The Game

by Tom Wood

  Five seconds passed. Then ten. Fifteen. The phone vibrated.

  Confirm.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Victor slipped Francesca’s phone into one of his pockets.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘It’s cold outside so I fetched you a coat. Stand up so you can put it on.’

  He helped her to her feet and into the fur.

  ‘Is it real or faux?’ she asked.

  Victor unlocked and opened the cubicle door and slipped on the tan raincoat. ‘It’s whichever you’d prefer.’

  ‘Good.’

  He raised her left wrist and unclasped her watch. She watched him but didn’t comment. He pulled back her hair and wrapped it in a bun, using the watch to keep it in place. It wouldn’t hold it for long, but he didn’t need it to. She reached up to undo the watch.

  ‘You’re prettier like this,’ he said.

  She smiled. Her arms dropped back to her sides.

  ‘We need to go,’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ she said.

  He knew he had about nine minutes before he needed to send the next update. As long as Francesca didn’t pass out that wouldn’t be a problem. She was becoming more suggestible as time passed and the drug took hold of her consciousness. He was confident that the next time he asked her for the code she would give it to him without any delays.

  She seemed to be standing on her own, but he kept hold of her hand and waist as he led her out of the men’s room and into the corridor beyond. A man was there, as though he was just passing, but Victor knew he’d been waiting. The man was about six feet tall with very short red hair.

  ‘Everything all right?’ the man asked for the second time, in the same tone he’d used just outside the music room.

  Victor nodded at him. ‘Fine, but I need to get her home.’

  The Russian stepped closer. His expression was even and his body language relaxed, but his eyes stared at Victor. ‘May I see your invitations, please?’

  ‘They were checked when we arrived.’

  ‘And I’d like to check them again,’ the man said.

  ‘I really don’t have time for this. I have to get her to bed.’

  ‘Of course,’ the man agreed. He stepped closer. ‘But only after I’ve checked your invitations.’

  ‘Fine,’ Victor said. He rooted in Francesca’s purse for the invitation and handed it to the Russian.

  He examined the invitation, then said, ‘What are your names, please?’ Before Victor could answer, he added, ‘Let the lady answer.’

  ‘She’s drunk.’

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ Francesca said. ‘I’m—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Victor said. ‘The security guard would just like to know our names. He wants you to tell him. Why don’t you tell him what he needs to know?’

  ‘I’m Francesca.’

  ‘Surname?’ the Russian asked.

  ‘Leone.’

  ‘And who is the gentleman you’re with?’

  Say the name on the invitation, not the name you know me by, Victor willed. Say George Hall.

  Francesca said, ‘He’s Felix.’

  The Russian stared at Victor as he asked Francesca, ‘Felix what?’

  ‘Kooi.’

  Victor didn’t blink. Neither did the Russian.

  ‘You need to come with me now, sir,’ the Russian said, right hand hovering near the right hip flap of his jacket. Victor recognised the way it hung slightly further from the man’s body than the left side did.

  ‘I had a feeling you were going to say that.’

  The Russian’s expression didn’t change. He motioned for Victor to head along the corridor. Victor did.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Francesca said.

  ‘For a little walk. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He walked slowly, in no rush to get to wherever the man with red hair was taking them. He heard the man’s footsteps following a couple of metres behind. He knew the Russian would be watching him closely. He was an employee of the SVR, responsible for embassy security. He knew what he was doing.

  Behind Victor, the man whispered something. His voice was too quiet for Victor to hear, but he knew he would be making a report of the incident. Whether that was just procedure or whether it meant there would be a welcoming committee waiting wherever they were heading, he didn’t know. He did know that there wasn’t time for this.

  The Russian with the red hair unlocked a plain door with a key card and gestured for Victor to open it and step into the room beyond. He guided Francesca in first. The room was some kind of office. It was located on the ground floor along one of the roped-off corridors past which Victor had walked with Francesca earlier. Four unremarkable office desks were spaced throughout the room. Computer terminals, phones, in-and-out trays and other paraphernalia sat on top of each desk. Filing cabinets and shelves units lined the walls. A water cooler stood in one corner. On one wall a rota had been scrawled onto a whiteboard with dry marker pens of various colours. It looked like a place that would be busy in the daytime with phone calls and typing and discussion. Now it was empty except for Francesca, Victor and the Russian. Victor looked at each corner of the room, where the walls met the ceiling. No cameras.

  Behind Victor the door clicked shut.

  He stepped back and threw a backwards right elbow towards where he knew the Russian was standing, swivelling one hundred and eighty degrees with the arc of the blow to face his target and follow the elbow with a left hook.

  Delivered one after the other in quick succession, the blows should have been enough to knock the Russian out, or at the very least take him to the ground, but the vest restricted and slowed Victor’s movements and his opponent was a fully trained and experienced employee of the SVR. He saw the attack coming and slipped out of range, the handgun at his belt already out of the quick-draw holster and angling up when Victor completed the turn.

  Victor brought his left fist down on top of the gun’s barrel, the downward force stronger than the upward momentum of the Russian’s arm, knocking the gun to waist level, barrel pointed at the floor. He stepped inside the Russian’s reach, ripped away the thin cable that ran down the side of the Russian’s neck and connected an earpiece to a radio transmitter and throat mike, and delivered a short head-butt. It struck too high to break the man’s nose because the Russian pulled back from it, but Victor used his enemy’s resulting lack of balance to sweep his load-bearing leg from under him while grabbing hold of the gun and wrist.

