Echo Platoon - 07 by Richard Marcinko

Author:Richard Marcinko [Marcinko, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2012-05-22T04:00:00+00:00

10

00:03:51. I USED THE POINT OF A PICK TO POP THE HINGE bolts. I pocketed ’em, pried the door open without disturbing the electronic lock mechanism, then e-a-s-e-d it back (more or less) into position from the inside.

That had been easy. I looked around the office. It was dark, but there was enough light coming from outside so that I could see pretty clearly. And, when I opened the drapes all the way, the visibility improved some more.

He’d done the place in a kind of French château style. Lots of hand-carved wood, and rich carpets. There was the Washington-style “OH, FUCK, BUT I’M IMPORTANT” wall, which featured warmly inscribed pictures of Steve Sarkesian shaking hands with a panoply of world leaders. But I wasn’t there to admire the scenery. I was there to gather intel. And I wasn’t going to be altogether subtle about it either. Remember, I wanted to hock the ol’ Sarkesian teacup. And so I headed for Steve-o’s desk, and when I discovered it was locked, I pried it open with a convenient letter opener.

I fumbled around. There was a cellular phone—the same model I’d taken off the POG. I thought about pocketing it, but decided not to. I had one of Steve’s phones, I didn’t need another. But way back in the drawer my fingers came upon a computer disk. I slid it forward, then looked it over. It was unlabeled, but I took it anyway.

I went through the rest of the office, but found nothing of interest. Finally, I rifled the credenza, a nice, eighteenth-century, French burled walnut piece. Not a lot there, either. I found half a dozen notes scrawled in Russkie and stuffed ’em in my pocket. And another computer disk, which I also took, and a bunch of Sirzhik Foundation letterhead—thick, expensive stuff from Cartier in Paris. But basically, this office was a showplace, not a working area. There were no files; no business correspondence; no nothing. I even tried tapping the walls but could discover no secret compartments.

Well, in the intelligence business, sometimes what you don’t find is as important as what you do find. And in this instance, I’d learned that Steve Sarkesian either kept all his work with him at another location, or didn’t do much work at all in this office.

Except . . . I had this nagging feeling that I was overlooking something significant. Just like outside the door, I was tunneling. I sat on the edge of the desk and let my mind wander.

That was when I realized what I’d missed, and missed, and missed. I reached into the kneehole under Steve Sarkesian’s desk. There, where I’d seen it without seeing it, was his thin, black leather attaché case. I retrieved it, put it on the desk, and examined it, running my fingers over the mottled surface of the leather. Geezus—the fucking thing was made of crocodile. I flicked at the combination locks with my thumbs, but they didn’t open. Well, time was getting short, and

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