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