The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [149]
"Whos the best dressed among us?" Provalov asked over the radio.
"You are, Comrade Lieutenant." His other two teams were attired as working-class people, and that wouldnt fly here. Half of the Prince Michael of Kievs clientele were foreigners, and you had to dress well around such people—the restaurant saw to that. Provalov jumped out half a block away and walked briskly to the canopied entrance. The doorman admitted him after a look—in the new Russia, clothing made the man more than in most European nations. He could have flashed his police ID, but that might not be a good move. Koniev/Suvorov might well have some of the restaurant staff reporting to him. That was when he had a flash of imagination. Provalov immediately entered the mens lavatory and pulled out his cellular phone.
"Hello?" a familiar voice said on picking up the receiver.
"Mishka?"
"Oleg?" Reilly asked. "What can I do for you?"
"Do you know a restaurant called the Prince Michael of Kiev?"
"Yeah, sure. Why?"
"I need your help. How quickly can you get here?" Provalov asked, knowing that Reilly lived only two kilometers away.
"Ten or fifteen minutes."
"Quickly, then. Ill be at the bar. Dress presentably," the militiaman added.
"Right," Reilly agreed, wondering how hed explain it to his wife, and wondering why hed had his quiet evening in front of the TV interrupted.
Provalov headed back to the bar, ordered a pepper vodka, and lit a cigarette. His quarry was seven seats away, also having a solitary drink, perhaps waiting for his table to become available. The restaurant was full. A string quartet was playing some Rimsky-Korsakov on the far side of the dining room. The restaurant was far above anything Provalov could afford as a regular part of his life. So, Koniev/Suvorov was well set financially. That was no particular surprise. A lot of ex—KGB officers were doing very well indeed in the economic system of the new Russia. They had worldly ways and knowledge that few of their fellow citizens could match. In a society known for its burgeoning corruption, they had a corner on the market, and a network of fellow-travelers to call upon, with whom they could, for various considerations, share their gains, ill-gotten or not.
Provalov had finished his first drink, and had motioned to the bartender for another when Reilly appeared.
"Oleg Gregoriyevich," the American said in greeting. He was no fool, the Russian militia lieutenant realized. The Americans Russian was manifestly American and overloud, a fine backward stealth for this environment. He was well dressed also, proclaiming his foreign origin to all who saw him.
"Mishka!" Provalov said in response, taking the Americans hand warmly and waving to the bartender.
"Okay, who we looking for?" the FBI agent asked more quietly.
"The gray suit, seven seats to my left."
"Got him," Reilly said at once. "Who is he?"
"He is currently under the name Koniev, Ivan Yurievich. In fact we believe him to be Suvorov, Klementi Ivanch."
"Aha," Reilly observed. "What else can you tell me?"
"We trailed him here. He used a simple but effective evasion method, but we have three cars tracking him, and we picked him right back up."
"Good one, Oleg," the FBI agent said. Inadequately trained and poorly equipped or not, Provalov was a no-shit copper. In the Bureau, hed be at least a supervisory special agent. Oleg had fine cop instincts. Tracking a KGB type around Moscow was no trivial exercise, like following a paranoid button-man in Queens. Reilly sipped his pepper vodka and turned sideways in his seat. On the far side of the subject was a dark-haired beauty wearing a slinky black dress. She looked like another of those expensive hookers to Reilly, and her shingle was out. Her dark eyes were surveying the room as thoroughly as his. The difference was that Reilly was a guy, and looking at a pretty girl—or seeming to—was not the least bit unusual. In fact, his eyes were locked not on the woman, but the man. Fiftyish,