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  My overcoat was doing a good job of concealing the body armor under my shirt. Sergei's might be as thick as the paving slabs outside the Kremlin, but mine consisted of just twelve paper-thin sheets of Kevlar not enough to stop one of Sergei's AP rounds, but enough to see off the mini-Uzis that might soon be trying to hose me down. There was a pocket in the body armor for a ceramic plate to cover my chest area, but unlike Sergei I couldn't wear one as it was far too bulky.

  Carpenter had refused to wear any at all because it wasn't manly, and Nightmare had followed suit. Fucking mad; if I could have, I'd have covered myself from head to toe in the stuff. My feet were in all sorts of shit; with nothing on but thin socks and a pair of lace-up shoes, they were as cold as bags of frozen peas. I could no longer feel anything below my ankles, and had given up moving them around to generate heat.

  I was carrying a South African Z88, which looked like a 9mm Berreta, the sort of pistol Mel Gibson uses in the Lethal Weapon films. When the world banned weapons exports to South Africa during apartheid, the boys just set about making their own gear and were now exporting more assault weapons and helicopters than the U.K.

  I had three twenty-round extended mags, which meant an extra two inches hanging out of the pistol grip, looking as if it had partially fallen out. The two spares went into my left-hand overcoat pocket. If things went to plan I wouldn't even be drawing down. The lift should be-would be-silent and take less than a minute.

  The body armor was the lightest I dared wear, but even so it made it impossible to draw or sit down with a pistol placed where I would normally have had it: center front, tucked down the front of my jeans or pants in an internal holster. I wasn't feeling happy about my new weapon position. Now it had to be on the right-hand side on my pants belt. I'd had to spend the last two weeks practicing and consciously reminding myself that the position had changed, otherwise I might go to draw down on someone and find my hand hitting Kevlar instead of a pistol grip. That was if I could get to it through all the layers of clothing. To be able to flick back the top layers quickly, I'd taped together some outlets from the set in the car and carried them in the right-hand pockets of both my coat and jacket. It was just one more thing making me feel uneasy. My only consolation was that this time tomorrow it would all be over: I'd get my money and never see these lunatics again.

  There was rustling as Sergei unwrapped a chocolate bar and started to throw it down his throat without offering me any. Not that I wanted it; I wasn't hungry, just worried. I sat there waiting, with the sound of Sergei's teeth mashing and jaws clicking as the wind whistled around the wagon.

  I sat and thought as he sucked his teeth clean. So far, Valentin had evaded the authorities, mainly because he had learned early on that it was good to have friends in powerful places and officials on the payroll. Key witnesses were routinely murdered before they could testify against him. Just a few months earlier, Sergei said, an American journalist who'd delved a bit too deeply into Val's business affairs was forced into hiding, with his family, after a phone call was intercepted in which Val was heard putting out a contract of $100,000, not just on the reporter's life, but also on those of his wife and child.

  It was for those who betrayed his trust, however, that the worst fate was reserved. Two senior managers who oversaw his prostitution empire had been caught skimming a bit off the top at his Moscow brothels. Even though they'd fought alongside him in the Braveheart days and had been faithful lieutenants ever since, Val had had them taken out and staked to the earth on waste ground not far from Red Square, where he'd personally slit their bellies, pulled out their intestines, and waited patiently for them to die. The "Viking's revenge" appeared to have done the trick: Ever since then, not a single ruble had gone astray from any of his tills.

  I heard six quick squelches in my earpiece. The three pickup Meres were mobile toward the hotel.

  I replied with two squelches, then heard another two from Nightmare and Carpenter, who should now be getting out of their car and heading for the hotel. All six of us knew it was time to start performing.

  Sergei didn't say a word, just nodded. He might speak English, but it had to be squeezed out of him. I nodded back, checking my weapon was still in position.

