No Tomorrow (31 page)

T
he car rocked back and forth on its suspension for a moment. Victor grimaced from the whiplash. His chest felt a little sore. Gisele hadn't been wearing her belt and was now unconscious and slumped in her seat. Yigor had come off worse. Far worse. Both shins had snapped. His knees were broken. Even his ankles were broken.

He groaned instead of screamed because the adrenaline in his system was negating the pain. Otherwise he would be unconscious like Gisele. It was one of the benefits of shock, but the disadvantages were going to be as costly for a man in Yigor's position. He didn't try to retrieve the gun that had flown from his hand in the sudden stop.

“What the fuck?”
he managed to grunt, looking down at the wreckage of his legs.

Victor unclasped the seat belt and examined Gisele. She'd hit her head and was out cold but breathing well. He climbed out of the car. They were on a quiet road that cut between factories. No other vehicles. No people. No witnesses.

He circled the car and opened the far rear door. Yigor
stared at him. White showed all around his pupils. Sweat shone on his paling face. Victor ignored him and fished in the foot well until he found Yigor's gun under the passenger's seat. There was nowhere else it could have gone.

“Wait,” Yigor said.

Victor closed the door. He circled back around the vehicle. Yigor's gun was a .45-caliber Colt 1911.

He opened the door next to Yigor.

“Wait,” the Russian said again, this time through gritted teeth because he was shaking off the shock and now the agony of multiple fractures was intensifying with every passing second.

“Please,” Yigor begged. Rivulets of sweat ran down from his temples. “No shoot me. Please.”

“Give me your knife,” Victor said. “Grip first.”

Yigor's trembling fingers took it from his pocket. He struggled to turn it around in his hand and presented the grip to Victor by holding the blade. Victor took it in his left hand and tossed it away.

“Phone.”

Yigor tried to pull it from his hip pocket, but screamed as he increased the pressure of his trousers against his injured legs in the process. He tugged his hand away and took a series of breaths as he fought to control the pain. Tears joined the sweat on his face.

Victor said, “Either you get it or I do.”

Yigor hesitated, then tried a second time. He screamed again, but this time he didn't stop. He kept screaming until the phone was free. He didn't have the strength to hold it up, so Victor reached inside the car to take it out of his hand; he was too weak to try anything.

“Who is the woman?”

“I not know her name. We speak on phone only.”

Victor looked through the call log. Between the most recent calls to Victor's phone and a call to Norimov, was another number.

“Is this her?” Victor asked.

Yigor nodded. “I sorry,” he said, sobbing. “For everything. I got greedy. I should have said no to taking photo.”

“You took the photograph of Norimov coming out of the restaurant?”

“Yes. I make threat. But not easy turning on Norimov. I had to think about it first. Not easy saying yes. I so sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Victor said. “But I'm still going to kill you.”

“No,” Yigor spat. “You need me. I can call and help fix things, yes? You need me.”

“I only need you to die.”

“Then shoot. I care not.”

“Unfortunately for you, your gun doesn't have many bullets.”

Yigor frowned in confusion, then his eyes widened when Victor turned the pistol around so he held it by the barrel, steel grip protruding beyond his knuckles like the head of a hammer.

•   •   •

Gisele had woken up by the time Victor had driven the Fiat back to the wasteland, gently lifted her from the passenger's seat, and placed her in Yigor's rented Subaru.

“Holy shit,” Gisele breathed, groggy and disorientated. “My head is killing me.”

Victor squatted down so he was at her level. He took her head in his palms and peered into her eyes.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Hell.”

“Follow my finger with your eyes.” He moved his index finger laterally and then in circular motions. “Do you feel sick or does anything else hurt apart from your head?”

“No.”

“Then you'll be fine,” Victor assured her. “You don't have a concussion.”

“What happened?”

“Yigor's dead. You don't want to know any more than that.”

She inhaled deeply and nodded. “Okay, what happens now?”

Victor said, “This is what we're going to do . . .”

T
hey took the Docklands Light Railway into the city, disembarking the train and making their way out of the station and into the heart of the city's financial district, the Square Mile. The streets were alive with men and women in business wear and heavy winter coats, sipping from take-out coffee cups or on the move, eager to get home after a day's trading, borrowing, stealing.

With Gisele at his side and a limited time frame, Victor couldn't perform the kind of thorough countersurveillance run he would have liked, but he circled his destination at a circumference of four blocks, spiraling inward as he analyzed the environs. It was an area of historic office buildings, ornate and beautiful. Bars, cafés, and eateries flanked the streets at ground level to sustain and entertain the workers.

