Jam stood waiting for them when they returned to Ma Soeur, tablet in hand. “The big guy in the alley is Marat Sharapov. He’s forty-one. Priors for assault. Seems like he’s a low-class enforcer for the Russian mafia.”
“Russian mafia?” Isabelle kicked off her heels, showing some leg as she pulled up the tight skirt. “Does that mean he is connected to the UN vote? The Norwegian prime minister forcing that vote on Russia?”
“Could be,” Jam ventured. She rubbed her eyes, her neck, then combed through her hair in a tired, slow motion. “But he’s not talking.” She looked from Isabelle to Andy. “Kate wants Isabelle to talk to him. To touch him. Maybe she can establish some connection to Arlene Hampton.”
“We’re talking to the bad guys now?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Jam shrugged. “Can we? Take Isabelle in to see Sharapov?”
Andy wanted to say no, that it had been enough for one day, but she couldn’t speak on Isabelle’s behalf. She turned to face her. Isabelle was wearing a wry smile and the same exhaustion Jam had on her face, her high heels dangling from her fingers.
“My, my, imagine this. Somebody finally asking me what I want to do,” she mocked them.
Andy ignored the sarcasm. “You can rest first. Sharapov can wait.” She looked at her watch. “It’s almost six. Have a cup of tea, eat something, and sleep an hour or two, if you want.”
Isabelle contemplated the suggestion, realizing that she feared falling asleep. She’d touched Arlene Hampton. Tonight’s dream would probably be similar to the one before, but far worse. More intense.
Best to do it all in one go.
She reached out to Andy. “I can talk to Sharapov. You’ll be there?”
Andy took her hand. “If that’s what you want, yes.”
* * *
Sharapov looked even bigger than what Isabelle remembered. Hulking, with an unkept beard, he was chewing on the inside of his mouth in what seemed a nervous gesture. Every now and then, he moved in his chair, trying to get more comfortable, groaning as he bumped his injured knee against the table. His arms were clasped around his body, a slight blueish tinge to his face. His black jacket had disappeared, the only protection against the cold his black trousers and a long-sleeved black T-shirt.
Round face, round fingers. Hands that could crush a watermelon. Feet the size of rowing boats.
Isabelle peered at him through the two-way mirror. They were in the basement of Ma Soeur, three floors below ground floor. It was cold, the thermostat on a ridiculous number. Isabelle had to squint to make sure she was reading it correctly.
“Bunt likes it that way,” Andy said. “Gave him a broken chair too. Apparently, there’s some loose screw sticking up Sharapov’s ass. And he refused to give him pain meds for his knee.”
Marc Bunt seemed to be Ma Soeur’s interrogator. He and René worked in tandem, Jam had explained on the way down here.
Marc was of average height and weight. A normal man who looked as if he should have a wife and 2.2 kids at home playing ball with a golden retriever. Raised by a single mother, he’d been with government in some form or the other since he was eighteen, Jam had explained vaguely. That is, up until the time he was taken hostage in Iran and left to die. Didn’t like government much when he came back.
Marc had greeted Andy as if he’d missed her. René had asked about Andy’s back.
Isabelle shifted her gaze to Andy. She knew now was not the time to argue but promised herself that there was no way she would ever again be left sitting in a restaurant when Andy went after the bad guys.
“You ready? I’ll go in with you,” Andy said.
“What happens if it doesn’t work?”
“Then it doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe none of this works. Touching Arlene, him. Maybe I’m a fraud. A wannabe.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Isabelle didn’t respond.
Andy placed her hand on Isabelle’s arm. “What you do is not an exact science. It isn’t math. And we all know and appreciate that.”
Isabelle gave a half-hearted laugh. “I would kill for a math exam right now. A nice, clean sheet of paper with only one possible correct answer.”
She looked up at Andy, still swathed in her black coat. “How accurate are the dreams? On average. Give me a number.”
“Eighty percent?”
She bit her bottom lip, then laughed. “Did you just pluck that out of the sky, Miss Bouchard?”
“Never.”
* * *
Isabelle’s breath spilled from her mouth in a white cloud and billowed into the gray interrogation room as if she were smoking. Gray walls, gray table, gray chairs.
Marat Sharapov looked up, surprise on his face. He didn’t expect her. Not a woman. And certainly not one of the women from the Greenwich café. The hint of hope on his face vanished when Andy followed Isabelle inside the musty room.
As Isabelle sat down, Andy went to stand behind Sharapov, leaning against the wall, an ominous presence that forced him to look over his shoulder to plot her exact position.
Isabelle shook her head slightly and indicated the door. Andy frowned, shrugged, and then did as she was told.
It felt good that she trusted her. Isabelle liked that.
“Marat. My name is Isabelle.” She reached across the table, as if to shake his hand.
He didn’t oblige.
“We are worried about Arlene Hampton, Marat. The woman you were following in Greenwich.”
His eyes narrowed at the mention of Arlene’s name.
“Why were you following her?” she asked.
Silence.
“You can tell me or you can tell them.” She gestured to Andy. The mirror behind her. “I think it would be considerably easier to talk to me.”
He crossed his arms and snorted. “Are you the good cop?”
His accent was less Russian than she expected, the guttural edges worn smooth by years spent underfoot another language. She would guess he’d been in the States for some time already.
“I’m not a cop.” She pointed to Andy. “She’s not a cop. None of us are cops.”
“Then why am I here?” He planted a huge fist on the table and pushed himself upward. “I’m leaving.”
He looked at the door. At Andy smiling at him. It was a dead, cold smile that gave Isabelle a chill. She could feel the warmth leave her body, the room’s deep-freeze temperature seeping into her feet, her bones. Her parka provided no protection to her feet, still clad in heels.
“Tell me why you want Arlene Hampton dead,” she asked. “Is it because of the vote she is trying to push through the United Nations?” She stood up as well, unclenching her hands that dreaded touching him. Dreaming him.
She walked around the table. Stopped. Then gave two steps forward. She heard Andy inch closer. She reached out and touched Marat’s arm, his black shirt thin under her fingers, his skin goose pimpled. She stared into his face, urging whatever lurked there closer to the surface, close enough to touch it through his skin. She wasn’t looking for information. She was looking for emotion, boiling to the surface unchecked.
“Why Arlene, of all people?” she said in a calm voice. “She’s a woman. Innocent. Powerless.”
He stared at her, as if mesmerized. She slipped her hand past his wrist, to the surprisingly soft, warm skin of his palm, her fingers lingering there.
He stumbled back, staring at her.
She took a step back. Another. She held on to the table.
Marat’s touch was different from Arlene’s earlier today. With him the promise of violence bubbled just below the surface, brooding in his blood.
“Who are you?” he called. He looked at Andy, something like fear on his face. “I’m not talking. Not to this woman. Not ever. Get her out of here.”
Andy stepped around Sharapov toward Isabelle. Isabelle steadied herself against the broad shoulders, resting her head against the thick black coat. She slipped her hands to the hips in front of her and exhaled slowly.
She heard Andy say, “You don’t have to talk to any of us. You’ve already told her everything she wanted to know.”
* * *
As they left, Jam pushed two access tags into her hand. “As requested.”
Andy looked at the two circular gray tags and hoped there was no biometric security they hadn’t spotted at Hampton’s building. “Thanks. Was it a pickpocket or a mugging?”
“A good, quiet lift. David’s fingers are still the best, especially for such a big guy. Hopefully, Gerri Hope will think she lost them somewhere. We need a little bit of time before she lets security know they’re gone, in case they cancel them.” Jam suppressed a yawn.
Andy squeezed her shoulder. “Go get some sleep. I’ll phone you when something happens.”