‘Accepted.’ He raised his hands. ‘We continue to need each other, Hamid — it’s best that we work closely together.’ Even as other, more important matters piled up, he added to himself.
Deals, negotiations, reports, analyses were stacked in his mind as blatantly as would have been billions of dollars heaped in neat piles on the desk in front of him. Those matters were worth such sums, but he had to superintend the boarding of half a dozen nuclear scientists and technicians onto his private jet for the flight to Tehran, like some damned steward in an airline uniform. He continued levelly, his voice pleasant: ‘The weather window is forecast to appear around eight, soon after full daylight. It could last two hours, or twenty minutes-‘ The Iranian’s features darkened with annoyance. ‘- they can’t be more accurate, I’m afraid.’
‘I understand,’ Hamid said slowly.
‘Good.’
‘They are prepared?’ He made them sound like meals that would be served on the aircraft.
Turgenev nodded. ‘They are. Safely hidden but fully briefed.
They know what is happening to them, and they have been handsomely down-paid.’ One or two of the early people had panicked at the last moment. A few had tried to back out, even to Jeave Iran or wherever, disgruntled and homesick. Pour encourager les autres, they had not been allowed to return. ‘It’s not like the early days any longer, Hamid. Moscow treats them like dirt now. They want to work for you!’ He laughed.
‘What time shall we be leaving?’
‘Six, Hamid, not before.’ It was as if he heard the blizzard more clearly for an instant, bellowing about the hunting lodge.
A window rattled somewhere. The snow had drifted to first floor level outside the heavy curtains of the vast, panelled sitting room. The storm seemed intent on burying his home. He smiled, toasted the strict Moslem with his whisky, then swallowed the last of the drink. He felt almost at ease, despite the Iranian’s presence — until he remembered Bakunin and the business of Lock and Vorontsyev.
He wished to hear of a successful conclusion to that fiasco before he left for the airport.
‘Is there something wrong?’ Hamid enquired with fastidious politeness.
‘No — nothing,’ he replied evenly, without emotion, ‘Nothing.’
Vorontsyev listened, head cocked to one side. Dmitri’s noises at the front door were barely audible, even in the sheltered car park behind the Cafe Americain. Lock stood beside him, softly stamping his feet against the cold or his own tense impatience.
Lubin, features pinched with cold beneath the fur hat, waited with what might have been reluctance for his next order.
Dmitri’s yelling and buffeting of the front door was suddenly carried to them clearly by a freak of the wind and Vorontsyev nodded to both his companions. At once. Lock moved clumsily forward, as if released from some huge restraint. His borrowed pistol was gripped in one gloved hand, stiffly at his side. Vorontsyev’s own gun was in his left hand. He’d had Dmitri strap him more tightly together — paradoxically the recollection of Dmitri’s description caused him to smile — so that it was difficult to swallow the icy air as he breathed. He was on the edge of grogginess because of the painkillers.
He stumbled once and Lubin caught his arm to steady him.
Then they were in the shelter of the porch, trampling on drifted snow. Lock banged on the rear door of the club, which masqueraded as its members’ entrance. Other punters used the door on K Street.
‘Open up — GRU!’ Lock bellowed in Russian, startling his companions.
‘Come on, you lazy shits, the Colonel’s here and wants to talk to Panshin! Open up, you bastards! He wants to know how you managed lo cock it all up!’
Lubin was smirking in open admiration of the American, even as the door opened and a face Vorontsyev recognized as belonging to one of the bouncers inspected them, then began protesting.
‘Keep the fucking noise down! You want to?’
Lock struck him across the bridge of the nose with the barrel of the Makarov and thrust the door against him as he screamed in pain. The bouncer was shovelled back into the corridor like a sack of something. Lock bent over him and withdrew the pistol from the waistband of his trousers, then at once stood up. His movements were jerky, adrenalin-filled, under only the most effortful restraint. His eyes were as wide as a cat’s on seeing a small rodent break from cover.
‘Where?’ he snapped.
‘That way!’ Vorontsyev replied, pointing down the corridor.
They would have to cross the floor of the club, through the tables, to reach the offices. The corridor remained empty. A smell from the lavatories and stale cigarette smoke. Inside, away from the storm, they could hear raised voices as Dmitri argued with whoever had opened the front door to an apparent drunk.
Aggressive and indifferent, he was demanding a drink. ‘Hurry!
I don’t want Dmitri out there for too long.’
They whirled their way between the tables, neatly stacked with their upturned chairs, across the width of the club towards a velvet curtain that masked the corridor to Panshin’s offices and the stairs to the accommodation above the club. The first shot surprised them, biting at one of the chairs Lubin was negotiating, leaving a white, bonelike scar even in the dimness of the room’s poor light.
Lock, crouching behind a table, fired twice towards the curtains.
Vorontsyev, squinting after the muzzle flashes, saw no one. There had been no cry.
He stood beside Lock, who quietly growled: ‘It was wearing a uniform. How many of them, Vorontsyev?’ His demand for information was intent.
‘I don’t know. How many would Bakunin spare to?’
‘Alexei?’ The cry of a father as Dmitri came hurtling into the club from the corridor leading to the front entrance. His gun was waving wildly, his head moving like that of a threatened prey-animal. Two shots from within the velvet curtain and Dmitri ducked back as Lock returned fire.
‘Dmitri?’ he yelled.
‘AH right!’
‘Lubin?’
‘Yes!’
‘Watch the stage!’ Lock called out, then scuttled away between the tables, on all fours like a quick dog. Vorontsyev flinched as shots were directed towards the sound of his voice.
His ribs were like hot needles thrust into his side and chest, and his arm, immobilised though it was, shrieked in concert with his torso. ‘There — I’ he heard Lock call, and was blinded by the muzzle flashes.
Someone tumbled back, making a poor stage exit, a dim shadow disappearing. The club reeked of explosives. He watched as Lock clambered swiftly up onto the low, narrow stage where the musicians performed, saw him scuttle towards the side of the stage, then disappear.
There were no orders, he realised, no noises of command and disposition — and he began to fear they were too late. Kasyan had called Panshin or someone else from the car, the moment he had recognized Dmitri. There had been time, too much time, for them to move the scientists. Dmitri appeared beside him, breathing like a beached whale.
‘You were right,’ he gasped, ‘he’ll have us all dead before morning at this rate! Are they here, Alexei?’
Vorontsyev shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Shit! Where are they?’
Two shots directed at them whined overhead. Dmitri returned fire, as did Lubin. Then Vorontsyev heard Lubin scrabbling to a new position. Two more shots from behind the curtains, then they parted violently as a figure was thrown through them, dragging them aside. A uniformed greatcoat, the dim patch of a white face, then Lock’s figure appeared, his arm raised and waving them forward.
They hurried towards him. His face was twisted with angry disappointment.
‘There aren’t enough of these GRU guys!’ It was as if he wanted more killing. ‘They’ve gone!’ He studied their faces and realised they had reached the same conclusion. Lubin joined them, his face shiny with perspiration and excitement. ‘Where would Panshin be?’