2. Chebakov
"Kazimits Chebakov."
The screen showed a black and white surveillance photo of a flashily dressed man in his mid forties climbing out of the back of a black stretch limo.
"Officially a respected businessman, though his links to organised crime are an open secret." The speaker was a woman called Ludmilla Karpuchin.
Tall and spare and smartly besuited, she still looked remarkably fit and athletic in her late fifties. There was scarcely an ounce of unnecessary flesh on her lanky frame. Short cropped greying blonde hair made her face look harsh and unforgiving. She was the Director of this top-secret joint FSB/SVR special intelligence task force.
"Money laundering; prostitution rackets; stealing and selling on classified intelligence. You name it. Chebakov's as dirty as they come. Unfortunately he has enough friends in high political circles to make him more or less untouchable by the FSB. Too many high ranking people would face sudden, immanent embarrassment were he to be arrested."
Svetlana gave a short nod as Director Karpuchin glanced across at her. She knew that this summary was for her benefit. To everyone else present in the briefing it was old news. The picture on screen changed, displaying a different man of similar age and dress sense.
"Luri Karpochev. Chebakov's former close friend and business partner. Six months ago he was assassinated. The lift he was taking was sabotaged and he and two bodyguards fell forty-seven floors. Normally the death of one such as Karpochev might have been cause for celebration, but it has had serious repercussions on our efforts to take down Chebakov. Chebakov has become convinced he is the next target for Karpochev's killers, and has turned increasingly paranoiac and security conscious. The agent we had working inside his operation was compromised; murdered before we could extract him. Gaining any intelligence at all on him has proved the devil's own work ever since."
"Do we know who killed Karpochev?" Svetlana asked, looking up from her notes, which made no mention of it. Everyone else present turned and looked at her.
"That is yet to have been determined to our satisfaction," Director Karpuchin answered after a fractional pause. "Anyway, you'll be pleased to know we've finally got our hands on some actionable intelligence in regard to Mr. Chebakov. Agent Romatsev?"
Tchéky stood up and cleared his throat. "Thank you Director. Last week we intercepted a communiqué that indicated Chebakov had acquired a 'package'. We don't know exactly what the package is, though reference was made to a manuscript of some kind. What we do know is that Chebakov has arranged to sell this package on to a Muslim fundamentalist group operating out of Chechnya. Of course, we can't allow that to happen, and our best chance of preventing the transaction taking place occurs tonight." As he said this he looked directly at Svetlana.
Svetlana raised an eyebrow. "What happens tonight?"
* * *
"Like what you see, do you?" Svetlana favoured the doorman with a slanted smile as she stood with her arms outstretched to either side and her chest thrust out.
She was dressed in a black PVC mini-skirt that stopped before mid-thigh and high-heeled diamanté sandals. A bright pink mesh blouse was unbuttoned halfway down the front to show a black push-up bra. The ensemble was completed by a thick dark auburn wig and vampishly heavy makeup. Red tinted sunglasses perched precariously on the end of her nose.
"Not bad." The doorman tried and failed to sound nonchalant as he ran a hand held metal detector up and down her sides. He didn't even attempt to disguise the fact he that his gaze was glued fast to her uplifted and out-thrust cleavage.
"Tsk, only not bad?" Dark red lips formed a sultry pout. "Well you can't have any of it anyway. It's for your boss."
The metal detector bleeped as it passed over the large and ostentatious ring that adorned her finger. "Take it off," the doorman ordered.
She furrowed her brow, frowning. "It was a gift from Kazzy. He likes me you know? It's a real diamond."
"Of course it is." He smirked. "Now give it here."
Feigning anger, she pulled it off her finger and thrust it at him. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic." He looked the ring over carefully, twisting at the gem, looking for any sign of seams or hidden compartments. Svetlana tapped a foot impatiently.
