The room was rectangular, about the size of two tennis courts. The large, ceiling-height windows filled one long wall. On one of the short walls was a double door leading back into the hotel lobby, from where they had just come. Opposite was a swing-door which Sam thought probably led to the kitchen and service area. The other long wall was unbroken. It was decorated with large black and white photos of famous politicians and business people who had attended previous World Economic Forums at the Kongresszentrum - for which Davos had world renown. Sam recognised a few before she was frogmarched back into the main atrium.
If the Dalai Lama were to be assassinated at this evening’s event, there were numerous possibilities, but in her mind only two provided an assassin with an escape route. And, according to Sam’s logic, only one was guaranteed.
She had discounted an attack by someone at the same reception. It would be audacious and, provided the assassin could get close enough, pretty failsafe. But the chances of escape seemed unlikely. Whilst Davos wasn’t in a closed valley like Zermatt, there were only two routes in and out - up and down the valley - and if your face was known, those routes could be closed by the police municipal in minutes and the face found.
Poisoning was an option. It was an ancient and effective art. Although Sam guessed the Dalai Lama wasn’t a big eater or drinker, all that was needed was access to tonight’s menu or his drink. The problem for her was poisoning wasn’t dramatic enough. Other than a nerve agent, like VX - which was the Russian SVR’s current murder weapon of choice and can kill in minutes, botulism was the world’s most lethal and effective poison. In the right dose against a healthy, average-sized human, the poison would kill with certainty … but it takes time. Anyone ingesting the poison would become ill over many hours; they certainly wouldn’t drop dead in their soup. Which Forester would want.
A nerve agent attack was a possibility.
The right dose on the skin - some spilt wine from a waiter - would react in seconds. Within a minute the victim would be frothing at the mouth and convulsing as if they were an epileptic. A minute later they would be dead.
It would certainly be dramatic.
But VX and similar nerve agents were weapons of states, not criminal gangs and terrorists. They were incredibly difficult to manufacture both because they require really tricky science and because they were so dangerous. They have to be made in special labs, with protective suits and face masks. They were kept in very secure facilities and whilst, like the recent attack in the UK, can be transported in scent bottles, getting the stuff in the first place is almost impossible unless you work for a special branch of a government. In her previous life she’d read somewhere that it would be easier and cheaper to procure a kilogram of plutonium than a millilitre of VX.
Five countries held the VX stockpile: the US, the UK, Israel, Russia and North Korea. And all of them hold onto their stock as if their lives depended upon it. Because in the hands of terrorists, many of their lives might.
For Sam, poisoning was out.
That left a long-range shot. Although it may have to be two shots.
The picture windows were the main reason people chose the Seehorn conference room for their events. And unless she could do something about it, the blinds would be left drawn for the duration of the dinner. The Dalai Lama would sit at the top table against the back wall. He was wholly recognisable and, other than maybe a Buddhist entourage, he would be the only man not in black tie. A sniper in any one of scores of vantage points outside the hotel would be able to secure a shot.
But, and it was a big but, most of them would need to take two. And that presented a problem and, she reckoned, ruled out all but a handful of positions.
Sniping wasn’t like the movies. Much.
The bullet of choice was a 0.5-inch, which in a decent rifle lost velocity and started to be affected by weather and atmospherics after 800 metres. That’s if it had had an uninterrupted path; which, in the case at the Hilton, it wouldn’t. Sam had checked. The hotel windows were triple-glazed. For a 0.5-inch round travelling at 1200 metres per second this would not be an issue if the bullet hits the window early on and dead straight. The round, which before impact would be spinning to retain accuracy, would tumble and start to lose accuracy when it smashed the first pane of glass; more again a second sheet; much more a third. But if the shooter was close, say 200 metres, the effect would be minimal. If the distances were longer, and the panes of glass more oblique to the trajectory, then the round would have to travel through more glass, and the impact on the flight would be greater.
It didn’t matter how good the shooter was. Sam reckoned any oblique shot would smash the glass and probably hit someone, but possibly not the intended target. A second shot would be needed to guarantee a kill, but after the first everyone would be taking cover … and movement is not a sniper’s friend. And, unless the sniper had already practiced, they’d have no idea how the glass would react. It might craze. Or shatter completely - falling glass obscuring the sniper’s field of view for a split second.
It was a single shot, then.
Or failure.
Just before she and Frank had parted company to look for Forester’s Bentley she’d got onto Google Earth and checked where she would place the bipod of a sniper rifle.
There was only one option.
The Kongresszentrum. It was directly opposite the hotel, about 75 metres away. Until she had chance to look outside any number of front aspect windows were possibilities. As was the roof.
If they hadn’t found the Bentley in an hour that’s where she’d go next.
As she walked rapidly up and down the lanes in the cellar garage she phoned Carla.
‘Sam?’
‘Carla. We’re made it to Davos.’
‘Yes. How can I help?’
‘Have you spoken to Jane? Or the Embassy in Bern? Any chance of calling off tonight’s dinner?’
