The Game (Tom Wood)

SIXTY





The corridor outside the office was quiet and empty. Victor led Francesca down it and pulled aside the temporary rope barrier so they could pass into the hallway that led to the foyer. He didn’t know how long he had until the three SVR guys came round, but he didn’t need long to get out of the embassy. How far he would get outside before the alarm was raised was unknown. He would have a few minutes, maybe five or six. Whether that was enough time was out of his hands. He could have killed the three men to ensure a decent head start but he didn’t want to give the SVR any further incentive to come after him. And the three had only been doing their job.

He walked at a casual pace down the hallway, Francesca at his side, even though his instincts told him to run. But the precious few seconds gained by hurrying now would be lost tenfold if the alarm was raised before it needed to be. Up ahead he saw the two cloakroom attendants chatting; all the guests had arrived by now and no one was likely to leave before the speech. The two guards at the front door were similarly without anything to do, but they weren’t chatting.

They were alert as they had been before. He couldn’t determined if there was an additional layer to that alertness created by the SVR guy with the red hair putting out a notification that he had a suspicious individual in custody. That notification might have gone to all security personnel, or just to the other undercover SVR operatives at the embassy. These guys were regular security guards. Competent, because they were stationed at the front door of the Russian embassy, but not trained to the same level as SVR employees and perhaps not privy to the same information.

Both guards looked Victor’s way. Until the three unconscious operatives woke up, they couldn’t have much to go on. Maybe they had his description or were reacting to everyone with caution and suspicion until they were given the all clear. Alternatively, they knew nothing and were just looking at Francesca.

He walked towards them. He didn’t have a lot of choice. To divert would only confirm what they already knew or create suspicion if there was none, and trying to escape from the compound another way would burn time he didn’t have.

Francesca walked alongside him, holding his hand, her heels clacking on the mosaic floor. At five metres he saw that there was no tension in the guards’ faces. Their eyes moved back and forth between Victor and Francesca. All one of them had to do was ask her a question and they would know she was more than just drunk. She was the kind of woman men didn’t soon forget. Would they remember she had entered without the fur coat? He’d find out soon enough.

The two guards said nothing as Victor and Francesca approached and nothing as they passed between the pair and out of the embassy. Whatever information the red-haired Russian had passed on through his lapel mike had not reached these two or they believed the situation was under control elsewhere and there was no reason to stop anyone leaving.

Hart and Coughlin had line of sight from the apartment windows to the front of the embassy, but at an acute angle, and the distance was about sixty metres. If their focus was on the terrace they might not even see Victor and Francesca leave. But he couldn’t rely on that, which was why he had tied Francesca’s hair back and why they both wore coats. It should be enough to fool the naked eye, though it wouldn’t be enough to fool Hart and Coughlin if they turned their binoculars this way. Then the phone attached to the vest would no doubt receive a call and chunks of Victor and Francesca would be found thirty metres down the street. But there was no reason they would be watching the front entrance at this point in time. Outside the building’s main entrance the lights illuminating the front façade were bright enough to identify Victor and Francesca, but the high perimeter fence and the trees in the grounds provided concealment from the apartment’s windows. That would change once they were out on the street, but then they would be out of the glare of the uplights.

The Italian police officers outside the compound gate smiled and nodded as Victor and Francesca walked between them, exchanging amused looks with one another regarding Francesca’s inebriation.

Victor turned left – east – away from where Coughlin and Hart waited in the apartment. Crossing the road first would have restricted their view, but there were no turnings off Via Gaeta on the south side of the street going east. Victor would need to lead Francesca another forty metres until they reached the end of the block and the wide boulevard beyond. Even at a difficult angle, forty metres was too long a walk and gave Coughlin and Hart too much time to identify Victor and Francesca from the rear – maybe from the shape of her legs or their respective heights. If that forty-metre walk had been the only means of escape from the street, Victor would have had her take off her shoes before stepping out onto the street, but a side street ran north alongside the embassy compound.

He led Francesca into it. It was narrow and dark. Maybe Coughlin or Hart had seen the tall, white-haired man and his wife arrive earlier. There was a good chance they hadn’t arrived via the side street, but leaving a different way wasn’t necessarily suspicious. There was no pavement and cars stood alongside the embassy building to Victor’s left.

‘Where are we going?’ Francesca asked. She spoke quietly, with difficulty.

‘Just to get some fresh air.’

There were a set of car keys in a pocket of the tan raincoat, but they were useless to Victor. He had no way of knowing where the corresponding vehicle was parked and there was no time to search for it.

A gate wide enough for vehicles to pass through when open stood along the compound’s east edge. In front of it, a well-dressed woman stood hurriedly smoking a cigarette, illuminated by lights from the embassy windows above. She wore a black gown of some flowing light material with a slit down one leg, and a shawl around her shoulders. An embassy employee, because a guest wouldn’t have had access through the side gate. She glanced in the direction of Victor and Francesca, because the alley was empty and dark and no one alone in such an environment was likely to ignore someone who joined them. She kept looking for a moment, recognising from their clothes that Victor and Francesca were guests of the reception and curious that they should be leaving so early. Not ideal – when news of what had happened to the security personnel spread, the woman would remember this – but not a disaster because by heading down this side street Victor wasn’t giving away the rest of the route he intended to take.

