Sean folded his newspaper and followed. For Sean the art of shadowing was in adjusting the distance between him and the target according to the environment and the number of people around. He found the ability to change his external appearance quickly also helpful. Sean wore a reversible coat and had a scarf and woollen hat in his pocket.
At the Gare d'Austerlitz they walked to the main train station. Here Sean became aware of another watcher. The man pulled out a mobile as soon as he glimpsed Khostov and immediately began to tail him onto the next train. Sean followed and after an uneventful half an hour they got off at Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. Khostov found a taxi, and seconds later so did the follower.
Sean scanned the rank, but there were no more taxis. However several bicycles were propped up against the station wall and Sean found one without a padlock. The bicycle looked like it had been made during in the Second World War, but it worked. Sean wheeled the ancient bike into the road and began to pedal like mad.
After a minute he realised pursuit was hopeless. He stopped and asked a pedestrian about the location of the Compte. The man gave him directions, and Sean phoned Lomax the details.
When Sean arrived, he noticed the car immediately, parked discretely outside the hotel. The wipers were switched off even though it was raining. Sean approached from the passenger side, knowing that Lomax would recognise him in the wing mirror.
They sat in silence, watching the road and the approach to the hotel. A car drew up and parked a little way from the entrance. The exhaust pipe vibrated because the driver had left the engine running. A man got out and Sean pointed him out to Lomax.
'Maxim Desny. One of the two remaining Russian crew. He's come to relieve the watcher.
'Good' grunted Lomax.
'You go.' Sean nodded towards the hotel. 'They don't know you.'
Lomax stepped out and opened a large umbrella, lowering it to cover his face. At that moment, Desny burst out of the hotel, barging into Lomax on the way. Lomax turned and walked back briskly.
The Russian's car took off in a hurry — tyres squealing and burning rubber on the asphalt road. Sean had moved to the driver’s position and made an urgent 180 degree turn, slowing briefly to let Lomax into the passenger seat. He allowed the Russian to gain a lead, then followed at speed.
At thirteen, Alexei Khostov became an agnostic. He was being bullied at school and wanted to show his tormentors that he could be just as disapproving and sceptical as they appeared to be. For a while the scheme worked and Alexei got out of the habit of attending church. He had never entered one since then.
Now he stood facing the Notre Dame de la Dormition, the Russian Orthodox Church of Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. Khostov marvelled at its beauty, an elegant white facade topped with a blue onion-dome on the roof.
He had come straight from the hotel, wanting to visit the place where so many of his countrymen and women were buried. Perhaps part of him craved sanctuary, but the safety it offered was illusory. Even so, the church seemed to beckon to him. He passed under an ornate portal and walked along the short path towards the entrance. There he admired the painting of the sleeping Mary before mounting the steps to a large arched doorway.
At that moment he heard the roar of an engine. A car, driven at high speed, executed a ninety degree turn. Two men got out and raced up to the gateway. One stopped and withdrew a gun, taking quick aim at Khostov. Khostov crouched and heard a bang. The slug bit into a wooden post behind him. Regaining his wits, he quickly pulled on the huge oaken door and ducked inside.
When Sean saw the Russian car in front accelerate rapidly, he knew they had almost reached their destination. No point in hanging back any longer, he thought, and pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Up ahead he saw an archway to a Russian Orthodox church. Two members of the Russian gang were already running along the path to the front door.
Sean quickly sized up the width of the gateway, changed down a gear and pushed the revs into the red. Lomax pulled his seat belt tighter and yanked out a handgun from an inside pocket. Both wing mirrors snapped off as they lunged through the gap, followed by a short metallic tearing sound. Two seconds later they reached the steps.
The first man turned, a horrified expression on his face. In the last fraction of a second he jumped to one side. The second Russian was not as lucky, and the bonnet caught him behind the legs. As the car mounted the steps, the man was lifted up and crushed against the huge oak door of the church.
Lomax and Sean exited fast. Sean signalled to Lomax to follow Khostov, indicating he would go after the second man.
The tall pine trees which surrounded the church cast dark shadows. Wherever Sean placed his feet the subdued crackle of the dry forest litter gave his position away. He stopped and listened, hearing the rain falling through the branches and the distant sound of traffic. Something told him Petrov wasn't going to give up easily.
He recalled some information he had read years ago in a tourist brochure. The graveyard held many famous Russians: writers, painters, and even a Nobel peace prize winner. He remembered a picture of Putin making a visit to pay his respects to the fallen children of mother Russia. A thought flashed through his mind. How ironic would it be to die amongst all the great and good of Russia, while hunting down one of its sons.
Sean scanned the environment. The cemetery was big and had a number of large headstones. Between the graves mature trees gave his opponent plenty of concealment. He moved back to the church, careful to make no noise on the concrete path. Beyond a low wall he saw the tops of some gravestones. He stretched out on the path and slowly crawled to the boundary. Once at the wall, he sat with his back to it and checked the surroundings again. The situation was uncomfortably similar to the approach he had taken at the farm where Finch had fallen. Immediately he checked the thumb of his left hand. It was still, but the right hand which held the gun was visibly shaking.
There was no sound from the person he was hunting; Petrov was talented. At some point in his career Sean knew he would meet someone better than himself. With his shaky gun-hand, today might be the day.
He edged higher to peek over the wall. Immediately splinters from the brickwork pierced his cheek. He ducked back into cover; his adversary was closer than he realised and was an excellent marksman. He touched his face, seeing blood on his hand. A strange emotion stole into his mind. Not fear exactly, but a premonition. This mission would take something from him, possibly even his life. Once more he forced himself to put the thought away and concentrate on the reality being acted out now. He stayed low and followed the wall in the direction of the gunshot.
Once underneath a large pine, Sean decided to cross under the shelter of its spreading branches. He held the coping with both hands, jumping so his whole body remained close and parallel to the edge. He landed heavily in deep shadows cast by the tree. The rain had stopped, and the sun shone on the white marble of the gravestones. A road divided the first plot of graves, and others bisected the plots beyond. Time slowed. Sean noticed a gecko climbing a nearby gravestone, seeking warmth. A flick of blue appeared in his peripheral vision. His eyes focused on a grave thirty metres from him. He lifted the gun and took aim.
A figure dashed away left, too fast for Sean to get off a shot. He scrambled to his feet, and set off running. In order to keep Petrov in sight he had to follow the track at right angles, catching the odd glimpse of him between the rows. By the time he reached the end Petrov had disappeared. As he dropped to the ground to take refuge behind a headstone, he heard the thud of a round striking the marble, just where his head had been. Sean revised his view of Petrov — he was exceptionally skilled.