Chapter 51
Sokolov said nothing to me during the ride in the elevator, and I couldn't think of any small talk that would help the situation.
It was a short elevator ride, and then a short walk down one of the third-floor hallways to Suite 315. There were usually dozens of companies in a building like this, but—much to my chagrin—we passed no one else along the way.
Suite 315 was a barebones office space. There were three filing cabinets and two desks. Four vinyl-padded chairs. A table with two stacks of papers. I saw three closed doors. Any one of them might conceal a storage closet, a restroom, or additional office space.
There were no wall hangings, no ornamentation of any kind. I didn't see a fax machine, or a copier.
This didn't look like the office space of a real company, in other words.
Sokolov closed the main door of the suite behind us. It was deathly quiet.
“Okay, Mr. Herbert. Have a seat.” Sokolov indicated one of the chairs in which I was to sit. He took his place behind one of the desks.
I sat mutely. Over the past weekend, I had tackled and punched a man who had been stalking my daughter at a fairgrounds. I had threatened Donnie Brady with physical violence.
But sitting across the desk from Mr. Sokolov, I realized that I was in way, way over my head.
“So, Mr. Herbert, how can I help you?” he asked.
“I—I’ve been looking at your company’s purchase orders. I see that your company provides mass-production components to Thomas-Smithfield Electronics.”
Sokolov nodded. “Da. Yes, that is true.”
I scrambled to think of something—anything—to make this seem like a real business conversation, even though this wasn't a real business.
“And I was wondering: Where do you do your manufacturing?”
“‘Manufacturing’?” Sokolov asked. A problem with the English vocabulary, perhaps.
“Where do you manufacture things? Make things?”
“In Vladivostok, Novosibirsk, Nizhney Novgorod.”
“Those sound like cities in Russia,” I said stupidly.
“Yes. All cities in Russia.”
My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to say next. I started to say something else, then realized how patently fake what I had in mind would sound.
So I said nothing.
Sokolov was completely silent, though his eyes didn't leave mine. He let me squirm for what seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke.
“Now,” Sokolov said, “Why don't you tell me who you really are, and what you’re doing here?”
His words told me all I needed to know: I had been made, he had seen through my ruse.
“I—I’m Frank Herbert from Thomas-Smithfield Electronics,” I said. “I work in the purchasing department.”
“Really?” Sokolov smiled indulgently at me, a cat toying with a cornered mouse. “Could I see one of your business cards, please?”
I cursed myself. I hadn't thought out any of this. I did have some business cards in one of my pockets, but they indicated my correct name, Frank Joseph.
“I—I seem to have forgotten them.”
Another icy smile.
“Very well.” Sokolov glanced at his watch, as if recalling a half-forgotten engagement. “I would like to introduce you to my associate, Mr. Kuznetsov, if you please. Perhaps you would be willing to wait a short time while I go get him.”
Sokolov gestured to one of the three closed doors.
“I—I can always come back another time.”
Sokolov stood suddenly.
“No, no, Mr. Herbert. I want you to meet Mr. Kuznetsov while you're here, since you’ve gone to all this trouble.”
He walked around the desk, so that he was between me and the main door of the suite. I couldn't make a run for it. Not now.
Without letting me out of lunging distance, Sokolov opened the door he had indicated a moment ago. It was a small storage room. He flipped on a light switch. There was a single chair in the room, and shelves that held cardboard file boxes.
“Please wait in here. I’ll go to get Mr. Kuznetsov.”
“No, I really—”
Sokolov gripped my arm. His hand felt like a vice around my bicep. I started to step away, but he swept me into the room effortlessly. I was inside the storage room before I fully grasped that Sokolov intended to forcibly move me.
“Please wait,” he said, motioning to the chair. I stood there.
A final smile. Sokolov pulled the door closed behind him.
Chapter 52
I put my ear to the door of the storage room. I heard Sokolov leave through the main door of the suite, and shut the door behind him. Even through the door of the storage room, I could hear the click of the lock in the tumbler.
I waited a few seconds and tried the doorknob of the storage room. It was locked, as I had anticipated.
The doors and locks in commercial office suites are typically not heavy-duty. Their purpose is to discourage the casual, opportunistic larcenists, not the serious thieves. Nevertheless, Sokolov had spoken as if he would be returning shortly, as if his colleague, Mr. Kuznetsov, were just down the hall.
I had to work fast. Once there were two of them, I would have no chance of getting away.
There was what looked to be a closet within the storage room. I tried the door and it swung open. I looked around inside, at the hodgepodge of contents.
I was in luck: Among a pile of miscellaneous tools on the floor, I saw a crowbar.
That had been an oversight on Sokolov’s part, of course. But his decision to lock me in here had likely been no better thought-out than my decision to come here in the first place. Both had been spur-of-the-moment decisions.
I snatched the crowbar from the floor. I stuck one end of it between the doorframe and the room’s door. I placed the tip very close to the lock. Then I leaned into the crowbar, applying all of my weight.
Wood splintered as the door weakened. I leaned into it again. More splintering.
