As I open the door, the guard nods at me and asks me something in Azeri. I simply smile, point to the information desk, and go inside. It's a fairly small bank lobby with two teller windows and two executive desks on the floor. A barred gate leads to an area behind a wall, which I presume are back offices, the vault, and maybe safe-deposit boxes. I go to the table that holds bank literature, pick up a pamphlet, and pretend to study it as I case the place. There are two surveillance cameras up in the corners and appear to cover the entire lobby. I glance through the teller windows--only one is occupied--and see a pretty Azeri woman in her thirties counting manat, the official currency. There's not much room back there, so I figure all the good stuff in the bank is through the barred gate.

While I'm studying the place, a man enters from the street, stands and speaks quietly to the guard, and then walks over to the teller window. I recognize him as the man with Namik Basaran in the photo that was in Rick Benton's folder. He's dressed impeccably in an expensive suit and has the demeanor of a king. I make him out to be perhaps the bank manager.

He speaks to the teller for a moment and then moves to the barred gate. He unlocks it with his own set of keys, enters, closes and locks the gate behind him, and disappears. He didn't look at me once.

It's funny how all the little pieces start falling into place. Whoever this guy is, he's obviously pretty chummy with Basaran. In the photo they look like old pals who have enjoyed a longtime business relationship. Of course, the guy could simply be Basaran's banker. Much remains to be seen.

I take a couple of pamphlets and leave the lobby. As I walk by the guard I don't look at him--instead I study one of the pamphlets as if I'm trying to make up my mind whether or not to use the bank's services. He says something that probably translates to "Have a nice day, sir," and I grunt affirmatively without looking up.

I walk south to what is referred to as the Old Town. It's a little maze of alleys that probably should be more impressive than it is. There are some interesting medieval monuments scattered about, but it's mostly made up of nineteenth-century oil-boom structures and Soviet-era tenement buildings. I find a harbor restoranthat specializes in barbecue and have a seat outside. The waiter brings me Azeri's standard fare--barbecued chicken and shashlyk, which is marinated lamb kebab. I find the "fast food" in this town better than the restaurant menus.

When I'm done I walk along the harbor and contact Lambert via my implant.

"Colonel, are you awake?" I ask. "Colonel?"

He answers after twenty seconds or so. "Sam?"

"It's me, Colonel. Did I wake you?"

"Um, yeah, but that's all right. We haven't spoken in a while. Are you in a secure place?"

"I'm walking along Baku harbor. There's no one around. I thought I'd check to see if you have news, because I have some."

"I do," Lambert says. "But you go first."

"You know the address I found attached to the arms at Akdabar Enterprises?"

"Yes?"

"It's a bank. The Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank. Right off of Fountain Square in Baku."

I hear Lambert chuckling. "What's so funny?" I ask.

"It's such a coincidence. We've been hard at work gathering information about those men you asked for. Just a second, let me get to my portable transmitter. . . ." I wait a few seconds. He probably has to get out of bed and go into his office. After a moment I hear him again in the depths of my ear. "I'm uploading a photo. Take a look."

In a flash my OPSAT displays a picture of the guy I just saw in the bank. The same guy in the photo with Namik Basaran. "Got it," I say.

"That's Andrei Zdrok."

"No shit."

"That's him."

"Son of a bitch. You won't believe this, but he's here. I just saw him in the bank. He walked in like he owned the joint and went into the back offices."

"Well, he does own the joint," Lambert says. "Unfortunately there's not a lot on him we could dig up, but what we've found is interesting. He's a Russian banker--he's actually from Georgia--and he's the presidentof the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank. He resides in Zurich, Switzerland, where the main branch of the bank is located. The only other branch is there in Baku."

"Okay."

"Our intelligence reports suggest that Zdrok has ties to organized crime, but nothing has ever been proven. He's never been accused of anything or had any problems with the law. He's on a watch list, though. The Russian government suspects he might be a major player in the black market."

"Colonel, I have reason to believe he may be one of the top dogs in the Shop," I say. "Rick Benton thought so, I think. You saw the chart I sent you?"

"I've made that same connection, Sam. I label the guy Russian mafia."

"I'm going to have a look inside the bank tonight. No telling what I might find."

"In the meantime we'll see what else we can dig up."

"And don't forget there's his connection with Namik Basaran. They obviously know each other and Basaran lied to me about it. Basaran's dirty, Colonel. I don't care what kind of charity he runs, the guy's a phony."

"So far he's clean, Sam," Lambert says. "The Turkish government insists he's the equivalent of a saint."

"What about his background? Do we know anything about him? He's got skeletons in his closet, I just know he does. I saw a photo in his office of a woman and two girls--I'd bet they're his family, but where are they now?"

"We're still digging. I'm afraid there isn't much on the guy before the nineties."

"Well, that's enough to make me suspicious. A man in his forties just doesn't magically materialize in a country without some sort of history. Find it, Colonel."

"We're doing our best. Oh, here's one report I'm looking at now . . . hmm, it's a memo from a Turkish intelligence officer that's apparently been disputed by his superiors, but he claims that Basaran isn't really Turkish."

"I'd like to talk to this officer. Who is he?"

"Well, unfortunately, he's dead. Doesn't say how or when he died . . . just says he's deceased."

"Shit."

"Now, there's the other fellow you wanted to know about. . . ."

"Mertens?"

"Albert Mertens. Dr. Albert Mertens was one of Gerard Bull's right-hand men during the years when Bull was an arms designer and dealer. Mertens was one of the top physicists on the fabled 'Babylon Gun.' Remember that?"

"Sure. When we were talking about Gerard Bull in Washington, I happened to recall it. It's the supergun that could fire a payload at a target a thousand kilometers away. Saddam Hussein commissioned Bull to make one so he could attack a neighboring country without more expensive cruise missiles. Wasn't it able to fire not just conventional explosives but also biological or chemical warheads, or even nuclear bombs?"

"You're right, Sam. Luckily the thing was never finished."

"Okay, so what's this Professor Mertens doing working for Basaran?"

"I don't know, but it's got us concerned. You see, Mertens served seven years in a Belgian prison for illegal arms dealing. According to the data we received, Mertens was transferred during the seventh year to a mental institution and was committed. The guy's a raving lunatic. Then, five years ago, he disappeared from the clinic. Either he escaped on his own or someone broke him out. We don't know. The Belgian police have been looking for the guy ever since."