Firewall Page 9

  Palace Gardens stretches the whole length of Hyde Park's west side, from Kensington in the south to Netting Hill Gate in the north. I rode up to the iron gates and the wooden gatehouse positioned between them.

  Sitting inside was a bald man in his fifties, wearing a white shirt, black tie, and blue nylon jacket.

  Beyond him lay a wide tree-lined road and pavements of clean beige gravel. The large mansion houses were mostly embassies and their residences. Flags fluttered and brass plates gleamed. The sale price of even one of the staff apartments would probably clear my debts at the clinic, pay Kelly's education right through to doctorate level, and still leave enough to put a new roof over most of Norfolk.

  The gate man looked me up and down as if I was something one of the posh embassy dogs had left coiled on the curb. He didn't get up, just stuck his head out of the window. "Yes?"

  "Number 3A, mate. Pickup." I pointed to the now empty backpack on my back. I really hadn't planned to be a messenger today, but it seemed the easiest thing to do. At least I looked the part, with the leathers and my South London accent turned up a notch or two.

  He pointed up the road. "Hundred yards up on the left. Don't park in front of the building. Put your machine over there." He indicated to the opposite side of the road.

  I let in the clutch and waited for the steel barriers blocking my way to disappear into the road. The Israeli embassy loomed up on my left.

  A dark-skinned guard in plain clothes stood outside on the pavement. He must have been feeling quite cold, as his coat and suit jacket were unbuttoned. If anyone attacked the place he had to be able to reach his weapon and gun them down before the uniformed British policeman on the opposite side of the road got a chance to step in and make a simple arrest instead.

  About two hundred feet past them both I parked in the line of cars opposite the apartment building. Walking across the road toward its grand gates, I started removing my gloves and unbuckling my helmet, then I hit the bell and explained to a voice where I wanted to go. The side gate opened with a whirr and a click and I walked through and down the drive.

  The building was bigger than most of those around it and set back from the road. It was made of red brick and concrete and was decades younger than its neighbors, with manicured gardens on each side of the drive that led downhill to a turning circle with an ornate fountain at its center.

  Pulling off the ski mask that kept the cold off my face, I walked through the main doors into a glittering dark marble and glass reception area. The doorman, another king sitting on his throne, seemed to view me the same way as his mate down the road. "Delivery, is it?"

  Nobody calls you sir when you're in bike leathers.

  It was time to play messenger boy again. "Nah, pick-up P. P. Smith, mate."

  He picked up the internal telephone and dialed, his voice changing into Mr. Nice Guy the moment he got a reply. "Hello, reception here, you have a messenger for a collection. Do you want me to send him up? Certainly. Goodbye." The phone went down and he turned surly again as he pointed to the elevator. "Third floor, fourth door on the left."

  As the elevator doors closed behind me I had a quick check round for closed-circuit cameras, then pulled out my Universal Self Loading Pistol. Checking chamber, I hit the button for the third floor. I never knew why I checked chamber so much. Maybe it just made me feel more in control.

  As the elevator kicked in with a slight jerk and took me upward, I folded the ski mask over the Universal Self-Loading Pistol and placed it, and my right hand, in the helmet. If there was a drama, I could just drop the helmet and react.

  The elevator slowed. Placing my thumb on the safety catch, I was ready.

  The door slid open with an up market ding, but I stood my ground for a few seconds, listening, helmet still in my left hand so I could draw with my right.

  The temperature changed as I stepped into the hallway and the doors closed behind me. It was hot, but the decor was cold: white walls, cream carpet, and very brightly lit.

  I followed the carpet, looking for the fourth door on the left. It was so quiet that all I could hear as I moved was the creaking of my leathers.

  The door didn't have a bell, knocker, or even a number. Using my knuckles against the heavy wood, I stood off to the side, my right hand back on the pistol grip, thumb easing off the safety catch.

  I hated this bit. It wasn't as if I was expecting trouble; it was highly unlikely to happen here, given all the security I'd had to pass.

