No Remorse Part 7

Khalid's shoulders relaxed. He sat down again and laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "Come now, girl, you have never done that before?" He shrugged. "Well, you have teeth, do you not?"

She lowered her head and said nothing.

"Very well." Khalid turned to Rubi and pointed at Sophia's robe. Switching back to Arabic, he said: "Take her to the market in Kimba before she further inflames the desires of the crew. She must remain under close guard here until we return. Buy her some clothes and whatever she wishes, and put her in the secure wing of the resort. We'll be back in a few days after visiting father. Then I will take another look at her."

He turned to the girl. "Rubi will take you shopping for some nice clothes. Would that make you feel better, Sophia?"

"Can I call my mum and tell her I'm alive, at least?"

He almost laughed, but then decided to play along. It might make her more amenable later. "Well, how about this... You can make a video recording, and I will make sure it is delivered to her. But no saying where you are or who you are with, are we clear?"

The girl's mouth turned up a little tentatively at the comers. "Thank you."

Khalid smiled. "You will refer to me as Highness."

Sophia hesitated, her lips pressed together, then muttered, "Thank you, Highness."

18.

Anastia Slabekova lay on a grimy rooftop in Sofia, Bulgaria, eight hundred metres from where her target was due to show. She was dressed in black leather and concealed inside a specially constructed canvas hide with an opening at the front. Her weapon was a Russian VSS silenced sniper rifle. This particular rifle had once been used by a Russian Army sniper in Chechnya, but she'd replaced the weapon's original PSO 1-1 sight with a Zeiss Diavari telescopic sight. She would see the target's head clearly as she blew a hole in it. It had a ten-round clip. She had loaded three but was intending to fire only one.

Her partner, Anton Nastayev, hadn't warned her of any threats. His soft breathing sounded s.e.xy through the Bluetooth headset. He was on the roof of a building that was closer to the target, but at a thirty-degree angle to hers, which would confuse witnesses as to the location of the shooter.

Her target was Viktor Rusolev, a notorious criminal who owned a chain of supermarkets and a number of flashy nightclubs that fronted for prost.i.tution and drug distribution. He'd been implicated in an organised operation that was kidnapping girls and sending them to France, Britain and Germany as s.e.x slaves. Previous attempts by the police to bring him into line had failed, and after the Interior Minister was recently blown up in a car with his wife and daughter, the Bulgarian Cabinet decided to authorise SANS, the State Agency for National Security, to eliminate the problem. And she and Anton were SANS' contractors of choice, even if they were more expensive than their compet.i.tors. They had nineteen previous successes under their belt, as the newly democratic Bulgaria used them to clean out the stubborn elements of the corrupt post-Communist oligarchy.

Anton had discovered that Rusolev would be coming to his favourite club-one that he owned, of course-to meet a man known as The Frenchman. They knew that The Frenchman was already inside. Finally, after four hours of trying to keep warm, Anton's calm voice spoke through her earpiece.

"This looks like him. Good luck, my darling."

She didn't need to reply.

A convoy of six black vehicles drove up fast. Bodyguards stepped out of the first two cars and the last two. Anastia saw a small movement from the gunman with a rifle on the roof of the nightclub. He'd been placed there to protect Rusolev and they could do nothing about him-that's why she needed to succeed with one bullet. Between Rusolev getting out of the vehicle and entering the building, she'd have about eight seconds.

Two cars hadn't opened their doors. Rusolev could be in either one. She s.h.i.+fted her aim to the rear door of one, then the other, knowing the bodyguards could not spot her inside the black hide. After studying the surroundings, the bodyguards gave the thumbs-up. One of them opened the rear door of the third vehicle. Three women appeared, under the influence of something, judging by the way they staggered up the steps. A man emerged with a woman on each arm. Ten seconds. The man had wavy black hair and was the right height.

Anastia eased pressure on the trigger. Something was wrong. It was the man's walk. Not the confident swagger she was expecting. His eyes were darting around. A car horn sounded from the street below. The man glanced in her direction, revealing his face for just a moment in her crosshairs. It wasn't Rusolev.

