CHAPTER 6

Lee paced across the worn beige carpet, his mind grasping for inspiration. Two Agency lab technicians had just completed a discreet but thorough sweep of the tiny apartment-cum-KGB safe house. They came up empty, and he was running out of time. It was almost six-thirty. If he didn't come up with something soon, it was going to be too late. It might be too late already.

An indistinct rustling outside the front door grabbed his attention, and the knob turned a fraction of an inch. Sliding his gun from his shoulder holster, he dropped to a crouch behind the floral-patterned sofa, propping the firearm between two of the cushions so that it was aimed at the door. His finger tightened on the trigger as he waited. After a few seconds, it swung open to reveal the intruder, her tall, slender form outlined against the dim light of the hallway.

"A-man-da! What are you doing here?" Lee lowered his gun and dropped it back into its holster as he pulled himself to his feet, swiping one hand across his suddenly sweaty brow. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"I'm sorry, but this is important." Amanda's voice started out contrite but almost immediately changed into the kind of chiding tone she probably used with misbehaving children. The words pelted him at an ever-increasing speed as she slowly lowered her raised hands. "And It's not my fault that I had to come looking for you. I tried to call you. I tried to call Mr. Melrose. I even tried to call Francine Desmond . . . a person I'd prefer NOT to speak with unless it's absolutely necessary. You would think that INTELLIGENCE operatives would have enough common sense to answer their phones or pick up their messages."

Pausing for breath, she placed one fist on her hip; he didn't doubt she would have been wagging a finger under his nose if her other extremity hadn't been rendered all but immobile by a large and unwieldy purse.

"Okay, okay, I get the picture." Lee held both hands in front of him, palms out, trying to stop the flow of words from the overexcited woman. "Can you just stop the lecture and tell me what was so damn important that you decided to visit a KGB safe house."

Her stance relaxed, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, you remember when you knocked over my bag and my purse on the steps outside and then you kind of pushed everything back in?" The beige purse -- the same one she had been carrying that morning, he was fairly certain -- hit the carpeted floor with a soft thump as her hands scooped through the air in demonstration. "I know you were really mad about your shoes, but my things were sitting there in plain sight . . . ." Her words trailed off as she apparently began to relive their earlier encounter.

Almost desperate to prevent another irrepressible word flow, Lee interrupted with a grudging concession. "It wasn't your fault."

From the disapproving frown radiating from Amanda's brown eyes, he could tell she didn't appreciate his grumbling admission, but he was in no mood to be more conciliatory. "So you came to find me to remind me that you didn't ruin my shoes?" he asked.

"No, I came to give you something." In another mercurial mood shift, her lips curved in a smile, as though letting him know that he was forgiven for whatever transgressions she imagined he had committed. "I didn't really notice anything unusual at the time, because the soup container was almost empty and my resumes were ruined and that man was lying there . . . I didn't know he was dead . . . ." She trembled and then stiffened, as though forcing the grisly image from her mind, as she pulled a small brown package from a pocket of her coat. "You put this into my purse, but it isn't mine."

The parcel was unremarkable; it could have been anything. He blinked and shook his head. "It's not mine, either."

"Well, you must have put it into my purse, because it was there when I got home, and you're the only other person who put anything in there. Do you know what this is?" Not bothering to wait for his response, she turned it upside down, sending two cylindrical objects rolling into her hand. "Batteries!" she said, as though announcing a discovery of earth-shattering importance.

For a moment, Lee could only stare at her, nonplussed. "So someone dropped the batteries, and I put them into your purse."

"Yes, but look at this." She stepped closer, until he could read the print on the tiny receipt attached to the now-empty bag. "This receipt is from Handy Hardware. It's just three blocks down and around the corner." She waved one arm in a northeasterly direction. "It's dated this afternoon at 12:15."

"So, somebody bought batteries this afternoon and lost them in the confusion."

"Not just somebody," Amanda said, with an infuriatingly smug expression. "It was Dominic Gregornoff."

Lee restrained himself from rolling his eyes at the housewife's efforts to play detective, but he made no effort to keep a hint of condescension and a generous helping of skepticism from creeping into his voice. "How do you make that connection? There must've been fifty people standing there gawking. Any one of them could have dropped the batteries."

"Oh, no." She said, shaking her brunette head knowingly. "It was Dominic Gregornoff."

Putting his hands on his hips, he made a supreme effort at controlling his temper. "How do you figure that?"

