Elena Rostova felt the floorboards shudder before she heard the sound.
The vibration traveled up through the soles of her orthotic nursing clogs as she stepped through the threshold of Room 808.
Beside her, Julian had the ten-pound brushed aluminum Nagra IV-S tape recorder strapped securely across his chest.
The heavy cast-brass Master Coaxial Trunk Key was slotted into the reinforced leather hammer-loop on his right hip.
Behind them, the oak double doors of Room 808 swung shut with a muffled, pneumatic sigh.
The black Admiralty laminate ribbon hung loose against the dark mahogany jamb, ready to be reset when the counter-audit concluded.
Elena paused for two seconds on the runner rug, her clinical senses sweeping the corridor.
The air in the eighth-floor hallway was freezing, thick with the stench of stagnant harbor salt, wet wool, and cold tallow.
