A few moments earlier, on the other side of the estate, a green pickup truck had pulled up at the service entrance. This second driveway, less ostentatious than its counterpart on Gin Lane, was manned by a pair of security guards who had spent most of the evening waving through catering staff, and who now were seated in a parked jeep, sharing a plate of sirloin and piri piri prawns.
The pickup truck slowed to a stop. Biting off most of a prawn, the older guard set its keratinous tail on his plate, wiped his fingers, and got out of the jeep. A heavy flashlight was secured to his belt. He unholstered it, directing its beam toward the truck. On both sides, a logo and phone number had been stenciled in white: SOUTHAMPTON WASTE REMOVAL.
The guard approached the cab of the pickup, angling the flashlight so that it would not shine into the driver’s eyes. Except for a pair of gloves on the seat, the passenger side was empty. “Evening,” the guard said.
“Evening,” the driver replied. He was an older man with graying hair and a mustache, his coveralls faded with use. Despite his age, he seemed wiry and strong. “Here for trash pickup.”
The guard glanced at his watch. “A little early, aren’t you? It’s only nine o’clock.”
“I was told to come now,” the driver said. He had a slight accent, perhaps Russian or Eastern European. “Get stuff from caterers first, then come back at midnight for second load.”
“Okay, let me check.” Lowering his flashlight, the guard took the phone from his belt, pressing the button to talk. As he called the main house for confirmation, he shone his flashlight across the bed of the pickup, which was bare except for a folded tarpaulin. Checking under the canvas, he found nothing. Then he knelt and directed his light under the chassis, which was clean as well. Finally, he went back to the cab of the truck, shining the flashlight onto the empty passenger seat.
“Seems like a big job for one guy,” the guard said. “You working alone tonight?”
The driver shrugged. “They paid for one man. If they pay for more, I bring more. Not a problem. I’ll be out of here soon.”
“Don’t hurt yourself doing it,” the guard said, thinking privately that there was something strange about the arrangement. Normally, these contractors would toss in a couple of undocumented workers for free, but instead, they’d sent an old guy, perhaps the owner, who had to be pushing sixty.
Before he could ask about this, his phone beeped. “Roger,” the command post said. “They’re on the list.”
“Copy that.” The guard stood aside. “You’re good to go. Just follow the driveway.”
“Thank you,” the driver said. Touching the bill of his cap, he eased the truck through the service entrance, heading up the gravel drive. The mansion glowed in the distance, its windows lit brightly from within.
The pickup continued along the driveway until the service entrance was out of sight, then cut its lights and halted. At this point, halfway between the road and the main house, there was no outdoor lighting, and the pickup, which had been painted dark green for this very reason, was all but invisible.
It remained there, idling, for a few seconds. There was a click as the driver pulled the handle of the release cable on the dashboard, popping the hood. Then the hood swung up, rising like the cover of an antique phonograph, and two shadowy figures climbed out of the hood compartment.
Lowering himself to the ground, Ilya helped Zhenya out of the hood, the truck bouncing slightly on its springs. The two men were dressed in identical dark brown suits, black plastic glasses, and shoes with crepe soles. Each had a camera bag slung over one shoulder.
Ilya closed the hood and went over to the driver’s side, where Sharkovsky was waiting behind the wheel. The old man’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “Thirty minutes. No more. Udachi.”
“Udachi,” Ilya said. He turned away, moving quickly across the lawn, with Zhenya falling into step beside him. His glasses had steamed up, so he took them off and wiped them on the front of his suit. Behind him, the truck continued on toward the house, as if it had only paused to get its bearings.
Although it had not been his idea, Ilya was pleased by the ruse. The truck was a mid-engine pickup, its engine mounted at the center of the vehicle, beneath the seats. For racing, the design provided favorable weight distribution, reducing the vehicle’s moment of inertia and making it easier to turn. More importantly, it left the hood compartment empty, except for the battery, tank, and radiator. And no one ever thought to check under the hood.
The two men walked together across the grass, mirroring each other stride for stride. Before reaching the circle of light cast by the house, they separated. As he turned to go, Ilya caught the other man’s eye. “Udachi.”
“Udachi,” Zhenya said, grinning broadly enough to push the glasses up his cheeks. Then he headed for the tent, the camera bag slung over his shoulder. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the crowd.
Ilya turned to face the mansion, which glowed like a winter palace. It was a labyrinth, but he knew all of its secrets. As he crossed the lawn, he undid the clasps of his bag, giving him easier access to his gun.
Keeping an eye out for security, he made it to the porch. The front doors were wide open. A bay window overlooked the lawn, illuminating a patch of manicured grass. When he looked inside, through the entrance hall, he could see guests in the living room, seated in tub chairs.
He went quickly inside, as if he were coming home. It was five minutes past nine.