Maelstrom

Chapter 21: A Golden Opportunity

This was not good. Actually, the situation had passed "not good" late last week and could now be said to be "quite bad." If DiMarco caught even a whisper of what was going on, I'd be back in Vice before the end of the month. If I were lucky.

This was ridiculous, I thought. I was blowing my big chance. I was going to be removed from this assignment, probably from the department, and had gotten next to nothing in the way of intel. I had to prove my worth to the team; I had to do something, find out something that might help OCCB before my assignment was terminated or imploded.

Alkaev's office. Of course, I thought. It was empty, he and his bodyguards were otherwise occupied, the club was busy enough that no one was hanging around in the back, and as far as Stefano or anyone else knew, I was either still up in the owner's box or on my break. I checked my watch. I should have a bit of time to poke around before I was missed, and I might not get another opportunity like this for a while. Or ever, if DiMarco got wise to Alkaev's interest and pulled me out.

I quickly fished my bare-bones lock-pick set out of the cosmetics bag in my backpack and stepped out into the hall. I could see the silhouette of Alkaev's bodyguard at the bottom of the stairs, but his focus was elsewhere, and I slipped around the corner easily.

Thankful for the lack of security cameras, I eased a couple of picks out of my case and expertly went to work on the office door. I heard the lock pop after only a few seconds and smiled. My stint as a drifter in Europe was a little more colorful than I normally let on, and I liked to keep my skills sharp. I tested the knob to make sure I'd gotten it, slipped the picks back into the case, and tossed the set through the door to the small mechanical room across the hall. I'd retrieve it later, since having the tools on me if I got caught would nix any plausible deniability. I slipped in and quietly closed the door behind me.

The windowless office was not what I'd expected. Dark red wallpaper and oriental rugs lent it boudoir feel, the plush surroundings begrudgingly illuminated by the reproduction stained glass Tiffany banker's lamp on the desk. The desk itself, tucked into the back left corner, was a heavily scrolled faux antique, with a throne-like dark green leather swivel chair squatting behind it. Two high-backed, overstuffed, gold velveteen upholstered chairs were planted at deliberately casual angles in front of the desk, and a pair of curio cabinets sat squarely against the back and left walls. Their empty shelves and the bare picture hooks on the walls to my right confirmed that the office had been decorated by the previous owner, and Alkaev had done nothing to personalize it to his own tastes. Somehow, I was relieved that the gaudy decor wasn't his.

I saw an open door leading to a small private powder room in the right front corner of the office, but the light inside was off and everything was quiet. No unexpected occupants. I was glad I wasn't going to have to try the "wrong turn" excuse with some member of the mobster's security team that I'd lost track of.

I quickly slipped to the desk, scanning its lightly scratched leather surface briefly. Aside from a laptop in the corner and the lamp, it was empty, nothing like the criminals' desks in the movies, which often contained revealing date books, incriminating documents, or detailed blueprints of their next evil master plan. Damn the digital age; it made plain old sleuthing so much less fun. Nancy Drew had probably never had a clean-desk problem. That woman had probably never encountered a villain's clean desk in her life. I tapped on the keyboard to wake up the computer, but it was apparently switched off. Damn that, too.

Drawers. I gave each ornate handle a sharp tug. The top right drawer held a few pens, a smartphone charging cord and battery pack, and a Jericho 941, probably loaded. The rest of the drawers were locked.

I was beginning to consider going back for my pick set when I heard voices outside the door. Ice water flooded my veins, and I scanned the room again in the vain hope that a second exit had gone unnoticed until now. At the sound of a key in the lock I abandoned my panicked search and dashed into the bathroom. It was the best I could do; hopefully the person unlocking the office door wasn't Alkaev coming in to pee. I left the powder room door open as I'd found it and stood immobile behind it, keeping my breaths shallow and silent.

"... and, as I said, much quieter," the Russian mobster was saying as he lead the way into the office. I shifted slightly to stand near the hinges, peering through the slim gap between the open door and the frame.

Morales followed him in, taking in every detail of the room, the bodyguard with the soul patch I had seen earlier stepping in after him.

"Please," Alkaev said. He held up a hand, halting the guard in his tracks. "You said you wanted privacy; your man can wait just outside with Mateo."

Even from my position behind his back, I could see that Morales was tense, coiled, and for a moment I thought he might refuse. He openly sized up Alkaev, taking in not only his physical size and obvious fitness, but his black, bespoke, European-cut suit, clean and pressed gray button-down shirt, smooth unblemished skin, and perfect hair. He seemed to make up his mind abruptly and jerked his head toward the door. The hired muscle turned without a word to take up a position outside the office doorway. Someone pulled the door shut, effectively quieting the pounding club music to barely perceptible thuds.

Alkaev walked around to the back of his desk, gesturing for Morales to have a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. I saw my modern-day Thor hesitate just an instant when it became clear that his guest was going to remain standing, but he slid smoothly into his seat as though nothing were amiss. God, I loved watching him move. I hoped this wouldn't be the last time I was alive to do it.

"Now, what's on your mind, Diego, or should I say, what's on Hector's mind?" he asked, his hands resting casually, but in plain sight, on the carved arms of the chair.

Morales's stance was deliberately casual, but I could sense his hostility, and Alkaev's quiet poise suggested he could, too. The shorter man began to pace, back and forth behind the large chairs, his eyes on the man behind the desk.

"Hector is not happy about this change in relationship with the cartel," he spat. "We have moved your product for years, and never had any problems with you, and now we find out you're coming to our town to push your shit yourself? Without asking? Without even talking to us 'bout what you plan to do, you think you're gonna just ... cut us off?" Morales made a slashing motion across his forearm. He was becoming increasingly agitated, working himself up.

"No one is cutting anyone off," Alkaev returned. His manner seemed to become even more relaxed as Morales got hyped up. He leaned back in his chair, fingers folded casually and resting on his tight abs as he watched the dealer pace faster across the floor. "Our relationship with the Castillo family has never been an exclusive one. We supply other organizations, and you buy product from other suppliers. Our decision to expand in this market changes nothing."

"The fuck it doesn't!" Morales stood behind one of the chairs and turned away from Alkaev, clutching his hair with one hand in apparent distress. But the other hand, I could see from my bathroom vantage, was reaching down the front of his pants, coming out with a snub-nosed 9mm. He spun to face Alkaev and extended his gun, holding it sideways and leveling it at the seated man's chest.