Top Secret Twenty-One: A Stephanie Plum Novel(49)

“My associate tells me you had an unfortunate experience at our consulate two nights ago,” Sergei said to me.

“I came with one of the men who was here for the trade show. It was a nice party, but I went to the ladies’ room down the hall, and when I came out a man I had never seen before jumped out at me and held me at knifepoint. He put his hand on my breast and said that if I didn’t cooperate he’d kill me. I tried to get away, and he slashed at me with his knife.”

I took my bra and shirt out of my bag and made sure Sergei could see that my hands were trembling. Truth is, it wasn’t hard, because I was close to hyperventilating sitting in this guy’s office, trying to pull this off.

“I brought my clothes to show you,” I said. “I was lucky I wasn’t badly hurt. Some people came out of the party room just as he went after me with the knife, and he ran away. I was so scared that I left the building without even saying goodbye to my date.”

Sergei shook his head at the sliced shirt. “This is terrible. Have you gone to the police?”

“Yes, and they said I should come to you about it. I didn’t want to come alone, so I brought my friend Randy Briggs. He’s also a lawyer, and he’s advising me on the matter. I think someone should find this man. And someone should at least pay for me to get a new blouse.”

At the mention of his name, Briggs craned his neck up so he could look over the edge of the desk.

“Was this man with the trade delegates or the consulate?” Sergei asked.

“I don’t think he was with the trade delegates, because I didn’t see him at the party. He spoke English with a slight British accent. He had an odd tattoo on his neck and a patch over one eye. I would definitely know him if I saw a photo.”

Sergei hit a speed dial button on his desk phone, and a woman answered on speakerphone.

“I’m looking for a man with a patch over one eye who might be associated with the Russian vodka trade show or with this consulate,” Sergei said to the woman.

“Viktor Volkov wears a patch over his eye,” she said. “He’s a representative of the Russian Ministry of Industry and Trade. He was sent here from our Miami office for the vodka trade show taking place in Atlantic City.”

“I’d like to see his dossier.”

He disconnected from his call and turned back to me.

“Ordinarily I myself would have welcomed our vodka makers at that party,” Sergei said, “but we have a very important general arriving, and I had to personally see to his accommodations. He’ll be speaking at the international trade show in Atlantic City. He travels with several aides and much security, and we had to take over an entire floor of the hotel.”

A very competent looking woman with short brown hair and a pleasant, makeup-free face knocked once on the open door and walked into the office with the dossier. She handed it to Sergei and left without a word.

Sergei read through the file, found the photo, and showed it to me. “Is this the man?”

“Yes!”

I clapped a hand over my mouth and gave my best shot at looking horrified and terrified, and to my credit I think I might have even gotten a little teary.

“I can assure you we’ll look into this,” Sergei said.

“Yeah, but what about her blouse?” Briggs said. “Who’s going to pay for the blouse?”

“I’m not actually authorized to reimburse her,” Sergei said, “but when we conclude our investigation I might be able to recommend some compensation.”

Briggs cupped his ear. “What?” He looked at me. “What did he say? Did he say something about condensation?”

“He has a temporary hearing loss,” I said to Sergei.

“Yeah,” Briggs said. “Someone blew up my car, and I was standing too close.”

“It was a political act,” I said to Sergei. “I’m sure you understand about these things.”

“So what about the blouse?” Briggs said. “There was no condensation on it. Just handprints. And my good friend and client here has a big scar on her tit from where this Viktor guy went after her.”

Briggs was having a hard time seeing Sergei, so he got up and stood on the chair seat.

“We demand action,” Briggs said, jumping up and down. “Action, action, action!”

He lost his balance on the third jump, fell off the chair, and crashed to the floor.

“Ow!” he yelled. “My leg. I broke my leg. I need a doctor. Call the paramedics.”

He was rolling around on the floor, holding his leg and moaning.

“I feel sick,” he said. “I’m gonna throw up. I need air. Someone get me some air. This office is closing in on me.”

He crawled to the door, dragging his broken leg behind him, making gagging sounds. Sergei was on his phone again, calling his assistant, telling her to call for an EMT. Briggs made it into the hall. Sergei hovered over him, not sure what to do. And as soon as I was left alone in the office, I took photos of the three-page dossier on Viktor Volkov with my smartphone.

I went into the hall and looked down at Briggs. “Are you sure your leg is broken?”

“I thought it was broken,” Briggs said. “But now it’s feeling better.”

“He has panic attacks,” I explained to Sergei.