Finally he appeared satisfied. There was a mocking edge to his smirk as he handed the ring back to her. "You do know that if it was really pure gold it wouldn't have set off the metal detector?"
"Bastard," She muttered under her breath just loud enough to be overheard.
His smirk just broadened.
Pointedly Svetlana ignored him, turning to the second doorman who had been going meticulously through the contents of her sequinned shoulder bag. "Can I have my bag back?" She stretched out a hand imperiously.
"Tsarina." He favoured her with a mock bow.
"Thank you." She snatched it from him grasp, then strutted angrily up the steps and through the front door. Grinning at each other the two doormen moved on to search the next of the girls in the line.
"Okay, I'm in."
"Copy Mountaineer."
* * *
"Tonight Mr. Chebakov is throwing a party." Tchéky grinned wolfishly. "An entourage from Khazakstan are in town as his guests. They've just closed an arms deal. That used to be Karpochev's area, but Chebakov has conscientiously branched out to meet the needs of his late partner's client list. The party is being held in the Khazaks' honour."
"I take it we have an in on this party?"
"Oh, indeed Svetlana." He spread his hands. "In normal circumstances you'd have more chance of crashing the current summit between Premier Putin and Prime Minister Blair. The security is that tight."
"But you've found a weakness."
"Oh, indeed."
"Get on with it, Agent Romatsev," Director Karpuchin interjected dryly. "I'm sure we're all fully appreciative of your cleverness."
Tchéky coloured slightly. The corner of Svetlana's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. "Girls," he said finally. "Chebakov runs several high class brothels, and is providing a number of girls for his guests . . . shall we say, entertainment. We've found a way to intercept and replace one of them."
"So I get to play prostitute."
Apparently Tchéky managed to detect the suggestion of distaste in Svetlana's voice even though she thought she'd managed to keep it well hidden. "It's just a way in, Svetlana. You won't be expected to 'entertain' anybody." A half smile. "Except possibly yourself."
"You're sure you're ready for this, Agent Borushka?" Director Karpuchin was looking at her intently as she spoke.
Svetlana returned her gaze levelly – gave a single emphatic nod. "Completely ready."
The Director smiled. It looked a fraction odd – out of place – on her hard drawn face. "Welcome back Svetlana. We've all missed you."
* * *
Svetlana strode rapidly across the floor of the main ballroom, heels clicking on the white marble tiles, hips swaying metronomically. Music blared, mixed with shouted conversation and raucous laughter. The air was hazy with smoke, only some of it tobacco.
Suddenly – unexpectedly – an arm swung around her waist, bringing her up short. "And where are you off to in such a hurry, pretty one?"
It was an effect to suppress her instinctive reflexes. Twist the arm round hard, locking it tight. Then use the assailant's own momentum to throw him over your hip, maintaining your grip on the arm and dislocating it at the shoulder in the process. Stamp down hard on the exposed throat to forestall any further struggles. Instead she managed to merely twist lithely round in the man's grasp, tilt her head winsomely to one side, and smile seductively. "Hurrying to meet you of course, sweetness."
"To meet me? Aw, isn't that nice." She caught a blast of sour, alcohol-laden breath at point blank range but managed to keep herself from flinching back. She traced a red-nailed fingertip slowly down a jowly, stubble covered cheek. "Chebakov may be a complete ass," he slurred out. "But I have to commend him on his taste in women."
"So sweetness, would you like to dance?" The hand that had initially made itself at home on her hip now slid down to grope clumsily at her backside through the seat of her skirt. She contented herself by simply imagining herself breaking every bone in that hand, one at a time. Start with the carpals, then move up to the metacarpals . . . The phalanges would probably need the help of something like a hammer or nutcracker. Her smile broadened and she snaked a finger teasingly down the front of his shirt. "Or would you prefer to go somewhere more . . . private?"
He leered at her in a way that made her think he was going to start drooling like an overeager bulldog. "Somewhere more private?"
