Alina was still wondering if Trevor was serious or not when he turned onto a street called Worchester and headed toward an area near the train tracks that looked a little run-down. Surprising, considering they weren’t all that far off the main thoroughfare. They kept going until the road ended in a big parking lot in front of an equally large industrial building. Looking at it, you’d never know the place was a restaurant if it hadn’t been for the glitzy lights along the front and a big neon sign proclaiming it to be The End of the Road. Looked like a dive to her.
There were more fancy cars in the parking lot than she expected to see. Even a few limos that looked seriously out of place. As did the two big guards standing by the front door wearing suits that were working overtime in their attempt to cover up all the muscles and the handguns both men were carrying in underarm holsters.
“You’re telling me the police never realized what’s going on around here?” she asked Trevor.
He pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. “I’m sure they know. But as long as no one causes problems, they apparently look the other way.”
Alina nodded. On some level, that made sense.
Beside her, Trevor flipped down the visor and adjusted his tie in the mirror. Damn, he looked good in the expensive silk suit Skye had picked out for him. And the light stubble along his jawline made him look even better. Then again, she’d always had a thing for guys with scruff.
“Who’s this guy we’re looking for, and why do you think he’s connected to John Loughlin’s death?” she asked.
“These days, he goes by the name of Doug Smith.” Trevor reached into the backseat, coming up with a thin manila folder. He flipped though the file until he came out with a photo of a man in his early forties with dark hair sprinkled with a little bit of gray.
“His real name is Dokka Shishani,” Trevor continued. “He’s from Chechnya, where he fought for years in the Chechen-Russian conflict. It’s also where he learned his trade as a bomb maker. He moved to the States in 2008, becoming a naturalized citizen in 2014. Since then, he’s been implicated in a few assassination-style bombings in South America and Asia, but nothing that’s ever stuck. He does a good job blending in with the local Russian community, which must be hard as hell considering how much Chechens and Russians dislike each other.”
Alina had spent some time over in Chechnya during the early part of her career in the CIA. The war there had devastated the country for nearly twenty years, and it was just now starting to crawl out from under the massive destruction. It was a tough place to live but an even tougher place to get out of.
She picked up the picture and studied it, committing the man’s face to memory. “With a background like his, I’m surprised he was allowed through immigration. The State Department normally would have flagged somebody like him long before he ever got a green card.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Trevor agreed.
Stepping out of the SUV, Trevor came around to her side to open her door. She took the hand he offered her, telling herself that she did it simply because the guards might be watching. But as she slipped her right leg out of the SUV, flashing a good amount of thigh, she admitted to herself that maybe she did it because it gave her a chance to get a rise out of him.
And yeah…he looked. All the way from thigh to ankle and back up again.
“You really do look amazing in that dress,” he murmured, pushing the door closed.
“You look pretty damn good yourself,” she said as she rested one hand on his arm and let him escort her across the parking lot. She actually appreciated the assist. It had been a while since she’d worn heels this high. She was out of practice.
“You were saying something about how our guy got through immigration?” she prompted softly.
Trevor’s mouth twitched. “I do remember vaguely saying something about that. Before you derailed my train of thought.”
She laughed. Damn, he could be seriously smooth when he wanted.
“It turns out Mr. Shishani had a sponsor with enough power to pull the right strings,” Trevor explained. “That sponsor got our guy in the country with limited State Department review, accelerating his naturalization paperwork and getting him through in record time.”
Alina noticed the two guards watching them as they approached the front doors. The muscle-bound suits were eyeballing them so hard the building could have fallen down behind them and they probably wouldn’t have noticed.
“And what’s the connection between this guy and John?” she asked.
Trevor stopped, turning to look at her. “None between Shishani and John, but the guy who sponsored Shishani and got him into the country? Yeah, there’s definitely a connection.”
She blinked in surprise. “You’re saying Thomas Thorn brought a Chechen-born bomber into the United States and paid him to kill John Loughlin?”
Trevor didn’t answer but merely started for the entrance again. The guards opened the doors for them without a word. Once they were inside the little hallway that led to another set of double doors and the restaurant beyond, he stopped.
“There’s no indication Shishani ever came onto the training complex, but he definitely had the know-how to make the bomb, and the attack matched his style perfectly. Throw in his connection to Thorn and the fact that he’s been spending money like it’s going out of style the past few weeks, and that makes him somebody worth checking out.”
Alina let that sink in for a moment. “I would have preferred to hear some of this stuff before we’d gotten here, but for now, let’s assume everything you think you know is right. What do you hope to get out of this guy? I’m pretty sure we’re not going to get a spontaneous confession from him.”
Trevor shrugged as he motioned her forward and opened the door for her. “I can be very persuasive when I want to. You’d be amazed what you can get out of people when you say please.”
Alina would have called him on that, but the smell of cigar and cigarette smoke hit her so hard, she couldn’t breathe, much less talk. So much for a smoke-free Maryland.
She scanned the bar along the right side of the room, then the booths on the left, and the tables and chairs filling the space in between. Beyond the bar, she could see a nondescript door, which could just as well have led to a storage room or an office if it wasn’t for the big, muscle-bound bouncers standing on either side of it.
