The Game (Tom Wood)

FIFTY-SEVEN





The embassy stood on Via Gaeta in central Rome, on the north side of the narrow road. It was impossible to miss with its imposing perimeter wall and fence and the flag of the Russian Federation that rippled in the breeze. The surrounding wall rose almost two metres in height and the steel fence that topped it added another three. Barbed spikes the shape of arrowheads further secured the fence and metal sheeting ran along the rear of the posts to block the gaps between them. A pale grey paint coated the entire arrangement and provided a stark contrast both to the building guarded by the barrier and to its neighbours. Antennae and satellite dishes bristled on the roof. Lights sunk into the grounds uplit the embassy at regular intervals, creating deep shadows between the russet bricks of its façade and glowing bright off the Tuscan columns that flanked the entranceway and supported the balcony above.

Towards the east end of the building’s southern façade, the main entrance faced Via Gaeta from behind the exterior gate with a narrow stretch of grounds between the two. Vehicles had access to the compound from larger gates in the western and eastern perimeter fences. The fence to the north of the embassy was heightened by an additional three metres to secure the complex from the neighbouring property. The front gate was open and manned on the outside by two Italian police officers who seemed happy enough with the unchallenging role of providing embassy security – or at least the appearance of security, because the embassy had its own Russian guards for protection. Victor knew they wouldn’t be as carefree as the Italians on the pavement, who ignored him to appraise Francesca at his side.

The two officers smiled and waved them through. The grounds ran the length of the building’s front, five metres wide at its greatest point, then expanded out on the western side and in the rear. Tall trees and plants dotted the perfectly maintained lawn. A terrace protruded from the west wall and overlooked the embassy garden.

A couple were in the process of being processed when he stepped inside with Francesca. Two well-dressed embassy security staff performed efficient simultaneous checks, one tracing the contours of each visitor with a metal-detecting wand while the other examined the invitations and compared the names with those on the guest list.

‘Keep thinking of your family,’ Francesca whispered, looking at the security guards, ‘and don’t do anything to encourage them to search you. Okay?’

Victor neglected to respond. He desired to be searched even less than Francesca wanted him to be. Being discovered to be wearing a suicide bomber’s vest beneath his tuxedo wasn’t going to help him get out of this any more than it would Lucille and Peter.

‘The vest won’t set off the wand,’ Francesca whispered as they neared.

‘Are you trying to convince me or yourself?’

She didn’t answer because the guards had finished with the couple ahead and were turning their way. On the far side of the entrance hall two attendants took coats from the guests and hung them on a wheeled hanger, giving them tickets in return.

The guard with the guest list said, ‘Good evening. May I see your invitations, please?’

‘Of course,’ Francesca said and opened her clutch bag to hand the man the square of card.

‘Sir,’ the second guard said to Victor and gestured for him to raise his arms.

Francesca was watching while the guard examined the invitation and searched for the name on the guest list. She was nervous, but she hid it well with a little smile that feigned amusement at the novelty of the wand. There was tension in the skin around her eyes as her gaze flicked between watching Victor’s own for signs of rebellion and the wand that passed over, then under his arms, along his flanks, down the outsides, then the insides of his legs, and over his chest, stomach and back. It crackled and beeped quietly as it detected the zip of his flies, his belt buckle, cufflinks, phone and watch. The ceramic ball bearings embedded in the explosives gave no reading.

Francesca couldn’t stop herself sighing in relief when the wand moved from Victor to her, but she was quick to disguise it with a chuckle.

‘It’s quite exciting,’ she said to the guard.

He nodded, polite and placatory.

The one with the guest list said, ‘Please head in that direction,’ and held out a hand towards a wide corridor.

‘Enjoy the party,’ the one with the wand added.

Francesca smiled. ‘I’ve no doubt we will.’

‘It’ll be a blast,’ Victor said.

She shot him a look, but controlled her expression. They walked past the two attendants waiting to collect guests’ coats and then side by side through the entrance hall and into the corridor as directed. Behind them, other guests arrived and the guards repeated their checks, to the curiosity of those not used to such security and the sighs of those who were.

Francesca gestured for him to plug in the mobile phone detonator and watched as he did while shielding him from any possible onlookers. She then removed her phone from her purse to message Hart. She was careful to ensure Victor couldn’t see the screen but from the movement of her thumbs he saw she typed out a single word. She waited for Hart’s confirmation and put the phone away.

