by Chris Ryan
'Have you got a bathroom I can use?' he asked quietly.
Leon smiled and handed him a room-key.
When he returned, Chris called him to the window. 'The big gateway opposite,' she said, 'leads into a courtyard. You click open the gate by pressing that button on its right. There's no combination because it's right on the street and people are going in and out of the courtyard all day.'
Slater nodded. Even dressed by Yves St Laurent, he thought, she looked dowdy to the point of invisibility.
'Fanon-Khayat's instructions, as you know, are that the Firm's representative should enter the courtyard at midday and take the left-hand entrance. There you'll 1 find a lift marked Ascenseur B - which you take to thej
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floor. Make sure you end up on the right floor se they number them differently from us. Our 1 floor is their first floor, and so on.' ;r nodded again. 'Into the courtyard, left-hand ce, Ascenseur B, number four floor rather than j-style fourth floor. Do we know if the yard's monitored by CCTV?' , but we have to assume that it is. If it was ; you could hold an umbrella in front of you, but ; at the sky I wouldn't say there's much chance j. A basic disguise like a wig and a fake moustache [ do it as far as the CCTV is concerned, but then aok like a freak in the street and you'd certainly dembered by anyone else in the courtyard or the |y thoughts are that you should wear a hat and ses -- it's just about bright enough -- and that I're crossing the courtyard you should appear iting a cigarette. If you keep your head down ir hands in front of your face you should prove able on the CCTV tape.' She pointed to the ; table. 'Would you like to just try these?' 1C were two hats -- a trilby and a conservative in dark brown straw -- and three pairs of The straw hat and a pair of gold-framed, lensed glasses made the most difference, and in Ction with the clothes lent him a subtly lean appearence. Later, he would learn from ; Chris had been sent on a theatrical makeup sthetics course. Disguise was one of her
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'That's good,' agreed Eve. 'It knocks out his most distinctive feature, which is those pale blue AngloSaxon eyes. I'd like to darken the skin tone a few shades too.'
'Hey!' said Leon. 'Why not just send me?'
They all laughed, and Chris handed Slater a tube of cosmetic cream. 'Face, neck, ears, chest, hands and forearms please. There should be enough in there.'
In the bathroom Slater stripped to the waist and rubbed in the cream as directed. 'Careful round the hair-line,' Chris called out.
The cream was greasy, and had a cloying, perfumed smell. Looking in the- mirror as he rubbed it into his forehead, Slater saw that Eve was watching him through the open door. When he caught her eye she did not look away but continued to watch him with something that might have been amusement, might have been concern, might have been pure professional interest.
When he had finished, his appearance seemed unchanged. His blue Lanvin shirt felt tacky on his body.
'It takes an hour or so to take effect,' said Chris. 'But it should just make that difference. Your hair's perfect - half-way between dark blond and brown. Ask ten people what colour it is and they'll all come up with different answers.'
She pulled her cardigan-sleeves an inch or two up her arms and examined Slater critically.
'Two more accessories. Gloves, close-fitting,
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icr, for inside the apartment. And I've got you a belt. Something I had at home.'
placed the gloves with the weapons and the linium briefcase, and stared doubtfully down at the it. It was heavy, of plain brown leather and with a creet silver buckle. Half-way along its length, on the jde, a narrow pocket had been let into the leather I from this Chris drew a flat, dagger-shaped sliver of sparent plastic compound. The knife was ightless and no more than five inches long, but its ie and point were sharp. 'Something you had at home?' said Slater, running i finger up a razor-toothed serrated edge. t 'It'll do the business,' said Chris. 'Punch through el if necessary. And it won't show up on any iner.'
'Thanks,' said Slater appreciatively, slipping his St ent crocodile belt out of its loops and replacing it Chris's. 'It's a nice piece of kit.' ,,'A present,' said Chris with an oblique smile. Welcome to the parallel universe.'
11am the tension was mounting. Slater's skin had Dwned to a pale cocoa colour, and the steady drip ed of adrenaline was producing a familiar churning in ; stomach.
