The Betrayer (48 page)

She turned from Eighth Avenue onto Twenty-Third Street and spotted the long facade of brick, wrought-iron railings, and tall windows that was the Chelsea Hotel.

Glowing in the fog was a neon sign hanging from the seventh floor down to the fourth, still lit.

hotel
in large, vertical white letters, and below it, in smaller, horizontal red letters,
chelsea
.

A grainy haze around both words.

She could not see where Twenty-Third met Seventh at the eastern end of the long block, nor could she see the tops of the buildings surrounding her, but that didn‘t matter. If anything, the confining fog would help conceal those who would soon be there to back her up.

Johnny‘s father and Kirkland parked around the corner. Richter was on foot, waiting for his signal to approach.

All of them listening via the cell phone equipped with a hot mic.

Haley made a point of not looking up, because it was likely the Russian would be watching from his window to make sure that she was in fact alone. For some reason it took all she had to keep her eyes straight ahead. She also made a point, despite the dread and fear inside her, of walking quickly; she was, after all, a medic rushing to give an injured man aid.

Halfway down the block she crossed to the south side of the street and entered the hotel.

The lobby was narrow and small. A waiting area was just inside the door — a single couch flanked by two chairs, a marble-top coffee table with magazines. Beyond that stood the front desk, to the left of which was the only elevator.

It didn‘t face the out into the lobby, but rather the front desk.

To the right of the desk was the door to the stairs, and that also faced the desk, behind which was a man in his thirties, casually dressed and reading a newspaper.

The Chelsea was an old hotel, a city landmark, and behind the clerk was something Haley hadn‘t ever actually seen in a hotel: a grid of small, numbered cubicles for room keys. Most of the tiny cubicles still had keys in them.

Apparently, the Chelsea hadn‘t upgraded to electronic locks and key cards.

As Haley walked through the lobby, she saw a sign posted exactly where the waiting area ended and the front desk area began.

guests only beyond this point.

There was no way she could get to the elevator without first approaching the front desk. She would, in fact, have to pass within feet of it.

Maybe if she did so with authority, as if she belonged there, the man would not notice or stop her.

But the moment she thought that — the moment she had passed the sign and crossed into the front desk area — the clerk looked up from his reading.

Haley smiled at him. Demurely, coyly — I‘m here for an affair, please don‘t take a good look at me.

But the clerk stared at her. When she turned to her left, stepping to the elevator, she faced it squarely, putting her back to the man.

She pressed the button, not with the tip of her finger but with her knuckle so she wouldn‘t leave a print.

The button lit up.

“What room?” the man asked.

Haley gambled, said in French that she didn‘t speak English.

She hadn‘t turned to face the man, simply turned her head slightly and spoke over her shoulder.

The clerk replied immediately in fluent French, asking her again what room she was going to.

Haley gave the number, and the man put his paper down and stepped to a computer monitor, then asked for the name of the guest.

Kirkland had provided Haley with the fake name Fiermonte had used to register the room. He had paid for the room with stolen credit cards provided by his Russian associate.

She repeated the name.

The elevator door opened as the clerk scanned the monitor, and Haley stepped inside.

The man instructed her to hold the elevator, please.

She did so and waited for several long seconds, during which she took note of a single security camera mounted above the key cubicles.

Finally, the man confirmed the name, nodded, and said, “
Merci
.”

Haley let the elevator doors close and pressed the button for the seventh floor.

Only then did she realize that she had been holding her breath.

She released it.

As the elevator rose, she wondered how Richter, when the time came, would get past that man.

But she didn‘t need to cloud her mind with such concerns. She opened the shoulder bag that Martin had provided her. It contained everything she would need to treat a gunshot wound.

Among those supplies were several pairs of nonlatex gloves.

She took out one pair and pulled it on.

The elevator slowed, then stopped, and the doors slowly opened.

Haley stepped into a dark hallway.

Thick paint on the walls, a stairwell with wrought-iron railings and, once the elevator doors closed and the car descended, a cavernous silence.

She didn‘t have to go far to find the room. Knocking on the door, she realized that she was holding her breath again.

She let it out, breathed in, and heard from beyond the door, “Come in.”

With her gloved hand she turned the knob, swinging the door inward.

Stepping over the threshold, she saw the Russian standing with his back to the windows, facing her.

Wearing only a bath towel around his waist, a handgun fitted with a suppressor in his right hand.

Haley closed the door.

“Move to the middle of the room,” the Russian said.

Haley did. She quickly scanned the room to make sure they were alone, then looked at the Russian.

“Take off the bag and empty it.”

Haley didn‘t understand.

“Pour its contents on the floor.”

Haley removed the shoulder bag, then crouched down and turned it upside down, holding it by its bottom and shaking it.

The medical supplies landed in a pile on the wood floor.

Among them were a syringe in its sterile wrapper, bandages, surgical tape, several scalpels of various sizes, scissors, the remaining pairs of gloves, a container of rubbing alcohol.

And a small glass vial containing a clear liquid.

The Russian stepped closer to examine the items. Haley started to rise, but he told her to stay as she was. She lowered back into a crouch.

He was standing just feet from her now, his groin level with her face.

Haley knew this was no accident.

He lingered for a moment — long past the time it took him to examine the contents of the bag — then stepped back and told Haley to stand.

“Remove the jacket.”

“You really should let me treat you.”

