Yedmenov laughed and hugged Baptiste. He slapped him hard on the back with a hand full of gold sovereign rings.
‘You haven’t aged a day, Oleksandr,’ Baptiste said. ‘What’s your secret?’
‘You know what they say,’ Yedmenov replied. ‘You’re only as old as the woman you feel.’ The Russian arms dealer boomed with laughter, only to stop in an instant when he noticed Driver. ‘Speaking of which.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Who is this magnificent creature?’
‘This is Monica,’ Baptiste replied. ‘Say hello, Monica.’
‘Hello, Monica,’ said Driver.
Yedmenov wagged a finger in her direction. ‘I like this one. Beauty and brains. Hard to find.’
Driver shunned Yedmenov’s attentions and looked around the room. A young woman reclined on one of the sofas. She wore a cherry-red velvet dress, her strawberry-blond hair swept over a pale, freckled shoulder. Her nose carried a tinge of crimson under the nostrils. She drank a glass of champagne and glared at Driver like she was competition.
‘So, Yuri,’ Yedmenov said. ‘You no longer working in service of mother Russia?’
Baptiste sighed. ‘I got tired of the politics.’
‘I heard you were arrested,’ Yedmenov said, circling his old friend.
‘Just a little mix-up in Paris,’ Baptiste replied. ‘I’m a private operator now. You could say an intermediary.’
Yedmenov chuckled. ‘An intermediary? And you say you’re tired of politics?’
‘I thought we might do some business together.’
‘You’re not a competitor, are you?’ Yedmenov asked, face creasing in a dead-eyed scowl. ‘Because you know what happens to my competitors…’
Baptiste hesitated.
Yedmenov roared with laughter and swung a fake punch into Baptiste’s midriff. ‘I got you, Yuri.’
Baptiste bobbed and weaved. ‘You didn’t have shit.’
‘Bullshit, I had you like always,’ Yedmenov said, slapping a hand on Baptiste’s shoulder. ‘Come, we talk business.’
Beckoned down to the sofas, Driver sat far enough away from Baptiste to suggest to Yedmenov that he had a chance.
‘Viktoria, fetch us some champagne,’ Yedmenov said.
The beautiful young redhead rose to her feet. She killed Driver with her eyes as she glided past.
Baptiste leaned forward. ‘I can assure you, Oleksandr, I’m not in business to tread on any toes. Only to oil the wheels. To make introductions.’
‘Introductions to who?’ Yedmenov asked, reclining into the sofa and sipping on his martini.
‘Buyers, sellers, new product lines.’
‘Come on,’ Yedmenov said, leering at Driver. ‘What can you get me I can’t get for myself?’
‘How about a product line from China?’ Baptiste asked.
‘You don’t have access to China,’ Yedmenov replied. ‘No one does.’
Baptiste leaned in close. ‘You sure about that?’
While Yedmenov considered Baptiste’s proposal, Viktoria returned with four flutes of champagne. She set them down on the table. ‘One for me, one for Oleksandr, one for Yuri…’ Viktoria narrowed her eyes at Driver. ‘And one for the old woman.’
She accepted her glass without comment. Viktoria sat herself close to Yedmenov, a hand on his thigh. Driver stood and strolled to the viewing window. She held the champagne, but didn’t drink. It was severely tempting, yet she held strong and surveyed the nightclub floor below. Pope and Wells were still at the bar, the Australian dabbing his face dry with a gold napkin. The handsome Brit laughed as an offended young woman strode away cursing the Australian’s name. Next she spotted Rios and Lim being chatted up by two of Yedmenov’s personal security team. They were quite separate to the club doormen and clothed in tailored suits.
Baptiste had been right on the money. Right down to the number of security and how they operated. Inside the club, they weren’t on official duty. Yet they had clear instructions to stay on the right side of sober, close at hand if needed. They had the look of men who took the perks of their jobs seriously. A free drink here, a young woman there, with the promise of VIP access. Yedmenov knew how to treat his employees and how to engender loyalty. Baptiste was also right about the man’s penchant for long-legged blondes.
Driver sashayed back to the sofas, watching Yedmenov watch her every move.
He turned his attention to Baptiste. ‘China or no, I’ve got a full product line as it is. Russian, American, British, Israeli—’
‘You’ve not got an EMP railgun,’ said Baptiste.
Yedmenov paused, champagne flute to his lips. He put down the glass. ‘A pulse weapon?’
‘More than one,’ Baptiste said. ‘And I know you’ve been looking to get your hands on the new V-series nerve agent.’
Yedmenov shifted his weight onto the edge of the sofa. ‘How much are we talking?’ he asked, opening a small silver box on the table between them.
‘Twenty million,’ Baptiste said. ‘US.’
Yedmenov flinched at the price, spooning out a small heap of cocaine on the glass table.
‘It’s next-generation tech,’ Baptiste continued. ‘I know people who’d pay triple.’
‘So why do you need another middleman?’ Yedmenov asked, arranging the coke into a neat line.
‘It’s a sensitive time for me,’ Baptiste replied, crossing a leg and pinching the knee of his trouser. ‘I need a layer of anonymity. Besides, you have all the logistics in place. Why reinvent the wheel?’
Yedmenov stooped low and snorted the line of coke. He offered the silver box to Baptiste.
He waved it away. Driver did the same.
‘I see you’re as boring as ever, Yuri,’ Yedmenov groaned, passing the box to Viktoria.
Baptiste offered a Gallic shrug.
‘Too busy plucking your eyebrows,’ Yedmenov said, thumbing a residue of cocaine from the end of his nose. ‘But I like doing business with boring people,’ he continued. ‘Party? No. Business, yes.’ Yedmenov’s gaze strayed to Driver. ‘So how soon can I get my hands on the merchandise?’
‘I need a small deposit to secure a meeting with my contact in Beijing,’ Baptiste said. ‘The rest of the cash on delivery. Say, seven days?’
Yedmenov clapped his hands. ‘Let’s do it.’
Baptiste took a drink of champagne as Yedmenov waved over his giant bodyguard. The man bent over almost double to have Yedmenov whisper in his ear. He straightened up, nodded and strode out of the room.
Several minutes passed as Yedmenov chatted with Baptiste about the old days together at the Institute. Driver knew all about it – an academy in Moscow where Russian intelligence trained most of their SVR agents.
While the two former colleagues talked, Driver got up, wandered to the window and glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough Yedmenov was watching. This time, she returned his smile. She looked down at the nightclub floor, only to find no trace of the other members of the team.
It was the first feeling she had that something was wrong.