Hidden Prey

one print . . . And Marcy would talk to the attorney for Larry the Fence, see if they could squeeze an ID out of him. Whoever the woman was, she’d hooked into Larry in a hurry, so maybe they had a history.
     
    T WO HOURS OUT , Lucas got off I-35 at Cloquet, finished the rest of the coffee from the thermos, and pushed on north, as Nadyacontinued to sleep. Lucas understood exactly: she hadn’t been able to sleep all night in a good bed because she felt like she should be doing something. The next day, when she was actually doing something—heading north—she could sleep like a baby. He was the same way . . .
    Thirty miles north of Cloquet his phone rang.
    “Lucas . . . Andy Harmon.”
    Lucas glanced at Nadya. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m in my car, heading north to Hibbing. Nadya’s with me. She’s sleeping, I think.”
    “Okay. First, Spivak got a call yesterday evening. I can read you what he said.”
    “He’s tapped?”
    “Well . . . yeah. What the caller said was, ‘Is Tom White there?’ And Spivak said, ‘This is Spivak’s Tap. We don’t have no Tom White here.’ I’m reading from a transcript.”
    “Okay, but so what?”
    “So then the caller says, ‘Is this two two zero, six seven nine, seven six eight zero?” And Spivak said, “Nope. You misdialed.’ Then he hung up.”
    Lucas waited through the pregnant pause.
    After a few seconds, Harmon said, “That was almost certainly a call code. There is no two-two-zero area code. What Spivak does is add or subtract some unknown number, and comes up with a callback. He makes the callback from a clean phone, probably to another public phone somewhere.”
    “You said, ‘Yesterday evening,’ ” Lucas said. “What time yesterday evening?”
    “Seven twenty.”
    “Huh. I have reason to believe that Spivak went running out of his bar at seven twenty, drove to a Wal-Mart and bought nothing special, but made a phone call from a pay phone.”
    “We can check that,” Harmon said. “We can check all the calls made out of the place between seven fifteen and what, eight o’clock?”
    “More like seven fifteen and seven forty. My guy was pretty specific. Let me know. What happened with the laptop?”
    “The laptop. There were no usable fingerpints at all. Most of the files are not encrypted, but they appear to be innocent. Tour guides and maps and so on. There are a couple of dozen encrypted files and nothing that looks like a key, so that doesn’t help us. We’re still going through it. There’s a lot of stuff.”
    “All right. Check on Wal-Mart. Is there any possibility of getting a couple of FBI thugs to lean on Spivak? Maybe he isn’t scared enough, because the only people talking to him are locals.”
    “We can send somebody around. This thing about the shadow has us worried. From what Nadya told you, about the wife dying and the child, we think it’s a guy named Piotr Nikitin. He was supposed to be a middle-level guy in their Commercial Affairs Section, but everybody figured he was Intelligence.”
    “Why worried?”
    “Well, he’s a nice guy, you know? Everybody knows him. His father-in-law bought him a place out in Virginia, and he’d have a big to-do out there every May Day, you know, for the community. He called it the Dirty Rotten Commie Fest.”
    “The community?”
    “Yes. You know, the community.”
    “He tried to hang Spivak, for Christ’s sake,” Lucas said, exasperated.
    “That was just part of the job,” Harmon said. “You can understand that.”
     
    L UCAS COULDN ’ T . He got off the phone, breathing hard for a few minutes, backed off the gas. When he got pissed, the speed tended to go up, and he got speeding tickets. Nadya stirred twenty minutes after he talked with Harmon. Stirred, then twitched, moaned softly, and pushed herself up. “What time is it?”
    “Nine o’clock,” Lucas said. “We’re almost there.”
    “Really?” Her face was slack with sleep. She cranked her seat upright, said, “My mouth is terrible, I have to brush it.”
    “McDonald’s in ten minutes,” Lucas said. “You can do it there. Then we’ll go see if we can find Piotr.”
    The name didn’t faze her: “I hope to,” she said. “This would be well regarded in Moscow.”
     
    L UCAS TALKED TO Chief Hopper, who was at the bus museum, and got directions through town. The museum was actually out of town a bit, and looked exactly the way a bus museum should look, a triumph of function over form: a