She had never held a handgun before. How hard could it be, though? She knew which was the business end, and that was a start, wasn’t it? She knew that rap artists in music videos liked to hold their guns sideways, though she couldn’t imagine how that made any difference to a bullet’s trajectory. She had seen too many movies where a gun didn’t go off because someone didn’t know about the safety. Did the gun have a safety? Was it even loaded?
Dammit. It didn’t come with handy instructions printed on the handle, and she didn’t have time to read anyway. The truth is, she had no idea what would happen if she squeezed the trigger. Maybe nothing. Maybe it needed to be cocked or something. But maybe the guy had left it in point-and-shoot mode.
One or the other. Probably the gun would do her more harm than good. The guy in the polarized-glass helmet would hear her squeeze the trigger, and nothing would happen, and he’d take her out. She scampered to the end of the bank of shelves and watched as the helmeted man raced over in the electric cart.
Then the man surprised her, getting out of the cart, stepping behind a pillar and—where was he?
Half a minute passed; still no sign of the man. She curled up on the lower shelf, concealing herself as best she could, and simply listened.
Then she heard him, and slowly craned her head. Her stomach dropped: The man had found her. He was walking toward her slowly. She remained stock-still, feeling like a frog that did not know it had been spotted.
“Come to papa,” the man said, walking slowly toward her. He held a black plastic device; electricity arced from one end of it menacingly. Some sort of stun gun, or Taser. He tossed a pair of plastic handcuffs at her. “Here, you can put the cuffs on yourself. Make things easy for you.”
Andrea still didn’t move.
“I can see you, you know,” the visored man said almost playfully. “There’s nobody else here. Just you and me. And I’m not in any great rush.” The electric wand arced and sparked as he strode closer to her. With his other hand, he loosened his leather belt, began massaging his crotch. “Hey, baby. Boss says it’s all about the greatest pleasure.” He took a few steps closer to her. “Yo bitch, why don’t you maximize my pleasure today?”
She squeezed the trigger without thinking, was shocked at the loudness of the report. The man in the visor stopped walking, but he did not fall to the ground or make a noise. Had she missed?
She squeezed the trigger again, and again. The third round shattered the man’s face-shield, and he finally fell backward in a heap.
Andrea clambered down to the floor, standing on wobbling legs. She walked over to the man she had shot. She recognized him, recognized the bat-wing eyebrows, the blotchy skin. He was one of the men who had taken her from her car at the Research Triangle Park. We have kill clearance yet? A shudder ran through her entire body. Then she saw the lifeless eyes of the man at her feet, and she suddenly doubled over and retched, the hot acid contents of her stomach streaming from her mouth, splashing on the man’s face, and, when she saw what had happened, she retched again.
A beefy arm reached around the Estonian minister’s shoulders. “Andrus!” boomed an overly hearty voice. A heavyset, boisterous man with an unshaveable beard shadow. His breath had the anise smell of a popular Estonian schnapps. “Come meet Stephanie Berger. She’s from Polygram. Very interested in the prospects of setting up a studio in Tallinn. Perhaps a distribution center, even.” He addressed the deputy minister in English out of deference to his English-speaking interloper.
Andrus Pärt turned to Belknap with an apologetic look. “This is unfortunate. You should have told me you were visiting Estonia.”
“My colleagues, on the contrary, think it’s very fortunate. That I happened to be in Tallinn when the crisis arose. Fortunate for us, that is.” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps fortunate for you?”
The deputy minister gave him a curious, unsettled look. “I will be right back, Roger…”
“Delamain,” Belknap said.
He drifted toward a long table draped in white lace, where servants busily took and fulfilled beverage requests, but he kept Andrus Pärt in the corner of his eye. The deputy minister listened to the woman with head nods and flashes of porcelain teeth. He clasped the upper arm of the boisterous man—a businessman, no doubt, and probably one of the underwriters of the affair—and made we’ll-continue-this-conversation-soon gestures. But he did not circle back immediately, Belknap observed. Instead, reaching for a cell phone, he disappeared into an adjoining room. When he returned, a few minutes later, he was decidedly more upbeat than before.
