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Now was not the time for a pickup, and oddly, Ryan didn’t want one.
His gaze shifted to his right. The magazine rack situated there was filled with Russian-language periodicals and newspapers. No doubt as to who they were catering to.
It was eight twenty-five, and the building’s employees started to arrive for work. Ryan blew a cloud of steam off his coffee and watched them.
There was definitely a stark contrast between the male and female populations. Most of the females were as stunning as the women sitting in the lobby. They looked like a stream of Russian fashion models—tall, straight-from-the-gym toned, hair done in the trendiest styles—definitely eye candy. The men, on the other hand, looked like Russian nerds or bruisers.
Interestingly, all those fashion-model types walked to the rear of the lobby and took the far bank of elevators. Ryan gave a quick glance at the photo he’d taken of the building directory. It indicated that they were headed to the multi-level Russian software company.
The businessmen and women were divided in their destinations. Some took the same bank of elevators as the Russian babes did, and some took the front bank of elevators. Those were obviously meant for people working for other companies in the building.
Those companies weren’t employing the hot Russian women.
Marc interrupted Ryan’s observations as his voice came through the earbud.
“Hey, seems like your program has tracked the cell phone to within our central zone,” he informed Ryan. “Our guy should be walking through the front door soon.”
Ryan returned to his iPad, appeared to be reading, but instead was preparing to snap pictures of anyone entering.
The first person who walked through the door was a definite dork. Ryan shuddered to think that, right now, he probably resembled him. He took the loser’s picture just in case, but that wasn’t their guy. Next came a tall, thirty-ish woman with long black hair and a curve-hugging pantsuit. Ryan gave her an A-minus, then took her picture. Probably just a formality. She didn’t fit Marc’s profile.
Finally, in walked a tough Slavic guy in an expensive Italian business suit, who looked less like a business exec than he did like a bloodthirsty fighter in an underground cage-fighting match.
Bingo.
Ryan kept snapping pictures.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to rush. Bruiser bought himself a cup of coffee and reentered the lobby, scanning the area. His eye settled on a long-legged brunette stunner who was smiling to herself as she texted someone. Seeing the chair beside her was empty, the big guy made his way over and claimed it.
He leaned toward her and said something in Russian that had to be a come-on line, judging from his tone and body language. The woman laughed, tossing back her hair and responding in an equally friendly manner.
Money talks, Ryan mused silently, as he took more photos. Bruiser looked like Boris to her Natasha, definitely not a hot stud who would turn a girl on. But he smacked of cash, and that was clearly enough. Good. That gave Ryan plenty of time to study the guy and take pictures. He’d learned enough from Casey to lock in on certain behavioral signs. Bruiser had an eye for the ladies, a big-ass ego, and an aggressiveness about him that Ryan guessed went from the bedroom to the boardroom.
Eventually, the woman glanced at her watch and reluctantly stood up. She punched something quickly into her cell phone, speaking in rapid Russian as she did, and nodded her head toward the phone peeking out of Bruiser’s pocket. He plucked it out, glanced down at the screen, and a wide smile split his face.
Okay, that was a no-brainer, Ryan thought. She just texted him her phone number.
After that, she hurried off to—no surprise—the far bank of elevators.
Bruiser rose, still smiling as he drank his coffee, and headed to the bank of elevators closest to where Ryan was seated. Ryan watched the elevator doors shut behind him, and the numerals as they ascended. Seventh floor and the elevator stopped. Once again, Ryan consulted his photo of the building directory. There were six companies on that floor.
It was up to him and Marc to figure out which was the right one.
Back at the hotel, Ryan and Marc set up shop to figure out who their mystery man was and where he worked. They did the initial checking on Marc’s computer, so they could keep Ryan’s open for all in-depth research.
“Of the six companies on the seventh floor, four are Russian businesses,” Marc noted. “Those are the ones we concentrate on.”
It didn’t take them long to zero in on the likely suspect.
“RusChem,” Ryan said, pointing at Marc’s computer screen. “It’s a Russian-owned biochemical manufacturer, with a sole production facility in Akron, Ohio, and sales offices strategically positioned across the globe to service regional customers.”
Marc nodded, reading rapidly and noting the key points of information.
RusChem’s Chicago office was one of their three US sales locations, along with Los Angeles and New York. Internationally, they were represented in Frankfurt, Germany, Sao Paolo, Brazil, and Shanghai, China.
The next section on the About Us page was even more interesting—and pertinent.
RusChem manufactured enzymes, coenzymes, monoclonal/polyclonal antibodies, recombinant proteins, and high purity chemical reagents. Their customers included leading companies in the IVD, API, life science and nutraceutical markets.
