Conviction

downtime. After a frustrating iPhone search, he finally located a nearby parking garage. He drove there, took the ticket from the automated kiosk, and found a dark, empty corner of the garage. He switched his iPhone to vibrate, then set the alarm, tucked it under his thigh, and went to sleep.

* * *

Some time later the iPhone buzzed against his leg, and it took him a few moments to realize it was not the alarm but an incoming text-message notification. He checked the screen. It was from Grim:

Team plane arriving early—2140 hours.

Fisher checked his watch. Twenty minutes early, he thought.

* * *

He was back at the parking lot outside the LUKOIL warehouse twenty minutes later. Two police cars were sitting in the parking lot, both with the lights flashing. As Fisher drove past, he glanced out his side window and saw four cops standing over a pair of men who lay spread-eagled on their bellies. Two blocks south Fisher turned right, found an empty spot near the curb, and pulled over and doused his headlights. The minutes ticked by, and the cop cars remained in the parking lot. Finally, at 9:20, the two suspects were hauled to their feet, stuffed into the backseat of one of the cars, and driven off. Fisher waited five more minutes, then returned to the lot. He grabbed the SC pistol and his lock-pick set from the Pelican case, got out, and trotted across the street to the alley. The only lights came from the main road, and after twenty feet of walking, these were blotted out by the bushes. Another twenty yards brought him within sight of the warehouse; it, too, was dark, save for a single security light over the rear neon blue door. Fisher stopped and crouched down to watch at the corner of a neighboring building.

Behind him he heard the soft squeal of car brakes. He glanced over his shoulder to see a police car slowing to a halt. Fisher took two quick steps, crabbing around the corner and missing the car’s spotlight by a half second. He pressed himself against the wall. Had he been seen? Ten seconds of silence passed. Then he heard the mechanical chunk of the car’s transmission being engaged. Moments later tires crunched on gravel. Fisher looked around. Down the wall to his left was a stoop leading to a door. Ahead and to his left, the door to the LUKOIL warehouse. Between them, an eight-foot brick wall. Fisher sprinted to it, jumped up, caught the edge with his fingertips, and chinned himself up. He then hooked his right foot and, using his arms for leverage, did a one-leg press until he was standing upright. The ledge was narrow, no more than six inches. Arms extended for balance, he tiptoed to the roofline and hopped up, then lay flat and went still.

Preceded by its headlights, the police car appeared in the alley. It stopped. The horn honked twice, then twice more. After ten seconds the door to the LUKOIL warehouse opened and Ivanov emerged. He waved to the police car, then walked over and leaned his elbows on the driver’s door and started talking to the occupants. Fisher could hear nothing of the conversation, but Ivanov’s body language was relaxed. A friendly check-in by the local police. They chatted for another five minutes, then Ivanov stepped back and gave the car’s roof a friendly pat as it backed down the alley out of sight. Ivanov walked back to the warehouse, opened the door with a key from a ring on his belt, and disappeared inside.

He checked his watch: 9:35. Hansen’s plane would be touching down in five minutes. They would have no bags and a rental car already arranged. How far from the airport to here? Fisher cursed himself for not checking. It couldn’t be more than twenty minutes, he decided, which put their arrival at roughly 10:20.

Fisher hopped back onto the wall, then to the ground, and trotted to the warehouse door. He was about to get out his pick set when he decided to try another approach. He pressed his ear to the door. He heard nothing. Using his fingernail, he scratched at the steel. Waited. Scratched again, this time more loudly.

On the other side of the door he heard a voice grumble something, a curse, then feet clicking on concrete. Fisher stepped left, against the hinge-side wall, and pulled the SC from his waistband. The door opened; Fisher lifted his palm, rested it against the steel. When he saw the crown of Ivanov’s head appear, he gave the door a shove and got a satisfying grunt in return. As Ivanov stumbled backward, Fisher came around the door and gave him a light heel kick to the chest, sending him sprawling. With a thump, Ivanov landed on his butt and stared up at Fisher. Even from ten feet Fisher could smell the alcohol on Ivanov’s breath.

“Hi, Adrik,” Fisher said pleasantly. He raised the SC level with Ivanov’s chest.

Ivanov blinked several times as though waking from a deep sleep, then muttered, “Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Is that you?”

“Yes.” Fisher backed up, snagged the doorknob with his left hand, and swung the door shut. He looked around. The warehouse was divided down the right side by twenty-foot-tall rack shelves filled with boxes and crates. On the left, a glassed-in office occupied the far third of the wall. Closest to Fisher, fifty-five-gallon drums labeled in both Cyrillic and English — cleaning solution, floor stripper, sweeping compound — sat stacked three high.

“Why did you kick me?” Ivanov asked.

“Just my way of saying hello.”

“You’re not still mad, are you, about that thing in Minsk?”

“No, not mad. It just put our relationship in a different light.”

“I’m sorry about that. I am. I had these guys after me—”

“I know. You can make it up to me, though.”

“Stop pointing that gun at me.”

“Are you going to behave?”

“Yes, of course.”

Fisher lowered the gun but didn’t put it away. He extended his left hand to Ivanov and helped him up. “What do you want?” the Russian said.

“You’re going to get some visitors in a little bit. I need you to do a little acting.”

“What kind of visitors?”

“The kind that hurt bad actors.”

“Ah, Sam, don’t—”

“Just play it like I tell you and nothing will happen to you.”

“Can’t I do something else? I have a sister in Karkiv—”

“Shut up, Adrik, and listen… ” When Fisher finished explaining what he wanted, he had Ivanov repeat it several times until he was satisfied. “One last thing,” Fisher said. “Friends or not, if you burn me I’ll shoot you dead. Do you believe me?”

“I believe you.”

30

While Ivanov sat in his office and sulked, Fisher found his perch, the second tier of the central rack shelf. He climbed up and rearranged boxes and crates until he had a blind from which he could see the whole warehouse. Aside from a blind spot to the right of the office, and one around the main door, he had clear fields of fire.

He settled down to wait.

* * *

Not bad, the logical part of Fisher’s brain thought twenty minutes later as the warehouse door swung open silently and Ben Hansen stepped through and to the right, SC pistol extended. They’d picked the lock without a sound. Right behind Hansen appeared Gillespie, then Valentina, Noboru, and finally Ames. On flat feet, Ames and Valentina rushed the office and swarmed Ivanov, who was on the floor with a gun to his head before he had a chance to open his mouth. Using hand signals, Hansen ordered Gillespie and the other three to search the warehouse. Once done, they gestured back, all clear, and Hansen called, “Clear. Okay, bring him out.”

Ames frog-marched Ivanov from the office and gave him a too-rough shove, sending him, belly first, to the concrete before Hansen. Ivanov tried to raise himself to the push-up position, but Ames stepped forward and rammed his heel into Ivanov’s butt, shoving him down again. Gillespie and Noboru each shot Ames an irritated glance.

“Enough, Ames,” Hansen ordered. “Leave him be.” Ames offered a smarmy grin. “Just trying to soften him up