'Look,' I said, 'I'll take it as far as I can.' I heard the echo of my voice from a niche in the chapel. 'That's all I can offer.'
Croder's eyes were bright. 'That's all I can ask.'
The hot wax of the candle drowned the wick at last, and the tendril of smoke vanished into the shadows. I nodded and turned away, going out of the church through the small side door and into the drifting snow.
2: DAZZLE
'Suite twenty-nine,' Legge told me as we pulled up outside the Hotel Moskva International. 'You're checked in as Dmitri Berinov. Here's the key. I'm going to park the car, then I'll see you there – three knocks, one long, two short, before I ring the bell.'
I got out and went up the soaked strip of red carpet they'd laid across the snow under the canopy. The two escort vehicles had peeled off when we'd pulled away from the church: they'd been there to protect the rendezvous, nothing else. From now on I'd be working solo.
It didn't mean, I thought as I went through the revolving door, that Croder had checked me in personally under Dmitri Berinov; it was simply the mission code-name for the executive, applicable to anyone he could get. He'd set things up for Balalaika as a certainty as soon as he'd left 10 Downing Street, trusting in whatever pagan gods he granted the privilege of his prayers.
People in the lobby as I went through to the staircase: a group of Japanese entrepreneurs in dark silk suits with leather briefcases; three women in sable coats and hats, one of them wearing too much Chanel No. 5; a Russian in from St Petersburg, according to the label on the pigskin suitcase that was just being swung onto the porter's trolly; two hotel security men standing near the elevators. The only character here I didn't care for was the Russian sitting in one of the red plush chairs on the far side from the registration desk with a copy of Pravda open in front of him. I put him down as a government security peep. I watched his blurred reflection on the pink marble wall as I reached the stairs but he didn't turn his head – not that he had any reason to: I was a total stranger here and Legge's security had been perfectly sound since I'd met him at the airport. But later there could be peeps on the watch for me and I would take more notice.
The door of Suite twenty-nine on the second floor was heavy to swing and two inches thick with a deadbolt at shoulder-level; the suite itself was spacious and ornate, with glass-fronted cabinets of Sevres objets de vertu and gilt Louis XIV chairs, a four-poster bed with a red silk fagoted canopy and solid marble furnishings in the bathroom with gold-plated taps. I felt uneasy here, was more used to a back-street safe-house with peeling walls and a rusted fire-escape at the rear and a scrambler on the phone and total security.
I'd been dead wrong about Croder: he had indeed booked me into this hotel personally as Dmitri Berinov because the five suits laid out on the bed were my size and London-tailored by the firm that works for the Bureau when we need sartorial camouflage more appropriate than something off the peg, our presence requested at an embassy party or a host-country bash. The shoes lined up in a row on the burgundy pile carpet were hand-made by Simpson and Webb and the snow boots were tooled Russian calf. Again I felt uneasy, preferring jeans and a windbreaker and shoes with quiet, flexible rubber soles, the uppers softened with beeswax.
Croder may, yes, have asked Fern and Teaseman if they had the stomach for Balalaika before he'd called me in from Paris, but only as reserves in case I came unstuck. He'd put me in the sights as his main target the minute the prime minister had told him what he needed done.
I heard the echo of Croder's voice in the freezing chapeclass="underline" There isn't anyone else capable. A compliment, if you like, or a sentence of death; you choose.
Thai silk shirts and a quilted dressing-gown and a box of linen handkerchiefs initialled DVB; a dozen French silk ties – three conservative, the others on the flashy side, the kind a mafiya capo would sport; gold cuff-links and a pleated scarlet cummerbund; a matching set of Givenchy shampoo, aftershave and cologne, but only for show in the bathroom because that stuff can kill you if you leave traces when the hunt is up, and they'd known that when they'd packed it.
Three knocks and the bell rang and I checked the one-way viewer and opened the door.
'Comfortable?' Legge asked me and dropped two attache cases onto the bed. 'The door's metal, as I'm sure you noticed. The windows are bullet-proof and there's a direct line to the hotel security switchboard – the white phone over there.' He clicked the locks of an attache case and opened it. 'These rooms are updated versions of the royal suite, fitted out for mafiya guests who like privacy; most of the big hotels have come into line and of course there's no charge: they get automatic protection by the syndicates.' He began taking things out of the case.
'I want round-the-clock surveillance,' I said, 'on those two windows from the street, and people in the corridor, one at each end.' As a substitute for the rusting fire escape.
'No problem – I assumed you'd want that done.' Legge turned suddenly to swing a look at me, his eyes not quite level because of the plastic surgery to the left frontal area of the skull. He dropped two folders and a bank card onto the bed. 'Dossier on Vasyl Sakkas, general information on the Moscow organizatsiya with names and modes of operation, Barclay gold card. Did Mr Croder tell you what funds you've got at your disposal?'
'Yes.'
'Okay.' He took out ten bundles of bank-notes and dropped them onto the bed. 'This is for ready cash, US $100,000. I'll leave you to find a place for it wherever you want.' He slid the locks of the other case and opened it and took out three guns. 'Heckler and Koch P7, 9mm, squeeze-cocking, gas-retarded slide-locking system for better control. This one's a compact SIG P228 9mm with a magazine capacity of thirteen rounds, weight twenty-nine ounces, but it's got a lot of punch. And this one's a Smith and Wesson high-capacity DA auto 12-shot -'
'I don't use guns,' I said. I hadn't interrupted him before because I'd been watching the two windows, looking for movement behind the windows opposite across the street. This place was so very exposed.
Legge swung round to look at me again.
'I heard that, yes. But there's something you've got to understand. If you're going to be infiltrating the mafiya they'll expect you to dress correctly, I mean you get into a bad situation and they frisk you and there's no gun, it's going to look -'
'I'll take care of that when it happens. Who uses that building across there?'
Legge let out a short breath and dropped the guns back into the case. 'With respect,' he said, an edge to his tone, 'my knowledge of this town is more informed than yours at this stage of the game, simply because I've been here close on ten years. I've also studied the mafiya here since they moved in. You want to take on these people without a gun, you'll be walking through a snake-pit without even a stick.' He turned his eyes on me and they were hard. 'As the chief of your support group, I'd like you to reconsider.'