"Good choice," Drawing him forward, she planted a firm kiss on his cheek.
* * *
"Lipstick?"
"Lipstick," The balding, avuncular head of technical services agreed with a smile. His name was Sergei Krassik, and in appearance he managed to fulfil just about every stereotype of absent minded professor there was going. "Laced with a microcapsule formula derived from sodium pentathol that can be absorbed through the skin. Makes a person drowsy, euphoric and highly suggestible."
Svetlana started to say something, but Sergei forestalled her by raising a hand and smiling. "I think I know the next question, Svet." He slid a small box across the table to her. It contained half a dozen plain white pills. "Take one of these twenty minutes before applying the lipstick. It will counteract the effects. One dose will last for three hours. The active ingredients in the lipstick will oxidise and become ineffective within about an hour. Simply reapply as necessary."
"So all I have to do is kiss someone . . .."
"And they'll do just about anything you want," he finished for her with another smile. "Of course, possibly you don't even need the lipstick."
* * *
Svetlana felt the man stumble against her side and guided him towards a low, leather-covered sofa. He collapsed onto it, gazing up at her with a somewhat glazed look. She started to walk away.
"Where are you going, pretty one?"
She smiled back at him over her shoulder. "I just need to powder my nose, honey. I'll be right back."
"But your nose is already perfect," he pouted.
"Surely you want me to look my best for you?"
After a moment he nodded, smiling dopily and making a little waving gesture. "Hurry. I'll be waiting."
Turning on heel, she suppressed a shudder as she walked away.
As she reached the other side of the hall she looked around casually to make sure that no one was paying her any undue attention, then ducked into a dimly lit corridor. She reached up and swept a strand of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Boy Scout. Confirm: the door to the basement is 2G."
"Confirmed Mountaineer," Tchéky's voice came back over her earpiece. "2G"
She tried the handle. It turned, but the door was locked. Quickly she opened her handbag, taking out a couple of hairpins and fixing them together to form a lock-picking tool. Bending down she went to work.
After about a minute of careful probing and manipulating there was an audible click as the lock's tumblers turned over. She tried the door handle again, and this time it swung open.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder. "What are you doing?"
* * *
"Perfume." Sergei sprayed a fine mist of it into the air between them. "Channel no. 5, to be precise. Smells nice, don't you think?"
Svetlana nodded agreement, a small tolerant smile curving her lips. She liked Sergei, she found. The distracted, slightly absent-minded air he carried around was a welcome distraction.
"I buy it for my wife. She likes it too." A look of concentration furrowed Sergei's brow. "Now if you do this . . ." He twisted the base of the perfume bottle 180° clockwise. " . . . like so, then give it a shake, you've got something altogether different." He looked up at Svetlana's face again. "And believe me you don't want to accidentally inhale any of it this time. It'll drop a 300lb man instantly and render him unconscious for at least ten minutes. The hangover when he wakes up . . ." His face twisted in the pained grimace of somebody speaking from experience. ". . . like nothing on earth.
He handed the bottle to Svetlana, who accepted it from him carefully.
"Needless to say, I don't buy this for my wife."
Svetlana laughed.
"Although maybe I should. Might give me some peace from all the nagging I get about the hours I work."
* * *
Svetlana turned and staggered drunkenly against the guard who had accosted her. She belched in a rather unladylike manner. Lifting a hand to cover her mouth she collapsed into helpless giggles. Her free hand slid into her handbag under cover of the distraction, grasped hold of the perfume bottle and twisted the bottom round.
"You shouldn't be here," the guard admonished sternly.
"Hey!" She struggled ineffectually. "Hands off!"
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to report this," he said trying to pull her forwards, away from the door.
Digging her heels in, Svetlana noted a second guard standing behind the first one's shoulder, watching silently. He looked professional and tough, and there was a noticeably bulge beneath his armpit that indicated the presence of a shoulder holster. "This way is not . . . not the bathroom?"
