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 Tvchenko’s death.
Having gone through two vodka Collins in the fifteen minutes he had waited for the man who had said he’d be there at eight o’clock, Swanson was getting nervous and impatient. He checked his watch again. It was ten after eight now.
The problem was he didn’t 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 couldn’t 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.
“Don’t turn around,” 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.
“What do you want?” Swanson asked.
“The money wasn’t for your good looks,” the man said.
Swanson’s 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?
“Well, what can I do for you?” Swanson asked, and then took a drink.
“Tvchenko. 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.”
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 there, as well as four women. He racked his brain now trying to match the voice with those he had seen in the lecture, but he drew a blank.
“We talked about his work,” Swanson said. “I was interested in his recent research with pesticides. I figured if it worked so well on Ukrainian bugs, why not Oregon bugs?”
“And?”
“And what?” Swanson started to turn but was stopped by a stiff object against the side of his face. It could have been a cane or an umbrella, or maybe even a gun. “What are you doing?”
“I told you not to turn.”
Swanson swiveled his head back and took another sip of his drink. “Listen, I don’t know what in the hell you want.”
“You got the money?”
“Yes, of course. But I thought that was for what we had discussed earlier. Showing favoritism is one thing...”
“Shut up. Not so loud.”
Swanson hadn’t realized his voice had risen. “All right,” he whispered. “What can I do for you.”
“That’s more like it.” The man paused for a moment. “You have a man working for you. A Jake Adams. What does he know of all this?”
Swanson was wondering what “all this” was. “Adams knows Odessa. We had heard that the Ukraine was going through growing pains. Was a little wild. When we got our Visas the state department had warned us that businessmen had been murdered. He’s here for security.”
The man was silent, thinking about it. “What kind of background does he have?”
What was with this man’s interest in Jake? What the hell difference did it make. He and Jake had been at each other’s throats since they met. “Air Force intelligence, I guess. He used to work here.”
“That’s it?”
Swanson finished his drink. “Yes. As far as I know.”
“Why isn’t he here tonight with you? Protecting you.”
Swanson laughed. “I thought it was stupid to hire him in the first place. A waste of money.”
“Can I talk with him?” the man asked.
“Go right ahead.”
“Where’s he staying?”
“Same hotel as us. Across the hall. But—”
“I’ll get back with you.” The man stood up. “As I pass you, turn and head to the bathroom. Don’t come out for two minutes. Don’t try to look at me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but...” Swanson felt something across his back, so he rose quickly and went into the bathroom. He waited there for a good five minutes. When he came out, he talked with the bartender. Asked him what the man had looked like sitting next to him. The bartender thought he was nuts, but he described him carefully, as if he would never forget the man. Swanson felt good about that. He had outsmarted the man at his own game.