Prudnikov nodded. “I’m only doing what is right.”
Aniskovach wanted to smile. Appealing to Prudnikov’s deluded sense of duty and honor was a good tactic. “And I thank you for all you have done, sir.”
Prudnikov accepted the thanks without his expression changing. “What are you asking?”
“Let me recover the missiles myself.”
“For what purpose?”
Translated to, “what’s in it for me?” Aniskovach thought. “Exposing Ozols’s plans, recovering the missiles, and stopping the Americans from getting hold of them will help repair my reputation within our fine organization.”
Prudnikov, unconvinced, started punching numbers on the phone. “If I were you I should not be so concerned with what’s left of my reputation. I would be glad to have escaped incarceration and still have a career after such a disastrous mess.”
Aniskovach continued as if Prudnikov had never spoken. “And by recovering the missiles and keeping them from the hands of our enemies I will have done enough so that I no longer require your protection. You would be able to distance yourself from my failing without fearing I will betray your hand in what happened.”
Prudnikov stopped dialing. Aniskovach watched him reconsidering carefully. After a minute he put the phone down.
“Fine,” he said. “I will let you do this one thing, but this is where we part ways. Regardless of the outcome, I stop protecting you, and you keep your mouth permanently closed.”
Aniskovach had expected that at best he would receive such an offer. He just wished he could tell Prudnikov how he had managed to twist his own appeal completely around so that it was Prudnikov making the request to him. He stood in silence, pretending to weigh up the offer, and in doing so created a delicious measure of dramatic tension. Aniskovach nodded.
“We have a deal,” he said.
It was all timing and delivery.
FORTY-NINE
Paris, France
Monday
21:01 CET
Victor looked away from the photographs. The broker was standing again, and he’d adjusted the computer and positioned himself so he could see her, the screen, and the front door at the same time while they talked. She was still frightened of him and was still trying to hide it. He could tell she didn’t know what he was going to do at any moment. He liked it that way.
“So whoever hired us wants to get their hands on that ship,” Victor said.
The broker nodded. “Or what’s on it.”
“Weapons?”
“Who knows?” she shrugged. “But whatever’s on that ship is worth killing for.”
Victor remained silent.
“Are you thinking about checking it out? Because if you are, according to the coordinates, the ship is off the east coast of Africa. Tanzania, I think.”
“No. What’s on the boat isn’t my concern. We stick to the plan. We eliminate our enemies. Self-preservation. Nothing else matters.”
“Okay,” the broker said. “But we’re getting somewhere. You could at least try looking happy about that.”
“This is me looking happy.”
“Then I really don’t want to see you when you’re mad.”
“No,” Victor said. “You really don’t.”
She smiled. She looked good smiling.
The lamp flickered and then went out, plunging the room into semidarkness. Light from the city found its way through the drapes.
“Damn wiring,” the broker muttered. “Nothing works properly in this place.”
“Shut up.”
It wasn’t just the lamp. The laptop screen had dimmed, switching to battery power. Victor saw nothing at the bottom of the front door. The lights were off in the hallway too. He grabbed the phone from the sideboard. No dialing tone.
In a second her hair was clutched in his left hand, the Benchmade knife in his right, the point of the black steel blade pricking the skin of her neck, carotid artery flexing beneath the pressure.
“You brought them here.”
The whites of her eyes were large. “No, I swear.”
The fear was real. So was the surprise.
Victor believed her. “Then they’ve been watching.”
“That’s impossible. I was careful.”
“Then you weren’t careful enough.”
Victor released her and hurried over to the door. He pressed his ear against it, hearing nothing. He faced the broker.
“Where’s your gun?”
She had a palm against her neck. Tears were in her eyes. She hesitated. “I told you last time I haven’t got one.”
“You hid one in case you decided to kill me. Where is it?”
Silence, then, “Under the sofa cushions.”
“Get it.”
She did.
“Give it to me.”
She tentatively held it out and Victor snatched it from her hand. A compact HK P2000. He released the mag, checked it was loaded, slammed it back in, and pulled the slide to chamber a round. He flicked off the safety.
He looked around quickly. The front door was the only viable entry point for an assault. Even now they could be in the corridor outside preparing to do so.
Victor pointed. “Grab as many things as you can and barricade that door.”
He dragged the sofa across the room with one hand. The broker picked up the armchair and placed it on top. He took the table where the lamp had stood and threw that on as well. The barricade wouldn’t stop anyone, but it would slow them down.
“Follow me.”
The broker hesitated. “My computer…”
“If it’s not going to save your life, leave it.”
“I’ve got hard copies, but we need those files.”
She grabbed a shoulder bag and slung it, before opening a drawer and fumbling inside it. She removed her hand after a few seconds with a memory stick between her fingers. She plugged it into the laptop and copied a folder across.
“I’m setting the computer to wipe the hard drive.”
“Hurry.”
The instant she’d finished, Victor led her into the kitchen, took her by the shoulders and guided her to where he wanted her to stand.
“What are you doing?”
He then wrenched the string to pull up the blinds and shoved the broker out of the way of the window.
She grunted, fell, but the window was still intact, the wall opposite unmarked. No sniper.
The broker scowled. “What the hell was that for?”
He didn’t answer her, opened the balcony door, stepped out, looked around. There was a drainpipe. If it was strong enough, it would take him straight down to the ground in less than a minute. He grabbed it, pulled sharply. It moved, but not much. It would do for the short time it would take.
Victor turned and saw the broker pulling herself upright and knew there was no way she would be able to climb it. He hated having to compromise his course of action to take into account the abilities, or lack thereof, of another. He had to find a different way.
There it was. At the end of the building a black metal bar protruding from around the corner. A fire escape. There were two more balconies between them and it. Victor turned to the broker.
“Take off your shoes.”
“Why?”
“If you want to live just do as I say.”
She kicked them off and he pulled her out onto the balcony. He pointed.
“I’m going to jump across.” He tucked the HK into the front of his waistband and climbed onto the rail, holding onto the drainpipe for support. “When I’m over there I’ll reach back for you.”
She shook her head violently. “What? No way, I can’t do it.”
“Then you stay here and die. Either way I’m gone.”
He was glad she had a cheap apartment; there was only a gap of a few feet between each balcony. If he had no other choice, he could do a standing leap from the railing to the next balcony. But the railing was wet. If he pushed off too hard, there was a chance his shoes might slip and he could fall. He looked down. It was a long way.
Instead of jumping, he stood on the railing, body twisted, facing the wall. He gripped the drainpipe hard with his left hand and reached out with his right leg until his foot touched the railing of the next balcony.