Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [73]
“Misha Glinskaya,” Pauling shouted over the music’s din.
The manager frowned and narrowed his already narrow eyes.
“Glinskaya,” Pauling repeated, louder this time and hoping he had the pronunciation of the mafioso’s name right. “He’s waiting for me.”
The manager leaned close to one of the bouncers and said something into his ear. The heavyset man with the automatic weapon came down off the platform and motioned with his head for Pauling to follow. The bouncer didn’t bother trying to avoid the dancers. They gave him wide berth as he walked through them, Pauling close behind, until reaching a door manned by another AK-47-toting man, who stepped aside and allowed the bouncer to open it. Beyond the door was a large room with concrete-block walls, a high ceiling with black metal industrial beams, and no windows. Two men played pool; six others sat at a table playing cards. What Pauling especially noticed was the relative silence of the room compared with the clangorous pandemonium outside.
His eyes went to a couch on his left, along the wall. Seated on it was a young Russian man wearing a double-breasted white jacket, black slacks, a teal silk shirt with the top buttons undone, and black alligator loafers. Pauling noted he wasn’t wearing socks, like a trendy Beverly Hills or East Hampton yuppie. The man smiled and motioned for Pauling to join him.
“Pauling?” he said.
“Da. You’re Glinskaya?”
“Yes. Speak English, huh? I speak good English.”
“Fine.” Pauling took in the other men in the room. “Can we go somewhere a little more private?” he asked.
“We are fine here. My friend tells me you are seeking information.”
“Your friend would be the banker, Miziyano.”
“It is not important who my friend is. He tells me you are interested in buying some missiles.”
Pauling was taken aback for a moment, both because he hadn’t expected to be identified as a weapons buyer, and because the young Russian had said missiles as though he were talking about shoes or tennis racquets.
“He is wrong?”
“Maybe not. Actually, I’m interested in finding out about someone else who might have bought some missiles from you a while ago.”
As Glinskaya laughed, Pauling saw that the Russian had a false eye that never moved. “I am not in the business of selling missiles, Mr. Pauling. You have been given false information.”
“Then maybe you know somebody who might have sold missiles to this friend of mine.”
“I might. Would you care for a drink? Vodka?”
“No. Look, I don’t have much time to play word games, Mr. Glinskaya, and I don’t care whether you sell missiles or your mother does. I’m looking for information and I’m willing to pay for it.”
The Russian looked for a moment as though he might be offended at what Pauling said. But then he laughed and said, “Ah, the American way of doing business, aggressive—what is the term?—proactive, no time for a pleasant drink. It is not our way of doing business, Mr. Pauling.”
“Then we’ve both wasted our time,” Pauling said, standing and realizing two men from the card table had left the game and stood a few feet from either side of the couch. The bulges in their suits were not, Pauling knew, growths, although they were undoubtedly malignant.
“Your government is willing to pay a lot of money for the information, I am told.”
“Yes, a lot of money—for good information.”
Glinskaya calmly reached in the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small slip of paper, and handed it to Pauling. At first, all Pauling saw were a series of numbers. But then the meaning of them became only too evident. There were two sets of numbers, one preceded by Serial #, the other by Batch #