The Secret of Excalibur

Mitchell appeared surprisingly unconcerned about Prikovsky’s demands, placing the briefcase on his desk and opening it to reveal crisp wads of hundred-dollar bills. The quick glance Nina got before Prikovsky turned the case round to riffle through its contents suggested there was probably the better part of half a million dollars within.

Half a million dollars - of American taxpayers’ money. Being given to a man who seemed little more than a glorified pimp. Then there were all the other resources the mission had so far consumed . . . and the lives it had taken. ‘It better be worth it,’ she said quietly, only Chase hearing her.

Prikovsky snapped the case closed, his smile suggesting he was more than satisfied with its contents. ‘Well, then. We still have a few hours before the girls go to the party, so there is time to get you ready, Dr Wilde.’

‘Get me ready?’ she echoed.

‘You do not seriously think you would be able to get in looking like that, do you?’ He looked disdainfully at her heavy coat, jeans and Reeboks. ‘My girls all look amazing, like models - like supermodels! You will have to look the same.’

‘Oh,’ Nina said. ‘Y’know, that might be a problem. I’m not really the supermodel type.’

Prikovsky grinned - or leered, though it was hard to tell with the cigar clenched between his teeth. ‘No need to worry. Some makeup, the right clothes . . . Mario is incredible.’

‘Mario?’ hooted Chase. ‘There’s a proper Russian name.’

‘He styles all my girls,’ Prikovsky told him as he put the briefcase into a safe. ‘We’ll go and see him now.’ He grinned again. ‘In my shiny new truck!’

‘Shut up,’ said Nina, before Chase even had a chance to open his mouth.

It opened anyway - mostly in amazement. ‘Bloody hell,’ he finally managed to say. ‘You look . . . whoa. Pavel was right - Mario really is incredible!’

Nina had spent the better part of two hours in an opulent salon, her hair being washed and styled, makeup applied to her face. She was not the only woman there - over a dozen others were also lined up before the huge illuminated mirrors, being worked upon and fussed over by two women apiece. Mario - who despite his name was about as Italian as Joseph Stalin - scurried back and forth along the line, brushing and plucking and tweezing and glossing, fixing every last detail of each makeover.

And though the overall look was a long way removed from anything Nina would have chosen herself, she was forced to admit it was indeed one hell of a makeover. She had spent a good portion of the time in a reclined position; when she finally sat upright, she experienced a bizarre moment of disassociation, as though someone else was looking back at her from the mirror. Someone who happened to be a model . . . though she wasn’t prepared to go as far as supermodel. Mario wasn’t that good.

It wasn’t the heavy, smoky-eyed makeup or scarlet false nails or ultra-moussed hairstyle that aroused her ire, though. It was the outfit Prikovsky had provided for her - which, as she’d expected, provoked a wide-eyed response when she was presented to Chase and the other men.

‘I look like a goddamn hooker,’ she moaned. The sleeveless black rubber minidress was, she’d been assured, the product of some extremely expensive and exclusive designer in London - but that didn’t alter the fact that it was also extremely tight and revealing. She had the horrible feeling that if she moved her knees more than a fraction of an inch apart, the entire skirt would twang up over her hips like an overstretched elastic band.

‘You’re supposed to be a hooker,’ Chase pointed out.

‘Hey!’ said Prikovsky. ‘My girls are not hookers. They are . . .’ He thought about it. ‘Escorts? No, courtesans. The courtesans of Pavel Prikovsky, that sounds better. Like the title of a great Russian novel.’

‘Or that crappy American novel, The Immodesty of Nina Wilde,’ Nina grumbled. ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’

‘No, no,’ said Chase, smirking, ‘I’m all for it now. You are going to dress like that after we’re married, right?’

‘That’s it, I’m outta here.’ Nina turned and tried to teeter back into the salon on her high heels, but found her way blocked by Mario, who clapped approvingly and ushered her into the lounge once more. He reached up, trying to remove her pendant, but she forcefully shook her head. He tutted, then spoke in Russian to Prikovsky, who laughed. Mario then bowed and returned to the salon.

‘What did he say?’ Nina demanded.

‘He thinks your necklace looks cheap,’ said Prikovsky. Nina shot an offended look after the stylist. ‘But he is very pleased with how you turned out, considering how little time he had to work with you. Oh, and also considering your age.’

‘My age?’ she shrieked. ‘I’m only thirty!’

Prikovsky shrugged. ‘Most of my girls are only twenty-two, twenty-three! You should be proud. You look . . . unrecognisable.’

‘And that’s a good thing?’

‘In this case, yeah,’ said Mitchell, who had been watching with quiet amusement. ‘Honestly, if I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t have recognised you when you stepped out of there. So hopefully no one else will either.’ He stood, taking a box from a pocket. ‘Okay, time to mike you up.’

‘What’s that?’ Nina asked, eyeing the object in the box. It looked like a small golden bullet.

‘Earpiece. You ever watch that show, 24? Just like Jack Bauer uses. It’s two-way - you’ll be able to hear me and Eddie, and we’ll be able to hear you and what’s going on around you. All you have to do is whisper.’

Chase stood for a closer look as Mitchell carefully slipped the bug into Nina’s left ear. ‘What’s the range?’

‘Only about two hundred metres. But that doesn’t matter because you’ll have the relay so I can hear, and once you get to the outer wall you’ll be in range.’ The device in place, he stepped back, quickly running an admiring eye over Nina’s glossy curves.

‘I saw that!’ she snapped.

‘Get used to it,’ Prikovsky told her. ‘You will get a lot more attention than that tonight.’ He frowned as a thought struck him. ‘Do you speak Russian?’

‘Nyet.’

‘Hmm. Still, not a problem. The girls are not there for conversation.’ Nina could barely suppress a disgusted shudder. ‘Okay, you’re an American student here to learn Russian - and you’re doing this because you need money to buy a dictionary. Ha!’ He drew back a hand as if about to slap her on the butt, but stopped short on seeing Chase’s stony glare.

‘All right,’ said Mitchell, adopting a commanding tone. ‘I’ll be waiting in the helo. It’ll take me four minutes to reach the mansion from my takeoff point, so once you secure the item, that’s how long you’ll have to get to the extraction point. There’s a balcony on the west side - it’s not big enough to land on, but there’s enough clearance for me to hover next to it so you can climb aboard. If you don’t raise the alarm, we should be able to get clear before anyone realises what’s going on.’

‘And if we do raise the alarm?’ asked Nina.

Chase reached into his leather jacket and drew out a massive silver handgun. ‘Jack had a little present delivered while you were getting your cuticles done,’ he said with definite glee. ‘Desert Eagle, .50-cal Action Express. Would have preferred a Wildey, but I’m not complaining.’

Mitchell shook his head. ‘Big, heavy, limited load, huge recoil . . .’

‘Works for me. Anyone gets hit by this, they’re done.’ His smile disappeared. ‘And if I see Kruglov . . .’

‘Let’s hope you don’t need it,’ Nina told him, gently pushing the raised weapon back down.

‘Okay,’ said Mitchell. ‘Let’s party.’

24

The girls left the salon in a small convoy of minivans driven by Prikovsky’s men. Nina was in the last vehicle with three other young women, as carefully made-up and provocatively dressed as she was; none spoke English, but all seemed excited - in a somewhat calculating way - about the evening.

Excited wasn’t the word Nina would have used to describe her feelings, however.