  I got out of the 4x4 and left Sergei staring downhill. Pulling up my coat collar to protect me from the wind, I headed in the opposite direction, away from the main street. My route took me up the hill for one hundred feet, then a right turn to the next intersection. That put me on the road adjacent to the hotel and down to the main drag again.

  I could see the large gray concrete hotel in front of me on the left-hand side of the road. Just short of it was roadwork surrounded by steel fencing; the cobblestones were up and the pipes were being repaired. I didn't envy the poor bastards who had to finish the job in this weather.

  The noise from the main street grew louder as I walked downhill. The James brothers would be on it now, following the Meres. Nightmare and Carpenter should be walking into the hotel from the opposite side and Sergei would be positioning himself so that he'd be able to move in on the Meres at the front of the hotel.

  I crossed the road, passing the hotel's rear service and parking lot entrance. Two white Hilux delivery vans were parked up on the red asphalt. There was a glass door giving access to the hotel beyond the delivery bays, but you could only get through it by buzzing reception, and I didn't want to make myself any more conspicuous than I had to.

  Neither of the two loading bays was open; it was far too cold. I continued downhill, the hotel now obscured by a line of high conifers.

  Valentin Lebed's weakest point would be tonight, in Finland, in this hotel, before he left for the theater. He was on his way to see Romeo and Juliet. The theater was only across the road, a few hundred feet away to the left, but it was cold, he had always been a target for attack and he was incredibly rich, so why walk?

  About one hundred feet short of the main road I hit the driveway from the Intercontinental's front entrance. It was a semicircle and one way. I turned left; in front of me, halfway down the concrete and glass building, was a large blue canopy to protect guests from the elements as they got in and out of their cars. The ground floor walls were glass, through which I could see the warm and cosy looking interior. Small trees lined the driveway; they had lost their leaves and were now covered in white Christmas lights. The snow made them look as if they'd been sprinkled with icing sugar. I carried on past the illuminated reindeer that stood on the lawn between the driveway and main drag, which was about one hundred feet down a gentle slope.

  The plan was simple. Nightmare and Carpenter were to kill the close BGs that were protecting the target as he came from the elevator, then cover me as I took the target toward the main doors. While this was happening, the Jameses would have blocked off the rear of the Meres with their 4x4, Sergei would block the front with the Nissan and all three would be controlling the other BGs and drivers with their AKs.

  Once outside, I'd head for the back of the Nissan, dragging the target with me. We'd both lie under a blanket, with my pistol rammed down his throat while Sergei drove to the DOP (vehicle drop-off point), where the target would be switched to the trunk of a changeover vehicle enroute to the border. Meanwhile, Jesse and Frank would be giving the area the good news with CS gas before leaving in the Toyota, along with the other two, to their DOP and changing vehicles. We'd all RV (rendezvous) near the border and get into a truck that was rigged up with hidden compartments while Sergei drove us into Mother Russia. Then it was just a few hours to St.

  Petersburg and payday. Nice work if you can get it.

  I walked under the canopy and through the first set of automatic tinted-glass and brass-effect doors. Once past the second set I was in, my face flushed from the downward blast of the heaters above the doorway.

  I knew the foyer area well. It had the air of an expensive, comfortable club. I hadn't seen any of the rooms, but they must have been stunning.

  In front of me, about
one hundred feet away and behind a group of very noisy and confused Japanese tourists surrounding a mountain of matching suitcases, was the reception desk. In the far right-hand corner was a hallway that led to the restaurant, rest rooms, and the all-important elevators.

  By now Nightmare and Carpenter should be at the far end of the hall, sitting by the restaurant entrance. From there they could keep trigger on the three elevator doors.

  Immediately to my right, behind a dark wood-paneled wall, was the Baltic Bar. To my left, efficient-looking bellboys were buzzing around a sprinkling of sofas, chairs, and coffee tables. The lighting was subdued. I wished I'd just dropped in for a drink.

