Lord was driven to the Volkhov's main entrance in a police cruiser. The doorman let him inside without a word. Though his hotel identification was ruined, there was no need to show it. He was the only man of color staying there, instantly recognizable, though he was given a strange look at the tattered condition of his clothes.
The Volkhov was a pre-revolutionary hotel built in the early 1900s. It sat near the center of Moscow, northwest of the Kremlin and Red Square, the Bolshoi Theater diagonally across a busy square. During Soviet times the massive Lenin Museum and monument to Karl Marx had been in full view from the street-side rooms. Both were now gone. Thanks to a coalition of American and European investors, over the last decade the hotel had been restored to its former glory. The opulent lobby and lounges, with their murals and crystal chandeliers, conveyed a tsarist atmosphere of pomp and privilege. But the paintings on the walls-all from Russian artists-reflected capitalism because each was marked for sale. Likewise, the addition of a modern business center, health club, and indoor pool brought the old facility further into the new millennium.
He rushed straight to the main desk and inquired if Taylor Hayes was in his room. The clerk informed him that Hayes was in the business center. He debated whether or not he should change clothes first, but decided he could not wait. He bounded across the lobby and spotted Hayes through a glass wall, sitting before a computer terminal.
Hayes was one of four senior managing partners at Pridgen amp; Woodworth. The firm employed nearly two hundred lawyers, making it one of the largest legal factories in the southeastern United States. Some of the world's biggest insurers, banks, and corporations paid the firm monthly retainers. Its offices in downtown Atlanta dominated two floors of an elegant blue-tinted skyscraper.
Hayes possessed both a MBA and a law degree, his reputation that of a proficient practitioner in global economics and international law. He was blessed with a lean athletic body, and his maturity was reflected in brown hair streaked with gray. He was a regular on CNN as an on-camera commentator and cast a strong television presence, his gray-blue eyes flashing a personality Lord often thought a combination of showman, bully, and academician.
Rarely did his mentor appear in court, and even less frequently did he participate in weekly meetings among the four dozen lawyers-Lord included-who manned the firm's International Division. Lord had worked directly with Hayes several times, accompanying him to Europe and Canada, handling research and drafting chores delegated his way. Only in the past few weeks had they spent any prolonged time together, their relationship along the way evolving from "Mr. Hayes" to "Taylor."
Hayes stayed on the road, traveling at least three weeks every month, catering to the firm's wide array of international clients who didn't mind paying $450 an hour for their lawyer to make house calls. Twelve years before, when Lord joined the firm, Hayes had taken an instant liking to him. He later learned Hayes had specifically asked that he be assigned to International. Certainly an honors graduation from the University of Virginia Law School, a master's in Eastern European history from Emory University, and his language proficiency qualified him. Hayes started assigning him all over Europe, especially in the Eastern bloc. Pridgen amp; Woodworth represented a wide portfolio of clients heavily invested in the Czech Republic, Poland, Hungary, the Baltic states, and Russia. Satisfied clients meant a steady rise within the firm to senior associate-and soon, he hoped, junior partner. One day, maybe, he was going to be the head of International.
Provided, of course, he lived to see that day.
He yanked open the glass door to the business center and entered. Hayes peered up from the computer terminal. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Not here."
A dozen men dotted the room. His boss seemed to instantly understand and, without another word, they moved toward one of several lounges dotting the hotel's ground floor, this one adorned with an impressive stained-glass ceiling and pink marble fountain. Over the past few weeks its tables had become their official meeting place.
They slid into a booth.
Lord grabbed a waiter's attention and tapped his throat, the sign he wanted vodka. Actually, he needed vodka.
"Talk to me, Miles," Hayes said.
He told him what had happened. Everything. Including the comment he heard one of the gunmen utter and Inspector Orleg's speculation that the killing was directed at Bely and the Justice Ministry. Then he said, "Taylor, I think those guys were after me."
Hayes shook his head. "You don't know that. It could be you got a good look at their faces, and they decided to eliminate a witness. You just happened to be the only black guy around."
"There were hundreds of people on that street. Why single me out?"
"Because you were with Bely. That police inspector's right. It could have been a hit on Bely. They could have been watching all day, waiting for the right time. From the sound of it, I think it was."
"We don't know that."
"Miles, you just met Bely a couple of days ago. You don't know beans about him. People die around here all the time, for a variety of unnatural reasons."
Lord glanced down at the dark splotches on his clothes and thought again about AIDS. The waiter arrived with his drink. Hayes tossed the man a few rubles. Lord sucked a breath and gulped a long swallow, letting the fiery alcohol calm his nerves. He'd always liked Russian vodka. It truly was the best in the world. "I only hope to God he's HIV-negative. I'm still wearing his blood." He tabled the glass. "You think I ought to get out of the country?"
"You want to?"
"Shit, no. History is about to be made here. I don't want to cut and run. This is something I can tell my grandkids about. I was there when the tsar of all Russia was restored to the throne."
"Then don't go."
Another swig of vodka. "I also want to be around to see my grandchildren."
"How did you get away?"
"Ran like hell. It was strange, but I thought of my grandfather and 'coon hunting to keep me going."
A curious look came to Hayes's face.
"The sport of local rednecks back in the nineteen forties. Take a nigger out in the woods, let the dogs get a good whiff, then give him a thirty-minute head start." Another swallow of vodka. "Assholes never caught my granddaddy."
"You want me to arrange protection?" Hayes asked. "A bodyguard?"
"I think that'd be a good idea."
"I'd like to keep you here in Moscow. This could get real sticky, and I need you."
And Lord wanted to stay. So he kept telling himself Droopy and Cro-Magnon went after him because he saw them kill Bely. A witness, nothing more. That had to be it. What else could it be? "I left all my stuff in the archives. I thought I'd only be gone for a quick lunch."
"I'll call and have it brought over."
"No. I think I'll take a shower and go get it myself. I have more work to do anyway."
"Onto something?"
"Not really. Just tying up loose ends. I'll let you know if anything pans out. Work will take my mind off this."
"What about tomorrow? Can you still do the briefing?"
The waiter returned with a fresh vodka glass.
"Damn right."
Hayes smiled. "Now that's the attitude. I knew you were a tough sonovabitch."