asshole.”
Court flipped the transmitter on, but as soon as he looked back up he saw a pair of black Range Rovers pulling up in front of the Red Lion Club. Court’s eyebrows furrowed as a three-man security team exited the chase vehicle, and a single young, fit man climbed out of the front passenger seat of the first Rover and opened the back door.
A man in his sixties exited the vehicle; he was heavy with a mostly bald head and an expensive-looking suit. He headed up the steps and through the front door of the Red Lion Club with three of his body men staying close to him the entire time.
Court said, “Is that bald-headed dude a member?”
“No,” Fitzroy said. “But I recognize him. That ‘bald-headed dude,’ as you put it, is on the list you showed me.”
“The list of Russians? I thought you said your club didn’t let Russian gangsters in.”
“Yes, well, this bloke isn’t a gangster. That’s Vladimir Belyakov, the oligarch. Owns a football club, department stores; hell, he owns as much land as the queen.”
Court looked back over his shoulder in astonishment. “Really?”
Fitzroy snickered. “An exaggeration, lad. The point is, he’s got the money to walk in any door in this dirty city he wants to walk in. He’s not a member of the Red Lion, but I’ve seen him there a time or two.”
Court reached down and turned the volume up on the receiver app on the laptop. Almost immediately he and Fitzroy, who had his own Bluetooth earpiece in, listened to the squeak of a heavy door straining on its hinges, then the sound of the door shutting.
“The room’s been swept?” a Russian-accented voice asked.
The response came in British-accented English. “Just did it. Let me pour you some tea.”
“I don’t want tea. I want to know what happened.”
“Dead bodies all over my office. That’s what happened. The police are swarmin’ the bloody place now.”
“What might they find as they look around, Terry?”
“My safe was broken into.”
“Your safe? What would someone possibly be looking for in your safe?”
Court detected a tone from the Russian that indicated he was aware of more than he was letting on.
Cassidy hesitated. “After I got the call about the gunfight from building security, I managed to get in and take out all the incriminating evidence left behind before the cops arrived.”
“All the evidence left behind. You are saying there was something missing.”
“Yes,” Cassidy said, after a moment’s delay. “The computer with the client data. It was well protected, but the bloody thing is gone. It’s got your name in there, Vladi.”
Even through the audio Court could tell that Belyakov already had this information. He seemed completely unfazed when he said, “That is extremely unfortunate for you, because I was a good client, whom you have now forever lost.”
Cassidy said, “Wait. I just—”
Belyakov kept talking. “Still, I’m not worried about myself. What does the information prove? That I have offshores? People would think me mad if I didn’t, and I can move the money from my foreign banks into new accounts by the end of the day, certainly before anyone can access them and clean me out. So don’t worry about me, Terry. I’m not your biggest problem.
“Your biggest problem, however, is the other names on the list. I know who some of your other clients are, and they are the types who express their displeasure . . . harshly.”
Cassidy did not respond to this. Court imagined the man squirming as he thought about the names from the Russian mob tied to account numbers, all information now in the hands of the CIA.
Belyakov said, “The Bratva will come for you, Terry. You must know this.”
Apparently, he did not, because he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. I am just a solicitor. A middleman. I was robbed, not my bleedin’ fault. I just need to get the iPad back and then that will put everything right.”
Belyakov laughed loudly over the microphones hidden in the room. “If you didn’t keep that file as a security blanket you wouldn’t be in this fix, and you wouldn’t have the Bratva after you.”
“Look,” Cassidy said. “You could reach out to your . . . our . . . friend.”
“For what purpose?”
“He has influence over the Bratva. He can calm them down. And if he can’t, he has all the protection I need. You know he could get a dozen guns around me in an hour. The real deal. He has connections in Moscow. Hell, he could probably get Spetsnaz