The telephone on the nightstand rang.
Chace started, stared at it as it jangled a second time, its message light shimmering in time with the noise, and she felt her stomach contract with sudden vertigo.
She hadn’t been made at the airport; she was creaky, she knew that, she was maybe off her game, but she was sure of at least that much. There’d been no surveillance in the lobby that she’d seen when she’d checked in, no one casually disinterested in her business, nobody carefully avoiding her gaze.
No one knew she was here. No one was supposed to know.
But her phone was ringing, and unless it was a wrong number, unless it was the front desk calling, it meant that she was wrong, that she
The phone rang a fourth time, and finally Chace answered.
“Ms. Carlisle?” The voice was male, American.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“I heard from a mutual friend that you were coming to town,” the voice said. “I thought maybe I could show you around?”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m sorry, it’s Charles. Chuck.”
“Tracy,” Chace said. “A guide would be wonderful, Charles. Is there anything in particular you’d like to show me? I’ve heard the performances at the Alisher Navoi are not to be missed.”
He laughed. “If you’d like to see ballet, sure. There’s a lot to see in town. Would you like to get together, so we can discuss it?”
“I’m a little tired after my trip, I don’t much feel like going out.”
“I can come there, if you like.”
“Would you?”
“Take me about an hour and a half.”
“Call me from the lobby when you arrive,” Chace said, and hung up.
Charles called from the lobby one hour and fifty minutes later, and four minutes after that, knocked on the door of Chace’s room. She loosed the security bar and the deadbolt, turned the knob just enough to free the latch from the wall, and stepped away, putting her back to the wall.
“It’s open,” Chace said.
The door swung in, and a man stood on the threshold, slender, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Chace, brown curly hair, wearing a black wool coat and heavy trousers. He entered in a lean, one hand at his side, the other still on the doorknob, looking around as he said, “Tracy?” and from the posture and the motion, she knew he wasn’t, at least, an immediate threat, and she felt the tension go from her shoulders and back, felt her stomach settle a fraction.
She waited until he was through before she said, “Charles.”
He turned, smiled, and Chace didn’t return it, closing the door and then locking it once again, as she had done before. He was still standing exactly as he had been when she turned back, so this time Chace did smile.
Then she grabbed his crotch with her left hand, and shoved him back against the wall.
“Hey—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Chace said, and tightened her grip, feeling the heat and weight of his testicles in her hand. He was wearing boxers, which made the holding of him easier. He grimaced but didn’t move. As far as immobilization manuevers went, it was entirely inadequate, and Chace knew it; it kept his hands free, and it absolutely allowed for a counterattack, even if she were to bear down with all of her might. As a psychological move, however, it had no equal, and for the moment, it seemed to be doing its job quite well.
Maintaining her grip, Chace began patting him down with her right. She found a wallet in an inside jacket pocket, and a small digital camera in an outer one. She tossed both onto the bed. She ran her free hand through his hair, then along his neck, front, and back, then over the front of his chest, working lower until she had to crouch to check his legs.
“This might be fun if you loosened your grip,” Charles said.
Chace ignored him, working upward again, this time feeling along the backs of his legs, over his buttocks, checking the waistband of his pants, untucking his shirt, sliding her hand up over his back.
Satisfied, she let him go.
“Do I get a turn now?” Charles asked.
She continued to ignore him, moving to the desk, pulling out the chair there. She motioned for him to sit in it, and after a second, he complied. From the bed, she picked up the wallet and searched through it.
“Charles Riess?” Chace asked.
“Yeah. But I would have told you that if you asked.”
Chace tossed the wallet back to him, picked up the camera. “Why this?”
“I thought you might like to see some faces.”
Chace considered, then tossed the camera to him as well. He caught it as he had the first, but with a little more distress.
“Easy!”
“Show me.”
Charles Riess stared at her, then turned his attention to the camera in his hands, switching it on and then turning it, showing Chace the display window, offering it back to her.
“First picture is of Ruslan Malikov,” he said.
Chace took the camera again, peering at the tiny screen. The color and resolution were both good, the image clear, if small. The picture of Ruslan Malikov was a headshot, apparently taken from another document, rather than of the man in his actual life. It gave no sense of scale, no hint of the man’s height, but based on his face alone, Chace knew she would recognize him if she saw him. He was rectangular-faced, brown eyes, black hair cut short but well styled, with a strong jaw and a strong nose. Chace read him as more Russian than Uzbek, with no obvious Asian influence to his features.
“The next one is his son, Stepan,” Charles Riess said.
Chace pressed the button beside the screen, scrolling from one image to the next. Unlike the first one, the shot of the boy was of poor quality. The best Chace could tell from it was that Stepan was a toddler, with dark hair and dark eyes, and he owned a T-shirt with a happy bulldog printed on its front.
“Anything else?” Chace asked.
“Yeah, two others. Sevara and her heavy, Zahidov.”
The third headshot was of a beautiful young woman, her hair immaculately styled, her eyes almond-shaped and so green that Chace suspected contact lenses. In the picture, Sevara had her hands steepled, and her nails were long and lacquered a light tan. She wore jewelry, a necklace of precious stones, and earrings that matched. Unlike with her brother, Chace could see the Uzbek influence in her features.
“Same mother as her brother?”
“So we’ve been led to believe. Ruslan looks more like his father, obviously.”
Chace nodded, and scrolled to the last picture, the man named Zahidov. Like the pictures of Ruslan and Sevara, this one, too, was taken from a file shot, and was another headshot. Perhaps because Riess had described him as Sevara’s “heavy,” Chace had expected someone who appeared bigger and older, and it surprised her that the man she was looking at seemed to be no older than his early thirties, and, at least from his features, quite slight. His hair was brown, brushed back over a high forehead, and he wore glasses, and behind the lenses his eyes were brown as well. His mouth was small, his lips thin.
Chace looked at the picture of Zahidov for several seconds, then scrolled back, slowly, taking her time with each face, before handing the camera back to Riess.
“On the map.” Chace pointed to it on the desk behind Riess, and Riess turned in his chair to see what she meant. “Find Ruslan’s house and mark it. Mark Sevara’s as well, and this Zahidov fellow’s.”
Riess nodded and turned around in the seat. Chace took the complimentary hotel pen from the
