Konstantin hung up and went to keep a promise.
He left the train and walked quickly down the stairs that ran between the up and down escalator. He was the only person left on the train by the time it reached the Isle of Dogs. This part of the city was called Little Manhattan because of the mini-skyscrapers that had been built all along the riverside development of Canary Wharf. The Devere Holdings building was in there amid all of the merchant banks and import/export offices. Mudchute rather matched its name. Despite its nearness to the skyscrapers, it was like something out of the '50s and owed its curious name to the fact that when it was being built the country was suffering from football factories, and its hooligans were the fear of Europe; otherwise, it would have been called Millwall Park, after the football team.
He followed the road around. Twenty years ago this part of London would have been full of kids kicking tin cans and pretending to be Teddy Sheringham and Tony Cascarino. Tonight it was quiet.
There was more building going on on the other side of the tracks. The metal skeleton of the building was slowly being wrapped in bricks and mortar.
He didn't have a weapon. No doubt he could have climbed over the wall and dropped down onto the building site and found a decent sized rock. Or maybe a piece of steel pipe or rebar, a chisel, hammer or other tool. He decided against it, not for any ethical reasons--he had no problem with stealing from a construction site. No, he wanted to do this with his bare hands. He didn't want anything between him and Devere as he beat the life out of him.
Konstantin found the building. Lethe was right, he couldn't miss it. It was one of those carbuncles on the face of the city Prince Charles had been railing about for years while no one paid the slightest bit of notice to his royal raving.
He had lost his bump key when the BKA took him into custody, so getting past the security was going to be a little more complicated. He stepped back, standing just out of the puddle of light from the streetlight, and looked up at the facade. There was a fairly substantial drainage system on the outside of the house, with pipes running all the way down from the roof. He'd never understood why the British put their water pipes on the outside of their houses, when the cold came they were always going to crack, maybe not for ten years, but eventually they would. Freeze, thaw, and all of that. Pipes on the outside was asking for problems. Good metal pipes properly set into the mortar were asking for an entirely different set of problems.
Konstantin picked a path up to the first balcony. It was a long affair that actually ran around half of the frontage, then turned right to catch some of the lowering evening sun. The second story balcony repeated the pattern. It was the same for each of the four stories. The water pipes threaded through the narrowest of places, where the balconies didn't over lap. Once he got to the first one it would be relatively easy to climb to the next. Of course there was no guarantee that when he got there the balcony doors would be open--and if they weren't, hell would freeze over before Devere stopped playing Little Pig and let him in.
He could always try the buzzer trick again, but there were only three buzzers and no lights in any of the lower apartments. He didn't waste any more time. He shimmied up the drainpipe, scuffing his feet off the wall, and hooked his hand onto the first balcony so that he could pull himself up. Second to third was almost as easy. He stood on the balcony rail and reached up. The next level was six inches out of reach, so leaning out over the drop, he jumped.
Konstantin caught the concrete base of the balcony and hauled himself up as though he was doing chin-ups, then swung, hooking his leg up onto the balcony railing and climbed onto the third story balcony. He repeated the maneuver for the fourth story and stood there for a moment, looking in through the huge plate glass doors and dusting his hands off.
The television was on, casting shadow shapes across the contours of the lounge.
Miles Devere was slumped in a leather armchair. He had his eyes closed and rested in the posture of someone who'd slipped into sleep.
Konstantin wanted him awake for the fun.
He checked his watch. It wasn't quite midnight. There were chairs on the balcony, good cushioned chairs with high backs. Konstantin settled down into one of them. He was going to do this the Russian way. That meant coming late, four o'clock, coming in fast and hard and scaring the living crap out of Devere before he made him beg and plead and offer to pay anything, to give up his fortune, anything, and everything. Konstantin wasn't about to be bought. When Devere was through begging he would beat the man to death and leave him in his fancy skyscraper city apartment surrounded by all the fine things money could buy.
He had the patience of a saint when it came to keeping a promise.
He looked out over the river, watching the city at night. It was a curious beast. It never quietly slept. He couldn't understand the appeal of it. It was dirty, smelly, over-crowded, just like any other city in the world. He scanned the rooftops from The Tower to St. Paul's distinctive dome and over the rooftops to The London Eye and, almost on the edge of what could be seen, Big Ben. The night lights made it seem like a different place. Like a fairy tale city. They might soften the sharp edges of the architecture, but they couldn't hide the fact that right now murder was the only tale of the city worth telling.
He checked his watch again.
Two a.m.
Soon, he promised himself. The ambient light from the television went out.
Two hours passed slowly. Konstantin didn't mind. Some moments were worth savoring. This was one of them. The moon was full and bright.
He stood up and walked the length of the balcony, looking for a makeshift tool that would help him break the lock open if he needed it. Three out of ten burglaries in the city required no force at all because the occupants were too dumb to lock their own doors and windows, but Konstantin was working under the impression that Devere was security conscious. Rich men usually were--to the point of paranoia. Whatever he was, Devere wasn't a keen gardener. There was no ready supply of tools for turning the soil and planting bulbs in the window boxes.
