He quickened his pace when he reached the Millennium Bridge. About halfway across, he met a couple going the other direction. He slowed down and asked them for a cigarette. The man, a classic goth with purple-streaked hair and tight-fitting black jeans, kindly obliged, pulling out a pack of Luck Strikes and offering one to Zane. The man also pulled out a lighter, clicked it once, and held the flame in front of the operative’s face. Zane leaned forward with the cigarette in his mouth, using the opportunity to glance back down the bridge. The two men who were following him had come to an abrupt halt and were looking down the Thames. They were still some distance away, but Zane was able to see that the nearer one was bald. It was the same man he’d seen inside the pub.
The operative took a deep draw, thanked the couple for the smoke, and continued on his way. When he had passed the crest of the bridge, he flicked the cigarette out into the river. After exiting the bridge, he walked almost three blocks and entered the Tube at Blackfriars. He then began a series of evasive moves: He went from one train to the next, his knowledge of the London subway system making him decisive and quick. Upon exiting at a station, he would climb the stairs quickly, sometimes taking three or four at a time, and then descend the stairs to the other side, hopping on the next train that arrived. He changed lines several times, and would often make multiple moves within a station, looking as though he was indecisive but knowing the entire time exactly where he was going.
But forty-five minutes later, three things became apparent: the two men were indeed professionals, they knew the Tube as well as he did, and he had not been able to shake them. The only thing Zane had managed to do was force them to drop all pretense of secrecy. They now looked at him with unashamed regularity, and Zane once even thought that he saw the hint of a smile from the bald one as he exited through the sliding doors.
As Zane sat on the green line and stared up at the subway map, an idea entered his mind. He felt sure it would work, and it was his best hope of losing the men in the Tube. If the plan didn’t work, he’d have to take his chances on the street — a much riskier proposition.
Zane exited at Charing Cross, his plan firmly set in his mind. He knew the station well and barely even looked up as he made his way over to the platform of the red line. The next train arrived thirty seconds later, and after entering it, he stood near the door. He then glanced toward the next car down and noted that the two men had settled into their seats. The bald one turned toward him, the hint of a grin on his face. Zane winked at him, which quickly turned the man’s smile into a glare.
Two stops later the train entered Piccadilly, the place where Zane would enact his plan. In order for it to be a success, he needed a large crowd, and the scene that swirled past the car’s windows told him he’d made a good choice. Throngs of diners, theatergoers, and revelers filled the platform to capacity, setting the stage for what was about to happen.
When the doors hissed open, Zane slid through the crowd. He received a couple of hard bumps but made it to the stairs without major injury. As he climbed each step, his movements became more slow and deliberate, sending a false signal to the men behind him that he had given up on the prospect of losing them. It was one of the keys to making the whole thing work.
After reaching the top of the stairs, he wound through several walkways before finally descending to the blue platform. Much to his satisfaction, it was even more crowded than the red. A group of drunks was singing at the back of the crowd, adding to the carnival-like atmosphere.
Zane pushed his way through the crowd and found a spot about a hundred yards down. He stopped several times along the way to look back, and each time he could see the two heads bobbing in his direction. They seemed to have correspondingly slowed their pace in order to maintain distance.
As they waited for the next train, the operative scanned the crowd for the next critical element of his plan. He needed performers for the drama that was about to unfold, and it only took him a few seconds to find the first two, a couple dressed in their theater finest. The man was wearing an Italian suit and shoes that were polished enough to serve as a mirror. For her part, the woman was wearing a navy dress and a faux-fur coat, with a Prada clutch pinned under her left arm.
The couple would be perfect, and Zane only needed to find a third performer. Fortunately, a third actor boarded the train just ahead of him, the smell of beer hanging in the air around him like a cloud. Just as the operative had assumed, the drunken reveler made a beeline for the metal pole, clutching it as though his very life depended on it. A few feet beyond him stood the well-dressed couple. All of the players were in place.
As the crowd continued to press into the train, the operative looked down into the next car. As before, the two tails boarded late and kept an eye on Zane. They were professionals, but they were also predictable.
Zane knew from previous stops that it took approximately twenty-five seconds for a door to close on a crowded car. He counted off the seconds in his head while glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention. Satisfied, he moved closer to the drunk who was still clutching the pole. When the time count hit ten seconds, Zane reached around the drunken man and shoved the woman in the faux-fur coat. When he shoved, he made sure her beloved Prada purse was dislodged on the follow-through.
The next series of events went by so fast that many would not be able to clearly articulate what happened. The woman, inebriated herself, stumbled forward and fell through the crowd, and the shiny purse disappeared through several sets of legs. Throwing away any attempt at decorum, the woman shoved people out of the way as she rose to her feet. “What the bloody hell?”
The husband, taking little time to determine the culprit, grabbed the drunken man by the scruff of the neck. “Why don’t you watch what you’re doing, you—”
The sentence was never finished. The drunken man needed little excuse for a good brawl, and struck an awkward blow across the other man’s face. As soon as the punch landed, sheer pandemonium broke out. People began to yell and scream, with some calling for calm and others shoving each other for perceived slights. A domino effect of violence ripped through the crowd.
The commotion had also drawn the attention of the bald man one car down. Dmitry frowned, his senses telling him that something didn’t smell right. He had already determined that the man they had been following was a professional, and the fact that a commotion had broken out near where he had been standing was certainly not a coincidence. He reached into his right coat pocket and clutched the semi-automatic pistol hidden there. He then pushed through the crowd toward the scene that was unfolding, troubled that he could no longer see the target.
As he drew closer, an automated voice warned people to step away from the subway doors. Dmitry panicked and shoved two women out of the way, arriving at the scene with his gun half drawn.
Seconds later the doors finally slid shut, he came to a disturbing conclusion: the man they had been following was no longer there.
Filled with rage, Dmitry turned and looked out the window. It was hard to see anything on the crowded platform, but as the train left the station he could have sworn he saw a man with long brown hair running up the stairs.
CHAPTER NINE
Alexander Mironov sat perfectly still on the balcony of the mountain chalet overlooking the snow-covered village of Verbier, Switzerland. Two heat lamps glowed on either side of him, providing warmth on the bitterly cold night. A trail of smoke drifted into the night air from a Double Corona cigar positioned between two of his fingers.