fraction of a second the car would be in view.
At least he could discount the building as a possible base of operations for the shooter. No serious pro would deliberately take a shot three or four times as difficult just for the sake of convenience.
Behind him, Miles Devere entered the reception.
He knew it was Devere without turning. The weight of his footsteps was different. He could smell the cologne-too much of the stuff. And compared to the pretty young thing’s, a considerably richer signature.
“Mister Khavin? It is Mister Khavin isn’t it? How can I help you?”
onstantin didn’t turn. Facing the glass he said, “I believe you’re planning on killing the Pope in little over an hour. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought it only fair to warn you, it’s not going to happen.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Devere said, seemingly amused by this turn of events.
“Because I am going to stop you,” Konstantin said, reasonably.
Now he turned.
Miles Devere was a chiseled sculpture of a man; a David with too-soft features, too perfect a tan and one of those orthodontically enhanced smiles made for the glossy ad pages of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. He was pretty, not handsome. Too pretty to be taken seriously, Konstantin thought, looking at the man. And too pretty not to be hated by half the people who ever saw it. It was the kind of face that no doubt got Devere whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, be it the smile from the pretty girl behind the shop counter or the head of John the Baptist on a plate. The world liked the pretty ones.
Devere didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the Russian’s unexpected appearance in his office, nor his allegations. He licked his lips, his smile spreading. “How dreadfully exciting,” Devere said. “Do go on, I love a good story. Come through, make yourself comfortable. I can’t wait to hear how this one ends.”
“There’s only one way it can end,” Konstantin said.
“Oh, do tell?”
“In tears,” Konstantin said. He hadn’t really thought of what he was going to say beyond this point. His sole intention in coming here had been to rattle Devere. It didn’t appear that it had worked quite as well as he had hoped it might.
“Well, well, it seems we agree on something, after all. There was me thinking this was going to be a thoroughly boring afternoon. I do so hate waiting, don’t you?”
They walked through to Devere’s office, though office was something of a misnomer. It was like a geek boy’s nerdvana, floor to ceiling gadgets. There was a miniature robot on his glass-topped desk that swiveled its head at the sound of their voices. The shelves were book-ended with silver Daily Planet globes. He noticed smaller memorabilia from other science fiction movies, and it took him a moment to realize they were all mechanical, like the golden androids of Metropolis and Star Wars, Maria and C3-P0, Dewey from Silent Running, Box from Logan’s Run, Robbie the Robot from Forbidden Planet, K9 from Doctor Who and others he didn’t recognize. It was strange that a grown man would surround himself with toys. The decor no doubt said a lot about Miles Devere the man.
“Sit, please, make yourself comfortable.”
Konstantin sat in one of the two armchairs in the room while Devere sat behind his desk. It was another subtle power play, the desk between them, the slight height difference between the armchairs and the desk chair all combined to give Devere dominance over the situation. Konstantin didn’t care. He sat back in the armchair, crossed his right leg over his left and breathed deeply, stretching the muscles of his back.
“Perhaps you could answer a question for me?” Devere asked, quite reasonably. “Why, if you are so sure I intend to kill the Pope, would you come here and start annoying me? I am not quite sure I follow the logic of it.”
“Because that is the way it is done in my country, face to face. Death is man’s business, not a coward’s.”
“So you’re saying you are going to kill me now? You really are quite unbelievable. What was your name again? I think I should learn the name of the man who is going to kill me, don’t you?” Devere shook his head slowly, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard.
“Konstantin Khavin.”
“Konstantin Khavin,” Devere repeated, saying it slowly.
“Yes. First I will stop your man, then I will come back for you. That is a promise. When you hear that first gunshot you should start running, Mister Devere, because the second one won’t be all that far behind; and as the villain says in all the bad movies, it will have your name on it. I doubt that someone who still likes to play with toy robots will be all that hard to kill, no matter how much money he has. What do you think?”
“I think you should leave now,” Miles Devere said. The smile had left his lips.
The meeting had been rash, and unwise, and so many other words that meant “really bad idea” but Konstantin couldn’t help smiling as he walked out onto the street of Jesuit Square. He had enjoyed rattling Devere, but there was more to it than that. He called Lethe.
“Fifth thing,” he said.
“Like the Hatter, five impossible things before breakfast. That’s me, Jude Lethe, Mad as a Hatter.”
“Trace every line in and out of Devere Holdings’ office here from about two minutes ago.”
“May I ask why?”
“I just told Devere I was going to kill him,” Konstantin said. Beside him, a woman turned and gave him the weirdest of looks, halfway between horror and embarrassment. She obviously didn’t know if she was supposed to take him literally at his word-after all people threatened to kill each other every day and didn’t actually mean it-and was clearly ashamed she’d been caught eavesdropping. Konstantin shrugged and she hurried off.
“Smooth,” Lethe said. “Nothing like putting the cat amongst the pigeons.”
“He’s going to make a call, or he already has, depending upon how much I upset him,” Konstantin said. “Find out who he calls.”
“You know I will.”
Konstantin hung up.
How the next hour or so would play out depended very much on who Miles Devere called. If he called the shooter, it would act to trigger one chain of events. If he called Mabus, it would trigger a very different one. And if he called someone else, then it would mean Konstantin really hadn’t got the measure of who he was up against and would necessitate some thinking on his feet as he improvised a third one.
More people had begun to congregate for the papal visit. The parade route was beginning to look quite crowded. If Konstantin had judged the route right, and the crawl of the Popemobile, he had about half an hour before they reached here. Looking at the majority of them he found it hard to imagine any of this flock had a religious bone in their bodies.
The difference in the quarter of an hour or so that he had been off the streets was noticeable. He checked his watch. The parade ought to have started a few minutes ago. In a little over half an hour the benediction would begin.
Konstantin closed his eyes, recalling as best he could the layout of the city, and headed in what he thought was the direction of the Florinsmarkt. Five minutes later the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He answered it. “Who did he call?”
“I love you, Koni, in a very manly way, of course. I don’t think I’ve said it before, but I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
“Yes, yes, who did he call?”
“Not one, not two, but, wait for it, three calls in as many minutes. The first was to the mothership in Canary Wharf, the Devere Holdings building. That one took me by surprise. It certainly wasn’t the call I was expecting. The second was more interesting, to an unlisted pay-as-you-go cell phone which was part of a bulk order placed in London a month ago. I think it is safe to assume this one was to your shooter. The third call was the shortest of all of them, to a landline in Switzerland. Again the number’s registered to another branch of the Devere corporate network; this time, though, it was one of daddy’s.”
“Spit it out.”
“There you go spoiling my fun again. The third call was to the Humanity Capital offices in Geneva. Happy now?”