He walked back slowly to the balcony doors. The basic locks that come with balcony doors are usually brittle and quite soft, meaning they will break under pressure. It didn't matter how tough the glass was if the lock was going to shatter under a decent amount of leverage. A broom handle was enough to break most of them, but thankfully, most of the people sleeping soundly out there under the soft lights in fairy tale city didn't know that. If they did, they wouldn't have been sleeping at all, never mind soundly.
The door was locked, but he couldn't see any additional locks or security-meaning Devere thought living four flights up made him safe. He wouldn't live to regret that mistake.
Konstantin found what he was looking for: a metal rod from the clothes hanger Devere used to dry his designer shirts.
He slipped it through the lock handle and applied a little pressure, testing it out. He felt the resistance, then pressed again, a little harder this time, working the lock. It split on the third try, with a crack like a gunshot.
He tossed the metal rod aside and slid the door open on its runner.
He went inside.
The apartment had that eerie four o'clock silence. He moved quickly through the place, walking from room to room. The decor was spartan, Scandinavian minimalist. It had absolutely no stamp of personality on it, and that wasn't just because of the dark. It wasn't actually that dark inside; the full moon painted everything silver.
Each white wall had a single piece of art on it. Konstantin couldn't tell if they were cheap prints or expensive originals. He wasn't much of an art lover. He recognized some pieces, especially by the old masters, but the new stuff, not so much. He liked his artists like he liked his enemies, dead.
Devere didn't look like a paranoid man. There were motion detectors in each room at strategic points, and the little red light blinked every time Konstantin moved, but no alarm sounded. Like most people, he obviously didn't set the alarm when he was in the a
partment.
He found Devere's room.
He listened to the sleeping man's gentle snores through the door for a moment, checking his watch again. It was four o'clock sharp. It was time to raise some hell. Konstantin kicked the door open, yelling bloody murder as he charged into the room.
Miles Devere thrashed about in the starched white sheets of the bed. Brutally woken, he came up into the sitting position with his right hand across his heart.
Konstantin didn't give him a second to work out what was happening.
He flew at Devere, straight across the room and into his face like some sort of hellion out of his worst nightmare--and that was exactly what Devere would be thinking for those few seconds as the mad shrieking silhouette charged at him. He hit Devere once, a back-handed left across the side of his face, then grabbed his hair and dragged out of the bed.
By then Devere had worked out what was happening.
It didn't help him.
Konstantin bundled Devere to the floor and laid into him with his booted feet, kicking him again and again until the naked man was crumpled up in a fetal ball trying to protect himself. He didn't say a word, he just stepped back, giving himself room to drive another kick into Devere's back.
He bent down and grabbed a handful of Devere's hair and dragged him through to the living room. Devere kicked, trying to get his feet under him, and grabbed and slapped at Konstantin's hand in between screams and howls of pain.
Konstantin threw him across the room and just stood there over him, watching Devere scramble around naked.
"I never break a promise," he said. "It is a Russian thing, all about honor."
"Please," Devere said, looking up and at the same time trying to draw his entire body in on itself to present the smallest target he could to the Russian.
"Please? Please what?" Konstantin mocked. "Please don't kill me?" Konstantin shook his head. "Not interested in that. Not interested in pleasing you at all. I was in Berlin. I saw what your money did. I saw them dragging the bodies out of the subway, all of those innocent people. Do you think they begged as they suffocated from the gas?"
"I didn't . . ." Devere pleaded.
"Yes you did. Have the balls to admit it. Maybe if you repent desperately enough in the next few minutes, God might forgive you, but I doubt it. I think there's a special place in hell reserved for scum like you."
"What do you want me to say?" Miles Devere looked pitiful, shivering, naked, clutching his legs under his chin, trying to hide his penis and his vulnerability, and utterly lacking any kind of spine or dignity. This was the real Devere stripped of all the power money could buy. This was the man stripped down to skin and bone and found wanting.
"I want you to do more than just 'say,' Miles. I want you to do what you do best. . . . I want you to buy me. I wat you to buy your life from me."
Devere's eyes lit up, his face suddenly feral in the moonlight. "Name your price. Anything."
"Five thousand," Konstantin said. "No, make that ten. Ten thousand."
Devere almost laughed. "Ten thousand? Is that it? Not a million. Not a house in the Bahamas and a yacht? Ten thousand? Have you got no imagination?" Devere was in his element suddenly, bargaining, haggling, trying to fix a price, looking to capitalize on tragedy. "I can give you more. I can give you more than you can imagine. I can give you so much money it'll make your Russian dick hard just thinking about the numbers. Try again, name your price."
"Ten thousand," Konstantin said and sniffed. He started to undo the buttons of his shirt and peel it off.
Devere shook his head. "You don't get it. I can give you everything, all you want and more. Your wildest dreams. It's only money. I can always get more money."
Konstantin draped his shirt over the back of the leather armchair. "You haven't asked ten thousand what."
Devere shook his head, suddenly unsure as the ground shifted away beneath him. "Ten thousand what?" he asked, his voice quieter now, like he didn't want to hear the answer.