"Does it look like the bathroom?"
She pointed querulously back along the corridor towards the ballroom. "But he – the fat, ugly one there – he told me the bathroom was this way. It must be here somewhere."
The guard said nothing and tried to drag her more firmly. Svetlana manufactured a stumble, going down on one knee. As she came up again, the guard leaning over her, she sprayed him in the face.
He managed to blink once. Then he collapsed bonelessly, hitting the floor with a thud.
After gaping for a moment the second guard started to reach for his gun. Svetlana kicked out at him hard, connecting with his wrist and sending the pistol flying before it could be brought to bear on her.
He punched her in the stomach but she twisted and rolled with the blow, elbowing him in the side of the neck and bouncing his head hard against the wall. He staggered dazedly and she grabbed hold of the back of his suit, propelling him headlong through the open door and down the stairs. He hit the floor at the bottom with a crash and lay still.
Sucking in a deep breath, Svetlana dragged the first guard through the door after him, closing it behind her.
* * *
"According to the blueprints we downloaded the main junction box is located in the building's basement."
Svetlana just nodded. She'd already read as much in the missions specs.
"When you manage to locate it you'll want to wire this up to it. It'll let your partner hack into the main security feed." Sergei showed her what looked like a make-up compact. "Press the hinges here like so, and out pops a wire. It's a remote modem, exactly the same as you've used many times before. Just looks a bit different this time." He coughed suddenly, realising what he'd just said. "Er . . ."
She smiled at him reassuringly. "Don't worry, Sergei. I've used them in infiltration training. I know how they work."
He nodded – coughed again. "Sorry, Svet. It was a stupid thing to say. I wasn't thinking. I . . . I can't say I know what you feel. To be honest I hope I never know what you feel. But . . . but I hope you get your memories back soon."
He held the make-up compact disguised modem out to her. As she accepted it from him she noticed the elastoplast covering the webbing between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. Just like Tchéky had.
She blinked. "Thanks Sergei. So do I."
* * *
Svetlana finished wiring the remote modem into the junction box and stepped back. "Okay, Boy Scout. I've piggybacked onto the security feed. You should be getting a signal now."
"Just a moment." There was a brief pause. "All right, I'm in Mountaineer. Well done"
She glanced across at the two unconscious guards. Both were now gagged, wrists and ankles secured with plastic ties. Neither showed any sign of coming round.
Her heart was pounding, adrenaline flowing, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. Surprisingly, she found that she was enjoying herself. The only problems she had to face were the immediate here and now, and she knew she had the skills to deal with that. The fact that a mistake or a bit of bad luck would probably get her killed was – after the past few months – oddly liberating. For the first time in a long time she felt almost in control.
"I'm heading on up Boy Scout." She started up the basement stairs.
"Hold Mountaineer! I've got Chebakov on camera twelve. He's heading for his office." She heard Tchéky swearing beneath his breath. This wasn't supposed to happen, she knew. Chebakov was supposed to be fully occupied with his role as party host. "There's someone with him. A man. Running facial recognition now . . ."
Svetlana stood at the top of the basement stairs, waiting for him to get back to her.
"Damn. Nothing." Another muttered curse, then excitedly: "Hah! I can see the keypad. Four. Seven. Three. One. Shit. Shit. Missed the last number. His shoulder was in the way."
"Don't worry about it Boy Scout. I'll hack it like we planned."
"Like you did in Sevrenia? You set the alarm off that time."
Although she had no more direct memory of those events than anything else she had read the report on that particular operation. "Sergei said he's made improvements since then. It won't happen again."
"He said that last time too."
She stifled a sigh. "The security cameras have an infrared setting, right? It was in the tech report wasn't it? Try switching over to infrared. If the number isn't a repeated one you might be able to still pick up a heat trace."
There was a slightly startled sounding laugh from Tchéky over her earpiece. "Six. The last number is a six. You're a genius Mountaineer. You know that? You should. I tell you all the time."