“Roger Delamain,” he said, giving the name a French pronunciation. “Thank you for your patience.”
So he had made brief inquiries, had at least asked an aide to verify the name and its connection to the global security firm Grinnell International. “Either pronunciation is fine with me,” Belknap replied. “Among Anglophones, I pronounce it one way, and I knew you spoke English. Among French speakers, the French way. I’m highly adaptable, just like my company. Our clients have their own demands. If you’re protecting an oil refinery, one set of skills is required. If it’s a presidential palace, quite another face must be displayed. Alas, in a world with so much instability, we find our services in ever greater demand.”
“They say that eternal vigilance is the price of freedom.”
“That’s almost exactly what we told the Cuprex Mining Company when they woke up and found that their African copper mines were being threatened by a murderous insurrection led by the Lord’s Resistance Army. Eternal vigilance, and twelve million dollars plus direct expenses: That’s the price of freedom, on an annualized basis.”
“And a bargain, I’m sure.” The deputy minister grabbed a small canapé from a silver tray that seemed to float through the crowd.
“It’s why I wished to speak to you, to be candid. I speak to you informally, this is understood, yes? I do not come as a registered agent of any company.”
“We are standing together at a reception, eating small triangles of cured meat on toast. What could be more informal?”
“I knew we should get along,” Belknap said conspiratorially. “What we seek to fulfill is a substantial order for small arms.”
“Surely Grinnell has its regular supplier.” Pärt was scrutinizing the bait.
“Regular suppliers do not always suffice for irregular demands. There are some who say I am given to understatement. I like to think I am only precise. When I say ‘substantial,’ I mean…enough to equip five thousand men, and fully.”
The deputy minister blinked. “Our entire army consists of fifteen thousand men.”
“Then you see the problem.”
“And this is to protect, what—installations, mines?” Black brows knitted in frank disbelief.
Belknap returned his curious, penetrative gaze with a bland one. “Minister Pärt, if you ever entrust me with a secret, you should feel confident that I will never divulge it. I speak institutionally as well as personally. One cannot prosper in the security business without earning a reputation for trustworthiness and discretion. I understand that you have questions. I hope you will not think ill of me if I decline to answer them.”
The deputy minister gave him a hard stare, which softened after a few seconds into something like approval. “I wish I could train my fellow nationals in the virtue of discretion. Greatly to my regret, they are not all so tight-lipped as you, Roger.” His eyes darted around, making sure that no one could overhear, and then he prompted, “But you somehow supposed I could be of help.”
“I was given to understand that you might be able to facilitate the kind of arrangement we require. I need hardly say that it would surely be profitable for all concerned.”
Belknap recognized the quickness of greed in the deputy minister’s face; it seeped through his veins like a drug and hurried his speech. “You said it was a substantial order you required.”
“Substantial,” Belknap repeated. Andrus Pärt was seeking reas
surance about his kickback. “Which translates to substantial benefits and finder’s fees for the…matchmaker.”
“We are a small country, of course.” The man was testing him, tugging at the line.
“Small, yet rich in its customs, I had thought. If I am mistaken, if you do not have a vendor such as we seek, say so at once. We will look elsewhere. I should hate to waste your time.” Translation: Don’t waste mine.
The deputy minister waved to a tall, cadaverous dignitary across the room. He had spent too much time with the Grinnell director; it might become conspicuous, which would not do. “Roger, I do want to be of help. I do. Let me brood for a few minutes. We will talk again shortly.”
With that, the Estonian plunged into a crowd of chorus directors and music enthusiasts. Presently Belknap was able to hear Pärt’s voice exclaim, “A boxed set of highlights from the festival—what a marvelous idea!”
