Top Secret Twenty-One: A Stephanie Plum Novel(63)

A dining room table seating six was positioned in front of the wet bar. On the table were stacks of files, a MacBook Air, a small printer, and rolls of blueprints.

A slim Hispanic guy in jeans and a T-shirt was at the Air.

“Ryan hacked into the hotel’s system,” he said, handing a paper to Ranger. “I have the room numbers you wanted.”

Ranger took the paper, selected a file from the stack, and went to the couch. “Has Viktor Volkov registered yet?”

“No, but he has a room reserved.”

“With the help of the FBI we’ve designated seven men as being possible targets,” Ranger said to me. “All but General Semov have checked in.”

“Is he the guy getting the white glove treatment from the consulate?”

“Yes. He has the entire tenth floor. High security.”

“Why is he so special?”

“He went to soccer camp with the Russian president. He’s powerful. He’s rich. He’s ruthless. Some say he’s too ambitious.”

“Who would want him dead?”

“The list is long, and it includes his best friend, the president. It’s whispered that the president is worried about job security.”

“So is Semov at the top of our list?”

“He’s at the top for motivation but near the bottom for being realistic. He’s constantly surrounded by his military aides. It’s like Fort Knox on the tenth floor.”

“What about the ventilation system?”

“Every floor has a mechanical room with air handlers, and the polonium would have to get placed in the air handler for that floor. It’s not difficult to do. You can accomplish it with a screwdriver. Ordinarily it wouldn’t be a problem, but as of a couple days ago, the tenth floor has been sealed. An HVAC tech would have to be thoroughly vetted and then have a guard with him. I don’t think Vlatko’s cover would stand up to that kind of scrutiny.”

“Why is Semov here?”

“He’s been invited to give the keynote speech at lunch tomorrow. He owns a distillery in Moscow.”

“So who’s number one if it’s not Semov?”

“I don’t have a number one.”

“They have cameras all over the place in these casinos. Do you have someone watching the monitors for a guy with one eye?”

“The feeds are being watched at Rangeman.”

“And nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe we should go downstairs and circulate,” I said to Ranger. “We could mingle. Keep our eyes open.” Have a gelato.

Ranger stood and stretched, his black T-shirt rode up, and I caught a glimpse of two inches of brown skin and hard abs and almost had an orgasm.

“Babe,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Why?”

“You sort of moaned.”

“Gas.”

“Understandable.”

We took the elevator to the lobby and looked in at the bar. Filled with men speaking Russian.

“Jackpot,” Ranger said. “Go do your bimbo thing.”

I sidled up to a couple men but didn’t get much response. I tried my luck at the other end. Nothing happening. I went back to Ranger.

“No one wants to talk to me,” I said.

“Maybe it’s because you’re wearing a T-shirt advertising beer and these men all make vodka.”

I looked down at my shirt. “This was supposed to be my day off. I wasn’t dressing for success.”

Ranger slung an arm around my shoulder. “Let’s see what they’ve got in the hotel shopping arcade.”

Three stores. One selling magazines and candy. One selling beachwear. One selling bimbo clothes. Perfect.

“We just need to swap out the T-shirt,” Ranger said. “The jeans are good.”

“They fit better before lunch.”

Ranger pulled a white T-shirt off the rack. “Try this.”

It was a stretchy little job with a low scoop neck, cap sleeves, and HOT STUFF spelled out in rhinestones across the boob area.

I tried it on and it fit okay. I had a little cleavage that was all my own. I wasn’t sure I lived up to the message.

I peeked out of the dressing room at Ranger. “What do you think?”

“I’d give you the keys to my car.”

“You do that all the time anyway.”

“Ever hopeful,” Ranger said.

I marched over to the bar and got into a conversation with one of the men.

“Nice shirt,” he said. “Is it truly?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m smokin’. Are you one of the vodka people?”

“Yes. I’m a very big vodka man.”

“I have a friend with the trade show. He has a patch over one eye.” I covered my eye with my hand. “Like this,” I said. “Do you know him?”

“I don’t know this patch.”

I moved down the bar to another Russian.

“Howdy,” I said. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes. Very good English,” he said. “I mostly speak to hot girls.”

Fifteen minutes later I said adios to the last Russian at the bar and returned to Ranger.

“That was fast,” Ranger said.