  But still, I hated knocking on doors and not knowing who or what was on the other side.

  Footsteps echoed on a hard floor and locks were undone. The door started to open, only to be stopped by a security chain. A face, or rather half a face, moved into the three- or four-inch gap. It was enough for me to recognize its owner at once. I was pleasantly surprised. It would be much friendlier dealing with her than some square head Looking almost innocent, Val's woman from Helsinki was showing me just one very light-blue eye and some dark-blond hair. It probably got lighter in the summer, when the sun got to work on it.

  The only other thing I could see through the gap was her dark-blue woolen turtleneck.

  She looked at me without any expression, waiting for me to speak.

  "My name is Nick. You have something for me."

  "Yes, I've been expecting you." She didn't bat an eye. "Have you a cell phone or pager with you?"

  I nodded. "Yeah, I've got a phone." Fuck what Valentin had said. I needed one with me for when the clinic called later.

  "Could I ask you to turn it off, please?"

  "It is." It was pointless wasting the battery while sitting on a bike.

  Tilting the helmet slightly so the pistol wouldn't fall out, I reached into my right-hand pocket and pulled out the phone, showing her the display.

  She gave a very courteous "Thank you," then the door closed and I heard the chain being undone. The door reopened fully, but instead of standing there and ushering me in, she turned and started to walk back into the flat. "Close the door behind you, would you please, Nick?"

  As I stepped over the threshold I smelled floor wax. I followed her down the hallway, taking in the apartment's layout. A couple of doors led off either side, and one at the far end was partly open. The floor was plain, light wood, the walls and doors gleaming white. There was no furniture or pictures, not even a coat hook.

  I switched my attention to Val's woman. I'd thought it was her high heels that had made her look so tall in Finland, but I could see now that her legs did that all on their own. She was maybe just over six feet tall in her square-toed cowboy boots, which made a slow rhythmic clack as her heels hit the floor. She walked like a super model on a catwalk. Her legs were sheathed in a pair of Armani jeans, the logo on the back pocket moving up and down in time with her heels. I couldn't keep my eyes off it.

  Slipping the pistol into my right-hand pocket, I moved the phone into my left, all the time looking at her and thinking that Armani should be paving her for this. I was almost tempted to buy myself a pair.

  One door to the right was partly open, and I glanced through. The kitchen was just as sterile as the hallway: stark white stools at a breakfast bar, no kettle, no letters on the side. Nobody lived here.

  I walked into the living room where she now stood, a large white space with three unmatching dining-room chairs at its center. Muslin curtains covered the windows, making the light dull and hazy.

  The only other objects in the room were four very large Harrods bags, which looked as if they were about to split at the seams, and a Borders bag, the telltale shapes of books pushing at its sides.

  I moved to the far corner of the room and leaned against the wall.

  Through the double glazing of the large picture windows I could hear the faint murmur of traffic.

  She bent over one of the shopping bags and pulled out a buff envelope.

  "My name is Liv. Valentin sends his regards," she said as she brought it over to me. "And, of course, his gratitude
. This is for you. One hundred thousand U.S. dollars."

  Wonderful. That was the slate clean at the clinic, and another four months' treatment in the bank.

  She extended a perfectly manicured hand that showed she was no longer a teenager. The skin on her face was crystal clear and had no need of makeup. I reckoned she was in her early thirties. Her hair was shoulder length, parted over her left eye, and tucked back behind her ear.

  If she was wearing nail polish today, it was clear. She wore no rings, no bracelets, earrings, or necklaces. The only jewelry I could see was a discreet gold tank watch with a black leather strap. But then, she needed adorning like the Venus de Milo needed a velvet choker and diamond tiara. I was beginning to see why Val might prefer Finland to Russia.

  I wasn't going to open the envelope there and then. I didn't want to look desperate and untrusting. I was both, but I didn't want her to know that.