“Remove the jacket.”

Haley took it off. The only thing hiding her distinctive tattoo now was the long sleeve of her dark cotton blouse.

She remembered suddenly what had been said to Johnny in the Bangkok guest room.

By one of the men who had come to harm her.

I will take her arm as a trophy.

“Toss the jacket to me,” the Russian said.

Haley did, and he caught it with his free hand.

But this simple maneuver caused him obvious pain.

Feeling the garment with one hand — squeezing it, then tossing and catching it again so he could squeeze another section — the Russian was, Haley knew, searching for some kind of listening device.

She thought of the cell phone in her jeans pocket.

Satisfied the jacket contained no such device, he dropped it to the floor.

“Unbutton the shirt and open the jeans.”

Haley‘s heart froze.

“I‘m here to help. You should just let me do my job.”

“Do what I tell you to do or I will kill you right now.”

Haley didn‘t move at first. The Russian stared at her.

But his stare, as terrifying as it was, had nothing on Richter McVicker‘s.

Finally, Haley began to unbutton her blouse. When she was done, she opened it, revealing the borrowed bra.

The Russian‘s eyes shifted to her breasts.

“Now the jeans,” he said.

Haley unfastened and unzipped her jeans.

She stood there, waiting.

The Russian stepped closer. “Pull the pants down.”

She slipped her thumbs into the waistband and worked her jeans past her hips, stopping when they reached her thighs. She was careful to keep the borrowed panties in place.

Not all her hair had been dyed black.

Would he see her red pubic hair and make the connection to the redhead in the surveillance photos he‘d been provided?

A shot of her and Johnny walking to work together
, Kirkland had said.

The Russian continued forward till he was just inches from her.

“Hold still,” he said.

With his free hand he felt the outside of her bra, skimming one breast, then the other. After that he slid the tips of his thick fingers under the fabric and felt the inside of each cup, the back of his fingers brushing each nipple.

Finally he searched her panties, running his hand over her crotch and buttocks before slipping his fingers inside.

She felt him touch her, felt him follow her pubic hair down to her sex, felt him part her labia and find her clitoris.

She looked him in the eye the entire time, thinking for some reason of the porn actress she had seen at Dickey‘s bar the night she and Johnny had closed up early.

Naked, listening to her director, her two male costars stroking themselves erect.

The Russian‘s hand lingered, and Haley said, “Are we done?”

“Not yet.”

She knew what was pending and closed her eyes.

His finger entered her, roughly.

She bore it without a sound.

The full length of his thick finger penetrated her. The Russian held it there for a moment, then withdrew it and took a step back.

Haley quickly pulled up her jeans, zipped them closed, then began buttoning up her blouse.

“Empty your pockets,” the Russian said.

Haley did as she was told. All she had on her was the cell phone Kirkland had given her.

“Place it on the bed.”

Haley stepped to the bed and laid the phone on it. The Russian waited till she had backed away before approaching it. He studied it for a moment.

Finally, he said, “I want you to call him. I want to hear his voice.”

“That won‘t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was wounded at the farmhouse. Shot through the throat. They left him to die, but he didn‘t. He‘s conscious but unable to speak.”

The Russian looked at her. It was obvious he was trying to decide whether or not to believe what she was telling him.

His boot prints went straight from the back of the house to the driveway
, Richter‘s men had reported.

The Russian hadn‘t entered the farmhouse, and therefore didn‘t know what it contained.

“We‘re hoping he‘ll be able to speak in a few days,” Haley said.

“What hospital is he at? I will call, confirm that he is there.”

“He‘s not in a hospital. By law gunshot wounds have to be reported to the police. Luckily, his private doctor‘s home wasn‘t very far away.”

“Take me there.”

“No. Those aren‘t my orders.”

The Russian clearly didn‘t like being disagreed with by a woman.

“What
are
your orders?”

“Treat you, so you‘re able to move.”

“Move where?”

“To a different hotel.”

The Russian shook his head. Stubbornly, defiantly. “No, I want you to take me to where he is. His doctor will treat me.”

“First of all, I don‘t know where his doctor lives. And second, I do what I‘m told to do. Do you want me to treat you or not?”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“He sends me a nurse?”

“I‘m a medic. And right now, I‘m all you have.”

He hesitated, sizing her up. She decided to do the same — for his benefit.

I know his weakness
, Kirkland had said while coaching her.

She scanned the Russian‘s near-naked body.

Olive skin. Thick, bulky muscles — massive capped shoulders and a broad chest, which was covered with several bruises. Strong but short arms and legs. Big hands, even bigger feet.

And the bath towel around his waist did little to hide the size of his manhood.

Again, for his benefit, she allowed — forced — her eyes linger there.

He took the bait.

“You will take me to the new hotel?” the Russian said.

“I need to treat you first. But yes.”

“And then what?”

She knew what he meant and told him what he wanted to hear.

“I‘m to stay with you. Your wounds must be kept clean. Dressings should be changed, and you‘ll need regular shots of antibiotics. When the time is right, I‘ll be told to take you to him.”

Haley could almost see the thought process at work behind his dark eyes. The weighing of the risks against the appeal of the scenario she was laying out.

That Kirkland had told her to lay out.

A few days in a hotel room with a beautiful woman.

He could not resist that.

And in his current condition, he could not afford to refuse medical treatment.

“Are you alone?” the Russian said.