tc.thebearandthedragon-第61部分
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n； converting the van into what at night would seem a new vehicle entirely。
〃He is confident；〃 Provalov observed five minutes later。 The van was now in close…trail； with the lead trail car behind the van； and the other surveillance vehicle close behind that one。 Wherever he was going； they were on him。 He'd run his evasion maneuver； and a clever one it had been； but only one。 Perhaps he thought that one such SDR…surveillance…detection run…was enough； that if he were being trailed it would only be a single vehicle； and so had run that underpass； eyes on the rearview mirror； and spotted nothing。 Very good； the militia lieutenant thought。 It was a pity he didn't have his American FBI friend along。 The FBI could scarcely have done this better； even with its vast resources。 It didn't hurt that his men knew the streets of Moscow and its suburbs as well as any taxi driver。
〃He's getting dinner and a drink somewhere；〃 Provalov's driver observed。 〃He'll pull over in the next kilometer。〃
〃We shall see；〃 the lieutenant said； thinking his driver right。 This area had ten or eleven upscale eateries。 Which would his quarry choose。。。？
It turned out to be the Prince Michael of Kiev； a Ukrainian establishment specializing in chicken and fish； known also for its fine bar。 Koniev/Suvorov pulled over and allowed the restaurant's valet to park his vehicle； then walked in。
〃Who's the best dressed among us？〃 Provalov asked over the radio。
〃You are； rade Lieutenant。〃 His other two teams were attired as working…class people； and that wouldn't fly here。 Half of the Prince Michael of Kiev's clientele were foreigners； and you had to dress well around such people… the restaurant saw to that。 Provalov jumped out half a block away and walked briskly to the canopied entrance。 The doorman admitted him after a look…in the new Russia； clothing made the man more than in most European nations。 He could have flashed his police ID； but that might not be a good move。 Koniev/Suvorov might well have some of the restaurant staff reporting to him。 That was when he had a flash of imagination。 Provalov immediately entered the men's lavatory and pulled out his cellular phone。
〃Hello？〃 a familiar voice said on picking up the receiver。
〃Mishka？〃
〃Oleg？〃 Reilly asked。 〃What can I do for you？〃
〃Do you know a restaurant called the Prince Michael of Kiev？〃
〃Yeah； sure。 Why？〃
〃I need your help。 How quickly can you get here？〃 Provalov asked； knowing that Reilly lived only two kilometers away。
〃Ten or fifteen minutes。〃
〃Quickly； then。 I'll be at the bar。 Dress presentably；〃 the militiaman added。
〃Right；〃 Reilly agreed； wondering how he'd explain it to his wife； and wondering why he'd had his quiet evening in front of the TV interrupted。
Provalov headed back to the bar； ordered a pepper vodka； and lit a cigarette。 His quarry was seven seats away； also having a solitary drink； perhaps waiting for his table to bee available。 The restaurant was full。 A string quartet was playing some Rimsky…Korsakov on the far side of the dining room。 The restaurant was far above anything Provalov could afford as a regular part of his life。 So； Koniev/Suvorov was well set financially。 That was no particular surprise。 A lot of ex…KGB officers were doing very well indeed in the economic system of the new Russia。 They had worldly ways and knowledge that few of their fellow citizens could match。 In a society known for its burgeoning corruption； they had a corner on the market； and a network of fellow…travelers to call upon； with whom they could； for various considerations； share their gains； ill…gotten or not。
Provalov had finished his first drink； and had motioned to the bartender for another when Reilly appeared。
〃Oleg Gregoriyevich；〃 the American said in greeting。 He was no fool； the Russian militia lieutenant realized。 The American's Russian was manifestly American and overloud； a fine backward stealth for this environment。 He was well dressed also； proclaiming his foreign origin to all who saw him。
〃Mishka！〃 Provalov said in response； taking the American's hand warmly and waving to the bartender。
〃Okay； who we looking for？〃 the FBI agent asked more quietly。
〃The gray suit； seven seats to my left。〃
〃Got him；〃 Reilly said at once。 〃Who is he？〃
〃He is currently under the name Koniev； Ivan Yurievich。 In fact we believe him to be Suvorov； Klementi Ivan' ch。〃
〃Aha；〃 Reilly observed。 〃What else can you tell me？〃
〃We trailed him here。 He used a simple but effective evasion method； but we have three cars tracking him； and we picked him right back up。〃
