Silver ota-1

by Steven Savile

  Down at a waterfront kiosk he bought a packet of unfiltered cigarettes. The man took his money. They exchanged pleasantries. Konstantin mentioned the barriers and the shopkeeper burst out laughing. “Where have you been for the last month, my friend? The Pope’s coming to cleanse us of all of our sins,” he said, still grinning. “In a few hours you won’t be able to walk here for people. It’ll be crazy.” He didn’t smoke, so he didn’t have a lighter to light the cigarette he put in his mouth. The barriers ran all the way along the riverside. A few people had already taken their places at the front as though they were queuing for pop royalty at a sellout concert. They had their picnic baskets and neat little tripod stools. He liked the way a father took a chocolate bar and broke it into squares, giving one each to his wife and the two children.

  “Any trouble?”

  The shopkeeper kept on smiling. “Here? Trust me, the only reason kids hang around on street corners is because they’re waiting for the lights to change.”

  Konstantin smiled at that. Most people believed the towns they lived in were safe, at least averagely so, but looking around him he knew he could probably take the shopkeeper at his word. There was some industry, so that meant there was probably some friction, and given the tight economic climate all across Europe, that friction probably escalated into the odd fist fight on a Friday night. Fairy tale twin town didn’t look like it had a high instance of breaking and entering, car thefts or other antisocial crimes. There was very little in the way of graffiti that he had seen, even on the tunnel walls or along the wall that kept pedestrians back from the water’s edge. Of course that could have been due to clean-up crews for the papal visit.

  And as idyllic as it looked on the surface, plenty of nastiness could be happening behind those cookie-cutter windows and he would have been none the wiser.

  Konstantin hopped over the metal barrier and walked down the center of the road. He intended to walk the parade three times before the Popemobile drove the Pope to the steps of St. Florin’s.

  Contrary to what he had told Lethe there was almost nowhere along the entire riverside part of the parade that would make for a good, clean shot. He walked over to the wall and looked across the water up at the citadel. If the shooter was up there, he didn’t have a prayer. It made sense from a tactical standpoint. The Popemobile was a specially adapted Mercedes Benz M class SUV. There was a special glass-enclosed “room” built onto the rear of the vehicle. The glass would be bulletproof, of course, and the roof reinforced with armor plating. To pierce the glass, the shooter would need to be good enough to fire a fatal triangle-three shots in a triangle so tight they literally joined the dots. An experienced sniper would be capable of making the shot in the right conditions, but then it came down to trajectory, distance, wind, whether it was a moving target, reaction times of the security detail and all of these other intangibles the shooter couldn’t know before he lined up the shot.

  Taking the shot either as the principal entered or exited the protection of the bulletproof cage made more sense but lacked the spectacle. In an intense moment of paranoia he wondered if someone couldn’t have tampered with one of the windows, prepping it for the shot? The agents riding along would be expecting the glass to protect the Pope. They wouldn’t expect it to betray them.

  He reached for his cell and called Lethe. “Two things,” he said before Lethe finished saying hello. “One, get the security detail to triple check the integrity of the glass on the parade car. Two, run the utility bills on every address in a mile radius of the route. I’m thinking the shooter will have found himself a spot two weeks, ten days ago. He could be the kind of cold pro used to privation, but the guys in Berlin were a joke. Which means it is unlikely-but it’s possible-that this guy might have turned the water on. No phone, the cell coverage is fine. Three, look for buildings that are supposed to be empty, leases out, that kind of thing.”

  Lethe didn’t point out that he was only supposed to say two things, not three. “Will do.”

  The more he thought about it, the less likely it felt that he was looking for a shooter.

  The window of opportunity was so small, and certainly this waterside route didn’t offer more than one or two possible vantage points, which in itself discounted them because any shooter good enough to hit a fatal triangle on a moving target from the kind of distance they were talking about would be good enough to know that statistically only one or two possible vantage points meant, barring miracles, a zero chance of getting away from the scene. It was uncommon that really good shooters went on suicide missions.

  Fanatics went on suicide missions.

  This brought him back to thinking about Mabus and Miles Devere.

  “Four things,” he said, calling Lethe back up.

  “Fire away.”

  “You’ve got Devere’s cell, can you trace it?”

  “As long as the battery is connected I can run GPS tracking, sure. Wonders of modern technology. There’s no such thing as off the grid.”

  “Don’t tell me you can do it, tell me where he is,” Konstantin said. He turned the cigarette over and over again in his fingers. He could understand why nervous people smoked: it gave them something to do with their hands.

  Lethe gave him an address in Jesuit Square, part of the Old Town.