'On the wire, mate?' Andreas had asked him pathetically, and he had nodded. There were only many times that plans and back-up plans could be Mentally rehearsed. A decade earlier they had taken
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their places together in the belly of the helicopter which was to chopper them behind Iraqi lines, and the question in their minds had been the same: how does the story end? With cheers, laughter and backslapping in a bar? With discovery, terror and humiliation? With a bullet through the head? Each and every option was on the menu.
In the Regiment they'd crank themselves up with blokeish chat and a series of private rituals. Slater's included endless weapon-checking, and it irked him that he had not been able to test-fire the Sig Sauer. Although you never talked about fear the one thing you could be sure of was that everyone was feeling pretty much the same as you were. Here, though, in this overheated hotel bedroom, it was different. He had no idea what was going through Chris's mind, or Terry's, or Eve's.
Leon he found easier to read, as of course he did Andreas. Leon had started life like himself- as a good old green-eyed boy, hungry for trouble. Only a nutter would join the Legion, and only a maniacally switched-on nutter would make it into their para regiment, as Leon had. He'd been based in Corsica, he told Slater, and had done tours of duty in Africa, French Guyana and the Middle East.
When Slater had asked him how he came to be attached to the Department, however, he had clammed up. 'Later, man,' he'd said, and taken his place behind the binoculars focused on FanonKhayat's flat.
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Ithough there was no confirmation that Fanonayat was actually in the flat, the lights had been itched on at 6pm the evening before, then switched "shortly after llpm, and no one approximating to lon-Khayat's description had left. An e-mail had arrived from P4 at Vauxhall Cross confirming the lezvous.
fcFanon-Khayat would be expecting Neil Clissold at bon, local time.
t t(
i .11.20 Eve and Andreas fitted themselves up with eir Motorola comms kits. These involved miniature Dat mikes and earpieces with micro-antennae. A
ran down one arm to a transmit-receive switch. LSlater watched them dubiously. Like many soldiers, distrusted high-tech comms systems. They were at when they worked but they too often quite aply didn't. They weren't soldier-proof. You Suldn't sit on them or drop them in a river. "f Having checked each other, they departed for the w Michelange. Eve gave him a nod as she went, sdreas a quick thumbs-up. The other three itinued their surveillance of the flat. 'I think the reason we're not seeing anyone is that room facing us is unused,' Terry was saying, 'or a pare room, perhaps. That would be logical, given that ji& the one overlooking the road.' |{'Perhaps he's afraid of being sniped,' suggested 'We could get a fairly easy shot from here, Wouldn't you say, Neil?'
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'I guess you could,' said Slater. 'Although it would be pretty obvious where the shot had come from. And hotel staff often have good memories for faces.'
'Yes, but you wouldn't look at it like that if you were in his position . .. Hang on, isn't that someone now?'
Terry smoothly retracted the binoculars and their stand. 'Look, there's one of the bodyguards eyeballing us.'
Slater saw what Chris meant. A heavy-set type in a suit had parted the curtains opposite and was peering at the hotel.
'Yes,' Terry murmured into his mike. 'We see him. Over.'
He listened for a moment. 'Understood, you are in position, over.' He looked over his shoulder and rais
ed one eyebrow.
Slater nodded, the anticipation was taut as a bowstring now.
'Yes, good to go. Repeat, Neil is good to go. Over.'
Slater flexed his fingers, put on the dark glasses and the hat, picked up the briefcase, checked himself in the bathroom mirror, allowed Chris to give him the onceover, and nodded to the others.
'Neil is go,' came Terry's calm report. 'Repeat. Neil is go.'
Slater took the stairs rather than the lift, and left the hotel by a side door. Turning away from the Rue Molitor, swinging the briefcase as if it contained nothing more than a mobile phone, a packet of
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Jauloises and a copy of Paris-Match, he made his way the Rue Chardon-Lagache. The impression he panted to give was that of a man who had [>pointments to keep, but was in no great hurry to do >. It was Saturday, after all, and the sun was shining, le didn't want to radiate midweek city-centre strain. Ten minutes later, and feeling a little less knotted-up his walk, Slater found himself once more on the loie Molitor. He wasn't being followed, of that he was am . Nor, as far as he could see, did FanonKhayat any kind of outlying security presence. If the ich had a watcher team on him, then they were ide a building, and well concealed. The streets were lidential, and all but empty. There were no idworkers, no loitering telephone repair teams, no I guys eating ham and cheese sandwiches in cars.
