The Domino Game (14 page)

Two plus the driver at least. Three minimum.

He tracked the scope across the roof of the black sedan. This one was taller, his movements more fluid and confident, his back and shoulders cloaked in a dark overcoat: well fitted, expensive. He turned slightly and the shooter caught his profile as he said something across the car, then he swung away again and started across the street towards the building.

Nikolai took the last step onto the stone floor of the lobby and stopped. The entry lay in front of him now, the glazed panel of the door covered by a thick film of condensation that had settled against it overnight. He should have been able to see ahead – to see through it to where Hartman should have been waiting outside, his Embassy car behind him at the curb – but he couldn’t. Couldn’t see anything.

He started forward, slowly, conscious of the click of his heels against the floor, passing the thickly varnished door of the superintendent’s flat to the right, the disused elevator car to the left. Through the clouded pane ahead he could see movement now: the shadow of an approaching figure projected onto the glass by the weak light from the streetlamps outside.

Something was wrong, he knew it. Knew it first from the look he had seen in Natalia’s eyes and now from his own instinct, but what option did he have? There was nowhere else to go so he carried on, stepping slowly towards the edge of his life.

Jack Hartman inched forward, crouching low and close to the row of cars at the edge of the pavement. Eighty meters out from the Mercedes he noticed the movement and slid onto the street, covering himself between the hood of a battered Fiat Uno and the back of an ancient Volvo wagon, watching through the corner of the grime-smeared tailgate glass as the first man climbed from the Audi and the second followed. He froze. Dropped to his haunches and pressed in close to the back of the Volvo, lifting the automatic, reading it in the muted light.

It was a Glock 20, 10 mm. Familiar, at least. He released the clip and eased it into his palm, checking the magazine. Ten shot version. Fully loaded. He slid the clip back into place. What the hell for, he had no idea… stranded in no-man’s-land on a dark street, midway between his only means of escape at one end, Nikolai Aven and a carload of Russian secret police at the other. He swore to himself. Looked back, then forward, judging distances and the time it would take to cover them.

The man in the overcoat had started to cross the street now; the other was making his way around the front of the Audi, ready to follow. They were only twenty meters at most from Aven’s door. There was no way in the world he could get there before them and even if he could, what the hell use would it be? He glanced down at the Glock again. Unless he was prepared to use it, because that was his only chance. Aven and his family’s only chance.

Hartman closed his eyes, aware of the throbbing pulse at the side of his neck. Was he? Was he prepared to use it?

How the fuck had he ever gotten himself into this!

He pulled a breath and lowered the pistol to his side, edging back onto the pavement, working forward again, clinging to the shadows.

The door knob was new. Round brass and polished.

It was the first time he had noticed it and it struck Nikolai as absurd. Everything else in the building was falling to pieces but the door knob was new.

He closed his hand around the cold metal and turned, pulling the glazed panel inwards, feeling the frigid night air slithering through the opening, flowing into the lobby and enveloping him.

There was a figure straight ahead. Tall, draped in a heavy, dark coat, striding across the curb between two parked cars, coming towards him… Hartman wasn’t tall.

Behind the approaching figure Nikolai caught another movement – a second man stepping from the shadows, falling in behind the first – then the man in the overcoat spoke to him, called his name as a question.

“Nikolai Aven?” The voice was deep, the syllables pronounced with the guttural Russian inflection.

The second man had caught up and now they were striding towards him in unison. Nikolai looked past them and saw the sleek shape of the black sedan parked behind them on the other side of the street.

The voice came again, calling across the last few meters that separated them, demanding, now.

“Are you Nikolai Aven?”

Nikolai stood on the threshold, body frozen, mind racing.

This wasn’t Hartman. They weren’t his people. But they weren’t Ivankov’s people either. He knew the tone. Not the voice but the tone… Recognized the bearing and the confident authority. These were government men. Not FSB; Procurator’s Office or Interior Ministry. His mind was spinning beyond reason.

