It was still only 6.45, so there were unlikely to be many people about. Even so, she needed to hurry.
Bracing her legs against the cubicle’s sides, she levered herself upwards until she could reach the ceiling. She pulled out a small, commercially available laser, popped it above the cubicle and fired the beam directly at the CCTV camera.
The laser would instantly white out – blind – the camera, overloading it with light. Quick as a flash, she reached over and slipped a small clip with wire teeth onto the cable leading to the camera; the cable that would carry the images back to the CCTV monitoring room.
A wire led from the clip to her own camera. She set it running on a pre-programmed loop, playing over and over the footage that she’d filmed from the roof, then clamped the clip firmly shut, the metal teeth cutting into the CCTV cable and taking over its circuit.
The images she had filmed of the empty restroom were now being beamed along the cable, and would do so for as long as her camera kept playing. If anyone had noticed the CCTV image whiting out for a few seconds, it was apparently back to normal now.
That done, she fastened her own camera and cabling to the CCTV apparatus with plastic ties. It didn’t look pretty, but the CCTV was positioned discreetly in one corner of the ceiling, so who was going to notice?
She dropped down again, then removed the glass-cutter from her bag and moved to the restroom’s one external window. Working quickly, she cut away two of the panes at around waist height, lifting each free. The third she scoured around at the edges but left in place.
She carried each pane down to the furthest cubicle, placing them inside against one wall. Finally she ran some red-and-white-striped workman’s tape across the space where she’d removed the glass, as if the window was in the process of being repaired.
That done, she headed for the cubicle where she’d stashed the panes, locking the door behind her. She removed a small hand-operated drill from her pack and selected a spot at the top right corner of the wall. Climbing onto the toilet seat, she began to drill.
Narov sweated as she worked. Fine plaster dust drifted down from the drill bit. Every minute or so she removed it and blew into the hole, trying to gauge how close she was to breaking through. Gradually she slowed the rotations, trying to feel for the moment when the tiny tip cut into open space.
She tensed for the sound of a picture being knocked off the wall and glass smashing on the far side. That would spell the end of this little venture. But hopefully by choosing a high corner she’d avoided any risk of that happening.
She sensed the drill bite through. She removed it, reversing the direction to help ease it free, then took a tiny brush from her pocket and dragged back as much of the drilling waste as she could. That done, she put her eye gingerly to the hole: she could just make out light bleeding through from the far side.
She reached into her pocket and removed a slender optical cord, on the end of which was a minute fish-eye lens. She eased it into the hole, centimetre by centimetre. After some minutes, she paused what she was doing and attached a recording device equipped with a mini viewing screen. She fired it up and was able to monitor the last few millimetres of insertion.
The fish-eye didn’t need to be forced all the way: its 280-degree vision enabled it to capture the image of the room while remaining flush with the wall’s surface. As long as Narov hadn’t dislodged too much plaster dust, it should be largely undetectable.
It was 7.35 a.m. The spy camera was in place. The meeting was scheduled to start at 9 a.m. sharp.
She pulled on a set of headphones and settled down to wait. She stilled her breathing and consoled herself with the thought that at least she didn’t have far to go if she needed to pee.
It was the noise that pulled her mind back to the present: the thump of a door being thrown open, and the guttural arrogance in the voice that bled through on the headphones. It sounded so familiar and so utterly, utterly chilling.
‘So where is the lawyer? Isselhorst. Damn him! He was supposed to be here by now.’
Narov knew instantly that she was right.
Grey Wolf: he was alive.
17
Narov’s eyes were glued to the mini screen. The speaker was a middle-aged man, face hawkish, nose beak-like, gaze radiating a burning fanaticism and an innate cruelty. There was a fierce arrogance to his look, as of a man crazed with power.
It was always about power, Narov reminded herself. And this was her target all right. Grey Wolf: the man who would stop at nothing…
The person he was speaking to was younger, swarthy and tough-looking; he had a soldier’s demeanour, though right now he was dressed in a slick business suit. He didn’t look particularly comfortable.
He shrugged. ‘I called Isselhorst’s mobile. Earlier this morning. Some woman answered.’
The older man glared. ‘A woman? What’s he doing with a woman here in Dubai? He isn’t married. He doesn’t have a secretary. He’s a one-man band. Flexible. Discreet. That’s why we use him. And more importantly, he’s under strict instructions.’
The younger man sighed. ‘Sir, I know. I figured it was just some woman he’d picked up. Dubai. You know how it is.’
‘What did this woman have to say?’ the older man demanded, ignoring the remark.
‘They were caught in traffic. Figured they might be twenty minutes late.’
The elderly man growled his displeasure. ‘Whatever happened to lawyerly punctuality?’ He made a visible effort to get his irritation under control. ‘So: how long before the legal team for the other side get here?’
‘Fifteen minutes. Thereabouts.’
‘Do we need Isselhorst? I thought it was a done deal. If he’s late, we start without him.’
‘The lawyers have advised the foundation to sign. It was the threat of the court action that swung it. That, plus the adverse publicity. And charities always do what their lawyers say, apparently.’
‘Ha! Adverse publicity. Seventy years of revenue from the Führer’s literary masterpiece, and they want to give it to charities that promote the very things he abhorred: racial harmony, refugee rights, cultural understanding! What a load of horse shit. They deserve all the adverse publicity they get.’ He glared. ‘So, the question is: do we need Isselhorst? And this woman?’
‘Sir, I doubt he’s bringing her to the meeting.’
The old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’d better not.’ A beat. ‘I don’t like this new development. Getting a woman involved. Would Isselhorst really be that stupid? Find out who she is. And tighten security. No one else gets close to this room. Understood?’
‘Sir.’
The younger man barked a series of instructions into a radio mic that was clipped discreetly to his jacket. From the series of responses, it was clear that he had security teams ringing the Al Mohajir Tower.
He glanced up. ‘Done.’
‘Right, we have ten minutes to kill. Tell me: the other business. Is all going to plan?’
‘Which other business, sir? We’re quite… busy right now.’
‘Moldova! What else?’
‘All sorted. They’re only awaiting the final payment.’
The older man’s face brightened. ‘Excellent. And the conduit? Is it “all sorted” too?’
‘It is. The Colombians are on standby to take delivery. Bout’s airline is ready to ship as planned.’
‘Good work, Vladimir. I’m impressed.’
In her cubicle, Narov’s eyes narrowed. Vladimir Ustanov: she’d thought it was him.
Ustanov had commanded the force that had pursued Jaeger and his team halfway across the Amazon when they had first been hunting Kammler. He’d proved a diehard, merciless operator, with a sadistic streak to boot. Narov and Jaeger had assaulted Ustanov’s base, hitting him and his fellow mercenaries with a lethal gas, but somehow he had survived.