Chavvaâs room. There was nobody there by that name. Then Jake described her in great detail. The man at the counter assured him that if someone like that was staying there, heâd know about it. Outstanding. She had said the Odessa Hotel. Why would she lie to him?
Jake left the Odessa and walked to the Chornoye Hotel, where he and MacCarty and Swanson were staying. It was nearly four, the time he was supposed to meet his boss and sidekick.
Checking the front desk for messages, there was only one from MacCarty saying the meeting at four was cancelled. He and Swanson had another conference they wanted to attend, hoping to wine and dine someone from Kiev afterwards. That was fine with Jake. He pocketed the note and went up to his room. It had been a long night and a long day and he figured he could use a quick nap before dinner.
8
Bill Swanson was a nervous man, fidgeting in the high-back wooden chair at the end of the bar. He had gotten a call from a man an hour ago, a contact he had talked to only twice by phone, and Swanson had agreed to meet him, as long as it was a public spot.
The Chornoye Morye Bar was only a block from his hotel, and he had told his boss, Maxwell MacCarty, he was hitting the sack early and would see him in the morning. MacCarty had no problem with that, since he was tired from all the lectures that day, and trying to negotiate a deal for a plant in Kiev. Swanson thought he should have done the same, considering his lack of sleep the night before following Tvchenkoâs death.
Having gone through two vodka Collins in the fifteen minutes he had waited for the man who had said heâd be there at eight oâclock, Swanson was getting nervous and impatient. He checked his watch again. It was ten after eight now.
The problem was he didnât even know what the man looked like. There was a man down the bar a few chairs, an older man who seemed like a daily fixture there, gruff and in dire need of a shave. Was it him? Doubtful. The man he had talked with sounded dignified, as if he were a businessman like him.
As he scanned the room again, he noticed there were only four other people in the place. Two younger men at one table holding hands across the table. Fucking queers, Swanson thought. The other two were about mid-forties and rather boisterous, speaking English. British accents. It couldnât be one of them. No. His contact was late.
That was fine. It gave him time to think. How would he deal with this man? He knew nothing about him, yet the proposition seemed too good to be true. The money had been waiting for him at the desk this morning, just as the man said it would after the first call. But what did he want now?
He ordered a third drink, and the bartender went to work on it in a slow, deliberate manner, something that would have gotten him fired in America.
âDonât turn around,â came a deep, husky voice behind him.
Swanson had his back to the bathroom entrance, and the only other chair at that end of the bar was against the wall by that door. The man must have been in there watching and waiting. Waiting for him to go to the bathroom, he thought. He shifted slightly and tried to see the man through the corner of his eye, but it was useless.
âWhat do you want?â Swanson asked.
âThe money wasnât for your good looks,â the man said.
Swansonâs drink came and he paid for it. The bartender asked the other man what he wanted. Nothing, was all he said, and the bartender went away with a disturbed look, as if he had seen a gun. Did the man have a gun?
âWell, what can I do for you?â Swanson asked, and then took a drink.
âTvchenko. You were talking with him after his lecture yesterday, and at the party last night before his untimely death. I want to know what you found so fascinating.â
How did this man know he had talked with Tvchenko? Had he attended the lecture? It was possible. There had been twenty or more men
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