What was this? What was going on?

A film of sweat had risen across his face and brow and a deep, hollow clutching gnawed in the pit of his stomach.

He took a step outside, letting the door come to rest against his back, keeping it ajar as he stared at the approaching figures. To his left his eye caught another movement, further along the street, but there was no time to compute its meaning. The two men came to a stop, in front of him, the one in the overcoat, directly opposite, the second a pace behind and to the side. Nikolai steeled himself, searching for his voice.

“Yes,” he answered tentatively. “I am Nikolai Aven. Who are you? What do you want?”

His cover was gone now.

In the time it had taken the men from the car to cross the street Hartman had closed in by another thirty meters, but now they’d all arrived on the same stretch of pavement and he had nowhere to go. He shot a glance at the Glock. Still hadn’t answered the question about whether he was prepared to use it. The last time had been in Beirut half a dozen years before, when an exchange with a bunch of Islamic militants had turned to shit and he’d had to shoot his way out of the situation dragging a wounded hostage with him. The odds stacked against him now were even worse than they had been then. Lousy light, someone else’s weapon and multiple targets too far away to give him a realistic chance. And now there was another problem. Another obstacle in his path.

Up ahead a dozen paces someone had discarded a packing carton, big as a dog’s house, at the edge of the curb. If he tried to track around it the men from the car would see him for sure, so what next? He was working the problem when the front door of Nikolai Aven’s building swung inwards.

His eyes tracked to the left. The men from the car were crossing the curb. Too late to try and break around the carton; his only option was to get as close as he could. He took a dive, rolling low across the pavement, coming up in the corner between the carton and the nearest car with the Glock locked before him in a two-handed grip.

Aven was standing on the threshold now, squared off against the two men confronting him. His head swiveled a fraction and he threw a brief glance in Hartman’s direction, then turned back and started to speak. Hartman was too far away to hear the words but close enough to see the reaction. The taller man began to reach into his overcoat pocket and he knew this was it: the defining moment. To have any chance of pulling Aven out of this he had to act now.

This was crazy. Even if he could take these two, there could still be more in the car. And then he had to somehow get Aven and his family out of there and that was just the start. Christ! What was he doing?

An image of Kelly flashed through his mind… little girl, teenager, grown woman; a wedding he wished would never happen yet, worse still, might never see… Why was he doing this? Then somehow Kelly became Nance, and whether it was her voice he heard, or his own, he couldn’t tell.

Our lives. Our time together. Our daughter. What would you have done if someone had tried to take all of that away from us? You’re doing it because it’s
right!

That was the answer. However crazy it was, it was right. He swallowed hard and swung the Glock across the edge of the carton, his aim tracking to the gloved hand emerging from the coat pocket.

First threat, first priority.

Concentrate, Hartman. Trust your judgment. Take it one step at a time.

Nikolai heard the trail of apprehension in his own voice. “What do you want?”

The man in the overcoat stared back at him for a moment then looked aside, as though he would have preferred not to have been there. His movement was sudden. His gloved hand plunged into the pocket of his coat and a kaleidoscope of panic shattered in Nikolai’s brain as he realized he had been betrayed. He had been betrayed and he was going to die here, on his own doorstep, at four a.m. on a cold Moscow morning, with his wife and daughter waiting for him upstairs. His eyes fell to the man’s pocket, waiting for the hand to emerge. Waiting to see the gun, or knife or piano wire, or whatever instrument of death they had chosen for him, but it didn’t happen. There was no weapon. Nothing more sinister than the small leather wallet flicked open on the gold and red MVD seal. Then the man in the overcoat was speaking again, pinning him with his eyes.

“Nikolai Aven, I am under orders to arrest you. You are charged with treason against the Russian Federation.”

Nikolai knew it was absurd, of course, but a wave of relief surged through him, draining him, leaving him dizzy. He shook his head and started to speak and at that precise moment the world exploded.

