Execution

FORTY-EIGHT

‘They’ve found us.’ Harry relayed the information to the two women. He drew his gun. This really wasn’t the place for a fire-fight, but he wasn’t about to let any of them be taken without some kind of resistance. If these new arrivals were acting on orders from Gorelkin, then they were looking to silence Clare and anybody with her. Finding Katya would be a bonus and her future would be equally short-lived.

‘That’s impossible,’ said Katya. She had gone pale, but looked quite calm. ‘How could they know?’

‘No idea — unless you were followed or have a tracker on you.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I was not followed, I promise you. Absolutely not.’

‘Then it’s a tracking device. But let’s get out of here first.’ He went to the door and opened it a fraction. The corridor was empty. He didn’t waste time checking the front window onto the street, but led the way along the corridor to the back stairs. Clare was in the middle with Katya bringing up the rear, gun still drawn.

Unlike most hotels, this one believed in making the fire stairs as comfortable as possible, with a decent carpet to deaden the sound of footsteps and lighting to make the descent easy. Harry went one floor ahead to check the way, cracking the floor doors a little each time to listen, in case the Russians had had time to insert anyone ahead of the main force arrival. But the building was quiet save for the hum of air conditioning and the occasional sound of music or voices.

They had just arrived at the ground floor where a lobby gave access to the kitchens and office, when a door to the front reception area opened and Rik appeared.

‘They stopped outside for a powwow,’ he told Harry quietly. ‘But they haven’t split up yet. I think they’re waiting for orders. The two on foot are right by the front entrance. They’re all in casual gear.’

Harry was still puzzled by how quickly the followers had got here. He was certain the hotel wouldn’t have had any reason to tell the authorities. And if they had, the new arrivals would have been police, not men in street clothes. But there had to have been something.

He looked at Katya and said quietly, ‘We can’t stop here, but you need to start dumping anything that could have been fitted with a radio tag. Otherwise there’s no point in us running; they’ll catch us wherever we go.’

She nodded and pulled out a wallet and her mobile phone. ‘I have never given my wallet to anyone. But this,’ she hefted the phone. ‘They took it away while I was being questioned. I think they were checking my calls and contacts.’ She put her gun away and ripped off the back of the phone, and took out the battery. ‘Dura!’ she swore softly. ‘I’m an idiot.’

‘Show me,’ said Rik. He took the phone and slid out the battery. Behind it was a paper-thin disc, with a tab placed to share the phone’s power supply. He took it out and handed back the phone. ‘They didn’t trust you much, did they? Leave this with me. I’ll lose it. Come on.’ He turned and went through a rear door fitted with an emergency handle, although this was down. The door was propped open by a block of wood, no doubt where the staff took their breaks.

They emerged onto a small yard piled with beer crates, aluminium casks and a stack of delivery cartons, all lit by a single overhead light. It was impressively tidy. Double gates led out onto a service alleyway running parallel to the front street. It was shut fast. Harry pointed to a door set in a high wall bordering the side of the yard. ‘Where does that go?’

Rik stepped across and slid a bolt. The door opened to reveal a narrow passageway running between the buildings on either side, no doubt a left-over from when the area was criss-crossed with narrow channels to allow pedestrians easy access without venturing onto the streets.

‘They’ll know we went out that way,’ said Clare.

‘Not if it stays bolted,’ said Rik. He held it open while they filed through, then closed it behind them and slid the bolt. Using one of the beer casks to stand on, he put his hands on the top of the wall and kicked the cask away before clambering up. The cask rolled away and came to rest across the yard, near the rear gates. Dropping down the other side, he trotted after the others, flicking the tracking bug away into the dark.

‘Go!’ Captain Yuri Symenko gave the order to his men and switched off his radio. The rest was now up to him. A chance to prove himself worthy of better things.

The team piled out of the car and crossed the pavement to join their two colleagues at the front entrance to the hotel. Four of them moved inside while two others trotted along the street to an intersection to check the rear of the building. Symenko followed at a more relaxed pace, enjoying the feel of power at the flick of a finger.

Inside the hotel, a man was sitting behind the reception desk, reading a book on French architecture.

‘BVT.’ After two years, Symenko’s German was fluent enough to pass muster. He flashed an ID card stating that he represented the Federal Agency for State Protection and Counter-Terrorism. ‘You have suspects in this hotel we wish to interview.’ He produced photos of Clare Jardine and Katya Balenkova and slapped them on the counter in front of the clerk, who seemed bemused by the show of strength rather than intimidated.

‘The dark haired one, yes,’ he said, pointing at the picture of Jardine. ‘But I’ve never seen the blonde one. What have they done?’ He stared around at the men with Symenko, all dressed in jeans and jackets, none of them bothering to hide the automatic weapons they were carrying. They seemed to fill the space with their presence and were all staring at him in silence.

‘Never mind that. Which room?’

The man told them, and stood watching as two men headed for the lift and the others took the stairs. ‘Don’t break anything,’ he called after them, then shrugged and went back to his book. They hadn’t even asked for a key. He made a note to get the cleaning ladies in early tomorrow; no doubt they’d be needed.

Upstairs, the team gathered along the corridor leading to the English woman’s room and waited for Symenko to give the order to go. When he nodded, one of the men leaned across, knocked on the door and waited. No answer.

‘Force it.’ Symenko moved back to allow the men to kick the door in, which they did with a crash.

The room was empty. They checked every drawer and the bathroom, but there was nothing of interest.

Symenko was about to call in the results when his radio crackled.

‘They went out the back.’ It was one of the men outside. ‘I can see them moving along an alleyway.’

‘Follow them and keep them in sight. And keep this channel open.’ He ordered his men out and back to the vehicles.

Symenko was smiling in eager anticipation. This was no longer a simple trace and report; it was now turning into a hot pursuit.