Anosov was at the front-door guard post talking with Dmitri Sorokin when his cell phone chimed. He answered it. “Yes.”
“It’s me,” Bykov said. “Can we talk?”
“Of course,” Anosov said, and he went into the dining room, where he eased back a corner of the heavy drapes and looked out the window. Nothing moved on the street, but he was a cautious man, and Bykov sounded like he was troubled about something.
“I got a call from the money man who wants the flash drive the woman or her partner carried out of the building where they worked.”
“Trust me, tovarich, she doesn’t have it.”
“I believe you, but what about the friend?”
“She was alone when we picked her off the street.”
“Da, but what about when you first spotted her?”
“She was alone.”
The phone was silent for a beat. “Think about this very hard, Leonid. These people have a lot of money and influence not only right here in New York, including Brighton Beach, but around the world. They could make a lot of trouble for us.”
This time Anosov hesitated.
“If the woman didn’t have the flash drive, it must mean her friend had it.”
“She could have tossed it.”
“Yes, but perhaps not,” Bykov pressed. “What about the friend?”
“Yeb vas, the son of a bitch was run over by a garbage truck on Broadway before we could get to him.”
“Any chance he survived and took off?”
“No,” Anosov said.
“Then his body would have been taken to the morgue. Send someone there and search his belongings.”
“I don’t even know the bastard’s name.”
“Find out,” Bykov said. “For all our sakes.” He hung up.