As he walked closer he saw the problem. The woman tossed her cigarette away and turned in his direction. She was slim but toned. Her hair was tied back but when loose would be no longer than jaw length. The slit in the dress let him see her shoes: elegant but practical, with a small heel. The dim light coming through the embassy’s windows disguised much of her features but caught the thin cable running down the length of her neck and disappearing under her shawl.

Her weapon had been in a purse hanging from her left shoulder, and it was out before he could draw his own, because she’d identified him before he had her. She held it steady in a two-handed grip, aiming at his centre mass.

‘Put your hands against the wall.’

‘No.’

‘Do it or I’ll shoot.’

Victor shook his head and carried on walking towards her, leaving Francesca behind. ‘No you won’t. You’re not in the embassy compound. You’re on Italian soil now. Two metres to your right is Russia, but this ground right here is Italy. You’re not part of the diplomatic staff: you’re SVR. You have no diplomatic immunity. I am unarmed. You’re not at risk. If you shoot me your life is over.’

She stepped towards him. Her expression was aggressive. ‘Hands against the wall.’

He began unbuttoning his shirt as he approached her. She was three metres away. ‘I’m not going to put my hands against the wall.’

‘I’ll shoot.’

‘We’ve already established you won’t.’ Two metres. ‘Besides, if you do shoot me you’ll kill yourself as well.’ He opened up his shirt to show what lay beneath it.

He had no doubt she would know that plastic explosives would not be set off by a bullet’s impact, but that didn’t mean she could stop the surprise and panic she felt at seeing a suicide bomber vest so close before her.

Victor stepped forward fast while she was distracted. Using his left palm to knock the barrel of the gun to his right as his torso twisted out of the line of fire, he grabbed her wrist as he stepped left and wrenched the forearm down, making her double over, gun pointing at the floor, his one arm against her two but his weight and position defeating her off-balance strength. He used his free right hand to push up the gun barrel with the web between thumb and forefinger, stretching back her hands and weakening her grip before easily pulling the weapon away.

She realised she was disarmed an instant before the gun was in his possession and was using her left hand – the one not in his grip – to thumb her radio.

He hit her with a downward open-palmed blow to the jaw before she had a chance to speak or yell. Her head snapped back and she tipped backwards and dropped. He caught her on the way down to stop her head smacking against the hard ground and eased her into a prone position. He checked her pulse to be sure he hadn’t killed her with the strike, but her blood was pumping fast and hard beneath his fingertips.

‘We need to hurry,’ Victor said to Francesca as he reached down and tugged off her stilettos, one then the other.

‘Okay.’

She couldn’t run, but she could hustle. They hurried along the side street, passed cars parked tight against the wall to the left. He took her east down the first alley he came to. He didn’t know how many SVR operatives were stationed at the embassy, and how many of those were on duty tonight, but four currently down would heavily deplete the numbers available to respond when the alarm was raised, especially when the ambassador, embassy staff, guests and head of the SVR needed to be protected. They wouldn’t come charging out after him. They would make sure there was no threat – discreetly, to avoid ruining the ambassador’s reception – and let the Rome police hunt for him. By the time the first patrol car was in the area, Victor would be long gone. The party would continue as normal and Coughlin and Hart would have no reason to suspect the truth.

Francesca vomited.

Victor didn’t allow her to stop, and she retched and coughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand while they walked fast to the end of the alley. It opened out alongside a four-lane boulevard. He turned south, stretching his neck in an attempt to spot a taxi with its light on. Hailing a passing cab wouldn’t be easy, as in Rome they mostly operated from stands or via calls, and he wasn’t relying on seeing a free one and expecting it to stop for them. There were no cabs in sight and he turned west along the road that ran parallel to Via Gaeta when he was one block south of it.

He found the Toyota minivan a couple of minutes later, parked alongside the kerb. An anonymous and forgettable vehicle. It was a risk coming back to it with Hart and Coughlin so close by, but he was running out of time.

He took out Francesca’s phone and asked, ‘What’s the next code?’

‘Taxi.’

‘Is that the code or do you want to find a taxi?’

She frowned. ‘The code, silly.’

He thumbed a message and sent it to Hart’s number.

Seven seconds later: Confirm.

He asked, ‘What’s the next code?’

‘It’s too early to send it.’

‘I know, but if you tell me now it doesn’t matter if you then forget it. Okay?’

She nodded. ‘Mountain.’

If there was another code after that then Victor didn’t need to know it because he was due on the terrace fifteen minutes later. No further code would convince Hart that Victor he was somewhere he wasn’t.

He used Francesca’s keys to unlock the vehicle. He took the fur coat from her and placed it in the back of the Toyota along with the tan raincoat, then helped her into the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel.

He started the engine and headed towards the mill.