The decoy went into the club as the rear door of the fourth limousine opened. Two mountainous bodyguards emerged, followed by two women who were glammed-up like the others, but were walking sober. A third man, his head hidden under a fedora, emerged with a fourth man and woman in tow. Eight seconds. Two possible targets. Moving fast. Six seconds. The car horn sounded again. One of the men looked, the other with the fedora kept walking. Just before he entered the building he turned and raised his head slightly to speak to a tall bodyguard. They were his last words.

She squeezed the trigger smoothly. The nine-millimetre bullet was heavier than normal and the hardened tungsten core could penetrate body armour. It travelled at subsonic speed but carried considerable more impact energy than lighter, faster rounds. It entered Rusolev's forehead above his left eyebrow. There was no sound of a gunshot. Just his head exploding. Blood and brain matter splattered everyone nearby. All h.e.l.l broke loose. Wild gunfire opened up from outside the club and from the gunman on the roof.

Anastia pulled herself back out of the hide, hearing the m.u.f.fled pops of Anton firing to cover her escape. She allowed herself a few deep breaths as she unscrewed the telescopic sight, leaving the rifle and the hide. She took off the medical gloves and scurried, bent double, to the stairwell. She knew that after emptying his clip, Anton would dump his rifle in the water tank and be out of the building well before the police arrived.

"Nice shot, darling," Anton said to her a few minutes later, as she drove them to the airport. "How did you know?"

"His fedora. But your little trick with the remote car horn sealed it. The other guy looked. Rusolev didn't."

They laughed. It was a ruse they'd used before, to good effect.

Anton checked the messages on his cell phone. "It would appear that Yuri has brokered us another contract. Urgent. But paying top dollar, my love."

Anastia glanced at him and smiled. "No women or children?"

"Of course not, darling. Just some old Arab Prince."

19.

At an internet cafe in Nice, two blocks from the Chanticle Hotel where Boris Brazhlov was staying, Tally was pa.s.sing herself off as a backpacker, wearing tight yellow shorts that showed she exercised regularly, and a too-snug white cotton T-s.h.i.+rt that rubbed her nipples hard. Her hair was frizzed with her natural wave. Over her shoulder was a North Face daypack that had seen good mileage on past bush hikes.

She had checked out the computers in this particular internet cafe a few days earlier. They were fast enough and could be secured. Importantly, it used the same telephone exchange as the Chanticle Hotel, so they would be able to make it appear as though Bogdan Brazhlov was transferring his funds using the hotel's internet. And there was no CCTV.

Rosco had arrived shortly after she'd sat down. He'd purchased some computer time and sat directly behind her to watch for any busybodies. There were only six others in the cafe and their heads were buried in their computers.

At her computer, Tally ran through a number of checks. First, she checked that there was no hardware attached that shouldn't be. Next she inserted a USB stick and installed several small apps. One of these checked for viruses, and another ensured there was no keylogger program. A third loaded an ASTA remote communications application. She rebooted. Now she could log onto the ASTA network using the cafe's broadband connection without being monitored.

Tally took a breath and glanced around her, rubbing her cracked rib where Austin's punches lingered. Rosco gave her an inconspicuous signal that all was clear.

With the computer now a remote desktop linked to the ASTA servers in Montreal, Tally typed furiously. The Nice Telephone Exchange had an automated main distribution frame, which meant that she would be able to rearrange the switching of lines simply by hacking into the switching server. Using the TRAKCEPT application, Tally mapped the route connecting the host switch, the internet cafe and the Chanticle Hotel, then overrode the remote switch and configured the switching server so that the two locations appeared to be on the same concentrator. This small configuration change would make it appear, if anyone checked, that the person logging into Brazhlov's bank accounts had done so from the hotel.

As she waited for Tony to call back, she wondered whether Mac would still be working with them after this operation. She felt a twinge of guilt for raising the ghosts of Mac's past the way she had. Probably shouldn't have said those personal things. She wasn't normally that b.i.t.c.hy, but she'd been desperate not to have to work with him. Derek had told her later that she'd taken it too far, even as he laughed about how Mac had calmly eaten her carrots after she'd walked out. Actually, she decided, Mac had handled himself quite well in the circ.u.mstances. He'd displayed some emotion when she'd prodded him hard enough. But he wasn't an Austin. Maybe she could work with him.

