While Sergei had gone for the Michelin man look, I was very much the businessman: single-breasted suit, jacket one size up, dark-gray overcoat, black woolen scarf and thin leather gloves, and the stress to match. Nightmare and Carpenter were dressed in the same style. All three of us were clean shaven, hair washed, and well groomed. Detail counts; we had to move about the hotel without anyone giving us a second glance, looking as if we were part of the all-expenses-paid, outrageously salaried Brussels freeloaders. Across my lap I even had today's edition of the Herald Tribune.
My overcoat was doing a good job of concealing the body armor under my shirt. Sergei's might be as thick as the paving slabs outside the Kremlin, but mine consisted of just twelve paper-thin sheets of Kevlar not enough to stop one of Sergei's AP rounds, but enough to see off the mini-Uzis that might soon be trying to hose me down. There was a pocket in the body armor for a ceramic plate to cover my chest area, but unlike Sergei I couldn't wear one as it was far too bulky.
Carpenter had refused to wear any at all because it wasn't manly, and Nightmare had followed suit. Fucking mad; if I could have, I'd have covered myself from head to toe in the stuff. My feet were in all sorts of shit; with nothing on but thin socks and a pair of lace-up shoes, they were as cold as bags of frozen peas. I could no longer feel anything below my ankles, and had given up moving them around to generate heat.
I was carrying a South African Z88, which looked like a 9mm Berreta, the sort of pistol Mel Gibson uses in the Lethal Weapon films. When the world banned weapons exports to South Africa during apartheid, the boys just set about making their own gear and were now exporting more assault weapons and helicopters than the U.K.
I had three twenty-round extended mags, which meant an extra two inches hanging out of the pistol grip, looking as if it had partially fallen out. The two spares went into my left-hand overcoat pocket. If things went to plan I wouldn't even be drawing down. The lift should be-would be-silent and take less than a minute.
The body armor was the lightest I dared wear, but even so it made it impossible to draw or sit down with a pistol placed where I would normally have had it: center front, tucked down the front of my jeans or pants in an internal holster. I wasn't feeling happy about my new weapon position. Now it had to be on the right-hand side on my pants belt. I'd had to spend the last two weeks practicing and consciously reminding myself that the position had changed, otherwise I might go to draw down on someone and find my hand hitting Kevlar instead of a pistol grip. That was if I could get to it through all the layers of clothing. To be able to flick back the top layers quickly, I'd taped together some outlets from the set in the car and carried them in the right-hand pockets of both my coat and jacket. It was just one more thing making me feel uneasy. My only consolation was that this time tomorrow it would all be over: I'd get my money and never see these lunatics again.
There was rustling as Sergei unwrapped a chocolate bar and started to throw it down his throat without offering me any. Not that I wanted it; I wasn't hungry, just worried. I sat there waiting, with the sound of Sergei's teeth mashing and jaws clicking as the wind whistled around the wagon.
I sat and thought as he sucked his teeth clean. So far, Valentin had evaded the authorities, mainly because he had learned early on that it was good to have friends in powerful places and officials on the payroll. Key witnesses were routinely murdered before they could testify against him. Just a few months earlier, Sergei said, an American journalist who'd delved a bit too deeply into Val's business affairs was forced into hiding, with his family, after a phone call was intercepted in which Val was heard putting out a contract of $100,000, not just on the reporter's life, but also on those of his wife and child.
It was for those who betrayed his trust, however, that the worst fate was reserved. Two senior managers who oversaw his prostitution empire had been caught skimming a bit off the top at his Moscow brothels. Even though they'd fought alongside him in the Braveheart days and had been faithful lieutenants ever since, Val had had them taken out and staked to the earth on waste ground not far from Red Square, where he'd personally slit their bellies, pulled out their intestines, and waited patiently for them to die. The 'Viking's revenge' appeared to have done the trick: Ever since then, not a single ruble had gone astray from any of his tills.
I heard six quick squelches in my earpiece. The three pickup Meres were mobile toward the hotel.
I replied with two squelches, then heard another two from Nightmare and Carpenter, who should now be getting out of their car and heading for the hotel. All six of us knew it was time to start performing.
