The Seventh Floor (eBook)

2

SINGAPORE

In the moment, Sam Joseph did not dwell on the awful significance of Golikov’s words, the blood that was sure to be spilled, the lives that would soon be wrecked on their account. That was all for later.

He first had to memorize them. And his recall had to be perfect, precisely as the message had crossed Golikov’s lips. Sam was using his childhood bedroom as a memory palace, stashing each word, in order, into different colorful storage bins, the ones under the bed where he’d kept the Lego. But to commit the message to memory, he had to be certain he’d heard it. And even though Golikov was seated next to him at the baccarat table, he was having one hell of a time with that.

The two subminiature strontium-powered mics had—shocker—performed beautifully at Langley, only to malfunction upon arrival in Singapore. So he had no backup. The analyst’s profile on Golikov had indicated that he spoke English fluently. Not true. He’d been forced into a meet on a casino floor, the type of camera-clotted surveillance environment that was precisely the opposite of where you’d like to meet a Russian. And the casino floor plans used to choreograph this bren—a brief encounter—had specified that the high-limit baccarat rooms were tucked well off the casino floor, and were therefore, in the estimation of the cable he’d written, all but certain to be appropriately quiet. Also false. Wildly, maddeningly false. A bank of high-limit slots just off the bacc room was jangling with the subtlety of a suit of armor pitched down the stairs. And it was Friday, two a.m., at the Sands: the tables were cheek to cheek. This was the emulsifying, brain-swirling din favored by the casinos, and, because he considered casinos to be something of a second home, by Sam Joseph himself. At least when he was gaming on his own dime. But now the racket was endangering his op, to say nothing of the cameras, and there was precious little margin to exploit.

He asked Golikov to say it once more. This time the Russian’s tone was still abraded with the texture of sandpaper and broken glass, but the gruff English had thankfully slowed to an annoyed crawl. Sam smiled, as if the Russian had shared a joke, and then leaned away from Golikov to bank the message while examining his cards. He had ten thousand dollars of taxpayer money in the pot. On this matter, the warnings from DO Finance had been stern, if ultimately toothless: He was required to pay attention, and instructed to lose as little money as possible. Under the lip of the table, Sam’s left hand placed his key card, labeled with his room number, in the Russian’s lap. At the same moment his right hand tossed his cards to the dealer and he whispered: “Two hours.”

He wouldn’t have executed the pass if he’d thought he’d been made; but for a flickering moment, as the Russian deposited the card in his pocket, uncertainty overtook Sam, and he wondered if someone was watching.

Golikov bet player on the hand, and lost. He bent his cards and flung them across the felt lawn of the table and tossed back two healthy fingers of scotch. “Enough,” he said, his hand slicing the air. “Done.”

He tipped the dealer, patted his hands on the table, and stood. With friendly nods and good-luck wishes to Sam and the other players, he stalked off. Sam caught Golikov’s eyes bouncing around the room. Appropriately afraid, Sam thought. Mark in his favor. Only the worst mental cases—the sociopaths and megalomaniacs—didn’t sweat the treason.

Baccarat was not Sam’s game: it was all superstition, no skill. He’d already lost fifty thousand dollars of U.S. taxpayer money in sixteen minutes. The next few hands would put his remaining twenty thousand in play. In that instant, he was far more concerned with the Finance paperwork than he was with the implications of what Boris Golikov had just shared.

Over the next ten minutes Sam worked himself back up the hole: down a mere thirty thousand dollars. Then, with a stingy tip to the dealer, one he could justify operationally to the nags in Finance, he took his leave. He exited the high-limit room onto the main casino floor, an expansive atrium swelling with tables overhung by soaring gold sculptures, and humming with energy.

Sam scanned for obvious heavies or any compatriots from the Russian’s trade delegation, but it was so damn busy it was impossible to know if the opposition had him or Golikov made. And he didn’t think there was a way to change that. He bought a coffee and strolled through the casino. He made a few stops: bathroom, blackjack table for a few hands, one of the bars.

