FORTY-FOUR
Bolichova hung up her call and turned to Sorokina, who sipped from a teacup while standing at the kitchen island. Anya said, “Suite 405’s room service is canceled.”
On cue, Maksim Akulov stepped out of the bedroom. He looked neat and healthy in his crisp white room service attendant’s uniform, his hair was slicked back with gel, and he had a confident, determined smile on his face.
He was fine now, because the excitement filled his bloodstream like a drug. It wasn’t the high he used to get from such endeavors—one needed more and more of a drug to have the same effects—but this was his best day, his best moment, in over six weeks.
The Russian carried three knives, a weighted throwing blade under his server’s coat on his left hip, a second throwing knife just behind it at the eight o’clock position, and another hooked blade, stowed centerline behind his belt buckle. It was his intention to use this weapon to slit Zakharova’s wrists after he got her into the bathtub.
In Maksim’s hand he held an unholstered CZ subcompact pistol, with an Anschutz suppressor screwed onto the barrel. The Anschutz had a unique design that made it look like a long, fat drill bit. Concealing the weapon on his person would have been difficult, especially to an eye as trained as Zakharova’s, so he slipped it under the linen draping the room service cart and adjusted the fabric to where the weapon did not reveal itself. Still, it would be easily accessible to him, and he’d have it out and in his target’s face as soon as she opened the door. The target had the training, as well as the heads-up from Inna the night before with the offer to surrender, to know that an assassination attempt would be coming, so she’d likely be armed herself. But despite Inna’s pleas for Maksim to respect Sirena’s abilities, he had no doubt in his mind that he could get his weapon trained on her long before she could get hers trained on him.
The Russians were banking on her assuming they wouldn’t dare make the attempt here in the hotel, since this wasn’t typical GRU or SVR assassination technique for work in a European capital.
But it had worked in D.C., and Maksim felt comfortable it would work here.
Semyon also had a CZ pistol, and it was suppressed, as well, but he clicked it into an open shoulder holster, with the silencer pointing straight down, and then he put on his jacket, hiding the weapon.
For the first time in days, Maksim was back in charge. “Dvah minut.” Two minutes. He walked over to the mini bar, unscrewed a single airplane bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and downed it in one gulp.
He winked at Inna now. “Only one, dear. Keeps me steady.”
Inna turned away, back to the monitor and the view through the two cameras in the hall.
Maksim rolled the cart up next to the closed door, scooted past it, and looked through the peephole. It was full of breakfast foods: an omelet, a ham-and-cheese croissant, coffee and orange juice, all resting on plates under domed stainless-steel plate carriers. Anya had purchased the food downstairs in the restaurant an hour earlier in anticipation of this morning’s operation, basing the order on foods their target had ordered on previous mornings over the past two weeks.
Maksim and Semyon would have to remove all the food and the cart, along with the cameras, after the hit so as not to arouse the suspicions of the police or hotel staff, but bringing actual food would help them get through the door if a suspicious Zakharova ordered them to remove the plate covers while checking them out through the peephole.
Semyon stepped up close behind Maksim at the door now, ready to rush down to the opposite end of the hallway once his leader had made entry on Zakharova’s suite.
Inna called to the bigger, older Russian male. “Don’t forget Darrin Patch in 407. I don’t like the coincidence of a fighting-aged male appearing in the room next to hers right before we launch.”
Semyon did not acknowledge the intel officer; he just put his hand on Maksim’s shoulder, gave the smaller man a squeeze, and counted down the time in his head.
Inna put her hand on Anya’s shoulder, as well, and she looked at the CCTV feed piped in from the hallway. After a moment, she said, “Replace the real-time hallway broadcast with the prerecorded loop.”
“Ponial.” Got it. Anya tapped some keys, and Inna saw a quick glitch in the hallway cameras before they once again displayed a long, narrow, dim, and empty space.
“It’s done,” Anya said.
Maksim opened the door and began to pull the cart into the hallway, but he stopped abruptly.
Fifteen meters ahead of him the elevator chimed, and then he heard the doors opening. Quickly he stepped back inside the suite, shut the door, and looked out through the peephole.
Anya called out what she saw on her monitor. She said, “One man off the car, he’s turned right, heading to the far end of the hall.”
Inna asked, “Can you see his face?”
“Yeah, one second.” She turned and looked at Sorokina. “It’s Ric Ennis.”
“Shit.” Inna looked to Maksim. “Zakharova has company. We need to abort.”
Maksim did not reply to this; he only continued watching through the peephole as the man walked away from him, nearing the door on the opposite end of the hall.
“We need to abort, Maksim,” Inna said again.
Zoya had stepped out of the shower, wrapped her hair in a towel, and dried herself off with another. She entered the bedroom and chose a pair of black jeans, a white bra, and a white silk top from her closet. She began dressing at a leisurely pace, until she heard a knock at the door.
It could be room service, she knew, but Zoya wasn’t taking any chances. She grabbed the SIG, still wet from its shower, and she pushed the weapon into her waistband at the small of her back as she walked through the living room to the door. She looked out through the peephole while securing a few buttons on her shirt, tucking the rest in front to clasp it shut, and then she stood upright, a look of surprise on her face.
It was Ennis.
Der’mo.
After checking the peephole again to be certain he was alone, she opened the door. Her gun was still on her, and her right hand hovered back near it; Ennis wasn’t a Russian hitter, but she assumed he was the one who gave her up to Moscow.
Ennis moved in quickly with an intense stare at her but no words.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she said.
“Yeah?” The man was agitated, this was clear. “Yeah? Well, you didn’t tell me about last night, did you?”
“Last night? You mean about the Russian assassins who gave me one opportunity to go back with them to Moscow so I could be executed by firing squad? Who did you tell about me, Ennis?”
He cocked his head in surprise. “The Russians? They’re here? They know?”
Zoya nodded. “Don’t play stupid. That’s what happened last night.” She cocked her head, relaxed her grip on the weapon behind her. “What were you talking about?”
“Miriam called me a half hour ago. Her contacts told her that BfV was following both of us after dinner. You didn’t go up to your room like you told me, you went for a walk. An intelligence officer following you was murdered. An officer following me was attacked and injured.” He added, “You and I are both burned. Miriam wants us to get out of town.”
There was nothing in the world Zoya would like more than to skip town now, but she knew she had to do her best to remain on her mission. She needed to be here, in the middle of Shrike’s intelligence operation against Iranian actors in Berlin, to find out what the hell was going on.
Ennis said, “We’ll go together. Safety in numbers. Pack quickly, we can be on a train in a half hour.”
Der’mo, she said to herself again. Her entire operation was falling apart around her.