If they did end up working together, she'd need to be careful how she handled him, given his potential for impulsive behaviour and his disastrous track record with women. According to his file, he'd had three serious relations.h.i.+ps in the ten years since Susan, but mostly tended to have short-term, superficial ones. She wasn't surprised that he didn't trust women. She supposed the nature of his army life wouldn't have been conducive to a stable relations.h.i.+p. Still, that was some chip he had on his shoulder.

She could understand how women might be attracted to the vulnerability behind those dark eyes, despite the tough face and the hard hands, but she wasn't one who'd be distracted by that. She liked men who could have a conversation and laugh with her. To her, it was men's intellect more than their bodies that appealed. Well, as a general rule, anyway.

Her cell phone rang. It wasn't Tony. It was her sister, Benita. Not a good time, Sis. Then she scolded herself. Lately, it never seemed to be a good time. Ben had never recovered from their parents' death. Collateral traumatic stress, her doctor called it. She called it another life destroyed. She took the call.

"Hi, Ben," she said in her chirpiest voice.

"It's been three days. I've been worried," the shaky voice on the other end of the line complained.

"Sorry, I meant to call yesterday, but I was travelling. How was the concert?" She'd purchased the two tickets to encourage Ben to go out with a friend.

Benita gave a big sigh. "Oh, I wasn't feeling the best, and I couldn't find anyone to go with. And it was raining and..." Her voice drifted off.

"Ben-"

"Don't get mad, Tal." Benita's voice raised its volume. "That's not what I need right now... Anyway, you know I hate crowds. I'll pay back the money for the tickets, okay?"

Tally was about to say something when her cell phone buzzed to show another caller.

"Gotta go, Ben. I'll call you later. Promise."

She pressed the b.u.t.ton to answer Tony's call and terminate Ben's.

20.

Mac and Tony were in a room on the second floor of the Chanticle Hotel wearing overalls and yellow fluorescent vests, with fake nametags dangling from their necks. By the door were two equipment bags. Maintenance workers' gear that would allow them to enter Brazhlov's suite without raising suspicion. They were waiting for Brazhlov and his bodyguards to leave.

Yesterday, Tony had installed a tiny wireless videocam beside the fire switch in the hall across from Brazhlov's suite, so they could observe their comings and goings. There had certainly been more comings than goings, with a parade of beautiful women at intervals late last night and early this morning. Brazhlov had taken breakfast as room service.

"The man's a machine," Tony said, as three women hobbled out of the suite looking exhausted.

Somehow that comment reminded Mac of the last time he'd had s.e.x, around three months ago, in an Abrams tank at Fort Bragg. One of those bucket-list things. Most uncomfortable place he'd ever done it. Thankfully, Carole, a medic from the 44th, had taken gymnastics as a kid and still had the flexibility.

"Even machines need to be refuelled," he said, pacing the room. "Maybe they'll run out of the white powder and do lunch."

Sure enough, shortly after midday, Brazhlov and his boys appeared on their monitor and got into the elevator. A few minutes later, out the window, Mac could see them walking along the pebble beach.

Tony plugged in his Bluetooth headset and called Tally. "Brazhlov's gone out." After a pause, he turned to Mac. "Tally's in the internet cafe now. Let's go."

As Tony had explained it, eight weeks earlier Rosco had managed to embed a key logger onto Brazhlov's notebook computer using a Trojan virus in an innocent-looking email. When Brazhlov had accessed his online banking, the keylogger had recorded his account numbers and pa.s.swords. He had at least twelve numbered accounts in tax havens. But there remained a problem. They'd discovered that his accounts had the additional security of a token tag. This bank-issued electronic device generated a six-digit "token" or PIN number that had to be entered, in addition to the pa.s.sword, each time the account was accessed. They needed the token tags for a few minutes so they could log into Brazhlov's accounts.

Tony and Mac had been given the task of raiding Brazhlov's hotel room safe in the hope the tags would be locked in there. It would be safer for Brazhlov to leave them than to carry them on him to the places he frequented. As the newbie, Mac knew that his every action would be under scrutiny by Derek-and especially by Tally.

