But how much did he know?
The answer, of course, depended upon how good Devere’s people were. Konstantin Khavin’s service record was sealed, as was everything Her Majesty knew about him, right up until the moment his feet landed on the western side of the Wall. But someone like Lethe would have been able to tell Devere what he’d had for breakfast the day before, the color of his boxers that morning, the last time he’d taken a dump and everything in between. And knowing Lethe, it would have taken him less than five minutes to gather those little gems of personal hygiene. So Konstantin had to assume Miles Devere knew everything two governments held on him and a fair bit beside. He had no idea how that would affect the way things played out, but a good strategist knew what he was going up against and planned accordingly. So again, Konstantin must assume les Deverere would be building his plays around a detailed knowledge of who he was up against.
Was it hubris on Konstantin’s part to think that Devere would give a rat’s ass about who he was and what he’d done during his forty-something years on the planet? If this was Moscow, the answer would have been obvious-even in the microcosm of Nonesuch it was obvious-but out here where people played by money’s rules? Devere had proven he could do whatever he wanted, and not even within reason. He wasn’t averse to buying the guns that killed the men who built the house that Jack built, then he’d sold the mortars that razed the house, meaning someone else had to come along and rebuild it. It was all good business so long as you didn’t care about poor old Jack. Devere had proven he could buy people as easily as he could buy places and things, and that he cared just as little about them. The oligarchs in his country were no different. Perhaps it was the gift of money that did this to people?
Konstantin walked up to the door. The small silver plaque beside it read Devere Holdings was on the third floor. Two of the other businesses in the house belonged to Devere as well. Only the restaurant downstairs wasn’t part of his property portfolio. He pressed the buzzer and, when the voice crackled back unintelligibly through the small speaker, he leaned in and spoke into a concealed microphone: “Konstantin Khavin to see Miles Devere.”
He counted to five, listening to the silence, when the door buzzed open.
Konstantin went in.
He hadn’t intended to confront Devere and had no idea what he would say now he was inside the building. He walked up the narrow marble staircase rather than take the caged elevator, using the two minutes it took to ascend to formulate a plan. The next few minutes were going to be interesting, if nothing else, especially with the opening gambit he had in mind.
pretty young thing stood in the open doorway waiting for him. She looked him up and down, then held out her hand as he stepped onto the landing. “Konstantin, Mister Devere is expecting you. Is there anything I can get you? Tea? Coffee? Something a little stronger?”
She had a disarming smile. He could easily imagine that smile making otherwise sensible, rational men moon about like love-struck fools.
“Water is fine, thank you,” he said.
“Not a problem. Sparkling or plain?”
“Straight out of the tap is fine.”
“Of course. Please, take a seat.” She showed him through to a small reception area that was in complete contrast to the Old World charm of the rest of the building. It was all glass, steel and sharp angles. There were two black leather couches, one beneath the window, the other against the side wall. On the circular steel-framed coffee table lay the usual clutter of well-thumbed magazines. Other than the magazines there was nothing in the small room to suggest that business was ever actually conducted there. The pretty young thing came back through with his water, a bottle of Perrier along with a tall glass and a slice of lime. He’d had worse service in hotels.
Devere made him wait for nine more minutes. It was nothing more than cheap psychology, Devere attempting to establish dominance before they even met. Konstantin uncapped the screw cap on the water and poured himself a small glass. He sipped at it, then walked across to the window. He looked down into Jesuit Square, reconstructing the view in his head and reversing it. This was the window he’d seen Devere looking out of a few minutes earlier. Taking another swallow, Konstantin shifted his attention from the square to the waterside. Even given the relative elevation he couldn’t see more than a few feet of the parade route at a time between the rooftops. For a sniper to take a shot from up here he’d need someone down on the ground giving him a countdown so he knew when to expect the converted white Mercedes to come into view and didn’t end up snatching his shot. Even then, creating a fatal triangle to blow out the bulletproof glass was going to be virtually impossible in the fraction of a second the car would be in view.
At least he could discount the building as a possible base of operations for the shooter. No serious pro would deliberately take a shot three or four times as difficult just for the sake of convenience.
Behind him, Miles Devere entered the reception.
He knew it was Devere without turning. The weight of his footsteps was different. He could smell the cologne-too much of the stuff. And compared to the pretty young thing’s, a considerably richer signature.
“Mister Khavin? It is Mister Khavin isn’t it? How can I help you?”
onstantin didn’t turn. Facing the glass he said, “I believe you’re planning on killing the Pope in little over an hour. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought it only fair to warn you, it’s not going to happen.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Devere said, seemingly amused by this turn of events.
“Because I am going to stop you,” Konstantin said, reasonably.
Now he turned.
Miles Devere was a chiseled sculpture of a man; a David with too-soft features, too perfect a tan and one of those orthodontically enhanced smiles made for the glossy ad pages of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. He was pretty, not handsome. Too pretty to be taken seriously, Konstantin thought, looking at the man. And too pretty not to be hated by half the people who ever saw it. It was the kind of face that no doubt got Devere whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, be it the smile from the pretty girl behind the shop counter or the head of John the Baptist on a plate. The world liked the pretty ones.
Devere didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the Russian’s unexpected appearance in his office, nor his allegations. He licked his lips, his smile spreading. “How dreadfully exciting,” Devere said. “Do go on, I love a good story. Come through, make yourself comfortable. I can’t wait to hear how this one ends.”
“There’s only one way it can end,” Konstantin said.
“Oh, do tell?”
“In tears,” Konstantin said. He hadn’t really thought of what he was going to say beyond this point. His sole intention in coming here had been to rattle Devere. It didn’t appear that it had worked quite as well as he had hoped it might.
“Well, well, it seems we agree on something, after all. There was me thinking this was going to be a thoroughly boring afternoon. I do so hate waiting, don’t you?”
They walked through to Devere’s office, though office was something of a misnomer. It was like a geek boy’s nerdvana, floor to ceiling gadgets. There was a miniature robot on his glass-topped desk that swiveled its head at the sound of their voices. The shelves were book-ended with silver Daily Planet globes. He noticed smaller memorabilia from other science fiction movies, and it took him a moment to realize they were all mechanical, like the golden androids of Metropolis and Star Wars, Maria and C3-P0, Dewey from Silent Running, Box from Logan’s Run, Robbie the Robot from Forbidden Planet, K9 from Doctor Who and others he didn’t recognize. It was strange that a grown man would surround himself with toys. The decor no doubt said a lot about Miles Devere the man.