a normal target. For Alex’s purposes, there was one more stage to perform.
She sat the cartridges upright in a row on the bench. Pulled on thick rubber gloves and a surgical mask, then took a plastic flask from one of the shelves. The label was marked ‘Nosferol’. Beside the name was a little skull and crossbones. If you looked closely, the skull had tiny fangs. Some joker at the Federation pharma plant’s idea of humour.
She carefully unscrewed the top. One whiff of the fumes would be enough to destroy her. She hated working with the stuff, but it was her job sometimes to do things she hated.
The level in her flask was getting low. She made a mental note to put in an order for some more. Then, using a squeezy disposable pipette, she dripped five drops into the hollow tip of each bullet, working her way along the line until all thirty were charged with the poison. Still wearing the gloves and mask, she lit a church candle and delicately sealed over the end of each bullet with molten wax. That was the most critical part of the operation. If the Nosferol wasn’t completely sealed in, even a tiny leakage could be disastrous to her.
She waited a few minutes for the wax to set, then loaded the cartridges into a batch of spare magazines, ready for use. Job done. She closed up the weapons room, taking the mags and the most worn and comfortable of the Desert Eagles with her.
She was finishing getting changed to go out when she heard the doorbell. The security monitor in the hallway showed Greg standing outside, shifting nervously from foot to foot. She smiled to herself, then put on a stern face and answered the door.
‘Right on time,’ Greg said.
‘Amazing. Let’s go.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘So where is it we’re going?’ Greg asked as she wove the Jag at top speed through the night traffic. ‘Jesus, do you always drive like this?’
‘To see Rudi Bertolino,’ she said. ‘He called me to say he’s got some information.’
‘The ragu sauce guy. I remember.’
‘Rudi’s a little more than that. He owns the famous Last Bite Bar and Grill on St James’s. Wait till you see it. He’s also one of my prime informers.’
‘He’s…’
‘You’re so coy. Why don’t you just say it? Yes, he’s one of us, he’s a vampire.
You’ll like him, too. Everyone does. A lot of us hang out there. It’s kind of a vampire restaurant.’
‘Right. So vampires can actually eat, like, real food?’ he asked, looking hopeful.
The back of a bus was looming up alarmingly fast. ‘Watch—’
She twisted the wheel smartly and missed the bus by an inch. ‘Sure, we can eat.
It’s a social occasion, and human food tastes pretty good. Especially if it comes out of Rudi Bertolino’s kitchen. Thing is, though, you could pig out on it every day and still starve. There’s no nutrition in it, not for us.’
‘Shit. For a minute there, I was kind of hoping—’
‘We’re vampires, Greg. It’s what we do. Get used to it.’ She sighed reproachfully.
‘Not feeding yet, then?’
‘Don’t bring that up again. Makes me sick even to think of it.’
‘Of course it does. That’s normal enough. But that feeling doesn’t last. Trust me.’
‘Wonderful. Looking forward to it.’
‘Taken your Solazal today?’
‘What are you, my mother?’
‘When I see a helpless little vampire baby, I get these irrepressible maternal urges. Plus I don’t want you frazzling up too close to me.’
‘Thank you so much,’ he muttered. ‘Helpless little baby. So what information does this Rudi guy have for us?’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’
The Last Bite Bar and Grill, open dusk till dawn, was one of central London’s most in and super-trendy hangouts for vampires, movie stars, rock musicians, other assorted celebrities and those wannabes that could afford to eat, drink and party there.
Rudi Bertolino, its owner-manager, was a vampire with his ear to the ground. For a yacht-owning, Porsche- driving multi-millionaire restaurateur he moved in some pretty low places — maybe that was just him keeping in touch with his past selling fish in the street markets of old Napoli, back when he’d been human. In return for the information he passed Alex from time to time, she turned a blind eye to the fact that he occasionally violated Federation rules by knocking off a human and putting their blood in the food to appeal to the real vampires among his clientele.
‘On a strictly assholes-only basis,’ he always insisted in his gravelly bass rumble.
‘Who’s gonna lament the demise of a few pushers, pimps and paedos?’ And that was pretty much good enough for Alex.
Rudi’s establishment sprawled across three floors between a yacht broker’s and a private members’ club on St James’s. His gold 911 Turbo was parked outside, glinting in the lights from the windows. The music was thumping out into the street. Alex and Greg bypassed the chattering throngs of hopefuls gathered on the pavement and steps outside, who were waiting to get tables. Two doormen dressed in cloaks and fake fangs spotted Alex and ushered her and Greg inside, bowing stiffly as they walked in up the red carpet into the lights and noise.
The place was decked out like a gaudy gothic cathedral, lit by huge candelabras and chandeliers that looked like torture implements suspended on chains from the vaulted ceiling. Marble pillars gleamed in the swirling spotlights from the bar.
Sumptuous red satin drapes billowed down from archways thirty feet high.
The joint was packed. About a hundred people were crowding the bar, yelling to get their drink orders in. Waitresses in leather basques with pointy teeth and heavy eyeshadow roller-skated round the tables, and the waiters had slicked-back hair and long black capes. Mock-Transylvanian tapestries and giant framed prints from vampire movies adorned the walls: Christopher Lee, Klaus Kinski and Bela Lugosi as Dracula through the ages; Wesley Snipes in Blade; Tom Cruise as Lestat; a larger-than-life cutout of Peter Cushing coming out at you from behind a curtain, wielding stake and mallet.
‘This place is incredible,’ Greg shouted over the hard rock beat. He pointed up at a black and white print that hung over the bar. ‘Hey, I saw that one. The old Nosferatu movie — scary guy with the ears and the fingernails. What was his name?’
‘Max Schreck,’ Alex told him.
‘Right.’ Greg froze. ‘Shit. Over there. At that table. That’s—’
‘Yes, it is. And no, she’s not one of us. She just likes people to think she is. And stop pointing or I’ll break your finger off. You’re embarrassing me.’
‘Alex! Baby! Great ta see ya!’ said a booming voice.
Rudi Bertolino stood no more than five feet tall. He was almost perfectly spherical in shape, balding on top with a ponytail that dangled down the back of his Hawaiian shirt, jinking with gold chains and medallions as he came stomping out of the crowd with a huge grin and slipped a chubby arm around her waist. ‘Great! Great!
Hungry?’
‘Only for what you’ve got to tell me,’ she said.
Rudi grinned even wider. ‘Shame. You gotta taste the Brasato al Barolo tonight.’
He smacked his lips.
‘Maybe later.’
‘Hey, no problemo. Let’s step into my office.’ As he led them away through the noisy crowd he jerked his chin
