He was yawning heavily by the time he was on his second martini and getting into the bath. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth that he dismissed on account of the large amount of cocaine he’d consumed throughout the evening. He lay with his head resting on a folded towel and his eyes closed, wondering why the hell he was so tired. He had been up late every night for a week, granted, but he had still got plenty of sleep. I’m getting older, he reminded himself.
The sedatives he had unknowingly consumed in the martinis ensured that he was sound asleep fifteen minutes later, that he did not hear the bathroom door open or the ever-so-quiet footsteps approach him.
A shadow fell across his unconscious face.
Reed squatted down next to the bath and took a large leather wallet from inside his suit jacket and rested it on his thigh. He unzipped the wallet and withdrew a small glass medical vial and hypodermic syringe. He unscrewed the cap and rested the vial on the floor before taking the plastic safety sheath from the syringe. He estimated Hoyt’s weight to be no more than 180 pounds, so, after picking the vial back up, he inserted the needle through the membrane and pulled eight centilitres of potassium-chloride solution into the plunger.
Gently, Reed took hold of Hoyt’s jaw with his free hand and opened his mouth. He placed the needle under Hoyt’s tongue and pushed the tip into the lingual artery. With a slow, smooth motion, he injected the solution into Hoyt’s bloodstream.
He checked his watch. It was 11:05 PM. With calm efficiency Reed packed his things away in the order he had taken them out and stood. He washed out Hoyt’s cocktail shaker to get rid of any trace of the sedatives before placing the half-empty prescription bottle next to Hoyt’s glass. Reed then exited through the house the same way he had entered, disturbing nothing and seen by no one.
The potassium chloride would induce cardiac arrest within approximately three minutes and would kill Hoyt after another two. The chemical would then break down into separate molecules of potassium and chlorine, both of which are found naturally inside the body after death, ensuring a pathologist would find no trace of the poison in Hoyt’s system. There was a chance the needle mark might be detected if a complete autopsy was performed, but with no indication of foul play the chances of this taking place were extremely slim.
Should Hoyt survive the heart attack, which was possible, albeit unlikely, he would still die. The attack would leave him in a massively weakened state and he would be unable to prevent himself from drowning in the bath. This would take no more than another two minutes, judging by Hoyt’s poor physical condition.
In his rental car, Reed took his smartphone from the glove box and composed a message to confirm the success of the operation. He looked at his watch and waited until the hands read 11:12 PM before hitting send.
Reed liked to be exact.
CHAPTER 43
St Petersburg, Russia
Monday
13:57 MSK
Victor, briefcase in hand, strolled through the crowds of Russians in the mall, all dressed in heavy layers to protect against the cold that even the shopping centre’s heaters couldn’t combat entirely. Victor took the escalator to the upper level, one gloved hand resting on the rubber handrail as he ascended. He moved the lollipop with his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other.
At a payphone he called Norimov’s bar and gave the bartender who answered the location and time. He then made his way to the main stairwell and climbed the stairs to the top parking-lot level. The parking lot was mostly empty, only a dozen or so vehicles parked beneath the sky above. He breathed in the crisp air, watched his breath form thick clouds of moisture. He was too focused to feel the cold. His pulse was perfectly steady.
The maintenance door was locked with a stainless-steel padlock that barely slowed him. On the other side Victor took the metal steps to the actual roof, one storey above the top parking-lot level. The sky was near cloudless, the bright November sun making him squint. He drew a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and slipped them on. He moved to the edge of the roof, squeezing around the large ventilation pipes protruding from inside the building. The thrum of fans duelled with the rush of the wind.
Victor peered over the edge, saw the exterior parking lot six storeys below him; at this time of day it was half full of cars. He turned, squatted down, and placed the briefcase on the roof. He unlocked it and opened the lid. It took less than a minute to assemble the Dragunov and calibrate the sight for the distance to the ground. He then selected the magazine containing the standard rounds and loaded it. Victor sucked on the lollipop while he waited, resisting the urge to crunch.
He saw the same black BMW he’d ridden inside two days before enter the parking-lot entrance. It meandered slowly and found a parking space close to the centre, ten yards from a ticket machine as instructed. A moment later the rear off-side door opened and Norimov climbed out. Through the scope, Victor watched him as he walked up to the ticket machine.
There was at least one of Norimov’s men in the car, the driver, but there could have been more. From Victor’s position he couldn’t see through the windows, but he doubted Norimov would have come with less than a car full. There could even be another car in the area, back-up in case anything went wrong. Whatever their history, Norimov wouldn’t fully trust him.
Victor scanned the area. New people were coming and going all the time, moving around the space, some walking to cars, some just taking shortcuts. He only paid attention to the men, those between twenty-five and forty. If Norimov’s contacts had betrayed him or if Norimov had been compromised some other way, the FSB, SVR, or both would be in the parking lot. Russian intelligence had never made much use of women in the field, and Victor doubted they would have changed decades of tradition just for him. He used the scope to examine necks, searching for the spiralling wire that would give agents away. None of the likely suspects had them that he could see. Earpieces could be wireless, but Victor doubted the SVR or FSB could afford the latest tech.
If someone planned to make a play for him it would be from within the parking lot itself after he’d revealed himself. They would need to be within running or shooting distance of the ticket machine. The parking lot was flanked by roads on three sides, with numerous parked vehicles, most of which had been there for long periods. Surveillance could be anywhere. Victor had noticed three vans enter the area and park in the previous thirty minutes alone. There hadn’t been enough time to get snipers in position, but he still checked every few seconds. Dozens more vans and SUVs had come and gone or had been parked since before he’d arrived. Any one of them could have a kill or snatch team in the back.
Or none at all. Maybe he was being arrogant, assuming he was still a wanted man after so many years. Arrogant or not, he spotted a potential twenty yards from Norimov. A dark-haired man in a long coat was chatting on a cell phone, loitering near his car. Similarly, there was a tall blond man making his way across the parking lot. He wasn’t close to Norimov, but he was close enough. Victor couldn’t wait it out though. If Norimov was being watched and he made no contact, any surveillance would be kept in place until the next time. But Victor was confident in his plan. Should anything go wrong, it wouldn’t be because he hadn’t been careful.
He hit a speed dial number on his phone, and through the scope he saw Norimov’s head move, a confused expression on his features. It took the Russian a few seconds to work out where the sound was coming from, and he turned around and checked the ticket machine. He went around the back of it before finally reaching underneath.