Incongruously, the strobe lights continued to flash, the killers’ movements intermittently registering on Tom’s retina as if caught in slow-motion replay.
His clip empty, one of the men drew a handgun and calmly fired a bullet into the temple of each of his victims’ heads. Satisfied with their handiwork, they retreated across the room, nonchalantly stepping over the people cowering there, and disappeared up the staircase.
As soon as they had gone, real panic set in. Women screamed hysterically, men began shouting. There was a stampede for the exit, shards of glass flying across the room as the bar was upended.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Tom shouted above the noise, hauling Archie and Dominique to their feet, “before they realize they got the wrong people and come back.”
“You think—?” Disbelief and shock spread across Domi-nique’s face.
“Yeah,” said Tom. “I think that waiter was a bit too insistent we sit at that particular table. Three minutes earlier, we’d have been there instead of them.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
1:56 a.m.
People surged toward the stairs, only to be swept back into the club as flashing blue lights heralded the arrival of the police. Women screamed, men shouted, and guns clattered to the floor. Small white envelopes fizzed through the air as people tried to rid themselves of incriminating evidence, some bursting open midflight so that the white powder they contained danced through the still-pulsing disco lights and settled on the floor like a dusting of fresh snow.
“That way,” yelled Tom, pointing at a group of people who were heading through a door by the cage. “There must be another exit.”
They found themselves in a narrow corridor; a door on the left led to the men’s toilets and a door on the right to the women’s. At the end was a small janitor’s closet with mops, brooms, and industrial-sized bottles of detergent propped up against the concrete walls. Set into the far wall was a ladder formed of narrow iron hoops that led up to ground level. A chaotic, writhing stream of bodies was scrambling up the ladder’s rungs.
“Come on,” Tom shouted, fighting his way through to the base of the ladder and holding
people
off
so
that
Dominique
266 james twining
and Archie could climb up ahead of him, before clambering up himself. A woman’s shoe, presumably dropped by someone above, flashed past his face, and he felt the sickening crunch of someone’s fingers underfoot as he stepped on their hand. After about twenty feet, the ladder emerged through a submarine-type hatch onto a narrow strip of wasteland. People streamed up the ladder behind them, the women flinch-ing as the cold night air bit into their bare flesh. Tom slipped his jacket around Dominique’s shoulders.
“Let’s go,” he called, the growing cacophony of sirens telling him that it would be only a matter of minutes before the police located the rear exit and rounded up everyone in the immediate vicinity.
They set off, Dominique running in long, effortless strides, Archie huffing after only a few hundred yards. A couple of stray dogs ran alongside, barking with curiosity, until a particularly interesting lamppost brought them skidding to a standstill, their tails wagging furiously.
“I thought Viktor was a friend of yours,” Tom observed as they ran. “You must have done something to really piss him off.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Archie wheezed. “It’s some sort of mistake. It must be.”
They reached a junction and Tom slowed down, trying to get his bearings amid the identical rows of decaying Communist-era concrete apartment blocks whose doorways smelled of stale urine. Before he could orient himself, however, three black Cadillac Escalades roared up the street behind them, rounded the corner, and screeched to a halt, surrounding them in a crude semicircle.
The rear passenger door of the middle car flew open, and the waiter who had shown them to their table leaned out, his face pale, eyes wide, body turned so that they couldn’t see into the car beyond him.
“What the hell do you want?” Archie challenged him.
There was a loud crack and the front of the waiter’s face flew off in a fine red spray, his body
crumpling
back
into
his
seat.
Dominique
gasped.
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A red stiletto tipped the waiter’s body out onto the street with a shove to the small of his back. Then a bronzed leg emerged, followed by a hand clutching the still-smoking gun, long diamanté-studded nails wrapped around the handle. Finally, an oval face with wild blue eyes framed by long dark hair appeared, and a tanned, full bosom adorned by a flaming red ruby. Tom recognized her immediately as the woman who had winked at him when he brushed against her on his way to the bar.
“Zdrástvuti, Archie,” she said with a smile.
Tom flashed Archie a questioning look, but he was already climbing into the car.
“Zdrástvuti,
Viktor.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
2:01 a.m.
As soon as they were all inside, the car accelerated away, its powerful engine growling as the revs climbed. Tom was in the front, Archie and Dominique in the backseat with Viktor, while an unsmiling bearded brute who seemed to respond to the name Max was driving, a Kalashnikov propped against the walnut veneer dash in front of him.
“Stop the car,” Tom demanded, as soon as he judged they were far enough from the club. “Enough fucking around— what’s going on?”
“Tom!” Archie remonstrated, for once the pacifist. “Easy.”
Tom could read from Archie’s face what he meant. They were on Viktor’s turf now and needed to watch their step. But Tom was in no mood for diplomacy.
“We nearly got killed tonight, Archie. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough surprises. First she invites us to her club”—he tilted his head in Viktor’s direction but spoke as if she wasn’t there—“then she makes sure we sit at a particular table so that two gunmen can use us for target practice.” He nailed Viktor with a stare. “By the way, who was the poor shit you just redecorated the sidewalk with?”
