Jones shrugged. “Who knows? He might have been running from someone, or he might have been planning a crime. Whatever the case, he was up to no good. And it started long before he came to Russia.”
She nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Then it became more pronounced as she reflected on the last month of her life: the time she had spent with Byrd. Earlier in the day, she had told Payne that she thought her boss might have been a criminal. Now she was sure of it.
Jones continued. “I’m not saying that he deserved to die. Still, as you look through his things, I want you to keep something in mind: This situation is all his fault. He dragged you into this mess. He put your life in danger. All you’re trying to do is claw your way out.”
Allison appreciated the pep talk. It helped her erase any feelings of loyalty that still lingered. In her mind, she was no longer violating her boss’s privacy. No longer going through a dead man’s things. Instead, she was doing the job that she had been hired to do. She was a researcher. A damn good one. This was the one part of her life where she felt totally at ease. Whereas Payne and Jones excelled in the field, this was her comfort zone. She felt at home.
“Please hand me that book,” she said, pointing toward the far end of the table. “That’s where Richard wrote his appointments. Maybe we can figure out what he’s been up to.”
“Good idea,” said Jones as he passed her the journal.
It was bound in black leather. Byrd’s initials were embossed in fancy script on the front cover. A gold ribbon, glued to the binding of the book, marked the current week. Allison flipped to that page and studied the schedule for Sunday, May 18—the day that Byrd was killed.
“One entry,” she said. “There’s a man’s name and a phone number. Nothing else.”
“What’s the name?”
She tried to read Byrd’s handwriting. It was barely legible. “Ivan Borodin.”
“Ring any bells?”
“Nope. Never heard of him.”
“Local number?”
She nodded. “Should we call it?”
“Not yet. First, look back a day or two. See if anything else stands out.”
Allison flipped back a page. “That’s strange. The same name and number. Only it’s been scratched out.”
Jones walked behind her for a better view. “Go back one more page.”
The same name appeared, also crossed off. “Ivan Borodin.”
“You’re sure you’ve never heard of him?”
“Positive. Richard never told me anything.”
“Flip back some more. Find the first time Ivan is mentioned.”
Allison turned the pages slowly, trying to decipher Byrd’s scribbles. Some of his entries made sense, particularly the appointments that involved her in some way—a lunch meeting, a trip to the library, and so on. But most of his notes were nonsense. They were either written in code or simply illegible. “As far as I can tell, Ivan’s name first appeared on the eighth. There’s even a star written next to it.”
“The eighth? I thought you were in Germany on the eighth?”
She nodded. “We were. We flew to Russia on the tenth.”
Jones considered this information. “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. See if this makes sense. He calls Ivan on the eighth. They talk about whatever and set up a meeting in Saint Petersburg. The only problem is that Richard can’t get into Russia without a fake visa. So he takes a day or two to get the phony paperwork and arrange a flight. Bing, bang, boom. Next thing you know, your plans to Greece get canceled because he needs to meet with Ivan.”
She smiled. “Bing, bang, boom?”
“What? You’ve never heard that expression?”
“Of course I have. I simply prefer, ‘yada yada yada.’ It’s classier.”
“Oh my goodness! You made a joke. I can’t wait to tell Jon.”
Allison blushed slightly. “Just so you know, I do have a personality.”
“I know you do. I’m just glad to see you finally using it.”
“Ouch.”
“Anyway,” Jones said, feeling guilty about teasing her, “if my theory is correct, that means Ivan has something that Richard needed. Any ideas on what it was?”
She shook her head. “No clue. But the answer might be among his paperwork.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” He wrote Ivan’s number down on a piece of hotel stationery. “Why don’t you start looking through this stuff? Meanwhile, I’ll make a few calls and see what I can come up with.”
Jones walked into the guest bedroom and partially closed the door. He didn’t want to disturb her or leave her unattended. For the time being, she was his responsibility. Using the cell phone that Payne had bought for him, Jones dialed a number that he knew by heart. A few seconds passed before the phone started ringing at the Pentagon.