Sergei’s greeting with the merest, almost reluctant incline of their heads and there was no warmth in their eyes, none at all. Sergei felt something in his stomach shift, a feeling of disquiet, and he wondered if it would be wiser to make his excuses, turn, and leave right now. And never come back.
But then from the back room he heard the call. “Sergei, is that you? Get your big Chechen arse in here right now.” Sergei’s Chechen arse wasn’t big, but he recognized that tone in Dmitry’s voice and knew it wasn’t the time to argue. “Now!” shouted Dmitry, although Sergei was already hurrying through.
“Yes, boss,” he said. He wondered what was going on, eyes on Dmitry’s screens, which were blank, monitors in sleep mode. That in itself was unusual. He braced himself for whatever came next.
“Did you close the studio?” asked Dmitry.
“Yes, Dmitry,” replied Sergei cautiously. “All done as you asked.”
“Yes, yes. Watch this,” said Dmitry. Impatiently he waggled a mouse and tapped at the keyboard at the same time. As one the screens fired up, Dmitry keyed in a password. Now Sergei was looking at footage. He recognized where it had been taken, of course. The cam house. But as for what was happening . . .
“Blyat,” he muttered in Russian. No fucking way.
Instead of watching a girl joylessly remove her clothes, what he saw was a man in a balaclava leering into the camera, baring his teeth, flipping the finger, and in the next instant hefting a baseball bat.
The picture died.
Another image, also the studio but a different room. Same guy, same smash-cut ending. Another room, another.
Dmitry’s mouth was set. His color rose. “They attacked the studio last night,” he seethed.
Sergei floundered. “But . . . I don’t understand, Dmitry.”
“They hit the wrong fucking studio.”
CHAPTER 29
SHELLEY WOKE, RANG Lucy, told her about his fun night and that he’d be leaving shortly. Next he went downstairs into the quiet of the house, in search of the other two.
In the kitchen he found Gurney, still wearing his combat trousers and hoodie, head down over a bowl of cereal.
“You enjoy yourself last night, did you?” said Shelley from the doorway.
The Para looked up, milk spackling the stubble on his chin. “Felt good getting busy with the baseball bat,” he grinned. “And good to see a few birds with their kit off.”
Shelley nodded, thinking if he had a button that could call up a tactical napalm strike, he’d be pressing it and aiming the strike in Gurney’s direction.
But there was no button. There was just the wild contradiction of an expensive designer kitchen and a paratrooper who couldn’t eat cereal without getting it on his face. So instead he asked, “What’s happened to the van?”
“Already taken care of. Me and Lloyd sorted it earlier.”
Shelley nodded. “Right. Where is he now?”
Without looking up Gurney pointed outside.
Shelley found Bennett on the stones. Unlike Gurney he’d changed and now wore his suit. He stood with his hands in his pockets staring into space with a vacant expression that Shelley recognized from the previous night.
“Not zoning out on me again, are you?” said Shelley, and instantly regretted reminding the man of something he’d no doubt rather forget. “Look,” he said, changing tack, “there was nothing you could have done differently last night. Don’t take it bad.”
“It was supposed to be my show and it was FUBAR, how else should I take it?” replied Bennett, sounding dismal.
Shelley wasn’t sure about that. He was the guy that Susie had asked to look after Drake. If anybody was to blame it was him. Even so. “What are you doing now, then?”
“Waiting for Johnson to arrive.”
“Then?”
“Then we’re packing our shit and getting the fuck out of Dodge, Shelley. Suggest you do the same, my friend.”
Shelley sighed. “Listen, mate, we used to have a thing back in the 22. ‘Anti-fragile,’ we called ourselves. You know what that means?”
“It means the worse shit gets the more efficient you are.”
“Exactly. We’re anti-fragile, blokes like you and me, but occasionally we need reminding of that fact.”
Bennett nodded. “Cheers, Shelley, appreciate that.”
“Things were bad last night.”
“They don’t get much worse.”
“But we need to move on,” Shelley told him. “There’s no point in having a pity party about it all. We’re all at fault for what happened. We all either did too much or didn’t do enough. So right, yeah, we’ll make plans to leave and let Guy Drake think about what he’s done, like a naughty schoolboy. But in the meantime we need to be clever.
“Think about it, Bennett. Last