A fractional smile touched her lips. "I'm heading back to the party, Boy Scout. I'll mingle a bit. If Chebakov's a long time it'll look less suspicious that way."
"Copy Mountaineer."
"Requesting radio silence until you have news on Chebakov."
"Radio silent now."
Svetlana exited the basement, pausing briefly to lock the door behind her. Then, with an intake of breath, she slid effortlessly back into her alias's persona. Everything – body language, posture, the way she moved and the set of her face – altered subtly, transforming her into an entirely different person once more. She started back towards the ballroom.
* * *
"Chebakov's out. Move on the package."
Svetlana smiled at the Khazak army general, reaching to ease the empty champagne glass from his hand. "I'll get us another drink." She slipped easily from his grasp, ignoring his half-hearted protest. "Then perhaps there are other things we might find to amuse you . . ."
As soon as she was free of him she headed up the stairs. Chebakov was coming the other way, apparently in a hurry. A tall, dark-haired man in his mid fifties walked at the mafia man's side. Their eyes met briefly and she smiled vacuously. He didn't so much as acknowledge her. Both men looked to be preoccupied by something.
She headed into the depths of the house, following the route she'd memorised from the blueprints. "Boy Scout, start looping the surveillance feeds."
"Feeds looped Mountaineer. You're clear. Third door on the right. The one with the key pad," Tchéky informed her, though she had already spotted it and was walking towards it.
Four. Seven. Three. One. Six. She found herself holding her breath, but the light beside the keypad turned green. She pushed inside. "Clear, boy scout. You can set the feeds back."
* * *
"Sunglasses." Sergei lifted them up to his eyes but didn't put them on. "Don't really suit me. My complexion perhaps?"
"Perhaps," Svetlana agreed with a smile.
"On you I'm sure they'll look lovely though. There's a button here on top of the right arm. Press it and you get x-ray vision. Works much better than the sort you buy from the backs of comic books I assure you. The battery life's crap unfortunately. We're working on improving it." He shrugged helplessly. "You have maybe twenty seconds use."
"So no using them to look through other peoples clothes?"
Sergei coughed. "Anyway, they'll help you locate Chebakov's safe. We know the model – latest spec Handvalova; uses advanced cushion technology that makes it practically explosive proof, and it'll take about an hour to drill your way in. We know it's in his office, but we don't know where precisely. Just a precaution in case it's well hidden."
She nodded. "So if I'm not going to be blowing or drilling my way in . . ."
"This." He held up a microchip. "Electronic locks make my life so much easier than it used to be. Some of the mechanical ones can be quite tricky. I'll put it in the back of a watch. Place the watch against the door, wait a minute or two, and hey presto . . . You're in."
"A minute or two?"
"We've tried it on the exact make and model Chebakov that owns. The length of time varies a bit, but I guarantee it works every time."
* * *
The safe was indeed not immediately obvious.
Standing in the middle of Chebakov's unlit office, Svetlana turned around slowly. The sunglasses were pushed up to the bridge of her nose now, and she held the button in the right arm depressed.
It was behind a Persian style tapestry on the wall to the right of the door. She ran her hands around the tapestry's edges, checking for wires or anything else that might trigger an alarm. Then she pulled it aside. The wall behind was completely blank.
"Okaaay," she muttered to herself beneath her breath.
After tracing her fingertips over the seemingly blank patch of wall she finally located a fractional indent that might have been a catch. She pressed it, and a few seconds later there was a soft click. A section of wall slid open to reveal the safe.
Quickly she pressed the face of her watch to the safe door above the electronic locking mechanism, holding it in place.
As she waited she looked around the office. An electric cable snaked across the carpet near her right foot. It passed behind a broad desk before leading to a tall, baroque lampshade that stood beside a bookcase stacked with a variety of untouched leather bound volumes. A modern art painting she didn't recognise dominated the wall opposite her. Beside it was a drinks cabinet and a pair of filing cabinets. A black leather sofa and a couple of matching chairs were arranged around a low glass-topped coffee table.