The trigger drew back to the point of no return then crossed it with the faintest click and the head that had been locked at the center of the crosshairs disintegrated in an eruption of bone, blood and brain, then the whip crack of the rifle echoed around the deserted street and the glass door behind Nikolai Aven shattered into a million fragments as the bullet continued on its course.

For an instant Hartman thought he must have fired the Glock but he hadn’t. The man in the overcoat was still standing, stunned, open-mouthed. The second man who a moment before had been standing just behind him lay sprawled on the sidewalk at the center of a widening pool of blood.

Instinct took over and Hartman dropped like a stone behind the cover of the packing case, spinning from left to right, searching for an explanation.

Shit!
What the fuck was happening?

One thing was certain. Besides himself, Aven and the guys from the car, there was someone else out there as well. But who the hell was it, and whose fucking side were they on?

Think! Focus!

There was only one answer. It had to be Ivankov and that meant Aven had been the target. Whoever these other guys were – MVD, whatever – they must have just stumbled into the way, but the fact that they were here at all raised its own questions. How had they known to be here right now? Who the hell had sent them, and why?

From behind in the street he heard the sound of a car door slamming, then another; a second rifle shot then a third, then voices – tight and frantic – screamed commands and acknowledgments. Hartman pushed himself up on his haunches and squinted back along the street.

Aven and the man in the coat were struggling now, pushing and pulling like a couple of schoolkids around the body on the pavement, then the man in the coat skidded in something and lost his footing and Aven broke free and stumbled backwards. Maybe there was still a chance – still something Hartman could do – but that hinged on what was going on in the street and on that score he was flying completely blind. He shuffled backwards into the narrow space behind the nearest car and squinted out through the gloom, trying to work out what the hell was happening.

He saw the shooter first, crouched low, right arm rigid, holding the rifle close and parallel to the ground, sprinting away from the open playground towards the line of darkened buildings behind the park. He let the figure go and tracked backwards until he picked up the one giving chase, ducking and weaving between trees and around benches, a handgun raised at his shoulder, the edges of his jacket flailing behind him as he ran.

But then he’d heard two car doors slamming; that meant there was someone else.

He spun to the right and picked up the fourth man from the car heading in the opposite direction, darting across the street towards Aven’s building, heading right for the shattered doorway, the man in the overcoat scrambling back to his feet, following.

Hartman heard a noise from above and looked up.

Lights were flicking on all over the place now, figures and faces appearing at windows, sashes being dragged open and questions called into the night. Then there was another sound, further away, and he recognized it immediately: the low silken growl of a high- powered engine, overtaking the confusion.

He clambered to his feet, looked around and saw the black Mercedes twenty meters back and coming up fast. The driver spotted him and braked. Slewed to a stop beside him, a hand from inside flinging the passenger door wide open, a tense voice screaming at him across the seat.

“Get in! For fucks sake, get in, now!”

Hartman stalled a second, casting around desperately. They had Aven now. The man in the overcoat and the fourth man from the car had him locked between them, dragging him away from the building’s entry. He was struggling. Shouting and fighting back but he had no chance. Across the street the third man – the one who had given chase across the park – was heading back, shaking his head, his handgun loosely grasped at his side.

The Mercedes’ engine snarled with impatience and he heard Roman’s voice yelling at him again from the darkened cabin.

“Forget him. He’s fucked!”

There were sirens now. Not just one but several, clashing, discordant tones growing louder. Different species converging from different directions, to this center of death and betrayal. The voice from the car snarled again through the increasing mayhem.

“For Christ’s sake, do you hear me? This is your last chance!”

Hartman made his decision and dived for the passenger seat, rolling into the black leather and slamming the door behind him. Beside him Roman’s eyes blazed wild with anger. For a moment his fury foundered and Hartman recognized the guarded cast of conscience and regret, then he swung away, throwing the car into gear and the tires screamed as the big Mercedes rocketed forward.