CHAPTER 24
Cotton made it back to his hotel and changed clothes, then stopped by Stephanie’s room. She was on her way out, back to the palace to meet Cassiopeia and Westlake.
“Something is happening there,” she told him. “I’ll keep you posted. You do the same.”
He left the hotel and found a cab that took him to the address for the lawyer Jakob Elmore.
Stephanie had reported the deaths of the two Larses and requested that the Swedes handle it quickly and quietly.
The body of an elderly man had already been found floating in the inlet.
Unfortunately the partial license plate that he’d seen on the Volvo that tried to kill them had led to nothing.
So he had no choice but to keep following the breadcrumbs, however meager they might be.
Stockholm had lapsed into a nighttime state, restless and brooding.
Cars and cabs rumbled along, headlights sparkling on the wet pavement.
He decided this time to stay back and bird-dog the site instead of rushing right in.
He was hoping that whoever double-tapped the fake Lars assumed that the old man had died.
What was the saying? Dead men tell no tales.
True. So they would have no idea that any information had been passed on, which he intended to use to maximum advantage.
A cab deposited him about a quarter mile from the address, a nondescript office building on the city’s west side.
The streets here were twisty, dimly lit, and quiet, only an occasional car jolting past. He approached on foot with caution, staying out of sight.
The building was single-story. A sign out front identified the occupants as ADVOKATS.
Jakob Elmore one of the names listed. James Elmore in English.
Some kind of office-sharing arrangement.
Not uncommon. It had been a long time since he’d actually practiced law.
Not since his short stint with navy JAG had he stood before a judge or jury.
In the beginning Stephanie Nelle wanted her agents to possess advanced degrees in areas like law and accounting, but over time that preference had waned.
He wondered about James Elmore. Was he another Russian asset?
Lights burned behind several of the windows. Three cars were parked out front. The time was approaching 9:00 P.M. Apparently people at this firm, like most, worked late.
He debated his next move.
Reveal himself? No way. That would take away his hard-won advantage.
Better to focus on the advokat and see where he led.
He had about fifteen hours left to make progress.
He wondered what was happening with John Westlake that seemed, at least to Stephanie, promising.
Hopefully that would prove more fruitful than the path he was now following.
Stephanie was convinced Westlake had Russian SVR connections.
Her instincts were usually spot on. So hopefully Cassiopeia had hit pay dirt.
He stood about two hundred yards from the building, concealed by the waning twilight of another long summer day.
He decided, What the hell, to take a chance and hustled forward, rounding to the back side of the building looking for a rear entrance, which he found.
More cars were parked in a paved lot that abutted the building.
He looked around and saw no cameras. But that did not mean there were not some concealed.
He approached the metal door and tried the latch.
Which opened.
Was that good or bad?
Who cared.
He turned the knob and entered the building.
He’d never practiced law in the civilian sector.
But he’d visited many law offices. Most were warrens of spaces connected by corridors that led to conference rooms and the obligatory library.
This one was no exception, everything brightly lit from recessed fluorescent fixtures, the décor minimally modern Swedish.
He heard no voices, no tap-tap of a keyboard, no phones buzzing. Nothing.
Which raised alarms.
The first few offices he passed were empty. He came to an intersection and noticed that the door to one of the conference rooms hung open, lights burning inside.
He approached and peeked around the doorjamb.
Three bodies lay inside. Two men in leather chairs, bullet holes to their heads, the other, a woman, sprawled on the laminated hardwood flooring amid a pool of blood.
More loose ends?
He decided to complete his reconnoiter and checked out the remaining rooms, ending with a small reception area near the front door.
He found James Elmore’s office. Large and airy, the exterior walls glass, the space filled with a variety of plants and ferns.
The furniture was Scandinavian modern, the desk a rectangular slab of oak with lots of drawers.
He gave what was on the desk a quick once-over, then opened the drawers and found nothing substantive.
He noticed the wall of fame. Every lawyer seemed to have one, himself once included.
Two certificates were in black frames. One was from Trinity College.
An Irish law degree. Another was from the Advokatsamfund.
He was fluent in several languages, thanks to his eidetic memory, but Swedish was not on that list. Best guess?
A license to practice law from the Swedish Bar Association.
He noticed the dates. It seemed Elmore had been around awhile.
Was one of the bodies in the conference room him?
He looked around and found no photos on display.
Okay. Time to report to Stephanie. He stepped from the office and turned left in the corridor, heading back toward the rear of the building.
“Anhalt.”
He jumped at the sound of the unexpected voice. He spun around to see an older man, standing, with both hands on a gun.
Aimed straight at him.