Location Alpha, where the Russian team had been holed up for the past three days, was on Platt and Gold streets in a moderately new high-rise condo with underground parking. Its location near South Street Seaport, north of Wall Street and the Financial District, was an upscale address. The Russians, understanding this, were well dressed when they were out and about. They were Spetsnaz professionals and knew how to blend in.
It was also within walking distance of Burnham Pike, so Dammerman and Hardy were on foot.
“Do you think this is for the best, you coming here in person?” Hardy asked.
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Dammerman demanded.
“You’re BP’s COO.”
“No shit.”
“You shouldn’t be seen hanging out with these scumbags. I hired them, it’s my job.”
The street was busy with traffic, a lot of people surging across at every corner, minding their own business. Even the street people, set up on cardboard mats close to the buildings—especially those with overhangs to help protect them from the rain, or snow in winter—minded their own business. Their hand-printed signs bore pleas like: Hungry. God bless for your help.
“Do you think anyone gives a shit, Butch?” Dammerman asked. “We’re terrorists, right?” he said, raising his voice. No one noticed them. “Really?”
Hardy shook his head. “Your call, Clyde.”
The building was 301 Gold, and inside they approached the concierge’s desk. “Mr. Anderson for John Dugan,” Hardy said.
“Are they expecting you, sir?” the man in a dark blue blazer and white shirt asked.
Dammerman wanted to reach across the desk and break the bastard’s neck. He didn’t like flunkies talking down to him.
“Yes, we’re associates,” Hardy said pleasantly.
The concierge made the call, and he nodded and hung up. “Thirty-one A, gentlemen. The first elevator on your left.”
Yuri Bykov, the group leader, dressed in sweatpants and a white T-shirt, was waiting at an open door a few feet down the hall, his left hand concealed behind his back. He was short, slightly built, unremarkable-looking, with thick dark hair, a narrow face, and startling black eyes. But he was smiling.
Dammerman, who’d been a boy of the streets, instinctively understood that Bykov was a killer. The man had the look.
“Do we have a problem?” Bykov said.
“No, just a slight change,” Dammerman said.
“Who the fuck are you?” the Russian asked. He brought his left hand around from behind his back, revealing a deadly looking pistol.
Dammerman started to respond, but Hardy held him off. “He’s my boss, the money man.”
Bykov hesitated.
“Without him, there’s no deal. Ponimayu?” Understand?
Bykov stared at Dammeran for a long beat, then nodded and lowered his pistol. “Da,” he said in Russian and turned back into the apartment.
Hardy followed first, Dammerman, now not so sure of himself, right behind.
The two-bedroom-with-study apartment was sparsely but well furnished, with great views south toward the East River. Three men, similarly dressed to Bykov, were playing poker at a table in the kitchen, at least a couple of thousand in one-hundred-dollar bills in the middle. Bykov’s hand was lying facedown.
They looked up. All of them were similar in appearance to the team leader; well groomed, closely shaved, prosperous-looking, with absolute confidence in their eyes and in their manner.
For the first time in his life, Dammerman felt outgunned; he was not in charge of the situation. It was like standing next to a half-million-volt power line; look, but don’t touch.
“You gentlemen are ready for tomorrow morning?” Hardy asked.
“We were ready two days ago,” Bykov said. “We’re ready now.”
“Do you want to go over the timetable with me?”
“Why?”
“It’d make us happy.”
“The diesel fuel and hydrogen canisters are packed in the panel van downstairs. Just before nine-thirty we’ll park it in front of three twenty-five, set the timer, and walk away.”
Three twenty-five was the number of the building that housed the NYSE’s backup computer, across the river in Union City, New Jersey.
One of the poker players laughed. “Boom,” he said.
In that moment, Dammerman was suddenly not intimidated by the four of them. They were boys, in his estimation. Highly trained with weapons and explosives and almost certainly hand-to-hand combat, but they were kids, experienced in only two things: how to kill people and blow up shit. But they had no finesse. They weren’t even Americans.
“We have another issue that we want you to take care of for us,” Dammerman said.
Bykov looked at him as if he were an idiot.
Dammerman nodded to Hardy, who took out an iPad. He brought up a picture of Cassy at her workstation. She was talking to Masters and had just turned to look back at her computer when Hardy had taken the picture from across the room. He held it out so Bykov and the others could see it.
“Her name is Cassy Levin,” Dammerman said. “She works for us, and she could be a problem.”
“A problem for whom?”
“For me, and therefore for you.”
“Explain,” Bykov said.
The other Russians were watching the interplay, faint smiles on their lips. Dammerman was the money man, so they couldn’t be openly contentious, but he was a civilian.
“She may have information that would be a hindrance,” Dammerman said.
“How so?”
“She has information about the four of you,” Dammerman lied. “Your photographs, your dossiers, even this location.”
One of the operators at the table pulled a pistol from the waistband of his sweatpants and started to rise, but Bykov held him off with a gesture. “How?”
“I don’t know. But except for her, you and this operation are secure.”
Bykov thought about it for a moment, then nodded. He turned and said something in rapid-fire Russian to the three at the table, who immediately started to rise.
“We’re leaving,” Bykov said.
“Five hundred thousand if you take care of the problem,” Dammerman said.
Bykov stopped.
“She’ll be leaving the Burnham Pike building at some point this morning, maybe for lunch.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’ll make it happen,” Dammerman said. “And when she leaves the building, she’ll be followed, and you’ll be told of her route.”
“And?”
“She’ll be carrying a file or files. Most likely a flash drive.”
“And?” Bykov said again.
“Take her off the street and get the flash drive.”
“And?” Bykov said for a third time, as if it were the only word in English he knew.
“Kill her or fuck her,” Dammerman said. “I don’t give a shit what you do first. But get the drive, and stay on schedule in the morning.”
“We’re not going to do it,” Bykov said.
“Bullshit.”
“We have some Russian mob friends in a place you call Brighton Beach. We’ll call two of them who are experts at this sort of thing.”
“When can they be here?”
“One hour.”
“Call them.”
“Two million for that, including our part,” Bykov said.
Dammerman only hesitated for a beat. “Done.”