There was a rustling followed by admonitory hushing. On a raised, stepped platform on the far side of the room, the Empire State Chorus had assembled. Grinning from ear to ear, the baritones began snapping their fingers, and then singing. After a few bars, the room quieted enough to make them audible:
For nowhere in the world around
Can ever such a place be found
So well belov’d, from sense profound,
My native country dear!
Belknap felt a shoulder tap, and turned to find the deputy minister at his elbow.
“Our national anthem,” Pärt whispered with a fixed smile.
“You must be very proud,” Belknap replied.
Through gritted teeth, the minister reproved, “Don’t be unkind.”
“Not unkind, I hope. Merely impatient. Can we do business?” Belknap spoke in murmured tones.
The deputy minister nodded, then gestured with a head tilt to the room off the main hall. They would speak there, out of view.
“Forgive me,” the Estonian said in a low, confiding voice. “It’s all very sudden. And irregular.”
“As it has been for us,” Belknap said. The deputy minister was still being coy; it was time to ratchet up the pressure. “I seem to have caused you more inconvenience than I had intended. There are other avenues for us to explore, and perhaps we should do so. Thank you for your time.” A curt bow.
“You misunderstand,” Pärt said, with a shade of insistence but not panic. He understood that the Grinnell director was doing what all businessmen do: threatening to walk out in order to hasten matters to a conclusion. “I do wish to help. Indeed, I may be able to.”
“Your mastery of the subjunctive is admirable,” Belknap said in hushed reprimand. “I still fear that we waste each other’s time.” Now it is for you to win me back was the unspoken subtext.
“Earlier, Roger, you made a point about confidences and discretion. You observed that they are a mainstay of your business. Just so, caution is a mainstay of mine. You must indulge me in this respect. There may be occasions on which you are grateful of it.”
Drifting in from the banquet hall, in three-part harmony, came the words Forever may He bless and wield / O graciously all deeds of thine…
“Perhaps we will both need to compromise in our adherence to our cherished principles. You asked about our regular suppliers. I am sure a man of the world such as yourself understands that there can be upheavals in this business as in all others. No doubt you have heard reports of Khalil Ansari’s death.” He studied the Estonian’s expression as he pronounced the name. “No doubt you understand that established distribution networks can fall into disarray, while new ones establish themselves.”
Andrus Pärt looked uncomfortable; he knew enough about what Belknap was speaking about to realize that it was not an affair to be casually discussed—certainly not by a career politician like him. He needed to dig enough to be sure of his hunches; he did not wish to dig so far that his hands were soiled. Those would have been his calculations.
Belknap was weighing every word. “I know you are a man of taste. I am told that your country house in Paslepa is a thing of beauty.”
“It is a humble place, but my wife enjoys it.”
“Then perhaps she will enjoy it twice as much when you buy her a place that’s twice the size.”
A long, lingering look: This was a man pulled in different directions by avarice and uncertainty.
“Or perhaps not.” Another jerk on the fishing line, to set the hook: “I enjoyed my conversation with you immensely. But, again, perhaps it is time for me to look elsewhere. As you…cautioned me, Estonia is a very small country. I believe your message was that large fish seldom appear in small ponds.” Another curt bow, and this time Belknap really did walk toward the exit, where he heard the mass voices belt out This native country of mine!
A warm round of applause broke the silence, though it was muffled somewhat by the one-handed clapping from those holding glasses, napkins, canapés.
A hand on Belknap’s shoulder, a word whispered in his ear. “Estotek,” said the deputy minister. “On Ravala Puiestee.”
“I could have gotten that from directory assistance.”
“I assure you, the real nature of this entity is closely guarded indeed. I have your word that you will divulge it to no one.”
“But of course,” Belknap replied.
“The principal goes by the name Lanham.”
“An odd name for an Estonian.”
“But not so odd for an American.”
An American. Belknap’s eyes narrowed.