“An
employee
of
mine.
A
traitor.”
She
spoke
with
a
gently
the black sun 269
lilting Russian accent, but her face remained impassive as she continued, “I apologize for his betrayal.”
“You’re telling us you had nothing to do with all that?” Tom snorted disbelievingly.
“Niet.” She shook her head, her hair flicking one way, then the other. “I told him to get you a table, that’s all. He must have told them which one it was.”
“It explains why he insisted we sit at that table,” Archie suggested helpfully.
“And probably why they didn’t realize that the three people sitting there were not the ones they’d been sent to kill,” Dominique added bitterly.
“Who were they?” Tom asked.
“I have never seen them before,” said Viktor. “Chechens, most likely. Professionals. They do one job and then disappear. The money buys them weapons for their war.”
“But who were they working for?” Archie this time.
“Whoever could afford them. But not me. I have my own people.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” Dominique muttered darkly.
“How did they know where to find us?” Tom demanded. “They even had time to find and bribe that waiter. You were the only person who knew we’d be at the club.”
“It was not me,” said Viktor. “I put your names on the list, but they were three among a hundred.”
“The phone!” Archie snapped his fingers. “The phone must have been tapped.” He turned to Viktor. “We discussed all the arrangements then.”
“You think it’
s Renwick?” Dominique quizzed Tom.
“Why would Renwick make a move on me in a crowded nightclub when only a few hours ago he had me on my own?” Tom shook his head. “No, it must be someone else.”
“Well, you can’t go back to your hotel,” said Viktor. “You will stay with me instead. I’ll send some people around to collect your luggage.”
“No,” Tom insisted. “I think we’ll be better on our own.”
“That wasn’t an offer,” Viktor replied unsmilingly. “I’ve got three dead customers and half
of
the
St.
Petersburg
police
270 james twining
crawling over my club. Until I find out what’s going on, you’re staying with me.”
The car began to lose speed as the lead vehicle in their three-car convoy pulled up at a red light. Suddenly there was a blinding flash, followed by a massive boom. The car in front of them lifted seven feet off the ground and smashed down onto its side. The explosion rocked them all in their seats, their car leaping backward in the shock wave. Through the smoke a figure materialized at the driver’s window, slapped something against the glass, then disappeared. Tom recognized the shape at once, despite the distorting effect of the duct tape that secured it to the glass.
“Grenade!” he shouted, sliding into the footwell for shelter.
The grenade detonated with an ugly bang, shards of glass flying like shrapnel across the car’s interior despite the windows clearly being armored, fragments embedding themselves in the dashboard and soft leather seats. The figure appeared again, this time opening fire with an automatic weapon. The driver, still dazed from the explosion, didn’t stand a chance as the bullets smashed through the now weakened glass, his body jerking in his seat as he was hit in the head and chest.
Grabbing the wheel, Tom leaned across and pressed the driver’s lifeless foot to the accelerator. The car sprang forward, careering violently as they clipped the burning wreck of the vehicle in front of them, bullets thumping into the side and rear windows as they accelerated away. As soon as he judged them to be clear, Tom sat up and opened the driver’s door, heaving his body out on the street before slipping behind the wheel and stabbing the accelerator down.
“Take this—” He passed the Kalashnikov back over his shoulder. “We’re going to need it.”
Viktor grabbed it, checked the magazine, then cocked the weapon with familiar ease. Then, kicking her shoes off, she climbed into the passenger seat next to Tom. He saw that she was bleeding from a deep cut on her arm.
“Are you okay?”
“Forget
me.
What
about
the
others?”
she
asked.
Tom
the black sun 271
checked his mirror and saw the second escort car lying in a twisted mangle of burning steel and rubber.
“I don’t think they made it. Must have been using a shaped charge or tank mines. We’re just lucky we didn’t drive over one ourselves.”
“When I find out who’s done this I will make them pay.” Viktor’s eyes flashed, her chest heaving. “No one will escape.”
“Let’s get out of here first,” Tom reminded her.
“Head south for the river,” she ordered.
Tom nodded, making eye contact in the rearview mirror with a grim-faced Archie, then Dominique, who gave him a nervous smile. She was clutching her jaw as if she’d banged it against something.
Suddenly a car surged out from a street to their left, guns blazing out of both windows.
“Hold my legs,” Viktor shouted over the noise of the gunfire.
She pressed her window switch and leaned out, her back resting on the sill so that she was almost lying flat. Steering with his left hand, Tom grabbed her ankles with his right hand to stop her falling as she began to fire three-shot bursts at their pursuers.
“Aim for the tires,” Tom shouted. She fired again, and sparks began to fly from the car behind them as the left front tire shredded. As the driver lost control, it veered across the icy road, clipped an oncoming vehicle, and spun into a line of parked cars. Tom watched in the rearview mirror as it flipped spectacularly onto its roof, wheels still spinning. Viktor snapped off the magazine and looked into it with disgust. “I’m out,” she said, tossing it out the window. Dominique grabbed the handgun Viktor had left on the backseat, cocked it, and thrust it toward her. “Use this.”