‘I’ve tried. Jane’s furious. She’s Calabria-focused and is fretting that yours is a sideshow and is going to undermine everything. And the duty officer at the Embassy in Bern just laughed at me. He said he’d phone someone, but the whole thing sounded too incredulous to sell - especially to a Swiss.’
Sam was still walking. And still looking. She’d found a Bentley, but it was two-tone red and mauve.
Not the right car.
She didn’t want to hear that Jane was angry. Or that chasing down Forester was potentially a mistake. The Americans would pull their operation off: bigger the problem, bigger the hammer. And they had some bloody big hammers. No, her tinkering with a long screwdriver in Switzerland wouldn’t unhinge the multi-billion dollar tool kit of the US’s Special Operations Detachment - a whole country away. She’d been at the wrong end of a Delta Force chain gun when all she’d had was a couple of pistols. They would do what they had to do. Nobody would get in their way, least of all her.
And she had to do this.
The world couldn’t have Forester on the loose. She couldn’t have Forester on the loose. And just talking to Carla about him made her legs weaken and she almost tripped over her own feet.
Get a grip.
‘Listen.’ Sam was edgy, but not angry. ‘The dinner is being held in the Seehorn conference room in the Hilton Garden Inn.’ Sam paused to ensure Carla had the details.
‘Yes.’
‘Do what you can to continue to alert the authorities. But, and if nothing else, try and get them to close the blinds on the windows.’
A further pause.
‘You think there may be a sniper on the loose?’
Good girl.
‘Possibly. But I could be wrong. Best answer is still for the event not to happen; for it to be cancelled. Second best is to close the blinds. Got it?’
‘Sure. I’ll try everything and everybody.’
There was a further pause.
‘Sam?’ Carla had a supplementary.
Sam was distracted now. Carla had a job to do. So did she. There were no Bentleys in th
e car park. She checked her watch. It was 6.27 pm. The dinner was due to start at 7.30 pm. If she were right the sniper would be close by. She reckoned on a shot during the Dalai Lama’s after-dinner speech, say between 9.30 and 10.00 pm. He’d be standing. Everyone else sitting. Biggest target. Most attention.
Bang.
Dead Dalai Lama.
Greatest effect.
If she found Forester, would he lead her to the sniper? If she found the sniper, would he know where Forester was?
Who was more important?
There were two answers to that question. And that depended upon who you asked: herself, or the rest of the world.
‘Sam!’
‘Yes? Sorry Carla. Look …’
‘It’s a mess back here.’ Carla interrupted. ‘There are currently riots in three London boroughs. The police are using tear gas. The mayor’s looking at declaring martial law in those areas. This afternoon the Army moved 1,000 extra soldiers into Wellington Barracks. The PM’s facing a vote of no confidence in the House at 9.30 pm. It’s crazy. And that’s being replicated all over the world. Get him, Sam. We both know the US will dismantle the Mafia. But Forester is key. If he’s on the loose this thing may never end.’
Sam was heading up a ramp into the cold of the night.
Where was Forester?
Should she abandon him? Stake out the Kongresszentrum and hope she was right about a sniper?
The cold hit her like opening a walk-in freezer. She pulled her beanie over her ears with her free hand.
She turned left, heading for the Steigenberger. Another hotel, another car park.
Where was Forester?
He’s here.
He has to be.
It makes sense. How else could he be sure the job would be done?
And he had to know; he had to see it happen.
He was particular. Exact.
It was obvious.
He’d be at the dinner. He was a high-powered and very wealthy businessman. Getting a ticket for the Dalai Lama’s dinner would be a cinch.
But that still left her on the horns of a bison-sized dilemma.
The Kongresszentrum or the Seehorn conference room?
Sniper? Forester?
And what about Frank?
‘I’ll do what I can, Carla. And you get the blinds in the conference room closed. Ack?’
‘Ack.’
Kongresszentrum, Davos, Switzerland
Ergorov was stiff. And cold. The janitor’s cupboard was big enough for him to stand up in, but it was hardly a gymnasium. With a gloved hand he twisted the door handle and pushed it open; slightly. And waited. It was dark in the corridor, but lighter than the cupboard. He listened. He looked for subtle changes in the shaft of grey that exposed the cupboard shelves’ cleaning equipment, brooms and other janitorial gear with which he’d shared his last three hours.
Nothing.
There was no sound. And no flickering.
The world was still.
He pushed the door open further. And waited.
Nothing.
He lifted his rifle case onto his shoulder and stepped out into the corridor.
And waited.
Nothing.
He knew his route. He knew the internal alarm system. He knew the room. He knew his window. He knew what equipment was available to set up a steady firing platform, one big enough for a 1.79 centimetre, 92 kilogram man to lie down in the prone position with an Accuracy International AS50. He knew exactly where the platform would be positioned and he knew, once set up, he would have line of sight to the target.
He knew this because he’d visited the Kongresszentrum twice before, had blueprints of the building and had arrived today at 2.30 pm - on the janitor’s day off.
