by Tom Wood
He checked his watch. It was 11:05 PM. With calm efficiency Reed packed his things away in the order he had taken them out and stood. He washed out Hoyt’s cocktail shaker to get rid of any trace of the sedatives before placing the half-empty prescription bottle next to Hoyt’s glass. Reed then exited through the house the same way he had entered, disturbing nothing and seen by no one.
The potassium chloride would induce cardiac arrest within approximately three minutes and would kill Hoyt after another two. The chemical would then break down into separate molecules of potassium and chlorine, both of which are found naturally inside the body after death, ensuring a pathologist would find no trace of the poison in Hoyt’s system. There was a chance the needle mark might be detected if a complete autopsy was performed, but with no indication of foul play the chances of this taking place were extremely slim.
Should Hoyt survive the heart attack, which was possible, albeit unlikely, he would still die. The attack would leave him in a massively weakened state and he would be unable to prevent himself from drowning in the bath. This would take no more than another two minutes, judging by Hoyt’s poor physical condition.
In his rental car, Reed took his smartphone from the glove box and composed a message to confirm the success of the operation. He looked at his watch and waited until the hands read 11:12 PM before hitting send.
Reed liked to be exact.
CHAPTER 43
St Petersburg, Russia
Monday
13:57 MSK
Victor, briefcase in hand, strolled through the crowds of Russians in the mall, all dressed in heavy layers to protect against the cold that even the shopping centre’s heaters couldn’t combat entirely. Victor took the escalator to the upper level, one gloved hand resting on the rubber handrail as he ascended. He moved the lollipop with his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other.
At a payphone he called Norimov’s bar and gave the bartender who answered the location and time. He then made his way to the main stairwell and climbed the stairs to the top parking-lot level. The parking lot was mostly empty, only a dozen or so vehicles parked beneath the sky above. He breathed in the crisp air, watched his breath form thick clouds of moisture. He was too focused to feel the cold. His pulse was perfectly steady.
The maintenance door was locked with a stainless-steel padlock that barely slowed him. On the other side Victor took the metal steps to the actual roof, one storey above the top parking-lot level. The sky was near cloudless, the bright November sun making him squint. He drew a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and slipped them on. He moved to the edge of the roof, squeezing around the large ventilation pipes protruding from inside the building. The thrum of fans duelled with the rush of the wind.
Victor peered over the edge, saw the exterior parking lot six storeys below him; at this time of day it was half full of cars. He turned, squatted down, and placed the briefcase on the roof. He unlocked it and opened the lid. It took less than a minute to assemble the Dragunov and calibrate the sight for the distance to the ground. He then selected the magazine containing the standard rounds and loaded it. Victor sucked on the lollipop while he waited, resisting the urge to crunch.
He saw the same black BMW he’d ridden inside two days before enter the parking-lot entrance. It meandered slowly and found a parking space close to the centre, ten yards from a ticket machine as instructed. A moment later the rear off-side door opened and Norimov climbed out. Through the scope, Victor watched him as he walked up to the ticket machine.
There was at least one of Norimov’s men in the car, the driver, but there could have been more. From Victor’s position he couldn’t see through the windows, but he doubted Norimov would have come with less than a car full. There could even be another car in the area, back-up in case anything went wrong. Whatever their history, Norimov wouldn’t fully trust him.
Victor scanned the area. New people were coming and going all the time, moving around the space, some walking to cars, some just taking shortcuts. He only paid attention to the men, those between twenty-five and forty. If Norimov’s contacts had betrayed him or if Norimov had been compromised some other way, the FSB, SVR, or both would be in the parking lot. Russian intelligence had never made much use of women in the field, and Victor doubted they would have changed decades of tradition just for him. He used the scope to examine necks, searching for the spiralling wire that would give agents away. None of the likely suspects had them that he could see. Earpieces could be wireless, but Victor doubted the SVR or FSB could afford the latest tech.
If someone planned to make a play for him it would be from within the parking lot itself after he’d revealed himself. They would need to be within running or shooting distance of the ticket machine. The parking lot was flanked by roads on three sides, with numerous parked vehicles, most of which had been there for long periods. Surveillance could be anywhere. Victor had noticed three vans enter the area and park in the previous thirty minutes alone. There hadn’t been enough time to get snipers in position, but he still checked every few seconds. Dozens more vans and SUVs had come and gone or had been parked since before he’d arrived. Any one of them could have a kill or snatch team in the back.
Or none at all. Maybe he was being arrogant, assuming he was still a wanted man after so many years. Arrogant or not, he spotted a potential twenty yards from Norimov. A dark-haired man in a long coat was chatting on a cell phone, loitering near his car. Similarly, there was a tall blond man making his way across the parking lot. He wasn’t close to Norimov, but he was close enough. Victor couldn’t wait it out though. If Norimov was being watched and he made no contact, any surveillance would be kept in place until the next time. But Victor was confident in his plan. Should anything go wrong, it wouldn’t be because he hadn’t been careful.
