Rick Nealey’s irritation increased. First, there had been the unexpected encounter with Dorothea Kelso, detaining him, wasting precious seconds when each one of his minutes had been carefully estimated. Next, Oleg had chosen to make contact by voice and lead the way out of the hotel. His own preconceived ideas of how to deal with a difficult meeting, far too dangerous for his taste, had been swept aside. And now here he was, as Alexis, following this madman along a public thoroughfare on a bright afternoon, neither the place nor the time appropriate, and far from his choosing. Insanity, he thought. Grudgingly, he had to admit it was paying off. So far. The lobby was safely behind him, and no one was on his heels. To make sure of that, as he walked along K Street—keep nonchalant, no haste, let the space between Oleg and him widen—he took the usual precaution of dropping a book of matches, which gave him a quick glimpse of the Statler entrance as he bent to pick it up. He saw only a cluster of people outside its door waiting for taxis, no solitary figure, no head turned his way.