  I hadn't had the time to take much notice of her before. The first time I was aware of her was the day that Val arrived in Finland, three days before the lift. are about planning, not admiring the view. But I did now. I'd never seen a woman with such a perfectly symmetrical face-a strong jaw, full lips, and eyes that felt as if they knew everything but revealed nothing. Her statuesque body looked like it had been shaped by canoeing or rock climbing rather than jumping up and down to music in a gym.

  The feel of the bundles in the envelope, even through the bubble-wrap lining, brought me back to the real world. I put my helmet at my feet, unzipped my jacket and slipped the envelope inside.

  She turned and went to sit on one of the chairs beside her purchases.

  I took up my position against the wall. She invited me to take one of the seats with a wave of her hand, but I declined, preferring to stand and be able to react if Liv had a few of her squareheaded friends around and this encounter turned out to be not entirely friendly.

  I was starting to get jealous of Val. Money and power always attract beautiful women. My mailbox full of late notices never had quite the same effect, Liv sat there looking at me in the way that Mr. Spock did on the bridge of the USS Enterprise when he thought things were illogical. It was the same look she'd given me at the hotel, penetrating and searching, as if she was staring right into my head, but somehow managing to give nothing back. It made me uncomfortable and I stooped to pick up my helmet before leaving.

  She sat back and crossed her long legs.

  "Nick, I have a proposition for you, from Valentin."

  I left the helmet where it was, but said nothing. I'd learned the hard way that it's worth remembering we have two ears and just one mouth.

  Her gaze remained cool. "Are you interested?"

  I certainly was. "In principle." I didn't want to spend all day beating about the bush, and she didn't look or sound like the sort of person who'd do that anyway. So let's just get on with it. "What does he want from me?"

  "It's a simple task, but one that needs to be handled delicately. He needs someone-and he wants it to be you-to assist another person to enter a house in Finland. The other person is a cryptographer-a highly skilled hacker, if you like. Inside the house are computers which this other person will use his skills to access and then download the contents onto a laptop for removal. The contents, before you ask, are merely some competitive intelligence which Valentin is keen to have in his possession."

  She uncrossed her legs and pulled open one of her bags.

  "You mean industrial espionage?"

  "That's not entirely correct, Nick. More commercial than indus trial. Valentin is asking you to assist in the procurement of this data, but without the house owners knowing that you have done so. We want them to think they are the only ones with this information."

  "It's as straightforward as that?"

  "There are some minor complications which we will discuss if you are interested."

  I was, but minor complications don't exist. They always turn out to be major. "How much?"

  I had to wait for an answer while she fished a cream-colored cashmere sweater out of the Harrods bag with a rustle of tissue paper. Sitting back in the chair, she laid it across her thighs, tucked her hair behind her ear again and looked directly at me.

  "Valentin is offering you one point seven million dollars-if you are successful, of course." She put up a hand. "Nonnegotiable. That is his offer, more than a million pounds. He wanted you to have a round figure in your own currency. You're a lucky man, Nick; he likes you."

  So far it sounded like a dream come true. That alone made me feel suspicious, but fuck it, we were just at the talking stage. "Valentin is powerful enough just to take what he wants by force. Why does he need me?"

  She expertly removed the tags from the sweater, dropping them back into the bag. "This is a job that requires finesse, not muscle. As I said, no one must know that Valentin has this material. In any event, he would prefer this was accomplished outside his normal channels. It's a delicate matter, and it was obvious in Helsinki that you have a certain skill in this area."

  That was all very nice, but it was question time. "What exactly is it I'm trying to lay my hands on?"

  She put on the sweater, her eyes not leaving mine, still measuring me up, I was sure of it. "That, Nick, you don't need to know. We just need to be there before the Maliskia."

  I had to cut in. "You mean steal it before the Maliskia?"

  She smiled. "Not 'steal," copy. Download it. Your task is to get our man in and out without anyone knowing it has happened. Those are the terms, if you wish me to continue."

