Firebreak

'I'll wait for him,' Parker said.

'You can't wait in here,' the woman said. 'I know, I know, you're his brother, but I still can't let you wait in here. The weather's nice, you can sit on the stoop.'

'Fine,' Parker said.

They went back to the hall door, Parker first. He held the door open for her to go through, and on the way out pushed the button that unlocked the door.

Guns were stashed in every room, small lightweight .22s, meant to end the argument right away in small rooms like these. They were snapped into clips under chairs, behind the toilet, under the bed.

Twelve thousand dollars in twenties and fifties was rolled into an orange juice concentrate can in the freezer. Inside the lining of the suitcase in the bedroom closet were Russian, Ukraine, and Belarus passports with Charov's face but other names. Under the socks in the top dresser drawer was a manila envelope that had once been mailed to Charov at this address, with a printed return address of Cosmopolitan Beverages in Bayonne, New Jersey; whatever it had originally held, Charov had been using it to hold his papers. There was an American green card, plus documents describing him as an executive employed by Cosmopolitan Beverages, an importer of Russian liquors. Also in the envelope was an open-date Aeroflot ticket, first-class, from New York's JFK to Moscow.

Stuck into the edge of the mirror over the dresser were three color snapshots of what had to be Charov's family, back in Moscow; a pleasant plump wife, three teenage sons, and a large brown-black dog that looked like a mix of German shepherd and wolf, all standing in sunlight in front of a large, comfortable-looking but not gaudy suburban house.

Beside the bed was a telephone with answering machine, its red light blinking the news that it contained two messages. Parker pushed play and the first message was a guttural voice leaving a brisk statement in what was probably Russian. The second, in English, was from somebody who sounded hesitant, nervous, a little scared: 'Charov? Are you there? I thought I'd hear from you by now. Everything's okay, isn't it? I'm ready with the money. Just call me. Let me know how things went.'

The customer. Too cagy or nervous to leave his name.

Parker played the message again. The voice was almost familiar, almost. He played it a third time, but he wasn't going to get it. Too far in the past, or too little known.

Next to the answering machine was a notepad, with three items written on it:

n.EpOK M.PoaeHWTePH

WILLIS

That last one was in the Roman alphabet because that's what it would say on the mailbox outside Parker's house on the lake. It was the landmark Charov would have looked for.

And the first two names, if they were names? They looked like names. Was one of them the nervous voice on the answering machine? On the phone, here, had Charov written the names of his new employers and the target?

Parker left the guns where they were. He took with him the money, the passports, the manila envelope with everything in it, and the notepad with the names.

5

'Cosmopolitan Beverages.'

'Viktor Charov, please,' Parker said. 'I'm sorry, what?' 'Viktor Charov.'

'No, sir, I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name.' 'Oh, is he in Moscow?'

'No, sir, we don't— What was that name again?' 'Viktor Charov,' Parker said. 'He's a purchasing agent with your outfit. He isn't there?' 'Hold, please.'

Parker held. Traffic was light going by the gas station, the same one where he'd talked with Elkins. He hadn't been to the house yet, see what was going on there. Claire had moved to a hotel in New York, planned to do some shopping; he'd call her later, after he knew what was going on. 'Ms. Bursar.'

'Hello,' Parker said. 'I'm looking for Viktor Charov.'

'Would you spell that name?'

He did, with the k, and Ms. Bursar said, 'There's no one by that name employed here.'

'I'm sure he is,' Parker said. 'He travels back and forth to Moscow for you people.'

'Sir, I am the firm's accountant,' Ms. Bursar said. 'I write the salary checks, and I have never written a check for anyone named Viktor Charov.'

'Well, I got a bum steer then,' Parker said. 'Sorry about that.'

'There are a number of other beverage importers in this area,' Ms. Bursar pointed out. 'Perhaps he's with one of them.'

'Could be,' Parker said, and hung up, and went back to the Lexus.

A no-show job, to cover Charov's travels between the two countries and explain his income. Somebody connected with Cosmopolitan was mobbed-up in some way, and could insert this ringer into the company without its accountant knowing he was there.

Which was why, though his 'employer' was in a town next to the harbor of New York, Charov's American base had been Chicago. That was much more central for somebody whose actual work might take him anywhere in the country.