"Then I demand a ballot." Berlin slammed his fist down on the table. "Either we vote for Paris and his ineffectual ways, or for Vienna and action."
"This is not a democracy—" Paris began, but his protests were drowned out by the clamor in favor of Berlin's plan.
"I am honored that you deem me worthy of consideration," said Vienna, getting to his feet. "But the choice must be yours."
The room echoed to the sound of chair legs screeching across flagstones as the table emptied. One by one, they lined up behind Vienna's chair. Only three men hesitated, looking at Paris despairingly and then at the eight men on the other side of the table. Paris nodded slowly, and they reluctantly joined the others.
"It is a burden to last for life," Paris said softly. "It is my burden."
"No longer," Vienna replied. "It is the unanimous decision of this group that it is time for another to carry the flame. Alone."
Paris's eyes widened in sudden realization.
At a signal from Vienna, Berlin reached into his pocket and drew out a small pad and a white pill. Walking around to Paris, he laid the pad on the table's polished oak surface and then set the pill next to it, sliding a glass of water within easy reach. This done, he stepped back.
Paris looked down at the items in front of him. When he lifted his gaze to the men across the table, there were tears in his eyes.
"This is wrong. All wrong."
"You have served the cause well," Vienna said gently. "Your time here is over."
Fighting back the tears, Paris took out his pen and wrote on the pad. He then tore out the page, folded it in two, and handed it to Berlin, who walked it around to Vienna. Solemnly Vienna unfolded the note, read the contents, then touched the paper to a candle flame. The paper flared into life, then died almost as quickly.
Eleven pairs of eyes returned to focus on Paris. Shoulders shaking, he removed his ring and placed it on the table in front of him. Then he reached for the white pill, placed it on his tongue, and washed it down with a mouthful of water.
Two minutes later he was dead.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Their driver, Igor, confessed to being a schoolteacher by day. At night, however, he moonlighted as a chastnik, cruising through the city's tattered streets offering unlicensed taxi rides to anyone who didn't care about insurance, heating, or the windows going up all the way.
Licensed or not, he had not required any directions to the place where Archie had arranged to meet Viktor. Instead he had taken the opportunity to practice his English by complaining about the cold, the soccer results, and the corruption of local government officials as they had crossed the Neva to the Petrograd side.
From the outside, the Tunnel nightclub was an unprepossessing sight, a concrete shed set into a narrow, muddy plot between two cancerous apartment blocks. The entrance was patrolled by three hulking security guards in black berets and paramilitary uniforms, with a wolflike German shepherd in tow. The door, a solid piece of steel almost eight inches thick, had been wedged open with a decommissioned AK-47. Through the gap they could see a steep concrete staircase lit by red emergency lighting.
"It's an old nuclear bunker," Archie explained as Tom and Dominique looked questioningly at the entrance. "Viktor owns it. Don't worry, we'll be looked after."
The security guards checked their names against the guest list and waved them past a queue of miserable-looking people shivering in the cold.
A blast of warm air, stale with the smell of aftershave and alcohol, hit them as soon as they began to descend the rough stairs, the rhythmic thump-thumping of the music growing stronger with every step, like the muffled beat of a massive heart. At the bottom was another thick steel door, and as it swung open a wall of bass slapped them in the chest like a heavy wave, the noise pressing against their eyes and ears.
Two more guards in paramilitary gear and long-out-of-fashion sunglasses, with batons and CS gas canisters dangling from their belts, waved them to an opening in the wall. A beautiful dark-haired woman wearing little more than her underwear took their money and their coats, then tapped the sign behind her with a varnished nail, chewing gum indifferently. It was printed in Russian, but underneath was a handwritten translation:
No guns or knives. Please to leave at entrance.
Pistols and knives of all shapes and sizes filled the metal basket below the sign. Each weapon had been labeled with a bright pink coatroom number.
"How well do you know this Viktor?" Tom asked Archie.
"We've done business for years. Big collector. Eclectic, though — Picassos and military memorabilia, mostly."
"Yeah, well, nice place he's got here," he said sarcastically.
"I'd rather they made people leave the weapons out here than let them carry the damn things inside," Archie retorted.
His voice was drowned out by a loud beeping. Someone had triggered the walk-through metal detector positioned at the threshold. One of the guards approached the culprit, who casually opened his jacket to reveal a shiny silver Magnum in his underarm holster. The guard turned uncertainly to the hostess, who looked the man up and down and then gave a nod. The man was ushered in, his gun untouched.
"So much for that theory," Dominique said with a grin.
They stepped through the metal detector and entered the club. The bunker extended some fifty feet under a barreled roof that amplified the music and the shouted conversations around them into a deafening roar. At the far end was a cage with a DJ installed at its center and two curvaceous women writhing around brass poles at either side.
Flashing lights and lasers illuminated the dance floor, where bodies writhed to the music's dull pulse. A few nests of tables and chairs hugged the walls, but most people were loitering near the bar, their faces wreathed in a thick haze of cigarette smoke.
"I'll get us a drink," Tom shouted over the noise. He fought his way through the crowd, brushing up against a beautiful woman in a red dress, a huge ruby nestling in her bronzed cleavage. She smiled and seemed about to say something, when she was ushered away by her fearsome-looking escort. A prostitute, Tom assumed; there seemed to be a lot of them pouting invitingly at him as he made his way to the bar.
The bar consisted of two trestle tables staffed by three girls wearing tube tops and miniskirts of camouflage material. One table was stacked with shot glasses and bottles of Stolichnaya, the other with champagne flutes and bottles of Cristal. Payment was strictly in U.S. dollars only.
Tom ordered champagne, secured three glasses, and fought his way back to the others.
"Didn't they have a beer or something?" Archie complained when he saw the bottle.
"It was this or vodka. I've just paid three hundred bucks, so you'd better enjoy it."
"Three hundred!" Archie exclaimed. "Jesus, they might as well mug you on the way in."
"That's loose change to these people," said Dominique.
Tom had to agree. The women were dripping with gold and expensive jewelery. Most wore high stilettos and tight-
fitting clothes that exposed their tanned, toned midriffs. They were almost all blond, some more improbably so than others.
The men wore suits, probably Italian, definitely designer; gold jewelery glinted on their fingers and wrists. Every so often, Tom caught sight of a gun handle tucked into a waistband or holster.
"Table, sir?" A waiter had appeared at his elbow and was pointing to a small table in the corner of the room.