"Well, look at this receipt." She shoved the small bag so close to his face that he had to step back a pace to bring the receipt into focus. "Whoever bought these batteries paid with a twenty dollar bill. And do you know what he got in change? Fifteen dollars and sixty three cents."

Lee shrugged. Obviously, she had convinced herself of the importance of her discovery, and she had no intention of listening to reason. It would be pointless to argue with her.

She was looking at him expectantly. When he failed to respond, she have an exasperated huff and shook her head. "Don't you remember what was on the list of Gregornoff's personal effects?" She paused dramatically. "Twenty dollar bills . . . and fifteen dollars and sixty three cents."

Lee opened his mouth, but closed it again. She was right about the cash . . . he remembered the figures, now that he was thinking about it. "It must be a coincidence. Why would Gregornoff go out and buy batteries?"

"That's just what I wondered." Amanda said, as she laid out her argument, ticking each point off on her fingertips. "You said the Russian agents only carry money for incidentals. The inventory said Mr. Gregornoff had this change, but there was no evidence he bought anything. You said he was under strict orders to stay here. You said a courier never varies his routine. So why would he go out to buy batteries, unless . . ."

Lee glanced around the apartment as the thought formed in his mind. "Unless there were something here that he needed to use . . . and the batteries were dead."

"Exactly!"

Lee hesitated. It might be a waste of time . . . but he didn't have any other leads. "All right, it's worth a shot. I'll take the this half of the apartment," he said, motioning toward the bedroom, "and you take that half." He pointed one finger in the direction of the dining room and kitchen. "Look for anything these would fit." He took the batteries from her outstretched hand. "And be quiet" he added in a harsh whisper as she turned and walked into an end table, barely managing to catch a lamp as it tilted.

"Thank you. Great idea, Amanda," he heard her mumble, not quite under her breath, as she walked away.

Lee spent the next several minutes in a careful search of the living room, bedroom and bathroom. He examined small appliances, opened drawers, and ransacked the two closets. The only battery-operated devices he found were the television's remote control and a travel-size electronic toothbrush. Both had fully functioning, size AA batteries.

He was just completing his inspection of the medicine cabinet when he heard Amanda squeal his name, the raspy sound almost ear-piercing in the silence. Replacing an outdated bottle of aspirin on a nearly barren shelf, he flipped off the bathroom light.

Stalking toward the living room, intending to remind her that he was supposed to be a "secret" agent, he pulled up short when he found her hunched beside the bedroom door. "I found this under the sink in the kitchen," she said in a penetrating whisper. "It doesn't work." She demonstrated by flicking the switch on a large, red flashlight.

Seizing the flashlight, he unscrewed the bottom and turned it on end. Two size D batteries slid into his palm. Dropping the dead batteries onto the carpet with a dull thump, he quickly inserted the new ones into the long cylinder and replaced the cap. Turning the bulb end toward the drab wall, he pushed the switch.

At first, he saw only an indistinct blur, but when he twisted the lens, squiggly letters appeared in the bright circle of light formed by the flashlight's beam.

112 Harborside
1900

"This has to be it," Lee said, slapping his hand against his thigh, "The address has to be one of those run-down warehouses on the lower east side -- the perfect place for a meet." He glanced down at his wristwatch as he strode through the living room. "1900 . . . seven o'clock. I have fifteen minutes to get there."

"Wait!" she said, grabbing his arm. "Aren't you going to call for . . . what do you call it . . . backup?" She pointed toward the telephone.

"No time," he said, shaking himself from her surprisingly firm grip. "The KGB could be listening in on that line, and we sent the surveillance van to the airport. There wasn't any point in our guys sitting outside watching an empty apartment."

She stayed on his heels as he flew out the door and down the staircase. "You could use Muriel Cannelli's phone. She's been sick, so she's probably asleep . . . but we can wake her up . . . . It won't do any good for me to call the Agency, though; no one will listen to me."

He ignored her breathless litany as he rushed to his car, pulled the door open, and slid his long frame behind the wheel. He cringed at the thought of parking his Porsche in that crime-ridden district, but it couldn't be helped.

A door slammed to his left, and he turned to see Amanda buckling herself into the passenger seat. "What are you doing?"

"You might need help," she said, pressing herself against the contoured leather as if she were expecting to blast into orbit.

"Amanda, I'm a trained agent. What could you possibly do to help me?"

"I found the flashlight, didn't I? If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't even know about the meeting, so I think --"

"Forget it," he said, turning the key in the ignition and gunning the engine. "I don't have time to argue with you. But when we get there, you're going to stay in the car."