He turned and jogged back to the van and climbed in. Quickly reversing it back down the street, he tucked it into the kerb just out of the glow of the nearest street light. Now it was almost invisible; just another van parked up for the night.
Szulu had to admire the slickness of the operation. He swallowed and moved back to his doorway, wondering about something else which was a bit more worrying: how come a complete stranger — a gun-carrying stranger, no less — knew his name?
‘You had her taken and brought here?’ Vasiliyev was ready to burst. He spun round to face Fedorov as they entered the main office, ignoring the gun held to his head by Olek. ‘Are you insane? She is not going to help us — don’t you understand that? This operation is over. What’s the use of pretending? Why not simply put her name on the article and deal with whatever happens afterwards?’
Fedorov’s eyes grew round at this open challenge to his authority. He was not accustomed to his underlings speaking to him like this. Indeed he had killed men for less. He made a chopping motion, cutting off further protest.
‘Enough!’ he hissed, a fleck of spittle appearing at the corner of his mouth. He reached out and stabbed his assistant in the chest with a thin finger. ‘You forget yourself, Radko Vasiliyev.’ He placed a deliberate emphasis on the man’s real name. ‘I brought you here… I can just as easily make you go away!’ He snapped his fingers with contempt, the noise sharp in the sudden silence, and waited for an objection. When none came, he continued, ‘Now, get rid of the woman. And make it final. We are leaving this place as soon as we can and I want no traces to follow us. Do you understand?’
Vasiliyev licked his lips. He was shocked by the strength of Fedorov’s reaction and the gun pointed at his head. His boss rarely demonstrated more than a quiet, contained anger when things didn’t go right; it was what made the man so dangerous, as if he preferred to harbour his thoughts deep inside, using others to give physical vent to his emotions. But this was extreme. And the fact that he was still alive meant little; he was a realist and knew it might not last.
‘But-’
‘But nothing. Where is Pechov?’
Vasiliyev shook his head. He had lost track of Pechov long ago, and it was now clear why: while keeping him out of the way, Fedorov had given the muscle-bound thug other jobs to do — the most significant of which was to take Riley Gavin hostage. And for what? A simple lesson in who held the most power? It was insane.
He tried to think. The other man, a tall, lard-skinned Ukrainian thug named Roychev, was downstairs, keeping an eye on the approaches to the building. ‘Pechov is not answering his phone. Maybe he decided to run.’ It was all he could think of to say. ‘I will find Roychev and get him to check the building.’
Turning away from Fedorov was possibly the hardest thing Vasiliyev had ever done. But he had to move before his boss changed his mind and nodded to Olek to take him out. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristling all the way to the door, sure that a bullet was about to follow. He nearly gagged with relief when the door swung to behind him.
He walked down the main stairs, silently wishing that if Pechov had jumped ship, he could have had the courage to do the same thing. He wondered how much longer the other two would stick around. On the other hand, as they all knew, Fedorov’s reach was long — very long. And his memory was extensive and vengeful, as Vasiliyev had witnessed.
Desertion, if that’s what Pechov had actually done, was the worst kind of sin in Fedorov’s book. Almost as bad as failure. It would attract shame and humiliation, and the derision of his peers, to have a man walk away. Few of them would allow Fedorov to forget such a thing, the story following him wherever he went. Give it a few weeks and Pechov would turn up. But he doubted it would be a pretty sight.
He reached the ground floor and found Roychev standing by the entrance, yawning.
‘Where is Pechov?’
Roychev grunted, sneering, bringing thoughts that he must have been alerted by Olek to Vasiliyev’s sudden fall in status. ‘I haven’t seen him since he brought the woman here and took her upstairs.’ He sniggered nastily. ‘He’s probably enjoying himself with her. I hope he leaves some for me.’
‘Pig,’ Vasiliyev swore. ‘Put a finger on her and I’ll cut you into strips.’ The Ukrainian swallowed and stepped back, his already pale skin turning whiter at the realisation that he’d overstepped the mark, change of status or not. He was heavier than Vasiliyev and probably tougher physically, but until he received orders, he knew his place in the order of things.
‘I was only joking,’ he said, and sought to make amends. ‘Maybe he’s downstairs. He said he was going to check the basement doors to make sure they were secure.’ He stifled another yawn and grumbled, ‘I could do with some coffee.’
Vasiliyev ignored him and made his way to the rear stairwell. In one corner was a single door bearing a NO ENTRY sign. He opened it and was met by a wall of warm, stale air and a steady hum from the air-conditioning system feeding the building. He stepped through and descended the single flight of concrete steps, treading carefully. If Pechov were down here, he might easily shoot first without bothering to identify his target. He reached the bottom and stopped. A patter of footsteps echoed overhead. He shook his head. Roychev, probably, stamping his feet to keep himself awake.
He edged along the passageway, eyes piercing the poor light, and wished he had a gun. Then he saw the body, lying in the spread of light from an overhead lamp. He recognised the bulk of Pechov’s shoulders, and the suit. He bent down to check the man’s throat. There was no pulse. He stood up and let out a lengthy sigh, wondering what they had brought down on themselves. He’d have bet almost anything against anyone taking Pechov — the man was a brute, and ferociously strong. Just not strong enough, apparently.
He turned and went back upstairs to the lobby. A feeling of impending disaster was growing in his gut and it wasn’t simply because he had stood up to Fedorov — maybe for the first and last time. Something was seriously wrong here.
Roychev had disappeared.
Then he saw something in the shadows towards the rear of the lobby. He walked over to take a closer look.
It was Roychev. He had been shot once in the head.
45
Riley heard a sound at the door and struggled frantically. It could only be Fedorov coming back to continue where he’d left off. The only question was, how long would it last before he tired of his sadistic game?
‘Hello, Cinders. Time to go home.’
‘Palmer?’ She jerked her head up and saw him smiling down at her. He looked rumpled, his clothes dusted with what looked like grey flour, and he was holding a length of steel pipe in one hand and one of her shoes in the other. She was puzzled about the shoe, then memory flooded back and she remembered losing it as Pechov had bundled her along the corridor and into the washroom.
‘Stone me,’ Palmer muttered, and coughed at the tang of bleach. ‘Did they have you doing some housework?’
Riley was choked with overwhelming relief, unable to reply. She felt a tear run down one cheek and turned her head away. If she broke down like a big girl in front of him, she’d never forgive herself.
Palmer put down the pipe and took out a small penknife, gently cutting through the tape and peeling it away. He wasted no time talking, but concentrated on the job in hand, his head cocked to one side, listening for the sound of footsteps.
As the final strip of tape fell away, Riley stood up and shrugged her jacket back into place, overcome by the sense of freedom. But she promptly cried out as the material brushed against the burns on her neck, sending her nerve-ends jangling, and her legs wobbled, the muscles unwilling as circulation was restored.
Palmer caught her before she fell.
‘Pins and needles,’ she muttered quickly, hating the catch in her voice. She flexed her wrists to divert his attention. ‘If I ever meet Pechov again, he’s dead meat.’