The sun had retreated behind the horizon but the numerous lights from streetlights, headlights, and shining through windows and from signs meant he had no trouble checking every face and vehicle he saw. Victor bought a black coffee from a street vendor and sipped it as he
walked slowly against the flow of pedestrians. Gisele declined one.

The air smelled as dirty as the sky appeared. Here, Victor looked like everyone else and Gisele stood out in the sweatshirt and hat, but she didn't look like the employee of a law firm and that was the important factor. As they approached their destination, Victor slowed their pace and took his time, searching for danger spots and anyone who could be a threat. He saw no one, but they couldn't yet risk getting too close to the building housing Gisele's workplace. If they were watching, they would be near the building, ready to act. Her disguise wouldn't fool them there.

“Is this the one?” Victor asked Gisele when they came to a tube station.

She nodded. “This is the closest, yeah. What do we do now?”

“Wait.”

They did, loitering inside the main entrance so they were not exposed to any threats passing on the street outside. Victor was good at waiting. He could remain relaxed and alert for endless hours without becoming distracted or bored. He had killed many hard targets simply by waiting long enough for the perfect opportunity to strike. Similarly, he had survived many threats by outwaiting an enemy who was encouraged to make a mistake through boredom or distraction. Gisele did not have the same experience nor the same hunter's mentality, but she kept any nervousness or frustration in check.

After nine minutes, she said, “Him. In the gray overcoat. I think he works at the accountancy firm on the floor above. I see him in the café every lunchtime. Decaf skinny latte.”

Victor didn't acknowledge the comment. He turned to follow Gisele's gaze. A small crowd of people was crossing the road, hurrying to beat the flashing traffic light and get out of the rain. They were heading toward the station, the density of the crowd increasing as they were funneled through the entrance. Victor set off in their direction, looking down as he fiddled with his jacket buttons.

A man bumped into him and apologized. Another did not. A third, wearing a gray overcoat, told him to watch where he was going.

Victor stopped and turned, watching as the man walked away muttering to himself. Gisele was looking at Victor and he nodded. She made her way over to him.

“Was that it?” she asked.

He nodded again and led her away from the entrance.

“I didn't see a thing.”

“That's the idea. Here.” He opened the man's wallet and Gisele spotted a white pass card and slid it out.

“That's it. Wasn't sure if theirs would be the same as ours, but I guess everyone would have to use the same ones to get through the lobby, wouldn't they?” She dropped it into a pocket. “What are you going to do with the wallet?”

“Dispose of it.”

“Do we have to? Seems a little harsh. On him, I mean.”

She gestured to where the man in the gray overcoat was standing before the station's electronic turnstiles, patting down the pockets of his coat and trousers and shaking his head. A station employee watched him with an unsympathetic look.

“How's he going to get home?” Gisele asked.

The man in the gray overcoat was becoming
increasingly frustrated at his inability to locate his wallet. The station employee motioned for him to move out of other people's way.

Gisele said, “What if it's his kid's birthday party and he's going to miss it? Maybe the kid doesn't get to see her dad much. Maybe this is going to break her heart.”

Victor saw the compassion in Gisele's eyes. He didn't know what it felt like, but he saw its importance. “Would you prefer that I return the wallet?”

“Yes, please.”

He did, tapping the man on the shoulder and saying, “I think you dropped this.”

He wasn't thanked.

They found a quiet area outside the flow of people. He made sure no one was in earshot and said, “There's no accessible entrance to the building aside from the main one, so when you're inside, walk quickly, like you're in a hurry, but not so fast as to draw undue attention. Keep your head angled down to give cameras a harder time seeing your face, but be aware of who is around you. Make sure you breathe. Holding your breath because you're tense will just make you more stressed. Take long, slow breaths. Don't forget what we discussed. Don't draw attention to yourself. If you're forced to engage with someone, keep it brief. Only provide the cover story if you're asked. Don't offer it. When we lie we provide too many details in an attempt to be believed. So do the opposite. Get to Lester's office and retrieve only what you need and then leave. If something feels wrong, it probably is. Trust your instincts. Just walk away. Remember to—”

She interrupted him: “I remember. We've been through it a hundred times already. If I don't know what to do by now, I'm never going to. But I do know it.”

He saw that she was putting on a brave face for his benefit. In a way, she was trying to protect him, so he wouldn't worry.

She said, “Whatever happens, I hope you believe me when I say I'm sorry all of this has happened. You couldn't have known what a pile of shit it would be when you said you'd protect me. You've done so much. More than I can ever repay. I'm so sorry. I really am.”

“There's no need to apologize, Gisele. None of this is your fault. And even if it were, I would still protect you.”

