Free The Right Hand by Derek Haas Page A

Moscow.”
    “Will you be speaking at the linguistics—?”
    Clay interrupted before he could finish the question. “In what department do you teach, Oleg?”
    Oleg smiled. “International Relations.”
    “Fascinating. You must spend much time traveling, then?”
    “Oh, yes. I stayed a few months last year on the Korean peninsula. I will be spending another few months in Japan next year on an exchange with Waseda University.”
    “Wonderful,” Clay said, standing up abruptly. “I would love to talk more with you, but I must be on my way. Perhaps if I find myself with a minute, I can stop in and see you in your office, Oleg.”
    Oleg looked mystified to discover that the conversation was ending and that this man could have finished his plate so quickly. Clay found the cook with his eyes and gestured for the check. The man grunted something about four hundred rubles.
    Pavel stood and shook his hand. “Must you be leaving so quickly?”
    “I am very tired and would like to get on with my travel. How much farther is it?”
    “No more than one hour twenty minutes straight down the M60.”
    Clay fished some money out of his pocket and put the bills on the table next to his plate.
    “You didn’t tell me where you are speaking at the university. Perhaps I can come hear you speak?” Oleg said just as Clay began to move away.
    Clay stopped and turned back to the professor. “I’m attending incognito, I’m afraid. I am writing a new play about a student. I am just attending to observe student life.”
    “I see,” Oleg said. “Well, please stop in to say hello to my colleague Sergei Trushin in the journalism school. He would be delighted to interview a playwright from Moscow.”
    “Sergei Trushin,” Clay repeated, pretending to commit the name to memory. “I will certainly do that, Oleg. Thank you.”
    “With pleasure,” Oleg said, and turned back to his dish. Clay nodded at the family and headed for the door, ducking his head to avoid bumping the ceiling. He replayed the conversation in his mind all the way to his car but couldn’t see any mistakes in it. Still, he cursed his stomach for speaking up when he only had an hour and twenty minutes to go before reaching the university.
     
    The stepbrother was named David Czabo. Clay hoped the difference in the surnames—Czabo and Csontos—had thrown FSB off his trail and they hadn’t found the connection Nelson had found.
    He entered the biotechnology building and passed the classrooms in search of the faculty offices. The university felt modern and clean, a stark contrast to his last week out in the backwoods of Mother Russia. He was clean, too. He had called Stedding as soon as he’d found a phone on the outskirts of town. Within three hours, Stedding had gotten him a room at the fine Azimut Hotel and a closet full of clothes his size. Every now and then, Steddy liked to remind Clay how resourceful a handler he could be, and how fortunate Clay was to work with the best.
    He passed several closed office doors and arrived at an open one, inside which a bearded academic sat over papers. The name on the door read Zagrevsky.
    “Professor Zagrevsky?” Clay asked as he knocked and entered.
    “Yes.” The man looked up and then back down at his work immediately.
    “I am Boris Antopov, with Central Ministry.”
    As expected, the professor looked up. His fingers went to his beard and scratched nervously.
    Clay put on his warmest smile. “Biotech division.”
    “Yes?”
    “You have a student here named David Czabo.”
    “Yes, yes. Fine student, David.”
    “I wish to speak with him, but my assistant did not give me his living address and the office is closed in Moscow due to scheduled renovation.”
    “To speak with him? What is this concerning?”
    Clay’s smile spread. “Concerning ministry business.”
    The academic frowned. “I see. Well, you are in luck with your timing. I have class with David Czabo in just over an hour. I will introduce you upon his