itside the Cafe Michelange, their faces turned to I sunshine, Eve and Andreas stirred demi-tasses of hot colate. Eve was still wearing her watch, Slater saw �e signal that all was clear.
iter's hands found the packet of Gauloises and the jnt lighter in his jacket pocket. Taking advantage hiatus in the traffic to cross the road, he placed a rette in his mouth, and pressed the button beside [ entry-gates to the courtyard with his lighter. The -gate clicked off the latch, and Slater ducked and lired. Keeping his head low, flicking the lighter in of his mouth as he walked and with his other shielding the flame, he crossed the smooth les to a shadowed doorway. Up three steps, past
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the CCTV camera, and past a row of locked postboxes. Pinching out the cigarette, he slipped it into his jacket pocket and pulled on the gloves Chris had brought for him. The sign in front of him read 'Ascenseur B'.
Cool it, Slater told himself. Breathe. You're meeting a professional colleague for lunch. You have much to discuss. You're looking forward to it. There will be BGs there but you will ignore them. You will submit politely -- with an ironic smile, perhaps - to their search. You have nothing to hide.
You are expected, a Balkan desk-officer.
Your name is Neil Clissold.
The lift slow and grumbling, each floor sliding past. A lurch as it came to a halt. Six feet of polished parquet. A single large door. The bell sounding far inside, and with it Slater's nerves lifting away, and a frozen calm descending.
Beyond the door-chain, a bodyguard with a face like a dumpling. Fatty jowls, suspicious eyes, and a gone-to-seed body in a shiny Adidas tracksuit. Beneath the zipped top, the cross-strap of a shoulder holster. From the interior of the flat, melancholy piano music.
'Clissold,' said Slater, removing his hat and placing the dark glasses in the top pocket of his jacket. 'Je m'appelk Neil Clissold.'
The bodyguard nodded -- maybe understanding him, maybe not -- and unlatched the chain. Behind him, another suet-featured Balkan, this one toting a handgun, a heavy Tokarev 7.62 automatic. The weapon had
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Chris Ryan
la strip of Scotch tape across the end of the barrel -- an aid Soviet affectation intended to keep the weapon lean in wet weather. Blinking, and with all the confu |ion that he could manage, Slater placed the briefcase etween his legs. Looking from man to man with a ner >us smile, he half-raised his hands. The first bodyguard indicated that he should turn id face the wall, and stand with hands braced against t. When Slater did so the bodyguard patted down his s, chest and legs. Just as well, thought Slater, he I't wearing one of the comms sets. Finally the yrguard was satisfied, and stepped back. 'Ouvre!' he iered, pointing at the briefcase. 'Open!' 'Moi?' asked Slater idiotically, prompting a jntemptuous exchange in Serbo-Croat between the
rds.
i /You!' said the guard with the Tokarev. 'Slater pointed to a marble-topped sideboard, and the ler man placed the briefcase on it. Sauntering up to Slater punched in the 1471 code. The briefcase ang open. From the street below came the distant Mnble of traffic.
Sig Sauer was out of the briefcase and aimed at > first bodyguard's face before the Serb fully compreaded what he had seen.
"Drop it,' ordered Slater. 'Both of you. Guns on the yi.'
The bodyguard facing him slowly reached for his ilder holster, a wary but professional acceptance of situation showing in his eyes. Deliberately, Slater
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thumbed down the Sig Sauer's safety-catch. In the interior of the apartment, the music played sadly on.
'Any bollocks,' he said, 'and I'll fucking shoot you. ComprenezT
The bodyguard nodded, began very slowly to lift a handgun from his shoulder holster -- but with his thumb and index finger only, in order to emphasise his non-hostile intentions.
The other guard was still uncertainly holding the Tokarev -- wondering, Slater was sure, if he could get a shot in without hitting his colleague. Taking a fast sidestep, Slater lowered the Sig Sauer and squeezed off a single silenced round. With the impact the Tokarev and the Serb's right thumb seemed to leap across the hallway to the.carpet.
