The mansion block had a state-of-the-art intercom, which Sam viewed from the pavement. He quickly dismissed the idea of simply ringing Dolohov’s flat – he wanted to retain the element of surprise – and so he was left with only one option.
He scoured the pavement for a twig – just a small one. Then he bent down and undid his shoelace. And then he lurked under a nearby tree, and waited.
The rain continued to pour, but it made no difference to Sam. He couldn’t get any wetter. He could get colder, though, and he did. He started to shiver. He had been waiting for the best part of an hour when a taxi arrived, its yellow beams lighting up the rain and the road as it stopped right outside the mansion block. A woman emerged; she paid the driver, erected her umbrella and walked briskly up to the mansion block. Sam hurried after her. They reached the door at about the same time.
The woman – she was perhaps in her late fifties and had striking, once-beautiful features – looked at him nervously as she held her key fob up to a panel on the intercom. Around her neck she wore an expensive-looking fox fur, the stuffed paws of the animal still attached. The door clicked open and she pushed it.
‘Thanks,’ Sam said, filling his voice with gratitude. ‘Lousy weather, eh.’ He looked down and pretended to see that his bootlace was undone. The woman was inside now; Sam crouched down on the doorstep to do up his lace; as he did so, he dropped the twig against the frame of the door. It went unnoticed by the woman who was shaking down her umbrella. Sam stood up again and smiled at her. She looked uncertainly back at him and cleared her throat.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she said, ‘but do you have a key?’
Sam shook his head. ‘Staying with a friend,’ he explained.
The woman looked unsure of herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, apologetically. ‘It’s just, we have this agreement, all of us. Would you mind buzzing up? Can’t be too careful…’
Sam stepped back immediately and held up his hands. ‘Of course,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Very sensible. No problem.’
The woman let go of the door. It started swinging slowly closed. ‘Thank you!’ she called. ‘So sorry!’
She disappeared from sight.
Sam waited. He didn’t want to walk in while she could still see him. The door closed, but did not click shut. The twig had done its work.
He gave it a minute before entering. His clothes dripped on the marble floor of the small lobby. To his right was a metal post cabinet with a locked box for each flat. Flat three bore the words Professor Alexander Dolohov in a neat, rounded hand. Sam started to climb the stairs.
The stairwell, warmly carpeted and with a smooth banister, was dark. At each landing was a glowing light button, but Sam didn’t press them, so his natural night vision became adjusted to the darkness. There was just one flat on each level. As he approached the third floor, he found his heart was pumping fast. Was it nerves, or was he getting out of condition?
Flat 3. The door was like all the others. Glossy black paint, a shiny brass number and a brass bell. Sam looked at the bottom of the door. A thin strip of light escaped. There was somebody there. He took a deep breath. It would be easy enough to shoot the lock and force his way in, but that would cause alarm in the mansion block. Much better to do it the easy way. He rang the bell.
There was silence. Sam couldn’t even tell if the bell had sounded. He rang it again and for a slightly longer time. Still silence.
And then a man’s voice, slightly high pitched and with the trace of an accent. ‘Who is it?’
Sam sniffed. ‘Delivery for Dolohov,’ he called. ‘They let me in down the bottom.’
A pause. No reply. Sam thought he heard footsteps on the other side of the door and without any warning, the strip of light at the bottom of the door disappeared. The darkness in which Sam stood became a little bit more impenetrable. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he stepped to one side of the door and pressed his back against the wall, feeling for his weapon. His hands were steady, but his breathing was deep and slow. All his senses were on high alert.
Suddenly, silently, the door clicked open, just a few inches. Inside was dark.
Sam’s sopping clothes were clammy against his skin as he stood in the blackness, carefully selecting his next move. Whoever was inside, whoever this Dolohov character was, he clearly didn’t believe that someone had just turned up to deliver him pizza. But the opening of the door was an invitation of some kind. He just didn’t know what to. Edging towards the gap, he held the gun firmly in his right hand, while gently pushing the door further open and peering inside.
It was difficult to make much out in the darkness. There was an entrance hall of sorts, a circular table in the middle and an ornate mirror on the wall, which reflected some kind of ambient light seeping in from a room off to his right. He could see nothing to his left because the door was in the way. The walls were filled with bookshelves.
‘Alexander Dolohov?’ he called.
No reply.
‘I need to speak to you. I’m armed. You might as well show yourself. It’ll stop things getting messy.’
Silence.
Sam stepped inside. His eyes flitted around, but he couldn’t see anyone. He could make a pretty good guess as to where his target was hiding, though: behind the open door. They always chose the most obvious places. Sam momentarily readjusted the gun in his hand and then, in one swift movement, hooked his left foot around the edge of the door, slammed it shut and pointed his weapon into the space that had just been revealed.
No one was there.
It was at that precise moment that he heard the footsteps again. Swifter this time, and behind him. He turned around quickly, just in time to see the silhouette of a man approaching, some kind of cosh held above his head, ready to use. The man was smaller than Sam, smaller and fatter. But fast. Sam just had time to see the thick, square-rimmed glasses that covered his eyes, before the cosh was brought down on his head with a sudden, brutal crack. Dizziness overwhelmed him. He tried to aim his gun again, but he could feel his knees going. Vaguely, he was aware of the cosh being raised once more; he felt it slam against the side of his face.
And then he fell to the ground. He felt sick, but only for a moment as the darkness seemed to close in on him, and he passed out.
When Sam awoke, his head felt crushed and his skin was stinging. A light – a bright one – shone into his face, blinding him and making him squint so hard his eyes were almost shut. How long had he been out? He couldn’t tell, but as he touched his fingers to his cheek and felt the wetness of his own blood he realised it couldn’t have been that long. His clothes were still soggy.
He was sitting on a hard wooden chair at the end of a long table. The lamp was situated at the other end of the table and behind it sat Sam’s attacker. In front of him, lying on the table, was Sam’s gun; in the man’s podgy hand was another weapon – a GSh-18 pistol. Smaller than more modern handguns, but a firm favourite of the Russians. Including the Commie cunt in front of Sam.
‘Dolohov?’ Sam demanded. His voice was little more than a croak and as he spoke a wave of nausea passed through him.
A pause. Sam wished he could see the guy’s face properly.
‘I think it would be wiser,’ Dolohov replied with the elegant precision of man for whom English is not a native language, ‘if we concentrate first on who you are.’
Sam didn’t reply. His mind was working overtime.
‘A few…’ Dolohov sounded like he was searching for the right words. ‘A few ground rules. I haven’t tied you up, but if you move from that seat, I will shoot you without hesitation. I’m sure I don’t need to repeat myself. Do I need to repeat myself?’