  I headed for one of the sofas, sitting down so that I was facing the Japanese confusion at reception to my half right, with the hallway to the right of that, and the brass-effect elevator doors in view. Like me, Nightmare and Carpenter had placed themselves out of sight of the video cameras that were covering the reception desk. I sat, spread out the Trib on the coffee table, unbuttoned my overcoat and waited for the convoy of Meres to arrive.

  It was pointless worrying about anything now. There is only so much training and planning that can be done. I used to get worried when this feeling came over me, but now I understood it. Basically, I accepted that I was going to die, and anything beyond that was a bonus.

  2

  The Japanese weren't at all happy, and they didn't care who knew it.

  There must have been about twenty of them, all with video cameras round their necks.

  Three minutes later the headlights of the three Meres raked the ground-floor windows. Jesse and Frank should have pulled up just short of the semicircular driveway where they'd be standing by. Sergei would be waiting to block their front.

  I waited for the inside set of sliding doors to open, keeping my head down, concentrating hard on my newspaper.

  In came the BGs. Two pairs of shiny Italian shoes and expensive black cashmere overcoats over black pants.

  You always avoid eye contact, because they'll be looking for it. If your eyes lock you're fucked; they'll know you aren't there to talk about the beef ban.

  I watched the two sets of heels make their way over to the far right of the foyer. They paused by the brass elevator doors, now and again shielded by the Japanese as they went in pursuit of one very hassled hotel rep.

  The middle door slid open with a gentle ping. The shoes went in, and two more sets of shoes were refused entry. The doors closed and the indicator light stopped at the Ambassador Suite. They were going to meet up with the other two BGs who were already with Valentin, their principal, my target. My money.

  I got up, folding the Trib into my coat pocket, and started to walk toward the main doors. As I moved past them, toward the leather-boothed, dark-wood Baltic Bar, I could see three very clean black Meres on the other side of the glass, exhaust fumes condensing in the cold air, each with a driver waiting patiently at the wheel.

  The bar was half full and not very smoky, considering the number of cigarettes I could see on the go. There were quite a few laptops open, and there was a general hubbub as suits talked shop over a beer or into their cell phones.

  Unbuttoning my suit jacket as I walked, but keeping my overcoat on to conceal the body armor, I made my way around tables and leather chesterfields toward the far door.

  I seated myself where I could see down the corridor to the three elevator doors, set back slightly in the right-hand wall. Beyond them, and just out of sight, were the reception and foyer. At the other end of the hallway, Carpenter and Nightmare should be in position in the coffee area of the restaurant, with a clear view all the way down to the foyer. Under the table I pulled at my right glove and eased my index finger through the cut in the leather.

  Five long minutes went by as elevators came and went, but Val still hadn't made an appearance. Two middle-aged couples emerged from the center lift, dressed in furs and dinner jackets, looking as if they, too, were going to the theater. It was now that I started to worry.

  The calm was over and the storm was about to begin. My heart was pumping big time. My body armor was wet with sweat and my shirt collar was soaking it up from the back of my neck. Any minute now someone was going to ask me if I was ill, I was sure of it. Mentally I was still the same, but my body was telling me something different.

  About twenty seconds later there was another pmg. The two pairs of expensive Italian shoes emerged from the right-hand elevator and stopped in the corridor for a second or two, each pair facing in a different direction. The overcoat of the BG facing toward me swirled open as he turned, then both moved toward the foyer, disappearing from view as quickly as they'd arrived. I knew their jackets and overcoats would be like mine, open to access their weapons.

  I moved my hand into my inside jacket pocket and gave the Motorola six clicks on the send button, hearing the squelch in my earpiece each time. Val would be down any minute now.

  Sergei, Jesse, and Frank would now know that the target and BGs were heading toward them. The two pairs of shoes were going to secure the foyer, probably by the main doors. It wouldn't be long now before everything kicked off and the Japanese would really have something to complain about.

  Whatever these two BGs did, we had them covered. If they stayed inside, it was Nightmare's and Carpenter's job to take them on once they'd sorted out the BGs immediately around Val. Outside, it was down to the other three.