He hit a speed dial number on his phone, and through the scope he saw Norimov’s head move, a confused expression on his features. It took the Russian a few seconds to work out where the sound was coming from, and he turned around and checked the ticket machine. He went around the back of it before finally reaching underneath.
Norimov found the phone and prised it from where it had been glued. He flipped it open.
‘Very good, Vasily,’ he said instantly.
‘How are you, Alek?’
Victor saw Norimov looking around, obviously trying to see where he was located, without luck. He even looked up to the building, but Victor had positioned himself such that anyone looking up from the parking lot would only see the glare of the sun in the sky above him. It was the reason he had chosen that particular time and position, where the sun was in the perfect place in the sky to disguise him.
‘So what happens now?’ Norimov asked.
‘Could your contacts decrypt the information?’
‘Yes, Vasily, they could. Everything went well.’
‘Thank you for this,’ Victor said.
‘What are friends for?’
Victor couldn’t answer. ‘Do you have it with you?’
‘In my pocket.’ He tapped his chest.
‘Under the ticket machine where you found the phone there is a padded envelope. Put it in there.’
‘Cute.’ Norimov fumbled under the ticket machine for a moment. ‘Hold on, I can’t reach. I’m going to put the phone down for a second.’
‘You’re getting old.’
‘I am old. You too will be one day.’
‘Not if I can help it.’
Norimov found the envelope and placed the drive inside. At least Victor hoped he had. Through the scope Victor saw that the blond man had stopped walking. He now stood maybe ten yards behind Norimov, acting as though he was waiting for someone. But not very convincingly. Clear wire spiralled from his ear to his collar. Victor frowned.
‘Don’t make any movement. There’s a man behind you with an earpiece. Smile, laugh as if I had told you a joke.’
Norimov did and asked, ‘What do we do?’ The smile still on his face.
‘They were waiting for me to show, but the phone’s confused them.’
‘How did they know?’
‘Whoever decrypted the drive either told them or was discovered decrypting it. They’ve probably got your bar bugged, your office. When you leave, they’ll follow you.’
‘I’ll lead them round half the country. See how they like that.’
‘Any victory, however small…’
‘Exactly.’
‘Head back to your car and drive away normally,’ Victor said. ‘When they realize I’m not going to show, they could bring you in.’
‘I’ll tell them you didn’t show. Which is true.’
‘They’ll make your life difficult if they can.’
‘Fuck them. I can take care of myself. I was thinking of moving anyway. The Caribbean maybe. I like the women.’
He spoke lightly, too lightly.
Victor’s jaw muscles flexed. ‘I’m sorry for getting you into this, Alek.’
Norimov was still pretending to smile. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’
It was crowded and hot inside the back of the removal van, but no one complained. There were four men in total, aged between twenty-five and forty. All professionals, all experienced operatives for the SVR. They all watched the images of Norimov and the parking lot displayed on the seventeen-inch monitor. Colonel Aniskovach watched too. A directional parabolic microphone was covering Norimov, but it was too far away, and the ambient sound too loud to decipher Norimov’s words.
‘He’s definitely talking to him,’ an operative said. ‘Where the hell is he?’
‘He must be nearby,’ Aniskovach replied. ‘He’ll want to see Norimov with his own eyes to make sure he’s alone. He’s out there somewhere. When he is convinced everything is safe he’ll show to collect the package.’ Aniskovach grabbed a radio to speak to the men outside. ‘Do not move until the target is identified and I give the command.’
With less than an hour’s warning of where the exchange was taking place, Aniskovach hadn’t had the time to get snipers in position or a better plan put into action. Which was why, of course, the assassin had arranged things as he had. Aniskovach had to appreciate his cunning, but he had enough men in the area to trap him the second he showed.
On the monitor Norimov hung up the cell and placed it in his pocket.
Aniskovach spoke into the radio. ‘That’s it; they’re done talking. He won’t show until Norimov has left. Kill him only if you are forced to, wound him by all means, but I’d like him alive.’ Aniskovach turned to his men. ‘Be ready.’
Clouds obscured the sun. Victor closed the phone but kept watch over Norimov to make sure he was safe. It was the least he could do. Norimov strolled back to his car as if he had no care in the world. He moved to the passenger door and opened it. As he did so, Victor looked back to the blond man and saw he was talking, seemingly to himself. For a second the man glanced upstairs, straight at Victor.
The blond man must have eyes like a hawk. Victor took a breath, knowing he didn’t have long before they locked down the location and trapped him. But for the moment he was up here and they were down there. With both hands back on the rifle, Victor swung it towards the plain-clothes operative. He was already moving, knowing he had likewise been spotted, his right hand reaching to his belt.
Victor fired.
The bullet flew over Norimov’s shoulder and hit the blond man in the face. When his body struck the ground most of the head was no longer attached to his neck.
The Dragunov’s suppressor massively reduced the sound caused by the escaping gases, but the high-velocity round it fired created a sonic boom as it broke the sound barrier — unmistakably a gunshot. Victor watched the ensuing effect carefully. People in and around the parking lot ducked or flinched — shocked, scared, confused. All but two.