Nothing amiss—he was feeling good, despite what the Russian had told him. That still hadn’t sunk in, and, further, Sam was operational, ticking through a tightly scripted plan built with two goals in mind: Protect the agent, and collect the intel. Analyzing the intel was someone else’s job, and his mind was already overcrowded, running hot. There was space only for the air pressure of the moment, and what it meant for the weather of the op. Gin and tonic in hand—untouched—he went upstairs to his room, where he pitched the drink into the sink. The room service tray went into the hall; do not disturb sign on the knob; a napkin tucked under the door. In the brief seconds of indirect discussion they’d managed at the tables, Sam had proposed this as the safety signal. All clear. He shut the door, careful to keep the napkin in place, peeking out.

From a compartment hidden in the side of his suitcase, he removed a thin pouch lined with a material that resembled aluminum foil. Unzipping it, he thumbed the cash and set the pouch on the cabinet near the television. One hundred thousand dollars: the down payment authorized if the Russian’s information was gold. Wellspring of another war with Finance. On the coffee table he arranged a bottle of Russian Standard, two glasses, and a spread: olives, nuts, chips, popcorn. He tossed the pens and notebooks into the desk drawer. No notes during the session, CIA had decided. Might put Golikov over the edge. And if the Russian’s trying to sell us what I suspect, the Chief had said, guy’s gonna be pretty spooked already.

Sam settled in to wait, and he was bad at waiting. He knew it, and so had the Performance Review Board, though they’d written it up using slightly different words (struggles with impulse control). His foot was tapping the carpet at a solid clip. He had nearly picked the popcorn bowl clean, then he had finished it, setting the bowl in the closet, out of sight, to avoid the appearance that he’d started the meal before his guest. He took up a sentry position at the desk, where the food was well out of reach.

An hour later Sam stood upright at the click of the key card and the clack of the handle. Two men he did not recognize entered the room. They wore suits. Their eyes darted around, searching for threats: other people, weapons, items he might turn into weapons. They moved fluidly, like men who entered other people’s rooms with some regularity. Sam had edged back toward the desk, with its lampstand made of marble.

“Get out of my room,” Sam said, with another half step toward the lamp.

“You are Samuel Joseph,” the blond-haired one said in heavily accented English.

Not a question. But it answered Sam’s: They were Russians. He considered which man to start with. Both were about the same height and build. He scanned both sets of eyes, looking for weakness, and decided: the one with dark hair.

But the dark-haired man drew a pistol fitted with a suppressor and pointed it at Sam. “You move, I kill you. I no hesitate. Sit down, Samuel Joseph.”

Sam did, heart in his throat. They had doubtless used the room key he’d passed the Russian at the table. If they’d made Golikov, what did they need with him?

“Much vodka for one,” said the blond-haired guy, lifting the full bottle of Standard to nail the point. “For one American, I think too much.” He eased into the chair across from Sam. Still standing, the darkhaired guy moved behind him. He heard the zipper of his suitcase. The heaping of clothes and shoes across the floor.

“Drinking problem,” Sam said, twisting his neck for a look at what the guy was doing. He was greeted by the unfriendly end of the darkhaired guy’s pistol, which jerked: Turn around.

The blond-haired guy snapped his fingers. “You look here. Otherwise, mess you up.”

“I think you’re in the wrong room,” Sam said.

“Why you talk to Boris Golikov?” The second whir of a zipper meant the one with dark hair had found the money pouch. Sam watched Blondie’s eyes widen slightly, then his hand beckoned for the cash, which he flopped on the table. “This for Boris?”

“This is a casino,” Sam said. “It’s for gambling. And who the hell is Boris?”

“What Boris say to you at tables?”

“Who is Boris?” Sam said.

“Look, we not patient guys,” Blondie said. “You see us, you know. You work for CIA. Also we know this. And we know Boris wanna hava chat. Now, you sit by Boris tonight. We see this. And here’s thing. We gotta know what he say. Gotta know. You tell us what he say, tell us full, and we walk out, clean and dandy.” Here, hands were wiped together for emphasis. “But you play dumbass and we got some problems....