the same building shoots another outside with a rifle. An old lady gets murdered along the way, but the bullets that shot her match the gun of the sixth guy killed, so she probably just got caught in the crossfire.
‘Information on the seven others our guy killed is coming through all the time. They look like hired shooters. The way they acted tells me they were in Paris to take out Ozols’s killer. Obviously he took them out instead.’
Ferguson’s brow furrowed. ‘So you’re telling us that one assassin kills Ozols, and a couple of hours later seven other assassins try and kill him, but he shoots them all dead?’
‘That’s exactly how it appears.’
Ferguson raised his palms. ‘Someone please explain to me how this makes any sense?’
Chambers took off her glasses. ‘Is there any indication who sent the team?’
‘At this stage no,’ Alvarez answered regretfully. ‘But I don’t think it will be too long before we have them all identified. That gives us seven chances to find out who sent them. And whoever did send them obviously knows a hell of a lot about Ozols’s killer. So if we can find out who hired these guys, we’ll have a good shot of getting the killer, and maybe we can still get those missiles too.’
Chambers and Ferguson were nodding, but Procter noticed Sykes wasn’t looking so relaxed. Procter understood why. The kid was out of the loop, had nothing to say, no opinion to offer, and he didn’t like it. He was still comparatively young, and Ferguson obviously thought highly of him, so he shouldn’t be worried by his lack of contribution. There was no point speaking just for the sake of it. Ferguson should have taught his apprentice that much at least. If Sykes was really smart he should be satisfied at this stage of his career just to watch and learn from the playmakers.
‘The final and maybe most important thing I’ve found out,’ Alvarez announced, ‘is that the killer didn’t leave Paris straight away after being attacked. Seems he hung around to investigate the guys who tried to whack him.’
Ferguson spoke. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because one of the gunmen, found riddled with. 45-calibre slugs in the building opposite the killer’s hotel, checked out of his own hotel about an hour after he was killed.’
There was a momentary silence in the room. Procter could hear the creak of leather.
‘That’s a clever trick for a dead man,’ Sykes offered with a smirk that showed his bright teeth. Everyone ignored him, and Procter shook his head imperceptibly.
‘The clerk at the hotel described the man as quite tall, lean, with dark hair, glasses, and a beard,’ Alvarez explained. ‘The real man, Svyatoslav, doesn’t match that description. He’s shorter, stockier. We got lucky with facial recognition and ID’d him from airport CCTV.’
Procter leaned forward. ‘Let me guess, the assassin acquired Svyatoslav’s things?’
‘Yes,’ Alvarez agreed. ‘He pretended to be him and signed out. The clerk gave him Svyatoslav’s passport, plane tickets, et cetera that were stored in the hotel safe. They haven’t popped up on the grid, so he didn’t use the passport to leave the country.’
Chambers asked, ‘What do you think the killer would want with Svyatoslav’s things?’
‘I think he must be trying to learn about him,’ Alvarez said. ‘That’s why he went to the hotel. He didn’t flee the country; he went to where one of the guys who tried to kill him was staying.’
‘And if he is trying to identify his attackers, and who they were working for, what’s his next logical step?’ queried Procter.
‘To check out Svyatoslav’s address,’ Alvarez answered.
‘Please tell me we know where that is,’ Chambers said.
‘Munich.’
Chambers placed both hands on the table. ‘Okay, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to contact German intelligence straight away and get them to put the address under immediate surveillance. Let them know what kind of person they’re dealing with. I don’t want them trying to apprehend him, just keep him in sight. I’m not having anyone else getting killed because of this. Alvarez, as soon as you’ve finished briefing them, I want you on the next plane to Germany to see what you can find out. Call me from Munich. If he’s still there you’ll have as much support as you need.’
When Alvarez was off the phone it was Ferguson who spoke. His thick silver hair, normally swept neatly backwards, was looking a little unruly today. ‘The chances of this killer still being in possession of the information are slim at best. If his job was to intercept Ozols and take the drive, then he will be delivering it to his employer — he won’t be off chasing leads in Germany. That makes no sense whatsoever.’
Chambers sighed. ‘Maybe it was his employer who tried to have him killed. Saves paying him. Or maybe he’s already done it. But until we have more indication on who sent him, this is our best approach. We’re against the clock here; as soon as that information is delivered, those missiles are going to vanish in a matter of days, and the next we hear about them will be when someone uses the technology against us. If there is a slim chance the man who killed Ozols might have gone to Germany, then so must we.’ Ferguson didn’t look convinced. ‘Unless you have any other ideas you’d like to share with us.’ The challenge in her voice was obvious.
Ferguson’s expression was one of quiet contempt. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. Procter looked at Chambers. Evidently she wasn’t bothered about getting the old guy’s back up whatever his history.
Maybe there was a pair dangling between her legs after all.
CHAPTER 16
Geneva, Switzerland
Tuesday
18:32 CET
Victor walked through Place Neuve and passed the Grand Theatre. The city was alive with people, tourists out for a good time and locals happy to have finished the working day. Victor cast a fleeting glance at the Grand- Theatre, wishing he had the chance to take in a performance, something by Puccini or Mozart perhaps. Instead he walked back and forth among the crowds to throw off any shadows.
The sun had set, and no one noticed him as he passed through the streets of the city. It was after dark where he really belonged. In the daytime he could hide within a crowd, but at night he could be invisible. In front of him walked a couple, arms entwined, stumbling slightly and laughing. They were so enraptured with each other they wouldn’t have noticed him whether he’d let them or not.
From Munich he’d travelled to Berlin and then on to Prague before heading to Switzerland. It had been a long and tiring journey, but Victor never travelled in straight lines. He veered off into a side street, taking an indirect route to the train station. It was brightly lit, busy with suited commuters. Like most of Geneva’s males, Victor was dressed in a thick overcoat, gloves, and hat. He was glad of the cold that forced everyone to pile on the layers, blending the crowd into a mass of conservative colours. Even a whole team of expert shadows would have their work cut out following him in such a place.
He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours, and he was very aware of the fact. Sleep deprivation slowed the mind as much as the body, and now more than ever Victor needed to be at one hundred per cent. But while on the run he couldn’t rest until he knew he was safe. Every hour spent asleep gave his enemies a chance to get closer to him.
He consumed a bad sandwich and a strong coffee in a small cafe while he waited for his train. When it arrived he waited for the last possible moment before climbing on board and sat with the window to his right, at the rear of the carriage. From Geneva Victor travelled north, the train winding through the mountains.
He’d lived in Switzerland for several years, finding its climate, people, and lifestyle to his liking. Living at altitude gave his endurance a significant boost, plus the country’s secretive banking systems and relaxed attitude to firearms suited his vocation particularly well.
The train took Victor through the Valais, Switzerland’s third largest region, or canton. The region contained the Rhone valley, which fed Geneva’s famous lake. It was late when Victor stepped off the train in the village of Saint Maurice. Snow fell heavily, and he pulled his collar up and hunched his shoulders. He’d bought appropriate clothing for the mountains in a boutique at the train station and changed on the train.
The village itself was isolated, far away from the closest town, consisting mainly of wealthy foreigners who
