Driving down the Dulles Toll Road he wondered if the businesses that set up on either side of this minor highway had set out to form an unrelated conglomerate of research, technological, and development oriented companies, or if it had just happened. He recalled some startling statistics: thirty thousand businesses and more than a half million of Northern Virginia’s jobs were stuffed into these futuristic buildings, and he didn’t know if he was in Herndon or Reston or Falls Church or if perhaps the Dulles Corridor had its own ZIP code.
Sitting beside him, Ivanovich said, “You know, he may recognize me.” He tugged at the lapel of his navy blue suit, checking to make sure his jacket hung properly to conceal his pistol.
“I’m counting on it,” Hannibal said. “Having you behind me will make me a player in his eyes, and that might make him want to cooperate.”
“And if it does not?” Ivanovich asked as Hannibal eased his Volvo onto an off ramp. “We are hardly in a position to challenge him. If he decides we represent trouble he could make us disappear like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
“Well, that will make it an exciting day,” Hannibal said with a smile.
The sprawling Worldgate complex was built by a land development company called Monument, and the different sections were numbered. Hannibal followed the signs toward Monument 3 Worldgate and rolled into the parking garage beside the building that housed Rice, Staff amp; Spike Securities. Before getting out of the car he reached into the glove compartment for a spare pair of Oakley sunglasses. Ivanovich nodded and slipped them on as he got out of the car.
Instead of heading for the elevator Hannibal led them outside to stand in front of the building for a moment to gather his thoughts. He wondered what army of immigrants maintained such beautifully landscaped property, almost a hundred acres of industry conducted almost entirely on paper and in computers.
“So this is where organized crime hides these days,” he said, “three or four miles from one of the country’s busiest airports, surrounded by Fortune 500 companies in one of the fastest growing, wealthiest locations for economic development in the country.”
“This,” Ivanovich said with a smirk, “is where organized crime has always hidden. Shall we go face the lion in his luxurious den?”
The two men entered the building and walked straight to the security guard’s desk. The uniformed guard looked up in surprise, probably because these two had crossed the faux marble floor without the usual clacking shoes usually make. Ivanovich, true to his character, looked everywhere except at Hannibal. Hannibal focused only on the guard, who looked and sounded Somalian.
“Good afternoon. Buzz up to RS amp;S and tell them that Hannibal Jones and Aleksandr Ivanovich are here to see Mr. Uspensky.”
“Is he expecting you?” the guard asked in a singsong, offkilter accent.
“We don’t have an appointment,” Hannibal said, “but I suspect that he is expecting us.”
In the following three minutes a handful of people walked through the wide hall, each wearing an identification badge and the scowl that is the real badge of the modern office worker. Hannibal and Ivanovich signed in and a guard prepared their visitor badges. Then, three men in well-cut suits who looked familiar to Hannibal stepped out of the elevator. Not that their faces were familiar, but their body language and posture were unmistakable. They varied from six foot three to six foot five and all had wrestlers’ bodies and bored Slavic faces. Two of them stopped six feet away while the third moved forward until he was staring down into Ivanovich’s face. Hannibal saw no change in either man’s expression.
“Aleksandr,” the taller man said.
Vladimir,” Ivanovich returned.
Then the tall man broadened his view to take Hannibal in as well. “Gentlemen, if you will follow me.”
Hannibal found their escorts to be both polite and professional. In the elevator, one of the men watched Hannibal, one watched Ivanovich, and the third watched the doors. When they stepped into the carpeted, paneled hall on the appropriate floor, two stood on either side of a door while Vladimir faced them, looking almost embarrassed.
“I am sorry, but I must ask you if you are…”
Hannibal held up a palm, and then opened his jacket. Vladimir reached in and pulled the pistol from under Hannibal’s right arm. Then he turned to Ivanovich, who stood with his hands folded in front of him.
“No,” Hannibal said. “You take nothing from him.”
“Aleksandr,” Vladimir said, “I have to.”
“Only if you are prepared to literally take it from me,” Ivanovich said. None of these men showed any emotion on their faces but Hannibal could taste the tension in the air. These two men had history, but now they were sizing each other up again, testing and probing in some way below Hannibal’s level of perception. He looked at the two door guards and chose the one he would take out if things went sour, and watched Ivanovich because he somehow knew that the loser would speak first. He was surprised when Vladimir turned to address him instead of Ivanovich.
“He can’t go in.”
“I go where he goes,” Ivanovich said, his voice snapping out in defiance.
“Not necessary,” Hannibal said, tuning out the three strangers and holding Ivanovich’s eyes with his own. “He won’t hurt me; he just wants to feel safe himself. Just stay near this door. And if you hear anything that doesn’t sound like friendly conversation, I know you can take these three assholes out.” Then he looked up at Vladimir and pointed at his chest. “And you know it too.”
Hannibal walked between the two towering bodyguards, opened the door, and stepped into wonderland. The carpet was deeper, the paneling changed from laminate to cedar, and the desk set to one side of the football field of an office offered its occupant a commanding view of the toll road that led to Dulles International Airport. The paintings were not prints but real oils. Classical music wafted in, just loud enough to notice. It was all meant to impress. Hannibal faced the desk and let the man behind it see that it had worked.
“Ivan Uspensky?”
“And you must be Hannibal Jones,” the man said, standing and offering his hand. The handshake was warm and firm, but taking the man in caused Hannibal to linger with it. Uspensky could have been Tolstaya’s brother, another big man with a little round belly and almost no hair left. The difference was that while Tolstaya’s photo showed wisps of black hair, the few strands remaining on Uspensky’s head were blond. This man was likely on the godfather level even if he wasn’t, he was surely a senior captain of contemporary industry. Hannibal decided on deference and courtesy.
“Thank you for making the time to see me.”
“How could I not?” Uspensky said. “You are clearly a man of some influence. You have Aleksandr Ivanovich.”
Hannibal smiled and nodded. “He opens doors. I only want a few minutes. By the way, I love the name of your brokerage firm. Tell me, who are Rice, Staff and Spike?”
Uspensky smiled, regaining his seat and opening a humidor. “Those are just common words chosen at random. They are meant to send the message that the company is very American. I can see that you are a man who understands the importance of appearances. Now, is this to be a chat, an interview, or an interrogation?”
Hannibal selected one of the cigars. “Just a friendly conversation. You can help me with my current investigation. First, I’d like to make sure I’m pursuing the right man.”
He handed over the photograph he had been carrying for the last couple of days. Uspensky took it, laid it on the desk and stared down at it while clipping the end off his cigar. He lit it with a Zippo lighter and took a first puff, all the while gazing at the picture as if trying to find some inner meaning in it.
“Yes, this is my business partner, Boris Tolstaya at the center.”
“And do you know the man behind him?” Hannibal asked.
“I believe that to be Gartee Roberts, an African who I think may have worked with Boris on a project.”
Hannibal nodded and settled into the overstuffed armchair by the picture windows. “Well, that fellow you knew as Roberts is now known as Dani Gana. He was murdered recently. His widow is in hiding, in fear of the killer.”
“Obviously I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Uspensky said, his face the embodiment of innocence. “I didn’t really know this Roberts, or Gana, or whatever. In fact, I think I only met him once.”
The sweet cigar smoke reached out to Hannibal, reminding him that he was holding a similar weapon. He