She was shaking her head. “Knowing my mother is not enough of a reason for you to go through this for me. It's not. It's not enough.”

“That's how it began, Gisele,” he said. “But now I'm doing this because I know you as well.”

“I . . . I don't know what to say to that.”

“You don't have to. Just remember to—”

“I've got it, okay? Trust me.”

He looked down at her. She was untrained and vulnerable yet spoke with impressive confidence. He realized he was more concerned for her life than he was for his own.

Victor placed a hand on her shoulder. “I do trust you.”

T
he building's exterior was a typical example of early eighteenth-century Edwardian architecture, but the interior had been completely modernized. The lobby was vast and formed the ground floor of a large atrium. Two rows of three lifts provided access to the five floors of offices that ringed the atrium behind glass walls. Two bright-faced receptionists sat behind a long, curved counter. A security guard stood before an electronic turnstile and failed to stifle a yawn.

Gisele kept her head angled down to protect her face from security cameras, as her companion had instructed her, but kept her eyes moving in an attempt to identify any threats. She exhaled through pursed lips, mouth already dry. What was she supposed to do if she did identify any? Knowing a few self-defense techniques and having a can of pepper spray was not going to do her much good if she came face-to-face with an armed mercenary.

But if her companion was right, that scenario wouldn't arise.

The lobby seemed even more massive than usual—vast
and scary. She avoided eye contact with the two people sitting behind the reception desk and touched the white plastic identity card to the turnstile reader.

“How are you today, miss?” the security guard standing nearby asked.

Damn, she'd hoped he wouldn't be paying attention. She glanced up at big, kind Alan and said, “No rest for the wicked.”

He smiled and she wondered if he really cared as he seemed to or whether it was all part of the job. A blinking light switched from red to green and a double-glass divide parted to let her through the barrier. She looked over her shoulder. Alan the security guard was watching her. She told herself to relax. She knew him. She saw him every day. He wasn't one of them.

There were six elevators in two banks of three, opposite each other. She pressed the closest button and rubbed her palms together while she waited for a set of doors to open. She exhaled when they parted and no gunman was standing inside waiting for her.

She walked in backward to make sure no one was about to follow her. The wait for the doors to close after she hit the button for the law firm's floor was an eternity.

The ascent was thankfully swift and no one was waiting as she stepped out. She dared to hope that maybe this was going to work out after all.
Stay focused,
she reminded herself.
Mind on the present.

Near the elevators was a fire-evacuation plan fixed to a wall. It showed the layout of the entire floor. She'd never noticed it before. She'd never paid that much attention to her surroundings.

One corner turned and she was in the firm's reception area. It was a tastefully decorated space that did a good
job of making the firm appear friendly and welcoming. And it was, for paying clients.

Caroline, the receptionist, greeted her. “Miss Maynard, welcome back. I . . . I almost didn't recognize you.”

“Oh yeah,” Gisele said, nervously touching her hair. What with the stress of thinking about everything else, she had forgotten about the disguise. Thinking fast, she said, “Bit of a new look, right? Not sure I like it, but I had one of those crazy I-feel-like-a-change moments. You know?”

“Tell me about it. I think one of those moments is around the corner. But I'm talking about my boyfriend, not my hair.”

Gisele laughed along with her, happy that she seemed to have gotten away with it.

The receptionist said, “Little late to be coming to the office, isn't it, hon? Nearly everyone has gone off to celebrate Bella's victory. Cocktails on the firm's tab. Nice work if you can get it, yeah?”

“She won? That's great news. Good for her. Tell her I said well done when you see her next. As for the free cocktails, why do you think I want to have a proper job here? Cosmos, girl. It's all about the cosmos. Anyway, I'm just nipping in to pick up a few things. I'm still under the weather but I don't want to fall any farther behind or I'll never catch up again.” She felt her face growing warmer and feared a blush might give her away. She cleared her throat. Her mind raced for something else to say. She was going into the cover story needlessly. Like he said, giving too many details in trying to be believable. All she could think of was: “Has Lester come back to work yet?”

“No.” Caroline's face was somber. “In fact, I'm
getting a bit worried about him. Something is going on, I reckon. Not that anyone's telling me anything. Have you heard how he is?”

Gisele shook her head. She didn't believe she could lie with enough conviction.

“I hope he's okay,” Caroline said.

“Me too.” She began to walk past the desk. “I'd better get a move on. Doctor says I shouldn't even be out of bed.”

“Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. Oh, I almost forgot. A guy came here looking for you.”

Gisele's felt her pulse spike. “A guy? Who was he?”

Caroline shrugged. “Said he had a meeting with you. There was no record of one. I thought he was full of shit, personally. Weird, huh?”