  "I get it," I said. "Maliskia must be Russian for 'minor complications." "

  She smiled again, her lips parting slightly to show perfect white teeth. "The West call us the Russian Mafia, or simply ROC, as if we were one big group. We're not. We are many groups. The Maliskia are one faction, and Valentin's only real competitor. Whatever you may think about him, he is a man with vision. The Maliskia are not; they are just gangsters. It is very important that they never have access to this information. It would be a disaster for all of us, West as well as East. That is all I am prepared to say on the matter. Now, do you wish me to continue?"

  Of course I did. It's always good to know something about who you're racing against. Not that she'd told me anything Val hadn't. I listened intently as she explained that the target house was still in the process of being prepared to use the "competitive intelligence" Val wanted. It wouldn't be online for another six or seven days, and only then would I be able to get their man in to copy whatever it was. The problem was that once it was online the Maliskia were likely to trace its location very quickly.

  "That's the race, Nick. I emphasize again, we must get it first and no one must know that we've got it."

  It sounded okay to me. I'd spent years doing this kind of thing for far less than $1.7 million. Maybe this was my chance to sort out my life and Kelly's once and for all. One big fuck-off finger to everyone, especially Lynn. The meeting with him had really pissed me off. He knew the reason I'd been spared and he hadn't was that I was more useful to the Firm as an operator on the ground, whereas Lynn was just another paper-pusher. And ever since Washington, the Firm knew they had me by the balls, and I hated it when people had me by the balls.

  "I'm concerned about going back to Finland," I said. "I don't think I'm very popular there."

  She smiled patiently. "They aren't looking for you, Nick. As far as the Finnish police are concerned it was a purely Russian event.

  Valentin has already made a statement to that effect to the authorities. Don't worry, it's not an issue. If it was, Valentin wouldn't have risked offering you this task."

  She gave me time to consider what she had said as she picked fluff off her new sweater. "They weren't your friends, I hope?" She looked up.

  "Perhaps the choice of team was not one of your best decisions?"

  I smiled and shrugged. I had no defense.

  "I thought not." She twisted her forefinger and thumb to release the fluff onto the
floor.

  For the next few minutes I asked questions and she failed to give adequate answers. The objective, she said, was simple enough, but it didn't sound low risk to me. There were far too many questions left unanswered: How many people were in the house? What de fences did they have? Where the fuck was it? I wasn't even allowed to know who I was taking in. I would find out only when I signed on the dotted line. On the other hand, $1.7 million versus 290 pounds a day wasn't the kind of discrepancy I could afford to live with.

  She held out a piece of folded paper. I walked the five paces and took it.

  "These are the contact details of the man you will be taking with you, assuming you can persuade him. If you can, the fee goes up to two million dollars, to cover his cut. Now, one other minor complication: Neither Valentin nor I can risk being associated with this task, so you will be the contact point. It's up to you to convince him to do it."

  I turned back to my helmet, reading an address and phone number in Netting Hill.

  Liv said, "His name is Tom Mancini. I believe you know him."

  I turned to face her. The name did ring a bell, but that didn't concern me. What did was that she knew about me, that she knew things about my past.

  My concern must have been plain to see. She smiled again and shook her head very slightly. "Naturally Valentin has gone to the trouble of learning a lot about you these last few days. Do you think he would employ someone for such a task otherwise?"

  "What does he know?"

  "Enough, I'm sure. Also enough about Tom. Valentin is sure you are both the right people for this. Now, Nick, as you will appreciate, there is little time. You need to be in Helsinki by Sunday. All I will require are your travel details. Everything else will be looked after."

  She gave me the contact details. They were very basic, if not a bit over the top, but easy to understand, which was good, because my head was spinning around with 1.7 million other things at the time.

  She stood up. Our meeting was obviously over. "Thank you for coming, Nick."

  I shook her hand, which felt warm and firm. I looked her in the eye, probably for a fraction of a second too long, then bent to pick up my helmet.