Chefman had been awake for an hour before Lena got up. He was text messaging an old friend, Lieutenant Colonel Boris Potchky, formerly of the KGB, now retired. The texts read:
"Boris, urgent. It's the Angel. I need some PVV-5A. Enough to destroy and torch a car, no more than that. I'm at the Minsk Crowne Plaza."
"Angel, long time no see. Come visit. Will send package with Jerzy later today, What room?"
"Thank you. Room 657. Will repay kindness."
"No problem. You have my information."
"What's that all about?" asked Lena, yawning.
"Just planning a warm welcome for our friend Mr. B," he replied. "I'm sure we'll see him this evening. Meantime, let's go have brunch; you hungry?"
"Good, let's get ready. And do me a favor, stay close to me. They're trying to get to me through you. OK?"
"How close?" she said brushing her lips on his cheek.
"No. We can't be distracted. We didn't live this long only to be taken down in a hotel room from self-induced distractions. Right?"
"And PVV5A?" she asked.
"Russian plastic explosive. We will need it."
"Right..." she grumbled. She undressed and headed toward the bathroom. Chefman pretended not to notice. But a brain scan would have looked like this: