“I started today,” the man replied absently, his attention still trained on the control panel. “No one warned me that you had Soviet technology here too.”
Soviet. Russian.The man’s accent solidified and more inappropriate heat pulsed through Jonah. He tempered it with a heavy dose of their reality. They were trapped in a lift of a building where everyone had gone home. Only a single security officer remained, and Jonah was fairly sure he’d be asleep by now, dozing in front of his console by the front door, like he always was when Jonah left in the evenings. “I doubt these lifts are Soviet-made. This building is twenty years old.”
“I was joking, no?”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay. I am not often funny.”
The glint in the Russian man’s eyes made it hard to tell if he was still being humorous. A grin warmed Jonah’s face, but he kept it small. “I’m not known for my hilarity either. Is there a call button we can press?”
“There’s an alarm button, and a phone number. The alarm seems a little…”
“Unnecessary?”
“Yes. Unnecessary.”
“And there’s no one here to hear it. Samson won’t wake up unless a bomb goes off.”
“Samson?”
“The security officer,” Jonah supplied. “He’ll be asleep by now.”
“Diligent.”
“Oh, he is. But he’s sixty-nine and he just had a triple-heart bypass, so I give him some slack. I’d rather he was awake at midnight when there’s no one around.”
“You sound important.”
“Do I?”
The Russian man leaned close enough for Jonah to get another whiff of his natural scent. “Yes. Does the security officer work for you?”
“In a roundabout way. My family owns this building.”
“Ah, old money.”
Jonah laughed. “Something like that. I’m going to call that number. I don’t know about you, but I have somewhere I’m supposed to be.”
The man didn’t answer. He stepped back to give Jonah room and retreated to his own corner of the cramped elevator. He was carrying a laptop case and an overcoat. He set both down and leaned against the wall, the picture of smooth relaxation.
Jonah allowed himself another quick glance at him, saturating himself in his unshaven jaw and cut cheekbones, then forced himself to focus on the automated voice at the end of the line.
Five minutes later, a friendly woman in Oxfordshire told him help was at least thirty minutes away. “Apologies, Mr. Gray. Our team is already out on a job in Knightsbridge.”
“You have only one team?”
“Tonight, sir. Yes.”
“Oh well. I suppose we’ll survive.”
“Can I take the name of your companions, Mr. Gray?”
“Of course. There is only one. A Mr…?”
The Russian man held up a security lanyard Jonah had failed to notice hanging around his elegant neck. It was brand new and the grainy photograph didn’t begin to do his chiselled face justice. His name was Sacha.
Sacha Ivanov.