Milton was staring out the window and at Ray, Ray was staring at me and at Bruce, and I was staring out the window and at Bruce and Ray. It's a cool picture called: "Faust appears."
"So, what are we going to do?"
"Or maybe you were wrong, Commander?" — Rei suggested. "It's possible, isn't it?" — Bruce chimed in.
I pulled out my phone, dialed a number, and announced, "This is Faust. Milton and Dulfer are sons of bitches who betrayed the organization. Send the boys to the Hotel San Remo, room 214…" — I turned off the communication device — "You have the option to live an extra few hours on the run, but know this — either way you're going to get caught. Whether you use it or not is up to you, but I wouldn't drag this out if I were you."
"But, Faust…"
"Commander…"
I left the room and walked down the long, long hallway, finding myself pretty sure that they were going to come out of that building either alive or dead, but either way, both.
Wet island
11:45 p.m. Aug. 16.
It was time to get back to the task at hand. The subject, thinking that the further he is from trouble, the easier his life will be, has fled to the island of Great Britain, namely London. Now we have to spend some time in a land where it rains only when there is no fog. And to better understand the psychology of the English I will tell you a short anecdote:
"Sir, he will not be able to receive you at afternoon tea. — "The guest's servant assures the guest, 'You will be taken by his deputy. The flavor of the coffee will not change.
So, the facility set up in a prestigious hotel with its next shivering security guard, who had nothing to do but hope.
Five scowling young men in floor-length black coats, shined shoes and embarrassing sunglasses piled inside and headed for the elevator. Only a clerk was able to stop them, at the still closed doors of the elevator: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but…"
From under the floor of Danila's cloak flew out and with a tremendous crack hit the shining floor "APB" (automatic pistol Stechkin with silencer Neugodov; 9 mm, large capacity magazine (20 pieces), high combat speed (40–90 shots per minute), sighting range — up to 200 meters, a distinctive feature — retarder of the rate of fire (so successful that it is repeated in many foreign analogues), in general, the gun is good, but under clothes it is not very much worn — as it is now).
Witness #2 (a gray-haired old man with a small brown valise on a couch at the other end of the lobby) ignored, but started to gather himself. "So, what did you want?" — I muttered to lighten the mood.
"Lllllyft, no-no-it doesn't work…"
"Thanks, for your help," the unclenched fist of his left hand flew into the clerk's underbelly, while his right hand snatched up a Glock and fired at a vase standing two meters away from the old man. No. 1 went down, No. 2 froze.
Seven hundred and seventy-seventh heaven
11:58 p.m. Aug. 16.
The tourist ended up in the presidential suite (what a crook, he took the whole 22nd floor). And now we still have to walk to him, but the rewound witnesses are lying peacefully in the toilet on the first floor.
I stopped everybody on 21 and I said: "Okay, we're going according to plan… Let's go." Bulatovs rushed from this side, and "Shock" with Marlboro, respectively, from the other (if you wonder where "Ghost" is, he is downstairs, waiting in the Ford Transit). A minute later a call on the radio: "The way is cleared".
"Wait for me at the door," I instructed, then climbed the stairs, walked past the corpses of the bodyguards to room 777 (the boor's lodgings), knocked and shouted: "Your dinner has arrived!"
"What the hell is dinner at twelve o'clock at night!" — came from there as the door opened. It was opened, oddly enough, not by the guard, but by the owner himself, but my fist still smacked his nose. "Tourist" flew back into the room, me and the two Italians rushed inside and closed the door, "You're coming with us."
"What do you want? But… uh… mmmmmmmmmmmm…" — The duct tape sat firmly on his mouth, his hands, also a too dusty bag sat on his head, and muffled gasps were heard from behind the door.
I jumped out of the room, saw Konstantin sliding down the wall, Danila shooting at the guard in the opposite room 778, and a man shooting at me from the other end of the hallway. The result was three dead men: two guards and Konstantin.
Questions from the darkness of the night
1:02 a.m. Aug. 17.
"Big Barn" near London, faint light, interrogation in progress.
"Shall we talk?" — I asked the poor man in a completely cold-blooded voice, turning on the chainsaw. He opened his mouth and whispered something, but due to the squealing of the ratchet, neither I nor the rest of the expeditionary army could hear. Я отключил визг и услышал писк: «Ммммммииииииимммммгхгх».
"Is that it?" — The saw started up again, but now for two seconds. Ghost's bass was heard: "Can I give it a try, eh, Commander?"
I decided to see what would come of it. The German picked up the iron and jabbed it as carefully as he could at the injured man, making him look like he was going to vomit on someone.
"Okay, that's it, that's enough or we won't know anything except what he had for dinner tonight. — I put the saw down on the concrete — Let's start simple. What's your name?" "Bbbbill."
"Last Name." "Harrison."
"Very good… — it felt as if I had learned valuable information — Now the hard part… Where is Joseph Gutgold?"
"This is the first time I've heard such a thing…"
"I see… Hey Mih, you can try again." Lüttvets, standing a little to my left, picked up his recently thrown club and swung it.
"Don't, please don't…"
"Wait…" he raised his hand, "Where's Gutgold?"
"He's in Boston, Westside St., 15. 15, I don't know anything else, nothing." "Okay, we'll check…"
But there was no point in checking whether it was so — if he said HIS name and surname correctly the first time, it was not wise that he would tell all other people's names as well.
A mismatch in thought
I opened my laptop and (in case anyone is interested, it's in a small case, always carried with me, besides it there are: two standard hand (F-1), tear and smoke grenades, five 9- caliber magazines (two more in my jacket), a vial of liquid that burns even in water, some floppy disks and three of the forty passports that belonged to me, as well as some clean underpants, pairs of socks, two bottles of Vorago toilet water and Nivea for men deodorant, an Oral-b toothbrush with a tube of Blend-a-med toothpaste, Head and Shoulders shampoo and some medicines), typed in the customer's address and typed: "Order completed."
1:03 a.m. Aug. 17.
"Information…"
"First, a quarter of the amount. — "$750000 transferred to the Banco Nacional de México account." — Boston."
"That's it?"
"Another quarter another hundred thousand added. — Westside Street."
"More money?"
"That's right — only 1.5 million so far — D. 15."
The tie-up ended without transferring the rest of the 3 million fee.
The customer refused to pay, which could only mean one thing… That he didn't pay…
And he didn't pay not just anyone, but a killer. And not just any killer, but a killer working for Koza-Nostra. So who would want to fight with Koza-Nostra?
I closed the computer and, opening my cell phone, dialed a number: "Richard, this is Faust, find me the courier who handed over the briefcase on July 21 at the Good Day Bar in Prague."