Road Of Bones. Don Pendleton

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       The target was a motorcycle shop, not much to look at, with no customers in view as they arrived. The five men had packed into a Lada Samara sedan, with Naum Izvolsky at the wheel. Milescu had him park in front of the shop, blocking off pedestrian access, and told the driver to stay with the car while he led the others inside.

       Levshin had given them an address, but no names. A long-haired grease monkey approached them at the shop’s open threshold, half smiling, and asked how he could help them.

       “You sold a motorcycle this morning,” Milescu informed him, not asking.

       “I sell them all day, every day,” the man replied.

       “Only one interests me,” Milescu said. “A man and a woman came shopping. This woman,” he added, producing the photo. “You recognize her.”

       “This is just a face,” the shop’s proprietor complained. “With women, you know, it can be distracting. I look more at other things.”

       Milescu laughed at that, the others joining him, then asked, “What is your name?”

       “Ilya,” the older man replied. “Ilya Vitruk.”

       “Ilya,” Milescu said, “I don’t care if this one walked in naked and you spent the whole time staring at her tits, understand me? You saw money, too. You sold a motorcycle to this woman and a man.”