She swallowed. “Yeah. What did he look like?”

“Dark hair. Real serious-looking.” She gave a lighthearted impression of such a look, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Then she smiled coyly. “I wouldn't kick him out of bed, though. He looked like the kind of man who knows things, if you get me.”

Gisele relaxed. “Don't stress about him. We know each other now. He's cool.”

The receptionist grinned. “Good for you, girl. What's his name?”

Gisele hesitated, mouth open and unable to respond.

“Oh,” the receptionist said, “like that, is it? Bit of a mystery man, is he?”

“Understatement of the year,” Gisele said, smiling back.

The smile slipped from her face the instant she turned away. Her heart was racing. She was amazed she'd got
this far on nothing but her wits. It was starting to feel natural. Maybe he was right: maybe she would make a good barrister someday.

The receptionist hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said most people had left already. The open-plan area where Gisele had her desk was empty. That would cut down on the conversations and lies she would have to engage in, and gave her a better chance of finding what she came here for. She didn't know how many of the senior lawyers were in their individual offices, but the general rule was if the bigwigs were working late, then so was everyone else. If they were partying, everyone partied with them. Still, a few workaholics might be about.

What would she say to them if she was challenged? They were all confident, intimidating people. She could hardly pretend to be ill with fake coughs and sniffles. She crossed the open-plan area and headed to Lester's office. No one was about. She licked her dry lips and turned the door handle.

Locked.

“Shit,” Gisele said.

She fantasized kicking it open and striding in, but she knew she'd break her foot long before the door gave way, and be dragged out by security long before that. Then she would find out if Alan really was as nice as he acted.

What would her companion do in her place?

Gisele knew. He would kick it open. Easily, no doubt. Or he would pick the lock in seconds. She didn't even know what a picklock looked like.

Her left arm was hurting and she rubbed it as she thought through her options. The main problem seemed to be that she had no options.

If she couldn't come up with something fast, it was all over.

•   •   •

On a wide boulevard nearby luxury vehicles wet with rain gleamed in the glow of streetlights. While Gisele performed her role at the firm, Victor attempted his own, walking fast along the curb, his jacket sleeve brushing the side mirrors of parked vehicles. They were tightly parked, nose to tail. The car roofs were about armpit height; the big four-by-fours rose to his chin. Staying close to the cars gave him excellent concealment from any gunmen across the street, at whatever elevation, from whatever distance. A high-velocity round wouldn't be stopped by the bodywork, but the more bodywork between Victor and the shooter, the more chance of a ricochet or deflection if the shooter was good, or an outright miss if he was not.

The pavement was busy with pedestrians in business attire and winter clothing. Most chatted on their phones or toyed with them. He walked a little faster than those around him. Moving with pace would make it harder for anyone tracking him to take a shot. A continuous stream of people passed him on both sides, providing a good deal of cover and concealment. The movements of the crowd were unpredictable and would interrupt lines of sight from any position. He weaved through the pedestrian traffic, never walking in a straight line because he couldn't know where such a shot would come from. If he'd miscalculated this action it would prove fatal.

He identified the watchers within a minute. There were two: one at the intersection at the end of the street and another opposite the building. Both men, competent but nowhere near elite, because they were mercenaries,
not pavement artists—soldiers, not spies. One sat on a bench reading a newspaper. A reasonable cover, except he held it too close to his waist to read comfortably, so he could watch the building entrance. The second man smoked. On first impression he was doing nothing more. He might have popped out of a nearby building to enjoy his cigarette in the sunshine, or perhaps he smoked while waiting for someone. His mistake was the three crushed stubs near where he stood.

Victor entered the building. He didn't look to see whether either man noticed him. If they knew who to watch for, then they would have, without question. If they didn't, then there was nothing to gain by looking in their direction except an increased chance of recognition.

Inside it was predictably grand, but unnecessarily so with huge chandeliers, frescoes, and bronze statues. Plenty of money had been spent but little class had been applied. The city had numerous private clubs more than a century old and had survived until this day through a steadfast adherence to excellence and tradition. This club was one of the many that tried too hard to emulate the originals. Victor was no snob, but he appreciated the difference.

“Mr. Ivanov,” Victor said to a statuesque maître d' in a cocktail dress. “Table for two.”

A brief check of the log. “Your date is waiting for you, Mr. Ivanov.”

“Tremendous.”

She led him through the tables, busy with the early-evening crowd. He walked directly behind her, scanning the interior for threats, but saw none. Every table was
busy. There were no lone men or women trying not to look observant.

Good. This might work.

The maître d' motioned. “Here you go, sir.”

Sitting at the table was a blond woman with green eyes.