Abruptly there was a quiet exhalation of air, and the safe door swung open. Svetlana started slightly.
The manuscript is the top priority. It's old. Fifteenth century perhaps. You shouldn't be able to miss it. Take anything else in the safe that's portable. Photograph anything that isn't. Sergei should have provided you with a camera. Ah, that ring? Um . . . very tasteful. Those had been Tchéky's words as they'd gone over the mission specs together.
The manuscript was immediately in front of her. She lifted it out carefully so as not to damage it and placed it in her bag. Aside from that there were a few sheets of paper, what looked like a diary bound in red leather, and a small leather pouch. Opening this revealed a handful of what looked to be high carat diamonds.
What about Chebakov, she'd asked.
The diamonds, diary and paper all went into her bag too. With the safe apparently empty she started to feel around inside, looking for any compartments she might have missed.
Tchéky had simply shrugged. Once we have the manuscript he ceases to be of any intelligence value. But let's keep it simple, eh? First day back on the job. No need for any unnecessary risks.
Behind her the office door clicked open. She whirled. Chebakov stood there, flanked by a pair of looming bodyguards. All three had handguns pointed directly at her.
Chebakov's expression managed to combine smile, sneer and grimace into one. "So I was right. I thought I recognised you. You're not going to steal from me this time, bitch."
* * *
Sitting in the back of a van parked half a block away, Tchéky Romatsev blinked. He looked between the two monitor screens. Camera 14 and Camera 13. Someone had walked through shot on Camera 14. They hadn't appeared again in Camera 13's field of coverage, as they should have. Abruptly he turned and stared at Camera 12, showing the door to Chebakov's office, everything apparently clear.
His jaw clenched with sudden fear.
Someone had looped the feeds on him. The same trick he'd pulled earlier, only now he was on the receiving end. He started typing frantically, but nothing happened. He was locked out. "Shit!"
"Mountaineer! Come in Mountaineer! We've been made. Abort! Get the hell out of there now!
* * *
Better late than never, eh Tchéky?
Svetlana raised her hands carefully above her head to show she was unarmed. She could feel her heart racing, though to all external appearances she was completely, icily calm. She tilted one eyebrow up. "You recognise me? I don't believe we've ever been . . ."
"You think a change of wig would fool me, little girl?" He gave a barking laugh. "You were blonde then. I think I liked the blue latex dress better. Very fetching."
She stared at him blankly.
"Interlace your hands behind your head. Good. Now step away from the safe.."
Svetlana did as she was told.
"Tell me who sent you. I might let you live."
He was lying. She saw that immediately from his eyes. He was going to kill her whatever she said or didn't say. Unobtrusively she hooked one foot underneath the power cord connecting to the lampshade.
"Was it you who killed Luri?" He took a couple of steps towards her, pulling the hammer back on his pistol. "Was it? Tell me! Tell me who sent you!"
She backed away from him, feigning an appropriate level of fear. It wasn't, honestly, that much of a stretch. The power cable connecting to the lamp drew taut.
"You'll tell me what you know. One way or another." Chebakov's cheeks were red and there was a rabid looking gleam to his eyes. He was very nearly frothing. "Is your partner here? The black guy. I'll . . .."
Svetlana yanked back hard on the power cable with her foot. The lampshade toppled sideways, crashing into the bookcase next to it and knocking that over too. Leather bound books spilled out in a mini avalanche.
Chebakov and his bodyguards span on the noise. Gunfire resounded, thunderous in the tight confines. Brilliant muzzle flashes lit up the office in dazzling staccato patterns of light. The air reeked of burnt cordite. Pages flew, scattering like chaff as 9mm bullets tore into them.
