No mere bodyguard, Ilya was the worst of Russia’s new breed of immoral toughs providing personal security to Russia’s capitalist elite. He was on Tretiak’s personal payroll and under specific instructions that absolutely nothing was to mar this most important meeting.
The elevator reached its destination. The well-dressed occupants and their beefy bodyguards poured out into the hallway. Templar, staying inside the advance guards’ blind spot, slid back to the service stairs.
As the entourage entered the conference room, everyone became swept up in welcomes, handshakes, and obligatory bows. Even Ilya initially failed to notice the bodyguard count was down by one.
Alone on the stairs Simon Templar removed his overcoat. The bulk underneath was not padding, but gear and paraphernalia which he transferred into a large backpack before beginning the climb to his final destination — the top floor of Tretiak Industries.
Meanwhile, one floor below, the businessmen gathered around a detailed scale model of a planned petroleum project. Champagne poured and toasts were made to the linkage of Japanese business to the New Russia.
Two of the more serious Japanese executives, politely wary, turned toward the window and surveyed the scene of potential turmoil in Red Square.
“The New Russia appears desperately unorganized,” commented the shorter and more dour of the two.
“Who will keep order? Chaos does not bode well for business.”
A sudden back slap caught both men’s attention. Draping his arms over their shoulders was an outgoing Russian displaying a predatory grin — Yuri Vereshagin, chief operating officer of Tretiak Industries. He, too, looked at the clamor in Red Square.
“A time of tumult is also a time of opportunity for men of courage and vision,” insisted the smiling Russian. “We have a word for it — bespredel. It means, ‘no limits.’ All of us at Tretiak Industries are dedicated to progress, guided by the all-embracing vision of Ivan Tretiak. Ah, if only he was in charge instead of President Karpov! Believe me, all around us are unlimited opportunities.”
Several stories above them, Simon Templar’s attempt to exploit opportunities of his own came to an abrupt halt. For security purposes, the final flight of service stairs was sealed off by a cement wall.
Undaunted, he backtracked to the previous landing and forced open the window. He reached into his backpack and extracted a foot-long sectional aluminum-alloy hook ladder which telescoped to twenty-five feet. In moments Templar was scaling the next two stories, clinging to the ultralight rungs in the pitiless winter wind.
By the time the two Japanese executives had been drawn into the formal proceedings, the efficient burglar had reached the rooftop. The only remaining obstacle was a standard door and a simple lock.
He chuckled softly to himself as he pulled a sleek penknife from his bootheel and began picking the lock. In an instant the door opened, and he stood at the entrance of an empty, undefended corridor.
From his bag of techno-toys came a pair of infrared goggles. Once in place, they allowed him to see the wall of horizontal light beams shining from floor to ceiling.
Under normal circumstances, any attempt to bypass these heat-sensing beams would be futile. Simon Templar was most adept at dealing with normal circumstances by abnormal and inventive means. He knew in advance of the light beams’ existence, and he came well-prepared to deal with them.
The thermal bodysuit he wore under his overcoat and the matching hood pulled over his head were not intended as fashion statements, and the probe wired to it served a singular and important purpose. He passed the probe under the lowest bar and noted the digital reading off his wristwatch as the probe tracked his rising body temperature. At the exact instant his temperature matched that of the corridor, his watch emitted a delicate beep. He then took one well-measured breath and passed undetected through the beams of light.
Five minutes later Simon Templar was enjoying one of the more outstanding elements of his outlaw artistry — safecracking. In his earlier days Templar relied on tactile sensitivity and an amplified microphone placed near the dial on the safe door. He would listen to the distinctive clicks of the inner mechanisms, translate the sounds into numbers, and simply dial in the proper combination.
Today, however, he used a technological marvel built to his own exacting specifications — the Safecracker. Digital in design and battery-powered, its tiny arm worked the combination lock while an internal processor analyzed myriad sequences in rapid succession.
Templar set a small explosive cap in the corner and checked his watch. He glanced at the wall-mounted security camera, then at a Watchman receiving transmission from the small video camera he had planted in the lobby. It clearly showed the images appearing on the lobby’s security monitor: a steady succession of fish-eye views of the Tretiak building corridors, stairwells, and offices. If he had gauged the video sequence correctly, he had six seconds before the safe room would be flashed on-screen.
“Precision timing,” Simon whispered to himself through cheek pads and false teeth. He removed the Safecracker and hugged it to his chest, moving directly under the security camera. When the safe appeared on the lobby monitors, everything looked secure. Moments later Templar and his high-tech assistant were back at work.
As the Safecracker whirred and clicked, the downstairs business conference was building in intensity. Ivan Tretiak himself was glad-handing the attendees while Yuri Vereshagin prepared the lighting and atmosphere for his boss’s important address.
Ilya paced impatiently. He had heard it all before, seen it all before. Ivan Tretiak was his father. Ilya didn’t feel overshadowed; he felt eclipsed. Besides, he had an important meeting of his own nagging for attention. He headed for the door, but Vereshagin intercepted him.
“It is poor manners to walk out on our guests,” hissed the fiercely loyal Vereshagin.
“Would you prefer that our leader’s son pissed his pants in public?” countered Ilya. He pushed his way out and strode purposefully down the empty hallway as if he were an important young man late for a big meeting.
The young Russian skulked into the service stairwell. His big meeting was with a vial of methamphetamine. He spread the noxious powder on the back of his hand and sniffed.
His head rocked back as if he had been pleasantly punched, his eyes squinted, and he shook away the burning pain in his sinuses. He laid out another line, but just as he leaned down to snort it, a gust of wind blew it away.
Aggravated, Ilya complained under his breath.
“Why the hell is there wind in a stairwell?”
He looked up. The landing’s window had been forced open. Ilya growled and took a closer look.
On the top floor the Safecracker finished its concerto of metallic whirs and clicks. The safe popped open, and Templar reached within and removed a black box the size of a cuff-link keeper. Inside, cushioned on velvet as if it were a precious stone, rested a gleaming microchip.
He slid the chip into his breast pocket as an unexpected outburst of angry Russian sliced through the silence.
“Stoyat! Ruki za golovu!”
“Sorry, mate,” said Templar in his best Australian accent, “I don’t speak the language.”
“In that case: Freeze. Put your hands behind your head.”
Templar complied.
“Turn around, slowly.”
Templar swiveled to face his adversary — Ilya, armed with a Smith & Wesson 66.
The high-strung Russian gestured toward the dark hood covering Templar’s face.