Konstantin kicked off his shoes one at a time.
"People. Ten thousand dead people. I want you to give them their lives back. You're to blame for their deaths--give them back their lives. You owe them. If you can't do that, then you've got nothing I am interested in."
Devere shook his head. "It's impossible. . . . You can't bring people back from the dead. You can't."
"Then I think our business here is done, don't you?" Konstantin asked.
"No. Please . . . please."
Konstantin didn't listen.
He undid his belt and stripped out of his trousers and boxers.
And naked he went to war.
He took his time, watching the clock slowly move around to five in the morning while he made Devere hurt. He beat him until he was bloody. He beat him until the flesh of his face caved in. He beat him until he couldn't breathe because his body was ruined. He beat him until he gave up begging and just wanted it over. He beat him until he was covered in his blood. Devere was right. No amount of beating would bring them back. No amount of pain could put right all of the hurt he had caused with his relentless pursuit of money. Konstantin didn't care. This was about making good on a promise.
He beat Miles Devere to death with his bare hands.
It was the Russian way. No distance between them. No advantage. It was man against man--naked, raw, like gladiators of old. He pretended it meant he had given Devere a chance. He hadn't. When he was done he went through to the bathroom and washed Devere's blood off his naked body, then dressed.
He left the apartment by the front door.
30
The Forsaken Noah was desperate. Time was merciless and Monsignor Gianni Abandonato was a ghost. The Vatican refused to open its doors to him. He had no legitimacy. That was the drawback of going off the books. When things were desperate, when the clock was ticking and all hell was waiting to break loose, there was no one he could turn to. Not that he was inclined to ask for help.
Noah was a lone wolf, an old-school warrior. Not one of those team players like Frost. He had spent his time as a professional soldier doing the job no one would officially admit existed but everyone knew did. Officially he had been classified as a marksman. That was a nice word for sniper, which in turn was a nice word for assassin. He killed people the government wanted dead. He didn't need to justify himself by saying he was only following orders. That might have been true, but Noah believed in what he did. He wondered how much pain the world would have been saved if he had been given bin Laden, back when he was called Usama, not Osama, and he wasn't the poster boy for global terrorism. Or Hussein. Of course it wasn't that simple.
Back then Usama had been our best friend against the bigger enemy, Russia. He'd been a rising star in the Mujahedeen, a local warlord who was making spectacular inroads against the Red Army. The West wanted Russia out of Afghanistan, and getting into bed with the likes of Usama was the cost of that. They called it The Greater Good. Noah believed in the Greater Good. The Greater Good would have been served if someone had fed bin Laden to his mountain goats tasty morsel by tasty morsel. The Greater Good would have been served by purging Iraq of the family Hussein after the first Gulf War when we started to hear the truth of his reign. The cold, hard truth was that the Greater Good was hardly ever served in the real world. People were too frightened, or their hands were too tied. That was where he had come in. That was where he still came in. He had a different uniform and didn't salute anymore, but the missions hadn't really changed all that much.
One bullet was all it would take, but to actually fire that bullet he had to find Abandonato.
Nine days ago, when he had walked out of the basilica of St. Peter's and gone looking for the priest, he had actually been worried for the man. His first thought was that he had been taken. That somehow one of Mabus' people had got to him while Noah chased his quarry in a merry dance across the streets of Rome all the way toicide in St. Peter's.
It had taken him longer to realize the truth.
<
br /> He should have worked it out sooner, but sometimes he wasn't the quickest thinker. It had never been a prerequisite for his chosen career. He did what he was told, which implied someone had to tell him what to do, and more often than not, what to think.
Then he started to think for himself. Nick Simmonds couldn't have survived inside the Vatican alone. A simple volunteer wouldn't get access to the right parts of the archives and the right texts no matter how much help the holy librarians were in need of. There were too many secrets down there they wanted to protect. Abandonato had almost said as much. But like most people who didn't want to get caught into giving themselves away, he had checked himself. Simmonds would have needed someone to sign off on his assignments, someone to oversee his work.
There was no way a group of people so used to protecting some of the most precious and unique records of the written and printed word, the very thoughts of people thousands of years dead in some cases, would let just anyone get their hands on the irreplaceable texts and not make sure they were being treated carefully. The library was one thing, but the Vatican Archives? Noah hadn't seen them, but Neri had explained that some of texts were so frail they were stored in hermetically sealed chambers--low air content and pressure, moisture controlled environments. They weren't just books on a shelf, waiting to be piled into a box and stacked up in a corner while they waited for the refurbishments to be made.
That had set him to thinking even harder.
He had needed Neri to confirm his suspicions. Neri had checked with the head of the Vatican Police, but they both knew what the answers were going to be before it came back. Three questions, three answers: Abandonato hadn't returned to his apartment in nine days. He hadn't shown for work in the library since his meeting with Noah. And finally, Nick Simmonds' request to work in the library had been granted by Monsignor Gianni Abandonato.
They worked closely, mentor and student. He didn't know who had recruited whom, but during the course of that one morning Noah had spent in his company Abandonato had spoken enough heresy to last a good Catholic a lifetime.
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