‘Next code is due in twelve minutes.’

Victor stopped and faced her. ‘It’s not too late to put a stop to this.’

‘And why would I want to do that?’

‘Because you don’t want to be responsible for potentially dozens of people being killed by an explosion.’

‘But it’s not me who will be responsible. You’re the one who will kill them.’

‘You’re making that possible.’

Over her shoulder he could see guests handing coats and other belongings to the attendants. A tall man with pure white hair received a ticket for his raincoat and his wife’s fur and warned the attendant that he expected both back without a single speck of dust.

Francesca huffed. ‘Semantics, Felix. Now stop these pathetic stalling tactics and let’s get this done. Lucille and Peter need you. Let’s go.’

A strip of red carpet ran along the centre of the corridor, appearing orange where directly under the intermittent space light fixtures in the ceiling above. Along one wall hung photographic portraits of every prime minister and president of Russia to hold office since the end of communism. Free-standing signs stood at corridor junctions to guide visitors through the building. Thick red ropes barred restricted areas and funnelled tonight’s guests to where the reception was taking place. Victor saw no other security personnel or overt precautionary measures – the consular section of the embassy was located in a separate building across town, so this building had no need to obstruct the wanderings of the general public. Closed circuit cameras covered every corridor and the footage would no doubt be monitored around the clock. Some embassies were more akin to fortresses, but Russian and Italian relations were good and Rome was far from a trouble spot, so overall security here was light. It had to be, otherwise Victor would never have got through the door.

‘It’ll be a blast,’ Francesca echoed with raised eyebrows when they were well out of earshot.

‘Just a little gallows humour,’ Victor replied.

‘Maybe cut the jokes, Felix.’

‘You’re the one who gave me a sedative.’

‘Don’t get too relaxed, and keep your focus on what you need to do to keep Lucille and Peter away from Dietrich’s blade.’

‘That’s exactly what I am focused on.’

‘Good.’

They followed the corridor around a corner and were greeting by a smiling embassy employee who explained where they needed to go. They followed his directions, acting as though they didn’t already know the way from the maps and model, walking slowly enough to take in the brass busts of famous Russians that lined the hallway and the paintings of Red Square and the Kremlin that hung above them.

Victor took a deep breath and blinked a few times.

Francesca looked at him. ‘Drowsy?’

‘A little.’

‘It shouldn’t get any worse.’

‘Good, because neither of us is going to get what we want if I pass out in the middle of the reception.’

‘You won’t. We know what we’re doing.’

‘I want you to remember you said that when Hart comes for you.’

She smirked. ‘He won’t.’

‘Are you really that sure your act has worked on him?’

‘And why wouldn’t it? After all, it worked on you.’

Victor remained silent. They walked along another corridor past doors marked with signs as toilets for men, women and the disabled. They reached a staircase and began ascending. Francesca’s dress was long and elegant and tight and limited her movements. Victor took the side next to the banister, so that should he decide to throw her down the stairs she would have nothing to grab onto to slow or prevent her fall. She didn’t notice.

‘Bet you wish you hadn’t loosened the seatbelt in Budapest now, don’t you?’

‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

She chuckled. ‘I’m glad we can still have fun together, Felix. I never had to pretend about that.’

‘Then you’d better make the most of it while you still can.’

‘It’s a pity we never had a chance to get to know each other more intimately. I think we would have been good together. I don’t suppose you fancy a quick detour somewhere a little more private?’

He simply looked at her.

She laughed. ‘I was just joking. Well, half joking. Quick doesn’t work for me.’

‘You’re insane, Francesca.’

‘I prefer the term liberated.’

They reached the top of the second flight of stairs together. Victor took a series of breaths and swallowed heavily. The sound of music and chatter grew louder as they made their way down a short hallway. Ahead it opened out and dozens of mingling guests were visible.

‘Can you do this?’ Francesca asked.

‘You almost sound concerned for me.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I’m concerned about the job. This is worth a lot of money to me.’

He faced her. ‘You needn’t be concerned about getting paid. Everything is going to work out exactly as Hart and Leeson have planned it.’

She pursed her lips but didn’t respond.

The reception was held across three rooms on the west wing of the embassy’s first floor and centred in a grand music room. It was a huge, high-ceilinged space almost absent of furniture aside from a few low couches interspersed along the room’s exterior in between mirrors that rose five metres in height. The ceiling was plain except for the chandelier that hung from its centre. It was as wide as it was tall and dazzling to look at. The polished floor and the mirrors bounced back the chandelier’s light so that no other lighting was needed. Colourful arrangements of lilies, roses and orchids bloomed from vases that stood before the mirrors. A potted dragon tree stood in each corner, towering above the guests.

