Not-So-Secret

Chapter sixty-nine

"welcome to Las Vegas, Mr. Petrova."

"Thank you, Inspector. It's nice to be somewhere warm."

Alexei Karpov was at the U.S. Customs Office in Las Vegas. He smiled warmly despite his nervousness. His years of military service served him well, allowing him to present a casual demeanor at the final point of danger on his long journey, if they discovered what was in the aluminium case amid the junk furniture he'd bought in Kushiro, the game was most definitely over.

"Well, it's a dry heat, Mr. Petrova. Most people find it less bothersome than if it's muggy."

"I do not think I will ever get used to this level of air-conditioning."

"It's different if you have to work in the heat all day, believe me."

"I am sure it is, Inspector."

The man finished going through Karpov's paperwork and opened a drawer, withdrawing a handful of rubber stamps. He began imprinting the various documents.

"You realise we still have to take a look inside that crate, sir."

"Of course. Although in Long Beach, they told me it was a formality." They'd also stamped the documents in Long Beach. Bureaucracies were the same the world over.

"So it's all personal items totalling less than two thousand dollars?"

"Yes, sir."

"And where will you be taking it from here?"

Karpov pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and peered at it before handing it across the counter. "I will have someone pick it up as soon as it passes inspection. I have rented a small house."

The contrast between the two men could not have been more marked. Even in a Moscow-tailored suit with his tie loosened, Alexei Karpov's demeanour bore the mark of decades of undiluted military precision, while the inspector, although in uniform, appeared somehow unkempt. The former colonel resisted temptation to point out a button whose threads were giving way.

The inspector noted the address, a lower-rent area in the northeast area of Las Vegas. "You'll be living on Cincinnati?"

"If I were not staying for some time, I would not need any personal items."

The inspector looked over Karpov's passport (in the name of Niklaus Petrova of course) and noted several earlier visas to the United States. "I see you've been here before, Mr. Petrova."

"It is always a pleasure to visit the cradle of liberty."

The inspector smiled and Karpov was reminded of how gullible Americans were. Always easily distracted with the vaguest of compliments. So insecure about their country and it's place in the world. And yet so arrogant.

"What's the purpose of your visit?"

Karpov began to feel a twinge of irritation. He'd been through all this with Immigration and didn't feel the need to explain himself to every petty bureaucrat. Still he didn't want that crate to be inspected too carefully. He forced a smile. "I am consulting with Jones Industries on a project. A liaison with the Soviet government."

The other man whistled as his eyes widened. "Wow, Jones. Doesn't get much bigger than that."

"That is my understanding."

The shorter man handed Karpov's papers back to him, taking one last look at the shipping manifest.

"Well, it's getting late in the day, but we'll get over to Tiger Shipping at nine in the morning and try to get that cleared for you."

"I would be deeply grateful. Thank you, Inspector."

Alexei thrust his hand forward and the surprised Customs official shook it. Karpov resisted the temptation to squeeze until the man dropped to his knees. "I will see you in the morning, then."

"Well somebody will be there." The inspector returned to shuffling papers behind the counter as Karpov headed for the door.

A wal of heat hit him and he paused for a moment, letting the warmth and the airport bustle wash over him. On the other side of the building he could hear the familiar whine of jets and to the east the sound of a what did the Americans call it? a freeway, so much busier than the liveliest Russian highway, even Moscow at lunchtime. His cab was still waiting in front of the Customs office.

He strode to the vehicle and paused to give the driver time to open the door for him, but the man didn't budge and Karpov sighed as he climbed into the back seat.

"Gonna have to charge you for the wait, ya know?" the driver said around a was of gum.

"Of course. I need to go to this  address now, please. We'll only be there for a few minutes."  Karpov leaned forward and handed the tattered piece of paper with the Cincinnati address to the driver.

The man glanced at it, nodded, handed it back and shifted into gear.

Karpov rolled his window down, ignoring the driver's glare in the mirror. Alexei enjoyed the warm air blowing in his face.

The car worked its way across downtown towards the northeast. Karpov marveled the the casino lights were on even though the sun showed little sign of disappearing. About fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of a small one-story house.

"That's it," the driver said.

"Would you mind waiting for a few minutes?"

The cabbie looked dubious. "Look, man. I picked you up at the airport, I waited at Customs, I brought you here. For all I know, you ain't got a dime."

Karpov pulled out a silver money clip with a red-enameled star on it. He slipped a fifty-dollar bill out and handed it to the driver.

"Let me know when this is not enough," he said

"You got it, buddy," the man said, quickly stuffing the bill into his pocket.

Basking in the warmth, Karpov strolled to the front door of the small dwelling. A small box with a combination lock hung on the door latch and Karpov pulled another slip of paper from his pocket, noted the numbers, then bent to the lock box. When it opened, he removed the key and used it to open the door.

It swung open with a bang and he stepped into the vacant living room.

It was perfect.

He wandered around, looking at the other rooms, the small bedroom, the small bathroom, the miniscule kitchen.

Everywhere, his footsteps echoed from the walls and the musty smell of emptiness tickled his nostrils. He stepped once more into the front room and stood looking around, smiling.

Although barely larger than a Moscow luxury apartment, the house only had to be big enough for the crate to be carried in. Once inside, he would open it and remove the only thing of value and take it with him. Then, in a Very short time, with twenty-five million American dollars in cash, the man who had entered the country as Niklaus Petrova would disappear, leaving the mystery of the empty crate in the empty house to those who worried about such things.

That is if the Customs inspection went well.

And if he could survive Alan J. Jones.

All the former colonel's sense told him to be wary of the man and he'd taken every precaution. Jones would not know where the bomb was until the moment Karpov had the money. And the exchange would take place publicly. By the same token, he had refused the offer of a luxury suite at the Xanadu. Perhaps he'd retire to the Bahamas, Alexei thought. Certainly somewhere with kinder winters than either Russia or the Ukraine. With that amount of money, getting it out of the United States would be his only problem.

He walked out, carefully locked the door and walked down the sidewalk to the cab, pausing to look back once again.

"Thank you, driver," he said, opening the rear door. "To the Algiers, please."