Viktor nodded her thanks, the gun strangely incongruous between her sparkling nails.
“Where to?” asked Tom.
“The bridge,” Viktor exclaimed, pointing at the road ahead. “Get to the bridge.” She checked her watch, a diamond-stud-ded gold Rolex. “There’s still time.”
272 james twining
Tom gunned the car in the direction she had indicated, and a minute later they could see the Troitsky Bridge and a long line of traffic leading to it.
“Take the left lane,” Viktor instructed.
Tom swung the car into the oncoming traffic, horns blaring and headlights flashing as cars swerved up onto the pavement to avoid them. Ahead, two large barriers had just come down across the road, preventing any more traffic from passing.
“What’s happening?” Tom asked.
“They’re raising the bridges to let the ships through. They do it every night, except when the river’s frozen. Once the bridge is up, it won’t go down again until three a.m. If we get across now, they’ll be stuck here.”
Tom slammed on the brakes as they reached the barrier, the car slewing to a sideways halt.
“We’ll have to run for it from here.” He hit the ground running and vaulted over the barrier, the others only seconds behind him.
“This way,” urged Viktor.
They ran past a gesticulating guard onto the main bridge section. Tom felt it slowly begin to rise under them as they ran.
“We’re not going to make it,” he panted.
“We have to. Look—” Viktor was pointing at something behind them. Tom turned to see that a second car was accelerating down the road toward them. Two gunmen with semiautomatics were firing at them from the windows, the bullets burrowing into the tarmac around them like pebbles dropping into sand.
He turned and, hauling Archie with him, ran as fast as he could toward the edge, the gradient steepening as the bridge continued its rise. With one final effort they surged toward the edge and jumped the small gap that had opened up between the two halves of the bridge. Only Viktor paused at the top, gripping her gun with both hands and emptying it into the windshield of the pursuing car until it swerved and crashed through the handrail into the river below.
Those
few
seconds’
delay,
though,
had
caused
the
gap
to
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become a chasm. Arms outstretched, legs pumping, she launched herself across the void, her fingertips somehow making contact with the rim. She hung there, helpless, the freezing waters of the Neva staring hungrily at her. She felt herself slipping. Suddenly a hand closed around her wrist. Tom’s face appeared above her, then his other hand reaching down to haul her to safety. Once over the lip, they tumbled headlong down the raised bridge section, landing in a confused heap at the bottom.
“Spasibo,” she said, pulling herself to her feet, her legs and arms raw and bruised where she had fallen.
“Don’t mention it,” said Tom, smiling. He felt a stab of pain in his left shoulder and winced.
“You’ve been hit,” she exclaimed, kneeling down next to him.
“It’s nothing,” Tom panted, looking down at his fingers, now scarlet where the blood had run down his arm. He realized with alarm that he couldn’t feel them.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
REKI FONTANKI EMBANKMENT, ST. PETERS
BURG
January 10—2:53 a.m.
It was more bordello than bedroom. A huge chandelier drooped from the mirrored ceiling, giltwood chairs covered in leopard skin pressing up against the pink walls, and a polar bear rug stretched in front of the massive black marble fireplace. Tom stared up at his reflection in the mirror over the bed, trying to keep his mind off the searing pain in his shoulder. Viktor, perched on the bed next to him, stopped what she was doing and looked intently into his eyes.
“You don’t like it?”
Tom shrugged. “It’s not my style.”
“Nor mine.” She gave a tight smile. “I inherited it. I would have changed things, but in Russia, rooms like this make people respect you. Obey you. Maybe even die for you.”
There was no trace of emotion in her voice. Tom knew she was right. He’d seen for himself how the ostentatious display of wealth could both cow enemies and inspire followers.
“This will hurt.” She’d already cleaned the wound with cotton balls and warm water, the dried blood washing away to reveal a small
the black sun 275
hole in his left shoulder. Tom couldn’t remember feeling when he’d been hit. The angle and location of the wound suggested that it had happened early on, when he first grabbed the wheel and accelerated away from the gunman firing through the shattered window. According to Viktor, who had demonstrated a surprising familiarity with gunshot wounds and how to treat them, the bullet had lodged itself in the muscle around the shoulder blade. A trip to the hospital was clearly out of the question and, although Viktor had access to other, more discreet doctors, she had advised against involving outsiders unless absolutely necessary. The incident with the waiter at the club had proved to them all that, for the right price, even those she trusted could betray her. Tom had agreed, even though he knew it meant allowing Viktor to extract the bullet without anesthetic.
“Ready?” she asked, stainless steel tongs poised over the wound.
“As I’ll ever be,” said Tom, bracing himself.
She slipped the tongs into the wound, and the burning in Tom’s arm burst into a blazing fire. The room seemed to go dark around him as the pain shut out all other senses. His ragged breathing came through clenched teeth in a succession of wet hisses that stuck in his throat.
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