the operation she’d been privy to much information on the Latvian, which in turn she’d passed on to his killer. None of those words had helped. The code was probably something with no significance, a blend of numbers and letters for added security.
After making herself fresh coffee, black with sugar, she sat down on a small, creaking armchair in front of a second, recently purchased computer. A similarly new printer rested on the floor.
On the screen was the home page for a financial consultant in London: Hartman and Royce Equity Investments. The home page was minimalist, elegant, with an artist’s impression of the London skyline, at the centre of which was Canary Wharf, where the offices for Hartman and Royce were located.
Rebecca navigated through the site until she found a page listing the company’s executives with some biographical highlights and accompanying photos. She scrolled down and stopped at the name Elliot Seif in the middle of the screen. A click opened up Seif’s details, complete with a larger picture of the man.
She right clicked and saved the picture.
At a nearby phone booth she entered the dialling code for the UK, followed by Seif’s office number.
A woman answered in a polite but serious British accent. ‘Hartman and Royce, Melanie speaking, how can I help you?’
‘I’d like an appointment to see one of your financial advisors please.’
Five minutes later Rebecca left the booth with a next-day appointment booked to see a man called Brice to discuss private investments and her stock portfolio. The appointment would give her the perfect opportunity to get a close look at Seif and survey his offices.
She went back to her research. Already she had street maps of the Canary Wharf district in several scales, as well as photographs of the building and surrounding ones. She had a variety of CIA-supplied software on her computer that allowed her access, some legally but mostly illegally, to a number of useful sources.
Sharing a common language with the UK made things much easier than compiling dossiers on citizens of other European countries. She logged onto the UK electoral-register database to find Seif’s home address. He had homes in both Surrey and London, and a second voter was registered at the Surrey address by the name of Samantha Seif, who Rebecca assumed was Seif’s wife.
After a few minutes of clicking and typing, she had phone numbers and a credit history. Seif’s resume was next. A while later, she had surrounding area maps of the two addresses and a growing list of biographical information.
By the time her companion returned, Rebecca wanted to know everything about Elliot Seif there was to know. She glanced towards the other computer.
The software had stopped counting.
CHAPTER 45
St Petersburg, Russia
Monday
17:25 MSK
The amber-coloured liquid sloshed into the glass, and Aleksandr Norimov threw the Scotch down his throat. He clenched his teeth and poured himself another drink. The heat from the whisky felt good spreading through his insides. He was surprised and glad to be alive. When the shooting started, he felt sure that he wasn’t going to make it out of there. He put a hand to his chest. His heart was still thundering. He was too old, too out of practice for such excitement.
Norimov sat behind his desk, wondering what the hell was going to happen next, when he heard the cars pull up outside and poured himself a third drink. He’d finished his fourth by the time the office door was thrown open and the man walked in. There was an arrogance and casual menace in the way he carried himself, even with the fresh wound dressing that covered his left cheek from nose to ear and eye socket to jawbone.
‘He killed five of our people this afternoon,’ Aniskovach spat. ‘Tell me where he is.’
Norimov gestured to the dressing. ‘Bet that’s going to leave a nice scar.’
Aniskovach was still for a second before swiping his arm across the desk’s surface, knocking the bottle of whisky, glasses, and a stack of papers to the floor.
‘WHERE IS HE? ’
Norimov pushed his chair back and bent over to pick the bottle and two cracked tumblers off the floor. He set them back on the table and sucked the Scotch from his fingers.
‘How the fuck would I know?’ Norimov reached for the bottle. ‘You’re the SVR, not me.’
‘If I thought for one moment you told him we were there…’
‘Don’t be so stupid.’ Norimov shook his head. ‘And don’t assume that I am either. It was you who screwed it up by having men in the parking lot. I told you he’d spot them.’
Aniskovach looked around, as if trying to formulate an appropriate rebuttal. After a moment he took the seat opposite Norimov, and placed his gloved hands on the table. He spread his fingers. ‘Yes, yes you did.’ He gave a crooked smile then grimaced and put a hand to his face.
Norimov hid his amusement perfectly. ‘Smiling stings, eh?’
Aniskovach frowned. ‘I guess I should have listened to your advice. You’re not as over the hill as you look.’
Norimov ignored the comment. He took hold of the whisky bottle. ‘Drink?’
Aniskovach regarded him for a minute. ‘Thanks,’ he said eventually.
Norimov took a new glass and poured Aniskovach a Scotch. He took a sip. ‘He didn’t try leaving via the airport,’ Aniskovach said.
‘Did you think he would?’
Aniskovach didn’t say anything.
Norimov smirked. ‘Getting the first plane out of the country is exactly what you’d expect. So that would be exactly the last thing he’d actually do. He’s good, or did you not pay attention to that lesson earlier?’
Aniskovach frowned. ‘So where is he?’
Norimov shook his head. ‘You’re persistent if nothing else. Why would you think he would ever tell me where he was staying or where he was going? He never did in the past either.’
‘Would you tell me if you knew?’
‘If there was enough money involved.’ Norimov sat back. ‘Speaking of which.’
Aniskovach gestured to an SVR guy standing in the doorway. He walked over to the table and placed a briefcase in front of Norimov and opened it. Inside it was full of American dollars.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d actually pay,’ Norimov said as he examined the money. ‘When you came in here I thought you might kill me.’
Aniskovach smiled as much as his injuries would allow. Norimov, who was studying his face intently, didn’t join in.
‘If I ever learn you have double-crossed me in any way, I won’t hesitate to order your execution,’ Aniskovach stated evenly. ‘But I’m a man of my word. We had an arrangement and I will honour it.’
Norimov brought the glass to his lips. ‘I didn’t know you people had honour.’
‘Let’s call it professional courtesy then. The end result is still the same.’ He paused for a moment, his finger gently touching his wound. ‘Did he have any idea you were working for us?’
‘None.’
‘Then maybe in the future he will again need to contact you.’
‘I doubt it,’ Norimov said. ‘But I thought that the previous time. So what do I know?’
Aniskovach tilted his head to one side. ‘And you would have no problem letting us know again if he does? Even though he used to be your friend?’
Norimov thought for a moment. ‘He is my friend still. But business is business.’ He paused. ‘He would understand that.’
‘I would never betray a friend.’
‘Then you won’t get far in your chosen profession.’
