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.
A 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?"
Konstantin 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 an
d 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?"
Not really, but he didn't say anything to Lethe. He needed to think. He
hadn't expected Devere to call daddy--that threw his thinking for a loop. London
made sense because it was the base of operations for the multinational concern;
information would traffic through the hub and filter out to wherever it needed to
be. Calling the shooter to warn him made sense as well. It was the call he had
hoped to illicit with his impromptu visit. That was the call that told him he had
read Miles Devere correctly. The man was used to being in control. He hadn't
been able to resist checking in with his man.
No, what surprised him was that he had expected one of the calls up the
chain to Mabus, meaning a number out in Israel. Tel Aviv, most likely. It was
possible that Mabus was in either London or Geneva, but it was unlikely. Given
the level of mystery around the terrorist's identity he couldn't imagine Devere
entrusting that call to one of his grunts, especially considering Devere's
psychology.
as the cCould you trace the second call?" Konstantin asked, still thinking. Lethe sucked in a wounded breath. "I'll let you off this once, Koni, but
only because I just professed my love for you. That's how good I am to you,
remember that. Could I trace the call, indeed? Sheesh. Does a naked Pope shit in
the woods?"
Konstantin said nothing.
"The answer you're looking for is 'of course' because he's Papa Bear, get
it? Goldilocks? Sometimes I think my genius is wasted on you, Koni. Yes, I
triangulated the signal from the cell phone to a building on one of the approach
streets to St Florin's. Mehlgasse, number 13."
"Unlucky for some," Konstantin said, killing the connection. He pocketed
the phone.
It took him seven minutes to cover the ground from Jesuit Square to Mehlgasse. It wasn't one of the streets cordoned off for the papal visit, making it ideal for the getaway. Konstantin walked along the sidewalk. The buildings rose higher here, up to five and six stories. He scanned row after row of blind
windows as he walked down the street.
He checked his watch again. Less than thirty minutes before the
benediction was due to begin. He didn't like the way time seemed to be
accelerating on him.
There was nothing remarkable about number 13, nothing that said this
was the house hiding an assassin. It was an utterly average facade, with row
after row of plain windows. There were no balconies. He studied the top row of
windows. A flicker of movement below caught his eye. A curtain moving in the
window furthest from the Square. The window was open six inches. Enough
clearance for a shot.
Konstantin turned, following the trajectory from the window as best he
could from below. The angle of the shot was tight. The shooter would only be
able to see a fraction of the square itself, but he had a partial view of the stage
that had been constructed. Assuming the steps up onto the stage were on the
left, what the shooter had was an unobstructed view of the Pope as he climbed
them up onto the stage and his first four or five steps across the red cloth
toward his papal chair.
He pictured the scene, the white Mercedes Benz pulling up beside the
dais, the Pope and his guard climbing out, and being escorted to the stage. For
the short time it took to get from the car to the chair the old man was a sitting
duck. The bottom of the street closest to the church square was blocked off. He
saw two BKA agents standing bythe barricade. Worshippers had come to stand
beside them. By the time the Holy Father arrived the crowd would be twenty or
thirty deep.
Konstantin looked back up at the window.
There it was again, the slight movement of the curtain as though whoever
was behind it was checking the stage area obsessively. It was oddly amateurish,
but not out of keeping with the debacle of their surveillance efforts in Berlin. He counted the windows: fifth floor, forth window across.
He shielded his eyes, trying to see more of what was going on behind the
glass, but he didn't have the angle to see much more than a patch of the ceiling. He checked his watch again. Twenty-five minutes until the parade was
due to reach the square. He thought about calling in to Lethe, alerting the BKA
officers, playing it by th
e book, but not only would that have made a liar out of
him, it would have risked compromising him. It wasn't only that he had told
Devere he was going to stop the assassination, and then he was going to go
back and kill him--which pandered to his overdeveloped sense of justice--his
movements put him in Berlin before the sarin gas attack, and now he was here.
It was too much of a coincidence, and he couldn't call on the Service to help him
out. It also meant he was a prime suspect. They'd close off the road and rail, hit
every lodging house and hotel, turning the place over. He was alone. Which meant making the best out of a bad job. It was as black and white as that, as far
as he was concerned. That didn't mean he was happy with the situation. He tried the street door. There was an intercom on the wall beside it.
Assuming the buttons mirrored the layout of the building, he pressed his way
down the line, skipping the buttons for the fifth floor. Thirty seconds later
someone buzzed him in. It never failed. He tried to tell himself this was one of
the good things about living in the West, but really all it meant to him was if he
wanted to go on a killing rampage, statistically speaking, some idiot would let
him into whatever building he chose. It didn't matter how secure or safe it was
supposed to be.
Again he took the stairs, but as a precaution he opened the door on the
cage elevator, breaking the circuit so it couldn't be called.
He climbed slowly and steadily.
He didn't draw his gun until the third-floor landing.
He carried on up to the fourth, the muzzle of the Glock 19 leading the
way.
He stopped before he reached the fifth floor and leaned against the
elevator cage. The steady rise and fall of his own breathing was the only sound
Silver Page 26