On the third attempt, the door came free with another loud splintering sound.
The next potential obstacle was the main door of the suite. I knew that Sokolov had locked it, but I didn't know if the door would be locked from the inside.
I twisted the doorknob. The door came open with a simple, non-destructive click.
I was out in the empty hallway now. Almost free.
Not quite. From down the hall I heard the sound of two men’s voices. I am no expert on languages, but I could tell that they were speaking Russian.
This meant that I couldn't risk going back the way I had come, down the main elevator and out through the lobby.
I ran in the opposite direction, hoping, praying for a stairwell. I wondered how many seconds I had until Sokolov and Kuznetsov discovered that their prisoner had broken free.
The hallway was L-shaped, and I had no choice but to turn to the left.
At the end of the hall was a metal doorway with the word “STAIRS”, and a depiction of a unisex stick person descending a staircase.
I threw open the door and ran down the concrete stairs. I was slowed down only by the multiple landings I had to navigate.
I stopped suddenly, holding my breath, when I heard the door above me—the one through which I had entered the stairwell—click open.
The same two male voices were speaking in Russian. I couldn't understand a word of Russian, but I didn't need to: They were talking about me.
I was reminded of my recent experience in the stairwell at Thomas-Smithfield, the lights being turned out on me.
They didn't turn out the lights, but they did call after me.
“Mr. Herbert? Are you down there?” I heard Sokolov shout.
I continued to hold my breath. If I heard them come down, I would make a run for it. It would be better, though, to convince them that I had found another way out—either down the elevator, or through another stairwell.
A few more words were exchanged in
Russian. The unmistakable sound of the door closing.
I didn't hear any footsteps coming down. I couldn't be sure, of course; but I believed that I had fooled them.
I made my way down the remaining stairs. At the bottom of the stairwell was another door.
I pushed it open. I was in the parking lot of the office complex, but a considerable distance from where I had parked.
They would be outside the building, looking for me, at any second—if they weren't already out here. I remembered where I had parked, and I was able to quickly orient myself in the parking lot.
I weaved between the other vehicles as I walked, waiting for a shout in Russian, waiting for one of them to tackle me, perhaps.
Or worse yet, a bullet. I had already surmised that Sokolov and Kuznetsov were some variety of Russian gangster.
Somehow I managed to get into my car, start the engine, and shift gears.
As I drove past the front entrance of the building, I saw the two Russian men walking out at a fast clip. I sped away, without knowing if they had spotted me.
Chapter 53
“Claire, it’s complicated,” I said into my phone.
It was around nine in the evening and I was alone in my apartment. I was just beginning to recover from my encounter with the two Russian men earlier that day.
Donnie and Bethany had glared at me all day. Neither of them had said anything to me, though. Their silence worried me far more than bluster or threats would have. I knew they were planning something, I just didn't know what.
I hadn't caught sight of Sid in the past few days, but I knew that he, too, was planning something.
But Claire’s sole concern was what had happened Saturday. I was working on her, filling in the details. I think she believed me. I told her about my interaction with the Russian gangsters.
“You should go to the police,” Claire insisted.
“I wish it were that simple. I told you: I’ve already been to the police. Until I have something solid, they won’t give me the time of day.”
“Frank, a man locked you in a closet today. Your boss waved a gun in your face. You were chased by two Russian gangsters. That’s pretty solid.”
I might have told her that after leaving that office complex today, I had almost gone directly to the police—again. But then I recalled my earlier conversation with Sergeant Burke.
If I had gone back to the police and told them about my confrontation with Sokolov and Kuznetsov, they would have had to investigate my claims. And then Sid and the people he was working with would throw up a wall of obfuscation. Sid would tell the police that I was an errant, disgruntled employee who was currently on disciplinary status. Anne Hull would back him up.
I assumed that Sokolov and Kuznetsov would have an alibi. They had rented office space, after all. They had cover stories. They would claim that I had stopped by uninvited and harassed them.
I couldn't fly solo on this indefinitely, though. There were too many parties colluding against me; and this was rapidly becoming dangerous.
But until I knew what they were doing, I didn't know what to report—or whom to report it to.
I was summarizing this for Claire, when I heard the sound of a horn blaring outside my apartment.
Three short honks, followed by a long one. Then another honk. More honks.
Someone was trying to get my attention.
“Claire,” I said, “we’re going to have to continue this conversation later. I think I have company.”
Chapter 54
I cautiously opened my front door, but not before I retrieved one of my golf clubs. I figured this was Donnie, coming back for the inevitable rematch. I had not only threatened him the previous Saturday, I had humiliated him in front of Bethany. He wouldn't let that slide.
And hadn't he already paid me one such nocturnal visit?
When I went outside, I expected to see headlights in one of the near parking spots. Instead, I saw a car slowly circling an island of parked cars.
The vehicle was a dark-colored sedan, possibly an Acura or a Mercedes, something expensive. It was too dark for me to accurately make out the make, model, or the exact color.