  Thirty minutes later Konstantin was staring up at one of the curtained windows, sure that the shadow looking back down at him through it was Miles Devere. There was a beautiful symmetry to it. Hunter and hunted locking eyes without either man quite knowing his role in the play of violence. Who was the hunter? Who was the hunted? It appealed to Konstantin’s overdeveloped sense of the theatrical. He was the first to break eye contact, walking toward the building. He wondered if Devere even knew who he was. But of course he did, the Russian reasoned. A man like Devere had to be a control freak. This was his game. He wouldn’t have been able to bear not knowing all of the pieces that were in play.

  But how much did he know?

  The answer, of course, depended upon how good Devere’s people were. Konstantin Khavin’s service record was sealed, as was everything Her Majesty knew about him, right up until the moment his feet landed on the western side of the Wall. But someone like Lethe would have been able to tell Devere what he’d had for breakfast the day before, the color of his boxers that morning, the last time he’d taken a dump and everything in between. And knowing Lethe, it would have taken him less than five minutes to gather those little gems of personal hygiene. So Konstantin had to assume Miles Devere knew everything two governments held on him and a fair bit beside. He had no idea how that would affect the way things played out, but a good strategist knew what he was going up against and planned accordingly. So again, Konstantin must assume les Deverere would be building his plays around a detailed knowledge of who he was up against.

  Was it hubris on Konstantin’s part to think that Devere would give a rat’s ass about who he was and what he’d done during his forty-something years on the planet? If this was Moscow, the answer would have been obvious-even in the microcosm of Nonesuch it was obvious-but out here where people played by money’s rules? Devere had proven he could do whatever he wanted, and not even within reason. He wasn’t averse to buying the guns that killed the men who built the house that Jack built, then he’d sold the mortars that razed the house, meaning someone else had to come along and rebuild it. It was all good business so long as you didn’t care about poor old Jack. Devere had proven he could buy people as easily as he could buy places and things, and that he cared just as little about them. The oligarchs in his country were no different. Perhaps it was the gift of money that did this to people?

  Konstantin walked up to the door. The small silver plaque beside it read Devere Holdings was on the third floor. Two of the other businesses in the house belonged to Devere as well. Only the restaurant downstairs wasn’t part of his property portfolio. He pressed the buzzer and, when the voice crackled back unintelligibly through the small speaker, he leaned in
and spoke into a concealed microphone: “Konstantin Khavin to see Miles Devere.”

  He counted to five, listening to the silence, when the door buzzed open.

  Konstantin went in.

  He hadn’t intended to confront Devere and had no idea what he would say now he was inside the building. He walked up the narrow marble staircase rather than take the caged elevator, using the two minutes it took to ascend to formulate a plan. The next few minutes were going to be interesting, if nothing else, especially with the opening gambit he had in mind.

  pretty young thing stood in the open doorway waiting for him. She looked him up and down, then held out her hand as he stepped onto the landing. “Konstantin, Mister Devere is expecting you. Is there anything I can get you? Tea? Coffee? Something a little stronger?”

  She had a disarming smile. He could easily imagine that smile making otherwise sensible, rational men moon about like love-struck fools.

  “Water is fine, thank you,” he said.

  “Not a problem. Sparkling or plain?”

  “Straight out of the tap is fine.”

  “Of course. Please, take a seat.” She showed him through to a small reception area that was in complete contrast to the Old World charm of the rest of the building. It was all glass, steel and sharp angles. There were two black leather couches, one beneath the window, the other against the side wall. On the circular steel-framed coffee table lay the usual clutter of well-thumbed magazines. Other than the magazines there was nothing in the small room to suggest that business was ever actually conducted there. The pretty young thing came back through with his water, a bottle of Perrier along with a tall glass and a slice of lime. He’d had worse service in hotels.

  Devere made him wait for nine more minutes. It was nothing more than cheap psychology, Devere attempting to establish dominance before they even met. Konstantin uncapped the screw cap on the water and poured himself a small glass. He sipped at it, then walked across to the window. He looked down into Jesuit Square, reconstructing the view in his head and reversing it. This was the window he’d seen Devere looking out of a few minutes earlier. Taking another swallow, Konstantin shifted his attention from the square to the waterside. Even given the relative elevation he couldn’t see more than a few feet of the parade route at a time between the rooftops. For a sniper to take a shot from up here he’d need someone down on the ground giving him a countdown so he knew when to expect the converted white Mercedes to come into view and didn’t end up snatching his shot. Even then, creating a fatal triangle to blow out the bulletproof glass was going to be virtually impossible in the 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.