  We all waited, and I sweated as people around me laughed, hit keyboards, and talked between mouthfuls of alcohol.

  There was a ping from the far-right elevator. Another two pairs of black patent-leather shoes, dress-suit trousers complete with silk stripe under black overcoats. They stepped out on either side of a light-gray cashmere coat and the smartest pants of all, followed by a pair of very long, slim, well-toned, black-stockinged calves topped off with the world's most luxurious mink. Val's woman, keeping him warm on those long lonely nights away from his family.

  I had to be careful. There was always the possibility of someone you overlook during surveillance-the one who looks like the brother-in-law or secretary. Then, when you hit the target, they can prove very dangerous indeed. But not this one; she was definitely not part of the BG setup.

  They had turned right out of the elevator without hesitating. I stood up slowly, waiting for my cue.

  I caught Carpenter's scary, dancing eye as he and Nightmare crossed the doorway, moving right to left, matching the purposeful strides of the BGs.

  We'd rehearsed what was supposed to happen next so many times. It had to work; there was no stopping this now.

  I turned left out of the door and fell in behind them as they drew their suppressed weapons.

  About fifteen feet ahead of us, the backs and very wide shoulders of the BG pair flanked Val and the woman as they moved toward the Japanese-filled foyer. We needed to close in on them fast, while they were still in the confines of the hallway. Once out in the foyer the rest of Val's team would be able to see what was about to happen before the 4x4s could get into position.

  Ten more feet before we were on top of them. There was another pmg, then a bright light from an elevator interior as the doors opened and a middle-aged couple began to step out between us and the target.

  I moved to push them back. This was a contingency I had rehearsed with them many times. As I did so, Carpenter's right hand came up.

  Without taking his eyes off Val, he fired three or four suppressed rounds into the couple as he passed. I could hear the top slide on his weapon working back and forth inches from my face and the dull thud of the rounds exiting the barrel. Shit, her scream had turned the job noisy and we hadn't even taken out the BGs.

  The couple fell back into the elevator, the woman taking all the rounds, her white silk blouse red with blood. Fuck this guy; slotting players was one thing, but real people meant big trouble.

  The two BGs turned and started to draw down their weapons, but Carpenter and Nightmare had closed the gap and gave them both
two rounds in the head from less than a foot away. They dropped without a sound.

  Nobody in the vicinity had noticed anything yet-they were too busy doing their own stuff-but they soon would.

  As the BGs dropped, Carpenter should have moved on, but he continued firing down at the bodies. The BGs were dead. He was wasting time.

  Behind me, the man in the elevator cried out as he cradled his dying wife.

  I saw Carpenter's glazed eyes. He was high on whatever it was that he used to get through the long winters. Sergei would be busy tonight if we stayed alive and he stuck to his promise. Fuck it, I'd kill this maniac myself before this got out of control.

  Keeping my eyes fixed on Carpenter's head as he fired yet another round into the BG, I shoved my right hand between my jacket and shirt, toward my 88, my left palm pointing toward him, arm bent and ready to receive the weapon that would soon be in my grip The screams from the elevator were now muffled. I wasn't aware of anything else as I concentrated solely on Carpenter's head as he turned to fire into the other body on the floor.

  My fingers scraped against the body armor as I leaned forward slightly from the hip and pushed my coat and jacket back as aggressively as I could. The weight of the metal outlets helped me to expose my weapon for the second I needed. Pushing the web of my right hand firmly down into the 88's pistol grip, I closed my lower three fingers and thumb around it as firmly as possible.

  Drawing the weapon, I started to insert my glove-free index finger into the trigger guard, making sure I could feel the steel of the trigger on the first pad. I pulled down on the safety catch with my thumb just before Carpenter fired his next round.

  There was the glint of brass as the working parts ejected the spent casing between us. As he tried to fire again, I could see the top slide being held back by the locking lever. He had run out of rounds.