Victor killed the first with a bullet through the chest. The second, realizing what was happening, tried to run. He didn’t get far.
Norimov’s men pulled him into the car and the BMW’s tyres screeched as it reversed out of the parking space and headed towards the exit. Victor risked standing up to get a better view. They knew where he was now, anyway. He looked around. Below him there were screams, hysteria, people running back and forth. Where were the others?
To his right, he spotted a white removal van. The man behind the wheel had a frantic look on his face and a spiral of clear wire descending from his left ear. Immediately Victor crouched back down, grabbed the Dragunov, and swung it to the right. The reticule rushed over the parking lot.
The driver’s mouth was moving. Shouting something.
A small hole exploded through the side window, and the glass turned red.
Hearing the sound of breaking glass and a wet thunk, Colonel Aniskovach stopped barking orders and looked through the partition separating the driver’s cab from the van’s rear compartment. His mouth fell open at what he saw.
Bright gore plastered the front windshield. The operative behind the wheel was slumped to one side in his seat, his head split in two.
Aniskovach was already moving when he screamed, ‘EVERYBODY OUT.’
Victor let the magazine fall out of the rifle and slammed in the second mag. He worked the action, ejecting the previous round and loading an API. Through the sniper scope Victor watched the van’s rear doors swing open. He hovered the crosshairs over the fuel inlet.
A man leaped out of the back and ran. More boots dropped out of the back onto the road behind the first. Victor fired. The bullet punched a hole through the body work. Inside the van the incendiary charge ignited the traces of fuel in the inlet. Flames rushed through the fuel pipe, reaching the tank.
The van exploded.
It lifted off the ground, the force ripping outward, decimating it in a single instant. The fireball was huge, mushrooming upward, engulfing the operatives not fast enough to follow Aniskovach’s lead. The shock wave blew out the glass of the neighbouring vehicles.
Black smoke rose towards the sky.
CHAPTER 44
Paris, France
Monday
10:07 CET
Rebecca returned to her apartment with a bag of groceries. She locked the door before walking to the kitchen, where she placed the bag down on a work surface, poured herself the last of the coffee from the pot, and drank it bitter and lukewarm. In the lounge she stood in the gloom for a moment before opening the drapes to let some light in. Outside, Paris was grey and depressing. Her hair was wet and lank from the rain. She knew she looked awful without having to look in the mirror.
Paranoia made her check that all the windows were closed and locked. The apartment was old, the walls, floor, and ceiling thick. Little noise found its way into the space and the quiet unnerved her. She took a breath in an attempt to control her anxiety. No one knew about the apartment. It wasn’t hers. It had belonged to her uncle and was now the property of one of her cousins. She’d stayed for a few weeks a couple of years ago when she was given a set of keys and told to stay whenever she liked. Her cousin lived outside the city and didn’t rent it out but was too sentimental to sell it.
She tapped the space bar on her laptop to get rid of the screen saver. She’d left it powered on continuously — with only a laptop’s processing power the code-breaking software she was using could take several days, maybe even weeks, to breach the cipher on Ozols’s memory stick. Unsurprisingly it hadn’t found the code yet. The software displayed an ever-increasing count of the combinations tried. Billions down, billions more to go. Maybe tens of billions. Maybe more. If so, they would never crack it. Rebecca would die of old age long before the password had been discovered.
She considered e-mailing her friend at Langley who worked for the cryptography department. He had access to supercomputers that could smash open almost any cipher in hours, if not minutes. But her nameless companion was right, doing so would put them too close to their enemies.
Rebecca had entered into the software every word s
he knew that might have significance to Ozols. As part of the operation she’d been privy to much information on the Latvian, which in turn she’d passed on to his killer. None of those words had helped. The code was probably something with no significance, a blend of numbers and letters for added security.
After making herself fresh coffee, black with sugar, she sat down on a small, creaking armchair in front of a second, recently purchased computer. A similarly new printer rested on the floor.
On the screen was the home page for a financial consultant in London: Hartman and Royce Equity Investments. The home page was minimalist, elegant, with an artist’s impression of the London skyline, at the centre of which was Canary Wharf, where the offices for Hartman and Royce were located.
Rebecca navigated through the site until she found a page listing the company’s executives with some biographical highlights and accompanying photos. She scrolled down and stopped at the name Elliot Seif in the middle of the screen. A click opened up Seif’s details, complete with a larger picture of the man.
She right clicked and saved the picture.
At a nearby phone booth she entered the dialling code for the UK, followed by Seif’s office number.
A woman answered in a polite but serious British accent. ‘Hartman and Royce, Melanie speaking, how can I help you?’
‘I’d like an appointment to see one of your financial advisors please.’
Five minutes later Rebecca left the booth with a next-day appointment booked to see a man called Brice to discuss private investments and her stock portfolio. The appointment would give her the perfect opportunity to get a close look at Seif and survey his offices.
She went back to her research. Already she had street maps of the Canary Wharf district in several scales, as well as photographs of the building and surrounding ones. She had a variety of CIA-supplied software on her computer that allowed her access, some legally but mostly illegally, to a number of useful sources.