“I think you will find that your needs can be met,” Pärt went on. “We are a small pond. But some of our fish are sizable indeed.”
“Impressive,” Belknap said frostily. “This native country of yours. Shall I send Lanham your regards?”
The deputy minister looked suddenly uneasy. “The most intimate relationships are sometimes conducted at more than arm’s length,” he said. “Let me be clear. This isn’t someone I’ve ever met face-to-face.” He held himself stiffly, as if suppressing a shudder. “Nor do I care to.”
Chapter Eighteen
Tallinn’s business district was scarcely featured in the tourist brochures, yet many considered it to be the authentic heart of the city. The heart of the business district, in turn, was where the building where Estotek had its offices, a twenty-story erection sheathed in mirrored glass, was. A full mile outside the Old Town, it was just a block away from such contemporary landmarks as the Reval Olümpia and the Stockmann Shopping Center, not to mention the Coca-Cola Plaza Cinema and the neon-lit Hollywood Nightclub. The district was, in short, a city that looked like every other city, which was precisely what made businessmen feel at home. WiFi Internet access was beamed from eateries, hotel lobbies, and bars. We are modern, just like you was the message that was being transmitted, though with an edge of desperation that lessened its credibility. At this hour of night, the Bonnie and Clyde Nightclub—another peculiarity of Tallinn, Belknap noticed, was that the nightclubs actually, and doggedly, called themselves “nightclubs”—was still well lighted. Immediately adjoining the tallest hotel was an Audi and Volkswagen dealership: The locals were no doubt proud to have assembled the equivalent of a strip mall in the middle of their financial district.
The building was blocky and dark, each facade set in a white enameled facet of steel. It could have been airlifted into any one of five hundred cities and looked equally at home. Belknap got out of the taxi and wandered around on foot. In case anyone was watching, he made his gait slightly unsteady; he would look like a drunken businessman trying to remember which building his hotel was.
It was Gennady Chakvetadze who had found the address for him. Even in retirement, he retained his tendrils of influence, and made a few discreet phone calls to the municipal record keepers.
The real nature of this entity is closely guarded indeed, Arvo Pärt had said, and he had not exaggerated. Estotek, it emerged, was an Estonian corporation with an offshore charter; its registration records listed only its dom
estic assets, which were negligible. It was a firm that had no active operations and no significant holdings; it rented space on the tenth floor of an office tower in the business district, paid its registration fees in a timely manner, and was otherwise a phantom. A shell corporation, in short, configured in such a way that it was not required to disclose its subsidiary offshore business entities.
Belknap had been puzzled. “Don’t they at least have to list officers, principals?” he had asked Gennady.
The Russian sounded amused by the question. “In the civilized world, certainly. But in Estonia, the securities regulations and the financial codes were drafted by the oligarchs. This will amuse you: The listed principal is the name not of a person but of another company. Who’s the listed principal of that company? You may well ask. It’s Estotek. It’s like something out of M. C. Escher, yes? And in Estonia, it’s perfectly within the law.” The retired KGB man chortled. The crooked timber of humanity was, for him, a source of solace.
Now Belknap hunched up his jacket as a wind gusted through the glass and steel canyon that was downtown Tallinn. It was helpful that it was dark outside; mirrored glass became transparent at night. But an assessment of the building’s security was still difficult. Hooded closed-circuit video cameras were mounted at the corners of the lower part of the building, providing security guards with a view of the sidewalk and the mollusk-shaped parking garage that it shared with another office building. Yet what sort of measures had been implemented inside? One thing was certain: This night was his best chance to enter unobserved. By tomorrow, the deputy minister might well have communicated with his contacts at Estotek, have told them about the Grinnell director; if so, the chances were good that they would see through the ruse and be alerted. But the deputy minister would not do so now; he would be listening to tedious goodwill performances from the world’s finest choral groups. He would be squeezing hands and smiling. He would be fantasizing about his new country estate, and thinking about how he would explain it to his friends and associates.