What kind of vehicle did Donnie Brady drive? Not that kind of car, I speculated. Donnie wasn't an Acura or a Mercedes kind of guy.
I walked out into the parking lot, the golf club in one hand. I was nervous. This was not going to be a simple rematch with Donnie.
I was no longer afraid of Donnie. I had successfully confronted him on two occasions. But the two men I had tangled with today—they were another matter. They were out of my league.
The dark-colored sedan rounded the island of cars. The headlights were directly on me now. They became a magnitude brighter.
High beams.
I heard the revving of the engine as the vehicle suddenly accelerated. They were going to run me down, whoever they were.
I moved frantically to get out of the way. I could see the chrome grill of the speeding car, but nothing else.
I tripped over something—it was one of those concrete wheel stops placed at the front of every parking space that abuts a sidewalk or pedestrian area.
I was unprepared for the fall. My arms windmilled wildly. The golf club went flying. I fell onto the adjacent sidewalk with the momentum of a running tumble. My right hip and elbow hit the hard surface. I knew that I was going to have some serious bruising.
And that was the least of my problems.
The headlights were on top of me now, a few yards out into the parking lot.
The front passenger door of the black sedan opened.
Sokolov stepped out. He was wearing the same suit he had been wearing at lunch time, and a dark overcoat.
Somehow, they had found me. But it wasn't too hard to piece together. All it would have taken was a call to Sid, then an emailed photo from the company directory. The Russians and Sid would have been able to confirm my identity in less time than it takes to order a pizza.
“Mr. Joseph,” Sokolov said with false amiability. “Or should I say, ‘Mr. Herbert’?”
I was hurting, but I started to get up. Sokolov stepped forward and pushed me down with the sole of his shoe. My back slammed against the pavement. More bruises.
“I don’t know what game you were playing, today, Mr. Joseph. But you made a big mistake. You should have stayed in your cubicle—at your job, where you belong.”
I remembered what Donnie had said that night: Donnie had told me that neither he nor Sid were among the ones I should truly be afraid of. At the time, the comment had struck me as odd but not particularly significant. But Donnie had been alluding to these Russians.
Without warning, Sokolov gave me a swift kick in the ribs. I cried aloud.
He knelt down, and showed me an object in his gloved hand. A small pistol.
“I have no idea what you thought you were doing today, Mr. Joseph. Did you think this is a game? Do you still think so? It would be so easy for you to disappear.”
He pointed the pistol at me. Directly at my forehead.
“Please,” I said. “Don’t.”
I was scared, and angry. This thug had reduced me to begging for my life. I had done nothing wrong, but I was the one begging for mercy.
Sokolov held the gun a few inches from my face. I looked into the bore.
“Don’t cause us any more inconvenience, Mr. Joseph. We didn't plan for anyone to get hurt in this operation. This is peaceful—” He searched for a particular English word. “Pacifist, even.” He laughed at his own witticism. “You see? But if you push us, we will not hesitate to—”
He waved the gun, tapped my temple with it. The metal barrel was hard and cold.
I was able to fill in the blanks. The Russian wasn't showing me any compassion. He would have gladly killed me in a heartbeat. But my murder would be an escalation, and therefore, a complication. Murders draw attention. If people started dying, there would be police investigations at various levels. Whatever they were
doing, with the Jones Company, the Peters Company, and the others, would be exposed.
And in that instant, I believed that I had finally figured the entire thing out: It was obvious, wasn't it? The shell companies. The bogus purchase orders, the Russians.
An elaborate embezzlement scheme.
But how had Donnie and Bethany gotten involved in something so sophisticated and dangerous? And what was Sid’s motivation? It still made no sense.
Sokolov stood. “Final warning,” he said.
I was hoping that he would let me go now.
He didn’t. He gave me a second kick in the ribs before he walked back to the idling sedan, presumably driven by Mr. Kuznetsov.
Chapter 55
When I went to work the next morning, my body was a bundle of aches and pains. Toweling off in the bathroom after my shower, I had made the mistake of looking at my flank on the side where Sokolov had kicked me. It was ghastly to look at: a mass of dark purple that would linger for weeks.
The good news was that Sokolov hadn't broken anything. The bad news was that he had banged me up very, very badly. (I was also bruised and scuffed from my initial fall.) And as the Russian had said, they wouldn't stop at eliminating me, if that’s what circumstances required.
My two encounters with Sokolov had given me a deeper insight into the nature of what Sid and the others were likely involved in. I also now believed, beyond the shred of a reasonable doubt, that the “Ellen” of the conversation I originally overheard was Ellen Trevor, of the accounting department. The Brown-Eyed Girl. I would approach her today. There was no time to waste.
When I arrived at my desk and booted up my computer, however, I found that Anne Hull had other plans.
There was an 8:15 a.m. meeting invitation in my Lotus Notes inbox from the HR manager. It was flagged “confidential”, so that while it would show up on my electronic schedule, no one who was not explicitly made privy to the meeting would be able to decipher its contents.
I also saw that Sid Harper was invited to the meeting.
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