Sergei didn't say a word, just nodded. He might speak English, but it had to be squeezed out of him. I nodded back, checking my weapon was still in position.
I got out of the 4x4 and left Sergei staring downhill. Pulling up my coat collar to protect me from the wind, I headed in the opposite direction, away from the main street. My route took me up the hill for one hundred feet, then a right turn to the next intersection. That put me on the road adjacent to the hotel and down to the main drag again.
I could see the large gray concrete hotel in front of me on the left-hand side of the road. Just short of it was roadwork surrounded by steel fencing; the cobblestones were up and the pipes were being repaired. I didn't envy the poor bastards who had to finish the job in this weather.
The noise from the main street grew louder as I walked downhill. The James brothers would be on it now, following the Meres. Nightmare and Carpenter should be walking into the hotel from the opposite side and Sergei would be positioning himself so that he'd be able to move in on the Meres at the front of the hotel.
I crossed the road, passing the hotel's rear service and parking lot entrance. Two white Hilux delivery vans were parked up on the red asphalt. There was a glass door giving access to the hotel beyond the delivery bays, but you could only get through it by buzzing reception, and I didn't want to make myself any more conspicuous than I had to.
Neither of the two loading bays was open; it was far too cold. I continued downhill, the hotel now obscured by a line of high conifers.
Valentin Lebed's weakest point would be tonight, in Finland, in this hotel, before he left for the theater. He was on his way to see Romeo and Juliet. The theater was only across the road, a few hundred feet away to the left, but it was cold, he had always been a target for attack and he was incredibly rich, so why walk?
About one hundred feet short of the main road I hit the driveway from the Intercontinental's front entrance. It was a semicircle and one way. I turned left; in front of me, halfway down the concrete and glass building, was a large blue canopy to protect guests from the elements as they got in and out of their cars. The ground floor walls were glass, through which I could see the warm and cosy looking interior. Small trees lined the driveway; they had lost their leaves and were now covered in white Christmas lights. The snow made them look as if they'd been sprinkled with icing sugar. I carried on past the illuminated reindeer that stood on the lawn between the driveway and main drag, which was about one hundred feet down a gentle slope.
The plan was simple. Nightmare and Carpenter were to kill the close BGs that were protecting the target as he came from the elevator, then cover me as I took the target toward the main doors. While this was happening, the Jameses would have blocked off the rear of the Meres with their 4x4, Sergei would block the front with the Nissan and all three would be controlling the other BGs and drivers with their AKs.
Once outside, I'd head for the back of the Nissan, dragging the target with me. We'd both lie under a blanket, with my pistol rammed down his throat while Sergei drove to the DOP (vehicle drop-off point), where the target would be switched to the trunk of a changeover vehicle enroute to the border. Meanwhile, Jesse and Frank would be giving the area the good news with CS gas before leaving in the Toyota, along with the other two, to their DOP and changing vehicles. We'd all RV (rendezvous) near the border and get into a truck that was rigged up with hidden compartments while Sergei drove us into Mother Russia. Then it was just a few hours to St.
Petersburg and payday. Nice work if you can get it.
I walked under the canopy and through the first set of automatic tinted-glass and brass-effect doors. Once past the second set I was in, my face flushed from the downward blast of the heaters above the doorway.
I knew the foyer area well. It had the air of an expensive, comfortable club. I hadn't seen any of the rooms, but they must have been stunning.
In front of me, about one hundred feet away and behind a group of very noisy and confused Japanese tourists surrounding a mountain of matching suitcases, was the reception desk. In the far right-hand corner was a hallway that led to the restaurant, rest rooms, and the all-important elevators.
By now Nightmare and Carpenter should be at the far end of the hall, sitting by the restaurant entrance. From there they could keep trigger on the three elevator doors.
Immediately to my right, behind a dark wood-paneled wall, was the Baltic Bar. To my left, efficient-looking bellboys were buzzing around a sprinkling of sofas, chairs, and coffee tables. The lighting was subdued. I wished I'd just dropped in for a drink.
