that sequence of events, I didn't bother to ask questions. As soon as his head appeared I shot him.'
Falcon pulled up the man's jacket, yanked his shirt out of his trousers and revealed his naked back, which was covered in tattoos: some Russian lettering, a crucifix and angel wings.
'This must be Yuri Donstov, also known as the Monk, judging by these tattoos,' said Falcon, checking the man's pockets, which were empty, not even a set of keys.
'I assumed from his weapon that he was Russian,' said Flowers, his exhaustion making him preternaturally calm. 'Those tattoos must make him mafia.'
'You're going to have to give me your gun, Mark,' said Falcon.
Flowers reached across to a low shelf under the projection equipment and handed over his silenced gun.
'Stand up,' said Falcon, handing the gun to Ferrera.
He searched Flowers, found a disk.
'Where did this come from?'
'I found it on our Russian friend,' said Flowers.
'You know what's on it?'
'I think it contains the material we talked about the other night.'
Falcon turned to the people behind him.
'Mount a guard on Viktor Belenki. Look out for the weightlifter, Nikita Sokolov. Find Spinola. Cristina, get some handcuffs and come back here. I'll talk to the mayor when we're ready.'
Everybody left. Falcon nudged the projection-room door to, moved in front of Flowers.
'What time is it, Mark?'
'You got me there, Javier.'
'You don't wear the Patek Philippe when you're working?'
'Breitling for ops,' said Flowers.
'And that was how you got paid by Cortland Fallenbach?'
'It was an opportunity,' said Flowers, shrugging. 'You know, we're public servants. We don't get paid very much and I have a number of ex-wives. I think I've spoken to you about them. American ex-wives are more demanding than European ones. And then there's the kids. That's a lot of outgoings. Why do you think I came out of retirement? You don't think I prefer fucking around with these shits to lying on a boat in the Florida Keys, do you, Javier?'
'What about Mrs Zimbrick?'
'I'm treating my girlfriend. There's no need to get ugly with her. She's a civilian. An English teacher.'
'This is hardly what you'd call soldiering, is it, Mark?'
'What can I say but, needs must, Javier?'
'You're here at Cortland Fallenbach's invitation?'
'I'm his security consultant. We got together after you asked me to research I4IT in June. I told him he was going to need help and he agreed.'
'What happened tonight?'
'He told me that under no circumstances was anybody to interrupt the showing of the I4IT/Horizonte presentation movie,' said Flowers. 'But he gave me no indication that it was going to come to this.'
'You were armed.'
'People calm down when you point a gun at them,' said Flowers. 'And if they've got one themselves, you're even.'
'We're going to have to put you in the cells until we can speak to the American consul.'
A knock on the door. Cristina came in, handcuffed Flowers to the projection equipment stand.
'Time for an announcement,' said Falcon.
'You must be a nice guy, Javier,' said Flowers. 'If it was me I'd play the DVD and listen to the bastards howl.'
Time had flown by and the film at that moment ended. Falcon raised the lights and shut Flowers in the projection room. The double doors to the cinema opened and the group filed out, led by the mayor, who was talking to the banker, Alfredo Manzanares. Falcon showed him his police ID card, tried to usher him into the conference room where they were supposed to have had their drinks earlier. Valverde and Ramos intervened, blocked the doorway, started some vociferous protesting.
'Open the projection-room door, Cristina,' said Falcon.
The woman from Agesa screamed at the sight of the dead body. Cortland Fallenbach saw Mark Flowers, turned to stone.
'I think you'll agree that this needs some explanation,' said Falcon. 'Close the door, Cristina. Take these people to the private room where they were supposed to be having dinner. Nobody is to leave that room under any circumstances. As you can see, there is a killer on the loose. Detective Ferrera is armed.'
The sight of a dead body had subdued the group completely and they went into the private room like a flock of sheep into a slaughterhouse holding pen.
Falcon took the mayor aside into the conference room and had just embarked on his devastating introduction to the evening's events when his mobile went off.
'Belenki's been shot,' said Ramirez. 'Shot dead.'
There was a hammering on the door. A security guard said he was needed up in the main office. Falcon took the mayor to join the others in the private room where Ferrera was standing guard.
'Lock the door. Let nobody in or out,' he said, and left.
In the security office the supervisor was tapping one of the screens showing the thick-set, stocky weightlifter, Nikita Sokolov, gun in hand, striding up to the main building.
'He doesn't care now,' said the supervisor. 'He's not hiding from the cameras any more.'
'He's heading towards the main building, so he's not bothered about getting away just yet,' said Falcon. 'He must have come back to meet up with his boss, Yuri Donstov. Keep the other guests in the restaurant, clear the reception area, turn the lights off inside, keep them on outside. Whatever happens, I do not want this man shot unless it's absolutely unavoidable. Where's Spinola?'
'He got out over the main gates,' said the supervisor. 'He's on the run and we don't have the manpower to go after him.'
Falcon called Detective Serrano, who was still waiting with Baena in the car in the petrol station nearby. He told him to find Spinola, who would be out on the main road somewhere.
'Be careful with him. He's in a state. You have to make sure he survives. No accidents.'
By the time Falcon got to the reception area the lights were out in the patio. The shops and art gallery were in darkness. Between him and the main door were two thick marble supporting pillars. Beyond the pillars were four panels of plate glass, two of which were double doors. The mayor's delegation Mercedes was parked outside. No driver. Falcon hid behind one of the pillars. He didn't have to wait long.
Nikita Sokolov came out of the night, his colossal quadriceps straining against the material of his trousers, biceps with a thick cord of vein bursting out of his polo shirt, which flapped at his waist. He had a thick, white bandage around his right forearm where El Pulmon's bullet had grazed him. The gun, silencer attached, was in that hand. He tried the door to the Mercedes. Locked. He looked through the driver's window, swapped his weapon to his left hand and dealt the glass a savage blow with the butt of his gun. It bounced off. Now that his work was done, Revnik and Belenki shot dead, his mission completed, he was thinking about escape. He checked the unlit main building. Didn't like it. He jogged off to his left. Disappeared back into the darkness.
Falcon told the head of security to stay in the reception area while he sprinted across the patio, down a corridor to the kitchens, which were totally silent on the outside and a cacophony of brutal swearing, hollered orders, clattering pans and sizzling fat on the inside. He ran down the corridors of stainless-steel work surfaces. Diminutive sous chefs with large knives, flaming pans, blow torches and cleavers, glanced over their shoulders as he tore past them. He asked after the mayor's driver, nobody answered. He found a plongeur, asked if there was a staff dining room. The man walked him past boiling cauldrons and flat metal griddles crackling and spitting with hot oil. He pointed him to a door with a porthole window at the end of a short corridor, said there was an outside entrance as well.
'What's out there?'
'The bins.'
