At twenty past eight that evening, Ned Mahoney used a key card we’d gotten from the head of security at the Mandarin Oriental hotel to unlock elevator access to the suites-only fourteenth floor.
The doors shut. My mind was still processing what the security chief had told us.
Kasimov and his entourage of four were occupying the Jefferson Suite: three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a stunning view of the Jefferson Memorial. The Russian businessman had evidently been sick for days with an intestinal bug. A concierge doctor had been making twice-daily calls to his suite, and he was up there now.
Ned, Bree, and I got off on the fourteenth floor. The carpet was lush, like walking on spongy wool, and the air was scented from flowers in a vase on a table opposite the elevator.
“I kind of like this,” Mahoney said. “The ambience.”
“Who wouldn’t?” I said.
Bree laughed and shook her head.
We found the door to the Jefferson Suite and saw that the light near the bell was red, indicating the inhabitants did not wish to be disturbed. Mahoney rang it anyway.
When there was no answer, he rang it again, and then a third time, until a man barked in a thick accent, “Go away.”
“FBI. Open up please,” Mahoney said, showing his credentials through the peephole.
The locks were thrown open and the door moved to reveal a shaved-headed man built like an Olympic weight lifter wearing a pair of bulging gray slacks and a blue dress shirt.
“What do want?” he asked in the same thick accent.
“Who are you, sir?” Mahoney said.
“Boris,” he said.
“We’d like to speak with Mr. Kasimov, Boris.”
“Impossible. He has medical issues. Contagious.”
“We’ll take the chance.”
“No,” Boris said, his eyes dully locked on ours. “He is weak. They’re giving him the IV liquids and drugs. What is this about? More lies?”
“Just a few questions about Senator Walker,” Bree said. “She’s dead.”
Behind Boris, at the other end of the entry hall, a handsome, tall, and athletically built man in his late thirties appeared. He wore a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap over dark wavy hair and carried a large shoulder bag.
“Dr. Winters?” a voice called weakly.
The man in the Cowboys cap stopped and looked back. Another man dressed like Boris appeared, pushing a wheelchair. Kasimov sat in the chair under a blanket. An IV line ran from a pouch on a pole into his arm. He looked like death warmed over.
“Yes, Mr. Kasimov?” the doctor said.
“You will return tomorrow?” the businessman said.
“Yes. But the change in medications should help you tonight.”
“Thank you,” the man behind Kasimov said.
Dr. Winters started toward us again. Mahoney called out, “Mr. Kasimov? I’m with the FBI. Could I have five minutes of your time?”
“I said he’s sick,” Boris said loudly.
Kasimov peered down the hall a moment, blinked slowly, and then said, “No, Boris, let them in. Let’s see what they’re trying to frame me for this time.”