47
Grigori Kursk was a patient man. He'd learned that lesson in Afghanistan. Too many of his comrades had rushed into combat, hoping to overwhelm the mujahidin guerrillas with sheer weight of firepower, only to be outsmarted, ambushed, and sent straight to hell. Kursk could wait for hours, days, as long as it took to make the other man move first and expose his position. Only then would he strike.
So he did not care whether it took Carver all night or all week to return to his apartment. He would be ready for him whenever he came.
The two men he'd sent up to the apartment had reported that the door was steel-framed and secured with deadbolts to the top and bottom as well as the side. The hinges were reinforced. The only way to force entry would be with a bomb or a bazooka. Kursk himself had examined the windows through his binoculars. The glass was extra thick, almost certainly bulletproof.
It was no more than he had expected. Carver was no fool: He was bound to take precautions against men just like himself. In the meantime, Kursk needed to take some safety measures of his own. A call to Moscow gave him the contact number he needed, a Swiss-registered mobile.
'I work for Yuri,' he said. 'I need to dispose of a car, a BMW 750. It has something in it. That has to go too, you understand?… I'll send a man with the car. Also, I want a van, like a phone company or a delivery van, something like that. My guy will pick it up. Twenty minutes. You'd better have what we need. You don't want Yuri to hear you let me down.'
Kursk sent Dimitrov away with the car. Papin was still in the passenger seat, kept upright by a tightly strapped seat belt. Now Kursk was alone in the street. It was quiet, respectable, a place where he stuck out like a bear in a china shop. He needed to escape the prying eyes that lurked behind all those flower baskets and net curtains. A sign caught his eye a little way up the road: Malone's Irish Pub. Perfect.
He took his beer and a whisky chaser to a seat by the window where he had an unobstructed view down the street. No one could get in or out of Carver's building without him seeing. Kursk savored his drink and looked around the pub. He'd known places just like this in Moscow. He guessed there were a million like it, all around the world. But it was okay. Compared to some of the places he'd sat and waited, this one was a palace. Jennifer Stock had left the car and gone for a little walk, looking in shop windows, stopping for an early evening cup of coffee, and spotting Kursk and all three of his men. There were, she reflected, tremendous advantages to being female, if only because the instinctive male refusal to take one seriously was impervious to any amount of supposed sexual equality. You could wander up and down and they just thought you were a silly woman who had no sense of direction or couldn't decide where to go. You could poke your nose into nooks and crannies and they just put it down to feminine curiosity.
It was far easier to talk to people too. The nicest man could arouse a certain amount of suspicion or even fear when he approached a stranger. Children were taught to shy away from men they did not know. But anyone of any age or gender would talk to a woman. In fact, it was the big-eyed, tousle-haired son of the local cafe owner who'd told her all about the Frenchman who'd been asking his papa questions that morning, and the funny men in baggy coats who'd got out of the big black car.
'Oh yes, I saw them,' she said, ruffling the little boy's hair. 'They were funny, weren't they?'
It was while she was sitting in the cafe, drinking her double espresso, that Stock took the call from London. It was Bill Selsey.
'Hi, Jen, just got a hit on that BMW with the Italian plates you were asking about. Turns out it's registered to a company called Pelicce Marinovski. They supposedly import furs from Russia.'
'Really? The men in that car didn't look much like furriers.'
'Yes, well, Pelicce whatever-it-is doesn't look much like a legitimate import-export company, either. Can't find any proper accounts anywhere, no premises, no evidence of any sales.'
Stock frowned. 'Is this some sort of front for the Russian mafia?'
'Possibly, so be careful, all right? These are not nice people to do business with.'
'My orders are to watch from a distance and not to interfere. That's what I intend to do.'
'Good girl, that's the spirit.'
48
Magnus Leclerc felt suffused by warmth. For some reason, the bar had become much hotter. He'd taken off his jacket and tie, but he was still sweating like a pig. He hoped Natasha hadn't noticed. Aaaah, Natasha! She was amazing. She understood him. It was incredible. He'd hardly known her for an hour, but already he felt this amazing connection to her, a profound empathy, as though she could see right into his soul, and he into hers.
He'd told her about Marthe, the bitch, how hurt he was by her constant bickering, her petty criticisms, and her rejection of his sexual needs. He'd been afraid Natasha would laugh at him. But she didn't. She sympathized. This beautiful girl took his hand in hers. Then, very gently, she ran her perfect fingers down his cheek. Leclerc almost cried at her consoling gesture. It had been so long since he'd felt that kind of comfort.
So long too since he'd been this turned on. Maybe that was why he felt so hot-he was burning with lust. He wanted to screw her so badly. He gazed at her, mentally stripping away her clothes, speculating on the body beneath. For a second, he didn't even realize she was talking to him.
'Sorry,' he said, 'did you say something, cherie?'
'I was just saying that maybe we should try to find Mr. Vandervart. I don't know what's happened to him. I think he must still be up in his suite. Do you think we should go upstairs?'
Leclerc gave a pathetically grateful smile. 'Upstairs? Oh yes, I think that's where we should go.'
When he stood up, he was uncomfortably aware that the floor wasn't quite as steady as he would have liked. Natasha skipped to his side, picked up his discarded coat and tie, and took his arm in hers, helping him find his balance as he walked out of the bar. He couldn't work it out. He'd only had, what, four martinis, maybe five? He shouldn't be affected like this. Then he felt her hip against his and the soft weight of her breast as it brushed against his arm, and a big, happy grin crossed Magnus Leclerc's face. He didn't care how drunk he was. He felt absolutely great. Alix led the molten, drooling banker down the corridor and up to the door of the suite. She knocked, pressed her ear to the door, then turned to Leclerc. 'He doesn't seem to be there. I'm sure he won't be long. We could wait in my suite if you like. I'm just next door.'
Not giving him a chance to reply, she stepped up to the next door, inserted her key, and let them in. 'This isn't very cozy, I'm afraid,' she said, leading him past the formal, stiff backed antique furniture in the living room through to the bedroom with its king-size bed, covered in a sky blue quilt. Directly opposite the bed was a cabinet containing a TV set. It was a no smoking room, but someone had left a pack of cigarettes in an ashtray next to the TV.
'This is a bit more comfortable,' said Alix, putting down her handbag on a bedside table. 'Why don't you take it easy? Sit down on the bed and I'll fix you a drink from the minibar. Another martini?'
'No,' he said, grabbing her arm. 'Don't worry about drinks. Stay with me here.'
He patted the bed beside him. Alix sat down. She let him run a hand up her thigh, stopping him only when he tried to reach beneath her skirt. 'Hold on,' she said, running her other hand playfully through his hair. 'What would Marthe think if she could see us now?'
'Oh, screw Marthe!' said Leclerc. Then he burst out giggling. 'No, on second thought, I'd much rather screw you!'
He dived at Alix, grabbing her shoulders and trying to force her flat on the bed. She laughed and squirmed out from under him.
'Not so fast,' she said. 'If you want to have me, you must do exactly as I say.'
'Anything!' Leclerc leered.
'Stand up, opposite me.'
He obeyed at once.