Darting forward Svetlana snatched up a heavy glass ashtray from the desk. As Chebakov started to turn back towards her, realising they'd been had, she hurled it at his head. It nailed him directly between the eyes with a sickeningly wet crunch.
Before he could topple over backwards she grabbed hold of him and twisted him round, pulling him against her as a human shield. She grasped his hand in hers before its grip could slacken enough for his gun fall loose, then wrenched it sharply round and pulled his finger tight across the trigger.
The bodyguard on the left took three bullets in the chest and stomach, collapsing with a surprised sounding groan. The other bodyguard, wild-eyed, started shooting back, and the fact that his boss was in the way be damned.
Chebakov shuddered in Svetlana's grasp as bullets ripped into him. As she swung him round to aim his gun at the second bodyguard one bullet managed to pass right the way through his torso, scoring a fiery line along the side of her ribcage. Gritting her teeth against the pain she pulled the trigger again and again and again.
Finally the second bodyguard fell backwards, crashing through the glass-topped coffee table.
Dropping the now extremely dead Chebakov, she snatched up one of the pistols. She was aware of stinging in her side, her blouse sticking to the blood running down from the wound, but she pushed the pain away, compartmentalising it somewhere far to the back of her mind. It wasn't going to kill her any time soon so right now it didn't matter.
Sticking her head cautiously round the door, she saw four more armed guards rushing down the corridor towards her. She managed to duck back inside the office a moment before the bullets started to fly again, slamming the door shut.
A couple of shots into the keypad shorted it out in a spray of sparks, locking it down tight. Quickly she headed for the window, opening it and gazing down at the vertiginous four-storey descent to street level somewhat dubiously.
Behind her somebody slammed a shoulder against the door in an effort to barge through. A second attempt immediately afterwards met with no more success, so someone hit upon the bright idea of trying to shoot their way through. She winced at the sound of bullets ricocheting off thick metal plates accompanied moments later by startled yelps.
"Boy Scout. I'm stuck in Chebakov's office. Is there any other way out apart from the window?"
"Mountaineer? Thank god. Are you okay?"
"Fine!" she snapped. "But I need an out."
"Just a second. Just a second." Something slammed against the door again, much harder than before. It was accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. They'd managed to rig up some kind of battering ram it seemed.
"I need an answer now!"
The battering ram hit the door again. Svetlana glanced across at it. It would maybe take another couple of impacts before it gave.
"Okay. You see a drinks cabinet? Against the north wall."
"I see it." She crossed over to it. There was a third crash from the door behind her.
"It should be hinged against the wall on one side."
"Yes. Yes, I got it." The drinks cabinet swung out from the wall with a soft whisper.
"Behind it there should be a door. It leads to a private elevator that comes out at street level. I'll meet you there."
There was a fourth crashing impact. The office door flew open.
* * *
"Svet. Thank god." Tchéky stared at her as she got into the van beside him. His eyes widened. "You're bleeding. You've been shot!"
She slammed the van's door shut and sat back in the passenger seat with a gulping sigh. Her breath was coming quickly and she blew a strand of hair away from her face. "It's just a scratch. I'll be fine." She plonked her handbag down on the dashboard. "Now drive."
He nodded, putting the van into gear and pulling smoothly away from the curb. Their pace was slow and sedate so as not to attract any undue attention. A getaway worked best when nobody else realised that it was a getaway.
After about a minute of silence Svetlana spoke again. Her voice was tight. "The bag took the bullet for me. The manuscript's been damaged. Hopefully the majority of it will be recoverable."
Tchéky flicked a sideways glance at her, briefly taking his eyes off the road. "What happened," he asked quietly. "How were we compromised?"
Anger flashed in Svetlana's eyes. "Chebakov recognised me."
Tchéky's jaw shut with an audible click.
"What the hell were you doing, precisely?" The anger rose openly in her voice now. "Sending me on a covert mission against someone who would recognise me?"