  The Russian hit the floor and the gun came out of his hand, but before Victor could turn it around and get his finger inside the trigger guard, the prone Russian swivelled around on his back, kicking Victor on the side of his knee, then scissoring Victor’s leg with both of his own and heaving his foot from the floor.

  Victor went down, landing on his shoulder blades and rolling backwards over the head, abandoning the gun because as he came back to his feet the Russian was upon him and he needed both hands to defend himself against the assault. Victor blocked the first punch and slipped the second, responding with one of his own. The Russian stepped inside it and grabbed the arm, turning Victor and driving him into the front of a filing cabinet. He got his elbow up in time to take the collision, denting the sheet steel front.

  He kicked backwards with the edge of his heel, striking the Russian on his shin, causing him to grunt and release the hold on his arm. Victor spun around, immediately punching, then countering as his attack was dodged and the Russian responded with one of his own – an elbow that Victor caught, straightening the arm into a lock. The Russian twisted out of it and stamped on Victor’s foot, stepping away to create enough room for a knee that collided with Victor’s stomach and would have knocked the air from his lungs had the suicide vest not cushioned the blow. There was no danger of it going off prematurely. The plastic explosives could only be detonated with an electric current supplied by the mobile phone detonator.

  A shuffle backwards meant the Russian’s follo
w-up punch fell short of its intended target, Victor’s nose, and a ducking sidestep caused the next attack to sail over his head, the Russian stretching off balance in an attempt to hit his mark. Victor darted under the outstretched arm to land an uppercut on his enemy’s ribs and another above the liver. The Russian sagged, but didn’t slow or hesitate. He slammed his elbow back and down and caught Victor on the shoulder. Then he tried another knee, but Victor wrapped an arm under the knee as it came up, grabbed his opponent’s jacket, lifted him off the floor and drove him backwards until he collided with a table, and then slammed him down onto it.

  The monitor and keyboard were knocked away. The monitor housing cracked on the floor. The Russian crushed the plastic in-and-out beneath him. He grabbed the phone and slammed it into the side of Victor’s head. Victor recoiled, bringing up a forearm to knock away the phone as the Russian threw it at him to create enough time for him to roll off the table and get back to his feet.

  Victor exploited the distance between them to slip off the tan raincoat. On the other side of the table, the Russian took off his dinner jacket. Both garments dropped to the floor at the same time.

  The Russian made to circle around the table but Victor lifted his right leg and planted a front kick on the table, knocking it into his opponent. He couldn’t generate enough force to cause any injury, but the blow surprised the Russian and he didn’t recover fast enough to block the keyboard that Victor swept up from the tabletop and swung double-handed into his face.

  The keyboard was well made, and though it cracked and warped on impact, its structure held and most of the force was transferred to the Russian. He staggered backwards. Victor dropped the keyboard, charged, dipped low and wrapped his left arm around the Russian’s waist as he used his right behind the knee to lift the leg. His forward momentum tipped the Russian off balance and he hit the floor hard, the back of his head thumping against the thin carpet.

  Victor went down with him, but on top. Dazed but still fighting back, the Russian didn’t have the strength to stop Victor turning him over and snaking his arm underneath his jaw. the Russian’s throat in the pit of Victor’s elbow. He squeezed with his arm as he pushed the knuckle of his right thumb into the side of the man’s neck at a downward forty-five degree angle, his left hand closed over the right to increase the pressure. Russian went slack in less than three seconds.

  Another thirty seconds would ensure the Russian never recovered but Victor didn’t want to kill him. He was no longer a threat, and if Victor wasn’t out of the embassy by the time the man woke up then he was never going to get away.

  He found the gun on the floor near the office door and scooped it up. It was a Russian-made Yarygin MP-443 pistol. He checked the load: seventeen 9 mm rounds in the magazine. He tucked it into the front of his waistband. He didn’t plan to use it, but it was of infinitely more use in his possession than left on the floor.

  Francesca still stood in the same spot as he had left her. She watched him, but her eyes were focused on the middle distance. He retrieved the raincoat and put it back on. He took Francesca’s hand. Her palm was cool and clammy.

  ‘It’s time to go.’

  ‘Okay.’

  A sound outside the door gave Victor a second’s warning and he snapped up the Yarygin so that when the door opened the two SVR security guys walked straight into the line of fire. They were dressed in tuxedos like the unconscious man with red hair. Victor recognised one from the music room, but not the second. He must have been patrolling elsewhere.

  ‘Hands above your shoulders.’ They did as instructed. ‘You on the left, kick the door closed behind you. Don’t turn around.’ He complied. ‘Now, with your left hand and using just your thumb and forefinger, take the gun from your colleague’s belt holster and drop it at your feet.’ He struggled to remove the pistol from the holster, but managed it after a few seconds. It thunked on the carpet. ‘Get your hand back in the air and kick the gun my way.’ It skidded across the floor and stopped half a metre from Victor’s toes. He stepped forward and kicked it to the other side of the room. ‘You on the right, do exactly the same as your friend.’

  When the second gun had joined the first at the far end of the office, Victor approached his two captives. Stopping a metre before them, he stared hard into the eyes of the one on the right, then pistol-whipped the man on the left on the jaw while he was focused on what Victor might do to his colleague, and backhanded the gun into the temple of man to his right before he could react to the surprise attack.

  They both dropped, unconscious.

  He tore away their radios and crushed them beneath his heel, one after the other. Then he grabbed Francesca’s hand and led her out of the door.

  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.