Hurriedly, the first bodyguard lowered his weapon to the floor. A Stechkin, Slater saw - another clunky Soviet relic. The second bodyguard was staring vacantly at his severed thumb. Blood from the trailing hand was pooling blackly among the carpet fibres beside his Nike cross-training shoe.
That knocked the fight out of the fucker, no error.
From the briefcase he took two pairs of plasticufls, and handed them to the first -- and now entirely compliant -- bodyguard. With the Sig Sauer he gestured towards the bleeding man. 'Cuff him,' he said, pointing to his wrists and ankles. 'Quickly!'
Carefully, as if providing him with medical care, the Serb helped his shocked colleague to the floor and handcuffed his hands and feet.
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'Now yourself,' said Slater quietly, handing the Serb vo more pairs of plasticuffi and waving the Sig Sauer his face. 'Move it! Vite!' He was becoming creasingly anxious that Fanon-Khayat would appear fore the guards were fully immobilised. When both men were recumbent, he tightened the sticuffs to their limit, took a roll of zinc-oxide tape ic briefcase, and wrapped it several times around eir mouths. A blue cotton hood -- originally a lurch's shoe-bag -- was then fastened over each j's head. Slater considered giving them a blast of in the nose and eyes for good measure, but ided against it. They were adequately immobilised igs stood.
doors led off the hall. Carefully, Slater opened '. left-hand one, which he calculated led to the room ale from the hotel opposite. The room was empty, although fully decorated and well lit, appeared to use as a store-room. It held perhaps forty pieces ild furniture, all with labels attached. Moving a set upholstered chairs to one side, Slater returned to 1, took the bodyguards by the collar and dragged over the polished floor into the storeroom. :, panting with the effort, he stowed them under logany dining table. Noticing on the way out of Ifoom that there was a key in the lock, he turned it |pocketed it.
lickly, he straightened the hall, laling, Slater deliberately loosened his neck and Jders. Keep switched on, he ordered himself as he
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quickly attached the Motorola to his belt and fitted the throat-mike and earpiece. Keep it tight.
'Neil send. Do you read me? Over.'
Nothing.
'All stations, this is Neil. Do you read me? Over.'
Nothing again. Just hiss and blank air. The walls of the flat were to
o thick.
Taking the key from his pocket he let himself back into the store-room. This time the response was clear.
'Eve to Neil -- all clear, repeat, all clear. What is your situation? Over.'
'Two hostiles immobilised. Now targeting FanonKhayat< Over and out.'
Move, he told himself. Get in, get the pictures, whack Fanon-Khayat, and get out. You're wasting time.
Gun in one hand, briefcase in the other, he pushed open the door from the hall to the interior of the apartment. The volume of the music rose. Was FanonKhayat a piano-player? For some obscure reason Slater hoped not.
To his left an unlit corridor lined with framed paintings led into darkness; to his right, illuminated by tall windows, the same corridor curved round the side of the building. In front of him was a half-open door.
Slater moved left-handed, along the unlit corridor. A worn but elegant Persian runner covered most of the floor, effectively muffling his footsteps. In his ear the miniature receiver had gone dead again.
Carefully, Slater tried the end door. It opened into
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>ther store-room. Racks held several dozen dusty ies of wine, and shelves held bound editions of iicals, maps and books about antiques. A single laded bulb hung from the ceiling, and directly eath it, on the uncarpeted parquet flooring, a away canvas bed had been erected. An orange g-bag lay half-unzipped on this, as did two light bags with crumpled clothing spilling out of a couple of German or possibly Dutch lographic magazines, a gold-plated identity elet, a half-empty bottle of slivovitz, and an led carton of Balkan cigarettes. Over all of this the odour of stale masculinity - of dirty socks, windows, unwashed armpits and sperm, rbian bodyguard quarters, thought Slater, quickly jing out again. Unappetising even by the generally standards of Balkan paramilitary hygiene. ae next room held paintings - scores of them, I against the wall -- and a few small furniture Chandeliers and stacks of china plates lay in -topped cardboard boxes. They must be on their the auction-rooms, thought Slater. Fanon at must be realising his assets. Again, the floor was but this time the room was untenanted, and the . was the lavendered smell of old possessions - of are-polish, varnish and dust.