The Hunt

17

Narov’s eyes were glued to the mini screen. The speaker was a middle-aged man, face hawkish, nose beak-like, gaze radiating a burning fanaticism and an innate cruelty. There was a fierce arrogance to his look, as of a man crazed with power.

It was always about power, Narov reminded herself. And this was her target all right. Grey Wolf: the man who would stop at nothing…

The person he was speaking to was younger, swarthy and tough-looking; he had a soldier’s demeanour, though right now he was dressed in a slick business suit. He didn’t look particularly comfortable.

He shrugged. ‘I called Isselhorst’s mobile. Earlier this morning. Some woman answered.’

The older man glared. ‘A woman? What’s he doing with a woman here in Dubai? He isn’t married. He doesn’t have a secretary. He’s a one-man band. Flexible. Discreet. That’s why we use him. And more importantly, he’s under strict instructions.’

The younger man sighed. ‘Sir, I know. I figured it was just some woman he’d picked up. Dubai. You know how it is.’

‘What did this woman have to say?’ the older man demanded, ignoring the remark.

‘They were caught in traffic. Figured they might be twenty minutes late.’

The elderly man growled his displeasure. ‘Whatever happened to lawyerly punctuality?’ He made a visible effort to get his irritation under control. ‘So: how long before the legal team for the other side get here?’

‘Fifteen minutes. Thereabouts.’

‘Do we need Isselhorst? I thought it was a done deal. If he’s late, we start without him.’

‘The lawyers have advised the foundation to sign. It was the threat of the court action that swung it. That, plus the adverse publicity. And charities always do what their lawyers say, apparently.’

‘Ha! Adverse publicity. Seventy years of revenue from the Führer’s literary masterpiece, and they want to give it to charities that promote the very things he abhorred: racial harmony, refugee rights, cultural understanding! What a load of horse shit. They deserve all the adverse publicity they get.’ He glared. ‘So, the question is: do we need Isselhorst? And this woman?’

‘Sir, I doubt he’s bringing her to the meeting.’

The old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’d better not.’ A beat. ‘I don’t like this new development. Getting a woman involved. Would Isselhorst really be that stupid? Find out who she is. And tighten security. No one else gets close to this room. Understood?’

‘Sir.’

The younger man barked a series of instructions into a radio mic that was clipped discreetly to his jacket. From the series of responses, it was clear that he had security teams ringing the Al Mohajir Tower.

He glanced up. ‘Done.’

‘Right, we have ten minutes to kill. Tell me: the other business. Is all going to plan?’

‘Which other business, sir? We’re quite… busy right now.’

‘Moldova! What else?’

‘All sorted. They’re only awaiting the final payment.’

The older man’s face brightened. ‘Excellent. And the conduit? Is it “all sorted” too?’

‘It is. The Colombians are on standby to take delivery. Bout’s airline is ready to ship as planned.’

‘Good work, Vladimir. I’m impressed.’

In her cubicle, Narov’s eyes narrowed. Vladimir Ustanov: she’d thought it was him.

Ustanov had commanded the force that had pursued Jaeger and his team halfway across the Amazon when they had first been hunting Kammler. He’d proved a diehard, merciless operator, with a sadistic streak to boot. Narov and Jaeger had assaulted Ustanov’s base, hitting him and his fellow mercenaries with a lethal gas, but somehow he had survived.

‘Tell me,’ the older man continued, ‘why d’you still refer to it as Bout’s airline? The Americans put him behind bars several years ago.’

‘Simple: he was a hero to the Russian people. Still is. To us it remains Viktor Bout’s airline in his honour.’

The older man gave a bark of a laugh. ‘Bout! He became too notorious for his own good. Sailed too close to the wind. Believed the myth of his own invincibility. Arms dealers need to fly beneath the radar. As, indeed, do we.’

The younger man shrugged. ‘That’s the Americans for you: one moment they’re your best buddies, the next they slam you behind bars. No honour. No loyalty. Only money and power.’

‘And the big man? The English oaf? What news of him?’

