release him. But don’t hurt him. Feed him and give him a place to sleep.”
“I can do that.”
“Good,” Quinn said. “We’ll be in touch.”
As soon as he hung up, Orlando said, “What do you think?”
“If Palavin really was Wills’s client, then that might explain why Annabel Taplin had his picture with mine. But even then, whatever these Russians are up to could mess things up for us. My family’s safety comes first. I’m not going to allow them to get in my way.” He paused. “What we really need to do is have a little chat with Ms. Taplin. Can you find out if she’s returned to London yet?”
Orlando smiled. “I can do that.”
PETRA VISITED RESTAURANTS AND GROCERY stores and hotels and massage parlors and whatever else she could find that was owned and operated by Russian expats. At first, when they realized she was also Russian, they were friendly enough. But when she showed the drawing of Quinn and started asking more questions, they became wary. Some refused to give her any more answers, while others kept their responses to one or two words.
She knew the look in their eyes well. She’d borne it herself more times than she could remember. It was the fear and suspicion that came with having grown up in the former Soviet Union.
She returned to the apartment just before 9 p.m., unsuccessful and completely drained.
“Mikhail?” she called out.
There was no response.
She sat down at the table and tried calling Stepka, but he didn’t answer. So she left a message, folded her arms, and lay her head down, intending to rest her eyes for a moment.
The sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door made her snap back up. The side of her mouth was damp, and she realized she’d fallen asleep. She glanced at her watch, surprised to see a half hour had passed.
She rubbed her face as she turned toward the door. That’s when she got her second surprise. It wasn’t Mikhail. It was a young woman.
She was beautiful. Long blonde hair that had been clipped in place so that it flowed down her back, bright blue eyes behind a fashionable pair of semi-rimless glasses, and a trim but appropriately rounded figure that would go unnoticed by no one.
“Who are you?” Petra asked, rising from her chair.
An instant later Mikhail entered behind the woman. “Please,” he said to the girl in Russian, motioning toward the table. “Sit down.” The woman looked at him uncertainly, so he smiled and pointed again. “Please.”
Once she’d sat, Mikhail signaled for Petra to join him near the door.
“Who is she?” Petra whispered.
“Her name is Natalia,” he said. “She recognized the picture.”
Petra’s eyes widened as she glanced at the girl.
“I was checking a couple of Russian-run hotels in the West End,” Mikhail went on.
“She saw him in a hotel?” Petra asked.
“Well, yes, but not the one I found her in. She works at two different places. Where I met her, and another in Belgravia called the Silvain Hotel. It’s not owned by Russians, but they employ several of our people.”
“So she saw him there?”
Mikhail led Petra to the table, then said to Natalia, “Tell her what you told me.”
The girl looked nervous. “A man like the one in the picture arrived at our hotel last night.”
“The Silvain,” Mikhail clarified.
“Yes.”
“Describe him,” Petra said.
Natalia bit her lip, then closed her eyes for a moment. “Brown hair, dark and cut short above his ears. I don’t know age, probably less than forty.”
“Height? Weight?”
“Maybe five foot ten. Normal weight. In shape.”
“Did you at least get his name?”
“The last name he used was Shelby. The first name I don’t remember. I wasn’t the one who checked him in, so I didn’t look at his passport.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure he looked like the man in the drawing.”
“Very close,” Natalia said. “Please, I need to leave. I’m supposed to be at work by ten, so I’m already going to be late.”
