Moscow: Wednesday, October 12, 1994
Daylight was fading on the late autumn day as Vasilevich made his way up from the subway and plodded the five blocks to his modest apartment in the Petrovka district.
The file clerk took the rattling elevator to the tenth floor, unlocked the heavy door, and began peeling off his coat. He momentarily wondered why there was no pleasant odor of shchi, his wife’s delicious cabbage soup, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed a tall stranger holding a handgun. More…
“I trust these ruffians didn’t harm you, Herr Bloomberg, and the bindings
aren’t too tight?”
The tall, well-dressed man projected civility, even benevolence. He was perhaps thirty and handsome in a craggy-faced, broad-shouldered, athletic sort of way. Unlike the cracked and dirty fingernails of the others, the smiling man’s nails were professionally manicured. Speaking in fluent German, he seemed sincerely apologetic that his prisoner, whose arms were securely bound to his leather armchair with clothesline, was being inconvenienced. More…
Excerpt of Chapter 2
Dr. Bruce Starkman was watching a mix of rain and sleet out the window of their suite at the Grand Geneva Resort in southern Wisconsin when he became aware of Sari standing nearby, smelling of Opium perfume and cigarettes. He turned slowly.
Standing before him in a form-fitting teddy was perhaps the sexiest social worker at Cook County Hospital—tall, trim, athletic, and with great legs. Short blonde hair framed a perfectly made-up oval face. The only faults Bruce could find with her were her smoking and a tendency to be outrageously flirtatious. More…