gates. The ground lights shin¬ing up at the onion-shaped towers of the building gave it a Disney-like magic. 'That's the Zelov family home. It definitely has a Russian flair. It's said to look like St. Basil's in Moscow. It was built by Mikhail Zelov in 1922.' Emily looked up from the laptop. 'He kept a low pro¬file and lived in a tenement in east New York when he first arrived, then he took a trip to Canada, stayed there two years, and when he came back, he said he'd struck it rich in the Klondike gold mines.'
'Maybe he did,' Dardon said.
'And maybe he didn't,' Garrett said. 'Evidently anything was possible with Zelov.'
'At any rate, he lived the high life and left an enormous fortune to his two children. He died in 1943, and his heirs promptly started to run through his money,' Emily said. 'The present head of the family, Nicholas Zelov, was on the verge of bankruptcy five months ago but managed to pull himself out of it.' She glanced at Dardon in the backseat. 'That's about the time Warwick told him about Mikhail's private influx of money. Nicholas is still not doing well, but he can live marginally in the style to which he's accustomed.' She closed the computer. 'I'd like to know if Nicholas is getting any electronic trans¬fers as old Mikhail did.'
'That's one question you could ask him,' Garrett said. 'But I doubt if you'll get an answer.' He nodded. 'There's Foxworth. Quite the little Indian reservation, isn't it?'
'Indian reservation?'
'The casinos are Indian-owned.'
The neon-lit hotel-casino glowed in the darkness like a magnifi¬cent beacon in its setting of lush green terrain. 'It's almost as palatial as Zelov's castle.'
'Then he should feel right at home.' He pulled in front of the casino. 'We'll park over there.' He handed her a tiny black nodule. 'Plant it somewhere on Nicholas Zelov before you leave him.'
'I feel like some kind of spy. Anyplace in particular?'
He shook his head. 'It's powerful and should broadcast from ten feet away. Just touch him anywhere, and the nodule will attach. I just like to be sure.'
She got out of the car and looked at the brilliantly lit lobby. 'I'm not dressed for this.' She looked down at her black slacks and white long-sleeved shirt. 'I'll duck into the washroom and at least wash my face and touch up this wig.'
'You look great.'
'Bullshit.' She strode toward the glass doors, which were immedi¬ately opened for her by a uniformed doorman. Clean up. Make dis¬creet inquiries and have Zelov pointed out to her. Then see what she could do about finding out what she had come to find out.
NICHOLAS ZELOV WAS SITTING at the long, granite bar, and Emily had watched him drink two whiskeys in the space of the time she had been studying him. He was a big man in his late forties, with ruddy complexion and black hair. Zelov was barely upright on the stool, and his voice was slurred when he'd ordered that last whiskey. Evidently his alcohol rehab hadn't worked out, Emily thought.
Sad, but that might be better for her purpose.
She slipped onto the stool next to him. 'My name is Emily Hud¬son, Mr. Zelov. I wonder if you'd answer a few questions for me?'
'No, go away.' He took another drink. 'No whores tonight. A few more drinks, then back to the tables.'
'I'm not a prostitute, Mr. Zelov. I work for the U.N. I was inter¬ested in your family history.'
'U.N.? What the hell?' He suddenly stiffened and turned to look at her. 'You're that woman who was kidnapped. I saw your picture in the newspaper.' He reached out and touched her hair. 'But the color is different.'
She leaned back away from his touch. 'People recognize me. This helps a little.'
'I don't know why you want to talk to me anyway. I read that you were in seclusion somewhere. Why don't you go back there?' He took another swallow of the whiskey. 'Ten minutes. That's all I'll give you.'
'Thank you. I'll try to be brief.'
'You'd better.' He was gazing at her critically again. 'You look better than you did in that video they released after the CIA got you away from those bandits. You need some meat on your bones, but you're not half bad looking. Would you like a drink?'
'No, thank you.'
He signaled the bartender for another drink for himself. 'When I was reading about you, I was wondering what those bandits did to you. Rape?'
She didn't answer the question. 'I'd like to talk to you about Mikhail Zelov.'
An undecipherable expression flitted across his face. 'You came to me to ask about old Guru Mikhail?' 'Guru?'
'That's what my grandfather called him. Stingy, spooky bastard. He tied up all his money in trust funds that couldn't be touched. My father only managed to finally break the will after wasting years in court.'
'Why spooky?'
'He claimed he was a holy man and could heal the sick and send his enemies to their deaths.' He smirked with satisfaction. 'That's what we used to break the trusts. Insanity. All those documents and letters were what cooked his goose.'
'That must have made you very happy,' Emily said. 'But I under¬stand you went through many of his records again just several months ago. Why?'
He stiffened. 'How did you know that?'
She ignored the question. 'Did you find something then that you didn't find before?' 'Hell, no.'
He'd mentioned only documents and letters, Emily thought. She made a leap. 'I was actually interested in a book he wrote before he left Russia. It was a kind of a guide to living.'
His expression became shuttered. 'Oh, that book.' He shrugged. 'He talked about it.' He took a swallow of his whiskey. 'I think my grandfather tossed it out with a lot of his father's other effects after the old man died.' He looked at Emily. 'Why are you prying into the old Guru's stuff? What's it to you?'
She was ready for that question she knew would come. 'My profession is preserving artifacts. The book may be historically im¬portant. It had a connection with Rasputin I understand.'
'Yeah. I think it did. But he didn't think shit about Rasputin.' He suddenly frowned. 'I told you. The book was tossed. If that's all you wanted to know, you can hit the road.'
'That's not quite all I wanted to know,' Emily said. 'Why did you go to Moscow five months ago, Mr. Zelov?'
'That's all.' He pushed away from the bar. 'Now you're sticking your nose into my business. I wanted to see my family's home, asshole. I wanted to search for my roots.'
'Could we see Mikhail Zelov's letters and journals you spoke about?' Emily asked.
'I don't give a shit. They're all on record with the court as testi¬mony when we broke the will.' He was struggling to get off the stool. 'I've had enough of you. You're bad news. I'm going to go back to the tables before you bring me bad luck.'
She was losing him. In another minute he'd be leaving her.
She reached out her palm that held the black nodule Garrett had given her and grasped the arm of Zelov's jacket. 'One more question. Was there a hammer in Mikhail Zelov's effects?'
'What?' Zelov's cheeks became even ruddier. 'That's a stupid question. Why would-Get out. I'm a good customer here. I'll have them toss you out on your ear. I've been patient enough because you looked-Out.'
'I'm going, Mr. Zelov. Thanks for your time.' She slipped off the stool and headed for the exit.
She glanced back over her shoulder as she opened the heavy glass door. Zelov wasn't going back to the tables. He was heading for the French doors leading to the terrace.
And he was reaching for his cell phone.
'He's heard about the hammer,' Emily said as soon as she reached the car. Excitement was tingling through her. 'I know it.'
'From what I heard, I think he has, too.' Garrett held the car door open for her. 'And we were lucky he was drunk and transparent as glass.' He got back into the car and looked at Dardon. 'Ready? It should be coming any time now.'
Dardon lifted the headset to his ear. 'He's already dialing. He probably had to get somewhere he'd get a clear signal. There's too much electronic interference in casinos.'
