BooksBarbecue
Back The Asset
Chapters (86)
  1. Foreword
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. Afterword

She sipped her drink and watched the other people in the bar. Hotels like this had a certain type of clientele. Ordinary expense accounts wouldn’t cover it. These were people who owned things. Companies. Countries.

Her phone dinged and she shut her eyes before looking at it.

This was it. Personal time was over. It was time to earn her keep.

But when she looked at the phone it wasn’t her operator, but Ayaan. She looked at her watch and then decided to answer.

“What is it, Ayaan?”

“Someone was here.”

“What?”

“They asked for you.”

“What do you mean, asked for me?”

“She said you asked her to introduce you to someone. A man. At a bar.”

“She?”

“The woman.”

“What woman?”

“A woman came here. Someone like you. Nice clothes. Walked like she had a stick up her ass.”

“Who was she?”

“I don’t know, but she said she knew someone who got a mail box without ID and wanted to leave her a message.”

“What was the message?”

“It’s a bar around the corner. The Horse’s Head. Your date will be there at midnight.”

“My date?”

“Take your own messages from now on.”

“Ayaan,” she said but he hung up.

30

Igor stepped out of the elevator and tried to look relaxed. He liked to think he belonged on the top floor, but his heart was thumping in a way that said he didn’t. Not yet. He’d been there of course, for meetings, for assessments of his performance, but this was his first visit as an actual player.

An omen of things to come, he told himself.

Before him was a heavy wooden desk with a receptionist sitting at it. She was flanked by two guards, and behind her on the wall was a large portrait of the president. His mousy eyes follow Igor around the room.

“Direktor Aralov,” the receptionist said.

He noted her age, her attractiveness, no one worried up here about the girls getting diddled with.

The top floor had been designed by Stalin himself. Two floors had been combined into one, allowing for ceilings twice the usual height. It created a space like a ballroom, or the lobby of a grand hotel, rather than the maze of dingy corridors Igor usually inhabited.

“I’m here to see….”

“Direktor Timokhin,” the secretary said, finishing his sentence.

He nodded.

“If you’ll follow me,” she said, leading him down a wide corridor with a white marble floor.

Igor ran his tongue over his lips as he followed the girl, her hips swaying left to right as if her skirt was cinched too tightly at the knee.

To say the corridor was opulent was an understatement. Gold flagpoles extended from the walls, and inlaid wooden panels bearing the nation’s coat of arms decorated each set of double doors. They passed about ten of these doors before the secretary came to a halt.