At one end of the room a string quartet performed Schubert’s Rosamunde. They were about halfway through the first movement: Allegro ma non troppo. At any other time Victor would have enjoyed the quartet’s seemingly effortless excellence, but he was here to blow himself up. The guests were too busy chatting to pay attention to the music. There were approximately one hundred men and women spread throughout the room, almost all dressed in black evening wear barring the occasional white dinner jacket. Serving staff made their way through the crowd carrying trays of champagne and canapés. The ambassador’s aide was doing a circuit, shaking hands with important guests, making quips and chuckling with equal measure at those of others.

There were no obvious security personnel but before he had stepped into the room Victor’s gaze was hunting them down. They were dressed like guests and blended well among them, but were notable because they never stayed in one place for long, made no attempt to engage guests in conversation and kept their hands free of food or drink. Within a minute Victor had counted five. All men, all between thirty and forty. And good. They weren’t just guards. They would be from within the Operations Department of Directorate S of the SVR. They were based at the embassy for the protection of the ambassador and his subordinates. Tonight they would be especially alert due to the presence of their organisation’s head. Each wore a subtle earpiece with a thin cable trailing down from his ear under the lapel of his dinner jacket. They would be armed too, with handguns at their waists, because their dinner jackets were buttoned as part of their cover, rendering an underarm holster inaccessible.

Prudnikov wasn’t in the music room. Neither was the ambassador. They were probably in the ambassador’s private quarters, smoking cigars and drinking cognac and telling risqué jokes to avoid the odious schmoozing required of them. When they appeared, they would no doubt be accompanied by more security.

‘What are you thinking?’ Francesca asked.

‘That I could use a drink.’

‘Me too.’ She gestured to a waiter. ‘But you can only have a few sips for show. Alcohol will greatly exacerbate the effects of the drug.’

‘Great,’ Victor said. ‘I’m going to blow myself up and I can’t even appreciate a glass of champagne first.’

‘You’re not here to enjoy yourself.’

‘But you are, aren’t you, Francesca? You were entertained by Jaeger dying in front of you. At the time I thought you were shocked, but I didn’t know you then. Now I know better. This is one big thrill to you, isn’t it?’

‘So what if it is? It’s not every day a girl gets to be part of something so dramatic. Every country in the world will know what happened here tonight. I’ll never forget I was part of it.’

‘Spoken like a true psychopath.’

She smiled a little. ‘You say it like it’s a bad thing.’

The waiter arrived. ‘Champagne, madam?’

‘I should say so.’ She took a flute for herself.

‘Sir?’ the waiter said to Victor.

He nodded and took one. ‘Thank you.’ When the waiter had gone, he raised his glass and said, ‘So what shall we drink to? Well, sip in my case.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Us,’ she said. ‘Let’s drink to us and the special time we’ve shared. It’s so much more romantic to know in less than an hour’s time we’ll never see each other again.’

She clinked his glass.

Victor said, ‘Is that Prudnikov?’

Francesca’s head turned to follow his gaze. ‘Where?’

‘Over by the mirror.’

He pointed with his champagne flute. ‘That one. Near the woman in the black dress.’

Francesca craned her neck. ‘Every woman is wearing a black dress.’

‘At your one o’clock. By the flowers and the woman with the big hair.’

She looked for a moment and then said, ‘No, that’s not him.’ She turned back to face Victor. ‘Too tall.’

Victor took a single sip of his drink.

Francesca did the same. ‘I do love champagne.’ She took a second sip and frowned a little. ‘But trust Russians to go for the cheap stuff. It’s probably not even real champagne but some second-rate national equivalent.’ She said, in a bad accent, ‘Champagnovski.’

‘Shampanskoye,’ Victor corrected.

‘You’re so very knowledgeable, Felix,’ she said, half mocking. ‘I bet you have lots of hidden talents I couldn’t possibly imagine.’

‘All sorts. I can do magic tricks.’

She chuckled and sipped her drink. ‘How charming.’

‘I’ll show you one later if you like.’

‘I think I’d really rather like that, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be possible.’ She sighed, sympathetic and almost sad. ‘Oh, Felix, there isn’t going to be a later for you, is there?’