〃Good one； Oleg；〃 the FBI agent said。 Inadequately trained and poorly equipped or not； Provalov was a no…shit copper。 In the Bureau； he'd be at least a supervisory special agent。 Oleg had fine cop instincts。 Tracking a KGB type around Moscow was no trivial exercise； like following a paranoid button…man in Queens。 Reilly sipped his pepper vodka and turned sideways in his seat。 On the far side of the subject was a dark…haired beauty wearing a slinky black dress。 She looked like another of those expensive hookers to Reilly； and her shingle was out。 Her dark eyes were surveying the room as thoroughly as his。 The difference was that Reilly was a guy； and looking at a pretty girl…or seeming to…was not the least bit unusual。 In fact； his eyes were locked not on the woman； but the man。 Fiftyish； well turned out； nondescript in overall appearance； just as a spy was supposed to be； looked to be waiting for a table； nursing his drink and looking studiously in the bar's mirror； which was a fine way to see if he were being watched。 The American and his Russian friend he dismissed； of course。 What interest could an American businessman have in him； after all？ And besides； the American was eyeing the whore to his left。 For that reason； the subject's eyes did not linger on the men to his right； either directly or in the mirror。 Oleg was smart； Reilly thought； using him as camouflage for his discreet surveillance。
〃Anything else turn lately？〃 the FBI agent asked。 Provalov filled in what he'd learned about the hooker and what had happened the night before the murders。 〃Damn； that is swashbuckling。 But you still don't know who the target was； do you？〃
〃No；〃 Provalov admitted； with a sip of his second drink。
He'd have to go easy on the alcohol； he knew； lest he make a mistake。 His quarry was too slick and dangerous to take any sort of risk at all。 He could always bring the guy in for questioning； but he knew that would be a fruitless exercise。 Criminals like this one had to be handled as gently as a cabinet minister。 Provalov allowed his eyes to look into the mirror； where he got a good look at the profile of a probable multiple murderer。 Why was it that there was no black halo around such？ people？ Why did they look normal？
〃Anything else we know about the mutt？〃
The Russian had e to like that American term。 He shook his head。 〃No； Mishka。 We haven't checked with SVR yet。〃
〃Worried that he might have a source inside the building？〃 the American asked。 Oleg nodded。
〃That is a consideration。〃 And an obvious one。 The fraternity of former KGB officers was probably a tight one。 There might well be someone inside the old headquarters building； say someone in personnel records； who'd let people know if the police showed interest in any particular file。
〃Damn；〃 the American noted； thinking； You son of a bitch； fucking the guy's hookers before you waste him。 There was a disagreeable coldness to it； like something from a Mafia movie。 But in real life； La Cosa Nostra members didn't have the stones for such a thing。 Formidable as they might be； Mafia button…men didn't have the training of a professional intelligence officer； and were tabby cats next to panthers in this particular jungle。 Further scrutiny of the subject。 The girl beyond him was a distraction； but not that much。
〃Oleg？〃
〃Yes； Mikhail？〃
〃He's looking at somebody over by the musicians。 His eyes keep ing back to the same spot。 He isn't scanning the room like he was at first。〃 The subject did check out everyone who came into the restaurant； but his eyes kept ing back to one part of the mirror； and he'd probably determined that nobody in the place was a danger to him。 Oops。 Well； Reilly thought； even training has its limitations； and sooner or later your own expertise could work against you。 You fell into patterns； and you made assumptions that could get you caught。 In this case； Suvorov assumed that no American could be watching him。 After all； he'd done nothing to any Americans in Moscow； and maybe not in his entire career； and he was on friendly； not foreign ground； and he'd dusted off his tail on the way over in the way he always did； looking for a single tail car。 Well； the smart ones knew their limitations。 How did it go？ The difference between genius and stupidity was that genius knew that it had limits。 This Suvorov guy thought himself a genius。。 。 but whom was he looking at？ Reilly turned a little more on his bar stool and scanned that part of the room。
〃What do you see； Mishka？〃
〃A lot of people； Oleg Gregoriyevich； mainly Russians； some foreigners； all well…dressed。 Some Chinese； look like two diplomats dining with two Russians…they look like official types。 Looks cordial enough；〃 Reilly thought。 He'd eaten here with his wife three or four times。 The food was pretty good； especially the fish。 And they had a good source of caviar at the Prince Michael of Kiev； which was one of the best things you could get over here。 His wife loved it； and would have to learn that getting it at home would be a lot more expensive than it was here。 。 。 。 Reilly'd done discreet surveillance for so many years that he had trained himself to be invisible。 He could fit in just about anyplace but Harlem； and the Bureau had black agents to handle that。
Sure as hell； that Suvorov guy was looking in the same place。 Casually； perhaps； and using the bar's mirror to do it。 He even sat so that his eyes naturally looked at the same place as he sat on his bar stool。 But people like this subject didn't do anything by accident or coincidence。 They were trained to think through everything； even taking a leak。。； it was remarkable； then； that he'd