When there was no answer from room 402 to his knocking, Tony used a metal card attached to an electronic device to gain entry. Inside, the suite had been trashed. Empty champagne bottles were scattered like dead soldiers among food wrappers, broken gla.s.ses and leftover food. Six trolleys with demolished meals had been shoved together in the centre of the living room. Bedsheets, towels, clothing, and several condom wrappers littered the furniture. One used condom was stuck to a curtain.

"Filthy pigs," Tony said, tiptoeing around the mess.

Mac took a wrench out of his bag and went into the bathroom where he loosened the stop valve on the toilet just enough for water to start dripping onto the floor. Came back and stood by the door. "I'll keep watch. You can bet they've told housekeeping to clean up while they're out," he said, glancing through the door's security viewer.

Tony went into the bedroom and opened the cupboard containing the room safe. He held a small rectangular device against it, and after a few seconds Mac heard the distinctive whirring noise as the safe opened.

Tony called Tally again. "I'm in, Tal," he said, wiping his sweaty forehead as he spoke into his headset. "There's a laptop computer, a bundle of euros, a baggy of c.o.ke, an envelope... Gotcha!" He grabbed the wire loop holding the token tags and pulled it out. It caught on the safe door and came apart, scattering about a dozen token tags across the floor like plastic c.o.c.kroaches.

"Holy s.h.i.+t!" said Tony, scrambling to collect the devices among the garbage on the floor. "I've dropped them..." he explained to Tally.

"Just take it easy," Mac said. "Do you know how many there were?" He picked up three tags and pa.s.sed them to Tony before resuming his position at the door.

"I think that's all of them. Okay. Okay. Which bank do you want first?" Tony asked Tally as he threaded the tags back onto the wire.

A pause.

"Okay." Tony had the tag she wanted. "Got it." He pressed the b.u.t.ton on the device. "The token is six, three, five, seven, two, six."

At that moment, Mac saw the elevator door open and a trolley appear. "f.u.c.k! The cleaners! Close up!"

He quickly pulled a wrench from his tool bag. Then he spotted a loose token tag beside the wheel of one of the trolleys.

No time.

"Housekeeping," a woman's voice called as she knocked.

After a moment the door b.u.mped against his back.

"Un moment, s'il vous plait, " Mac yelled.

Tony placed the wire loop with the tokens back inside the safe and closed up. Mac stood back from the door. Two dark-skinned women pushed it open and stood on each side of the cleaners' trolley.

"Qui etes-vous? Que faites-vous ici?" demanded one of the women, who was holding fresh towels. Her eyes drifted past Mac into the room. "Oooh! Mon Dieu! Misha! "

The other woman peered into the room with a horrified look. She didn't make a move to enter.

Mac pointed towards the bathroom, then pinched his nose. "La toilette est bloquee. Merde! Revenez plus tard. "

The woman spoke vigorously to her colleague and waved her free arm. She dumped the clean towels in his arms and they scurried away, pus.h.i.+ng their trolley towards the elevator.

"They've gone." He put the bottle down and picked up the loose token. "The Mediterranean Commerce Bank of Cyprus."

"f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k!" Tony was freaking out. "I've got to put that back!"

Mac heard the ding of the elevator. "Wait." He checked the security viewer. "Oh, s.h.i.+t. They're back! Get in the bathroom. Quickly!" He handed Tony the wrench.

Moments later the door was flung open and one of Brazhlov's hefty bodyguards stepped into the room. He reached his hand in his jacket, but didn't pull out the weapon that was obviously there. The man glared at him and yelled a string of foreign words that sounded like they were probably expletives.

Thank G.o.d for the fluoro jacket, Mac thought.

He shrugged. "Entretien. La toilette. " Mac pointed to his bag of tools and waved his finger lazily towards the bathroom.

The man pushed him into the bathroom, where Tony was kneeled at the toilet with the wrench.

"Stay! You stay here!" the man yelled in English. He hurried back into the bedroom and after a moment Mac heard the whirring noise of the safe being opened. Would the guy count the token tags and find one was missing?

"Finished," Tony said.