Istanbul as seeking manufacturers of Turkish cotton goods for sale in Europe. And the address given was a small downtown hotel.
Cal had copied down the information, pocketed the photograph of Abyss, laid an extra fifty bucks on the nervous official who accompanied him thankfully to the door, and headed for the hotel.
A word with the clerk on Reception and another fifty got him permission to search the guest lists for the past two months, but no Mr. Gerome had registered there. A few discreet questions confirmed that no one of his description had set foot through the hotel’s portals, and Cal knew he was back where he started.
Behind the tree-lined boulevards of modern Istanbul a labyrinth of narrow, medieval alleys crisscrossed the city’s hills, filled with tumbling wooden houses and dark mysterious courtyards. It was a city where, if he wished, a man could simply disappear from the face of the earth. Cal knew one thing was certain: Abyss would not be pursuing his trade. He would have been paid lavishly for cutting the Ivanoff emerald and the odds were he was now busy spending it on the best scotch whisky and happily drinking himself to death. He shrugged. Whichever, he had drawn a blank.
Now he was stuck in snowbound Geneva, and without either the emerald or a clue to its owner—old or new. His brooding gaze shifted to Solovsky, still drinking at the bar with his fellow Russians. There was definitely something different about Solovsky. It wasn’t just that he stood head and shoulders above his countrymen physically; there was a sort of old-Russian quality in his bearing and his manner. Confidence combined with courtesy, he decided—the essence of a diplomat. Solovsky turned suddenly and met his gaze. He nodded, unsmilingly acknowledging Cal’s presence, then turned back to the bar and ordered another round of vodka. They knew each other only slightly, though Cal figured he probably knew more about Solovsky than Solovsky knew about him.
Valentin Solovsky had been schooled all his life toward high political office and at the age of thirty-six had already begun to make a name for himself in the foreign service. He had held posts as press attache at his country’s embassy in Paris, as military attache in London, and his latest post was as cultural attache in Washington. Paris, London, Washington, Cal mused, finishing his glass of champagne. Nothing but the best for the son of top Politburo member Marshal Sergei Solovsky and the nephew of the KGB’s feared Boris Solovsky. Nepotism lived, even in the People’s Republic.
Valentin swung around, staring toward the door. Cal followed his gaze. Genie Reese stood hesitantly at the entrance to the bar. She looked beautiful, but moody and unsmiling.
Cal had met Genie Reese several times at White House press conferences and Washington parties. He knew she was a damned good reporter. She was bright, always well researched and unmanipulative with a story. And she was absolutely straight-arrow honest. She was also one of the most attractive members of the Washington press corps—a detail that he noticed had not escaped Valentin Solovsky.
He called out to her as she walked by on her way to a table by the snowy window. “Not thinking of drinking alone, are you, Genie?” He waved at the champagne in the ice bucket by his table. “Why don’t you join me?”
She hesitated, her blue eyes undecided, then she said curtly, “Sorry, I need to be on my own for a bit. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
“Haven’t we all,” Cal murmured, sinking back into his chair, watching as she took a seat at an empty table, shook back her mane of blond hair, and asked the waiter for a glass of fresh orange juice with ice. No booze? he thought, surprised. The work day was over and most other press persons would be hitting the bottle as if it were likely to dry up tomorrow—celebrating, like kids out of school. Genie Reese must have some
really serious
thinking to do.
He sighed as he
Cal had copied down the information, pocketed the photograph of Abyss, laid an extra fifty bucks on the nervous official who accompanied him thankfully to the door, and headed for the hotel.
A word with the clerk on Reception and another fifty got him permission to search the guest lists for the past two months, but no Mr. Gerome had registered there. A few discreet questions confirmed that no one of his description had set foot through the hotel’s portals, and Cal knew he was back where he started.
Behind the tree-lined boulevards of modern Istanbul a labyrinth of narrow, medieval alleys crisscrossed the city’s hills, filled with tumbling wooden houses and dark mysterious courtyards. It was a city where, if he wished, a man could simply disappear from the face of the earth. Cal knew one thing was certain: Abyss would not be pursuing his trade. He would have been paid lavishly for cutting the Ivanoff emerald and the odds were he was now busy spending it on the best scotch whisky and happily drinking himself to death. He shrugged. Whichever, he had drawn a blank.
Now he was stuck in snowbound Geneva, and without either the emerald or a clue to its owner—old or new. His brooding gaze shifted to Solovsky, still drinking at the bar with his fellow Russians. There was definitely something different about Solovsky. It wasn’t just that he stood head and shoulders above his countrymen physically; there was a sort of old-Russian quality in his bearing and his manner. Confidence combined with courtesy, he decided—the essence of a diplomat. Solovsky turned suddenly and met his gaze. He nodded, unsmilingly acknowledging Cal’s presence, then turned back to the bar and ordered another round of vodka. They knew each other only slightly, though Cal figured he probably knew more about Solovsky than Solovsky knew about him.
Valentin Solovsky had been schooled all his life toward high political office and at the age of thirty-six had already begun to make a name for himself in the foreign service. He had held posts as press attache at his country’s embassy in Paris, as military attache in London, and his latest post was as cultural attache in Washington. Paris, London, Washington, Cal mused, finishing his glass of champagne. Nothing but the best for the son of top Politburo member Marshal Sergei Solovsky and the nephew of the KGB’s feared Boris Solovsky. Nepotism lived, even in the People’s Republic.
Valentin swung around, staring toward the door. Cal followed his gaze. Genie Reese stood hesitantly at the entrance to the bar. She looked beautiful, but moody and unsmiling.
Cal had met Genie Reese several times at White House press conferences and Washington parties. He knew she was a damned good reporter. She was bright, always well researched and unmanipulative with a story. And she was absolutely straight-arrow honest. She was also one of the most attractive members of the Washington press corps—a detail that he noticed had not escaped Valentin Solovsky.
He called out to her as she walked by on her way to a table by the snowy window. “Not thinking of drinking alone, are you, Genie?” He waved at the champagne in the ice bucket by his table. “Why don’t you join me?”
She hesitated, her blue eyes undecided, then she said curtly, “Sorry, I need to be on my own for a bit. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
“Haven’t we all,” Cal murmured, sinking back into his chair, watching as she took a seat at an empty table, shook back her mane of blond hair, and asked the waiter for a glass of fresh orange juice with ice. No booze? he thought, surprised. The work day was over and most other press persons would be hitting the bottle as if it were likely to dry up tomorrow—celebrating, like kids out of school. Genie Reese must have some
really serious
thinking to do.
He sighed as he
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