It was an interesting target, for sure. He’d not met his paymaster. His instructions, as always, had been sent and received by encrypted messaging on a series of other people’s phones. His protocols were completely secure. He was offered contracts via only three intermediaries, all of whom he trusted completely. All of whom shared his fee. They were old men. Russian men, with bad livers and red, vodka-addled noses. He didn’t think they had long left. And when they were gone, it would be over for him. A well-deserved and restful retirement. Then, the only shooting he’d be doing would be in the forest, away from his cabin.
It was an interesting target. And, in the dark of the cupboard he’d amused himself as to who the paymaster might be.
The Chinese?
The next in line to the throne, if that’s how you thought of it?
Did it matter?
Not really.
He had a target. And a reason - he always needed a reason. It was his way of squaring the circle of what he did. It might be an errant husband, or a politician on the take. A threat to national security? He’d done one of those a couple of years ago, taking out an oligarch on the back of a huge yacht.
Today?
Preventing the reordering of the world.
Ergorov was a simple man. He was a soldier; a long time ago. He followed orders. Saw things through. But he’d always liked to know why. Preventing the reordering of the world seemed like a grand notion. He didn’t really understand what it meant, but he could say it out loud. And he didn’t want the world to be reordered. He liked it just the way it was. And if the man from Tibet was preventing that from happening, then he was happy with his target.
He walked cautiously along the corridor, his slippered feet making no noise. He came to a double door that led to a stairwell. He pushed it ajar - slightly. No noise from the door. No noise from the stairwell. He pushed the door fully open. And waited.
Nothing.
He climbed the stairs two at a time until he’d reached the first floor. He made his way out of the stairwell, following the same ‘push and wait’ procedure. Three rooms down on the left were the female toilets. Four rooms down was a classroom.
He pushed the door of the toilets open and listened.
Nothing.
He placed his gun case on the vinyl floor so it propped it open. He waited. The door didn’t move. He then moved to the classroom, always following the same essential procedure. Push, listen and wait.
Inside the classroom were 43 student desks, with 41 separate polyprop chairs. He needed three tables. He knew they stacked and he knew he could lift them. He used the table closest to the door to hold it open and then chose the three next closest, stacked them and carried them into the toilet. He then retraced his steps, moved the tables and chairs around so anyone entering the room wouldn’t suspect anything had been removed.
He left the classroom, closing the door behind him and moved into the women’s toilet. He lifted his rifle case from the floor and helped the door to. Slowly.
Silently.
And then he set to work making a platform, dim light from the three opaque windows providing enough to work with. After a recce of the hotel’s conference suite and an illicit trip to the women’s toilets on his first trip, he’d chosen the middle window. The window was opposite the basins which were set back far enough to allow three student tables, one behind the other, to provide a rectangular platform perpendicular to the wall. The window was tall and narrow, its ledge at knee height. With the first table close to the outside wall and the barrel of rifle forward of the edge of the table, but not puncturing the outside space, he knew he would get a good field of view. And he would be comfortable. A prerequisite for any sniper.
With the tables in place he opened up his rifle bag and pulled out an inflating roll mat. He laid it out on the tables, pulled the air-stopper out and blew in four breaths; the exact amount to ensure the mat provided a comfortable lying surface, but not so inflated it encouraged movement.
Leaving his weapon in the bag, and with the window still closed, he lifted himself onto the platform and lay down on his stomach, his right knee pulled up and away from his body, creating a triangle of two lower limbs and a torso: the perfectly secure and balanced firing position.
>
He took aim with an imaginary rifle. Adjusted his position.
Like an actor before a performance he went through his ritual of tensing and then relaxing every muscle in his body. He started with his feet. Then his legs. All the way through his arms and then his face which he scrunched up and relaxed.
He re-adjusted his position.
And breathed. In. And out. Slowly. Listening for his heart beat. Forcing it to moderate.
In. And Out. Shallow breaths.
Fifty-two beats per minute. He knew. He didn’t need a watch.
In. And out. Forty-eight beats per minute.
Nee-naw, nee-naw.
A siren. Outside. It broke his concentration. His body tensed.
He listened.
Nee-naw, nee-naw. It had changed pitch. The doppler effect. A higher pitch coming towards you. And, good news for him; a lower pitch moving away.
The police weren’t busy in Switzerland. It was a surprise to hear a siren.
He listened. The siren disappeared into the distance, to his right.
Fifty-eight beats per minute.
He’d have to go through the routine again to be sure. And then assemble, clean, oil and check his weapon and magazine.
He looked at his watch. It was 7.16 pm.
He had plenty of time. Ergorov wouldn’t open the window until fifteen minutes before his shot. At around 9.10 pm. He’d watched six videos of the target giving after-dinner speeches, so he knew how long he spoke for. And he’d researched gala dinners. The number of courses. Average length of a course. Every detail he could get.
Not that it mattered. Once he was happy that everything was ready at the platform end, he’d check both his escape routes and then position himself at the back of the classroom. At the end of the working day, and before he’d moved into the janitor’s cupboard, he’d made sure the blinds in the classroom had been left open. From the professor’s desk, and hidden well into the shadows of the room, he’d have a ringside seat of the dinner. It would take him two minutes and forty-five seconds to be in a position to shoot. His target had never spoken for less than seven minutes.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 41