The three of them piled in—Vladimir behind the wheel, Annja riding shotgun and Gianni sitting between the two seats on a plastic milk crate shanghaied into service as a makeshift chair. The engine fired up with a cough and a bang that did nothing to reassure either of the two passengers that it could actually get them from point A to point B without breaking down at least half a dozen times. Their Russian friend seemed unconcerned, however, so Annja did her best to ignore it. Vlad was a spastic, though adept, driver and negotiated the busy city streets with a deftness that spoke of long practice. Almost before Annja knew it they were entering the center of the city. Vlad drove past the Marriott and pulled the van to the curb a couple of blocks farther down the street. He watched the entrance of the hotel through his side mirror for several minutes. Satisfied, he said, “Wait here,” and hopped out of the van, leaving the engine running.
