
“Hey, you wanted the truth.”
“I know I did, but . . .”
“Listen,” Jones said, trying to reassure her. “I swear to you, Jon is great at what he does. He’ll have a pleasant conversation with the guy and find out what he knows. After that, you won’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Concrete whizzed by as the train roared through the tunnels underneath Saint Petersburg. Every few minutes a recorded voice would make an announcement in Russian, and the train would slow to a stop. People would get on and people would get off, but Payne never moved. He kept staring out the window at the concrete, refusing to make eye contact with any of his fellow passengers—including the assassin at the other end of the car.
The initial plan was for Payne to block Kozlov’s path, trapping him on the train while Jones slipped away. That was how they had done the maneuver in the past, and it had always worked. But the more Payne thought about it on the long ride down the escalator, the more he realized that his current objective was different from the previous times. This wasn’t about escape. This was about leveling the playing field with an experienced professional.
That’s when Payne decided to run the bastard over.
Not only did it leave Kozlov dazed, it also left him defenseless.
When Payne was five years old, his grandfather bought him a deck of cards and showed him some simple tricks. Payne was so amazed that he became hooked for life. Over the years his grandfather encouraged him to read books about famous magicians. By the time Payne was a teenager, he had mastered the art of prestidigitation. He could pull coins out of thin air, make small objects disappear, and dazzle his toughest critics—including Jones.
One of Payne’s best skills was his ability to pick pockets.
He was smoother than a hungry Gypsy.
If he bumped into someone, he could steal just about anything he wanted. A watch. A ring. Or a set of keys. And the victim would be none the wiser.
That’s why Payne decided to get rough with Kozlov. He had to distract him for as long as possible while he took everything he could. His wallet, his badge, even his gun.
And the best part of all?
Kozlov didn’t realize that anything was missing.
The Chernaya Rechka River flows through the northwest corner of Saint Petersburg. It is a minor tributary of the Bolshaya Neva, which is the largest armlet of the historic Neva.
In the grand scheme of things, the Chernaya Rechka isn’t much of a river. It is 3 miles long and less than 80 feet across at its widest point. The water is cold and murky and only a few feet deep. Some Russians consider it a stream. Others view it as a nuisance. Nothing more than a barrier that they have to cross when driving into the city.
A watery pain in the ass.
To alleviate bridge traffic and to encourage northern expansion, the city built the Chernaya Rechka station near the banks of the waterway. The goal was to lure industry to the area by providing an efficient mass transit system for potential employees. Unfortunately, while the city waited for companies to build new factories, the Metro station was less popular than the river it was named after. After all, it was in the middle of nowhere.
That’s why it was perfect for Kozlov’s home base. He wanted to be seen as little as possible, yet he needed quick and easy access to the city. So when he first came into town, he booked a room at a cheap hotel near the station and had used the Metro ever since.
And it had worked out fine until the incident at Nevsky Prospekt.
His ears were still ringing from the collision.
The doors sprang open at Chernaya Rechka, and Kozlov stepped off the train. The last ten minutes had been filled with major disappointment. The black man had slipped out of his grasp and so had the things he had taken from Byrd’s room. Kozlov hated to think what might have been lost. For all he knew, it might have solved the mystery behind Byrd’s trip to Saint Petersburg and allowed him to head back to Moscow to collect his hefty paycheck.