‘Austria’s more or less sorted. Just a few loose ends to tie up, and then the ore will be on its way.’

‘Good. I don’t like him, you know that. He’s English, which is enough. But he can be… useful.’

‘He can.’

The older man glanced up, eyes searching his surroundings. ‘This room – it was checked? You have scanned it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘But not this morning?’

‘No. Not this morning.’

‘Well do it. This “woman” development – I don’t like it. It’s making me doubly mistrustful.’

The younger man got to his feet. He pulled a bag from under the table and removed a small hand-held device: a scanner for checking for bugs or other suspicious electrical signals. He flicked it on and moved over to the nearest wall.

Behind it, Narov tensed. Her tiny camera used such a minuscule amount of power, she doubted the scanner would detect it. It was the hole she had drilled and the dust that worried her.

She watched as the scanner moved back and forth, sweeping across the wall, moving over the section where she’d embedded the camera. Ustanov was about to carry on, but paused. Something had caught his eye.

He glanced at the side table pushed against the wall. It was crammed full of bottles of mineral water and glasses, plus flasks of coffee. All seemed in order, but something had disturbed him.

He reached out a hand and ran it across the polished wooden surface of the table. It came away streaked with white: plaster dust. Fresh, by the looks of things. He picked up a glass and inspected it. Dust free. The plaster had fallen prior to the trays of drinks being delivered.

He ran his eye up the wall, searching.

On the far side, Narov barely dared to breathe. She was glued to his every move. She saw his gaze come to rest directly on the camera lens, seemingly staring at her. His expression changed. An arm reached out towards her.

In a flash, she yanked the optical cord free, stuffing the device deep into her pocket. Then she slammed back the bolt on the cubicle door and dashed into the open. From behind her she heard a guttural yell of alarm, followed by a deafening series of gunshots ripping through the wall where she had just been sitting.

She sprinted down the length of the restroom. Outside, boots thundered along the corridor. She reached the end of the cubicles, turned left and lunged for the window. As she did so, the door behind her was booted open, a stocky figure spraying an arc of fire in her general direction.

She threw herself forward.

Her crossed arms made contact with the window, and the pane gave way, popping free where she had scored it with the glass-cutter. Seconds later, she was tumbling through the screaming blue.

Narov had 1,100 feet to fall, and she was gaining momentum rapidly. She forced herself to calm her nerves and count out the seconds. She’d once made a parachute jump with Jaeger from 250 feet, a fraction of her present altitude. But still, she needed to get this just right.

She hit 800 feet and triggered the parachute that was strapped to her back. An expanse of fine silk shot out into the sky above, pulling her up short. She’d deployed a compact sports chute, one designed for a rapid but manoeuvrable descent: perfect for steering a path between Dubai’s high-rises.

Her first priority was to put space – and ideally the solid form of a skyscraper – between her and the gunmen now gathered at the window high above in the Al Mohajir Tower.

Her second priority was to fly.

She needed to cover enough distance to evade the security teams that even now would be racing from the tower to nail her. But she’d planned for this. She knew where she could put down in relative safety. She’d recced a clear spot where her touchdown should go relatively unobserved.

As Jaeger always said: Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.

It was now a race between her and Grey Wolf’s gunmen.

She steered left, dropping in a series of super-fast tight loops before using her accumulated speed to swoop around the side of the nearest high-rise. As she fell into its shadow, she knew she was out of her pursuers’ immediate line of fire.

She felt a tingling in her right calf muscle and glanced down. She was surprised to see that the fluorescent trousers had been torn apart, and her calf was dripping blood. She’d been injured. Either she’d caught herself on the glass as she’d dived free, or Vladimir had clipped her with a round.

She was so hyped on adrenalin that she hadn’t even felt it. Even now, she had little sense of pain. It was an odd fact, but Narov’s pain threshold was not normal. In fact little about her was particularly normal. Pain simply didn’t seem to bother her. She could never understand how it caused others such suffering.

She made a mental note to do something about the leg; stop the bleeding.

But first she had to fly like the wind and make safe landfall.