‘They only took money!’ the Italian said mockingly. ‘Ah, Russia! I do so love your country, Pytor. Sometimes it is like the Wild West!’ He made finger-guns and chuckled at his own joke. ‘Don’t worry. The police will find the responsible parties . . . Or perhaps I will talk to our mutual friend the Salt Seller, yes? Chumak’s thugs can bring me the fools who dared to do this. We could have some sport with them.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I like that idea.’

  Glovkonin knew that Da Silvio had a reckless tendency to leave bodies behind when his parties got out of control. He found the man’s appetites to be unseemly, but right now that was of lesser importance than the matter at hand.

  ‘Have you already forgotten what happened in Paris? Our security, violated? Those Rubicon wretches were able to get close to us!’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ The Italian’s false good humour faded. ‘You promised that your complex little plan would eradicate them once and for all. But still there are survivors out there, and you keep failing to dispose of them.’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘Personally, I think you obsess about them too much. Who are these people? What can they do to hurt me?’

  ‘Do not underestimate them,’ warned Glovkonin.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like I am a fool.’ The Italian’s eyes narrowed at his tone. ‘You like to think you are the clever one, Pytor, with your games and your scheming. But has it ever occurred to you that the rest of us see your ambitions all too clearly, that we indulge you out of amusement?’ He looked towards the penthouse’s office, where the floor safe hung open. ‘Something as trivial as this matters little to me . . . Is it your doing, I wonder? A ploy of some sort . . . Did you have your pet thugs do this to test my resolve? Or perhaps you had Chumak do it. I should ask him!’

  Glovkonin could hardly believe the other man’s wild accusations.

  ‘Why would I draw unwanted attention to us, two days before the next phase of the operation?’

  ‘I can think of a reason.’ The Italian dropped into a chair, with a sigh. ‘You’ve been desperate to make me appear ineffectual since you became a vested member of the committee. You’re not content with the power and status you have been granted. You want more.’ He leaned back. ‘You want mine.’

  Not just yours.

  Glovkonin almost spoke the retort out loud. Instead, he took a breath and reframed his next statement.

  ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. Our colleagues from Switzerland and the United States will be gravely concerned when they learn of what happened here. What are we going to tell them? “You worry too much”?’

  The Italian’s gaze hardened. ‘It’s pointless to bring this up with the others. What purpose would it serve, aside than distracting them from their work? No, we won’t speak of this.’ He made it an order, expecting to be obeyed, and Glovkonin seethed at his conceit. ‘I have already increased security at all locations. If there is more than petty theft at hand here, that will put an end to it.’

  ‘You are so confident you are right,’ said Glovkonin.

  ‘There is a phrase the American racers use, which is appropriate now . . .’ Da Silvio tapped a button on the electronic bracelet around his wrist, signifying that their conversation had ended by summoning Willa. ‘Stay in your lane, Pytor.’

  Glovkonin did not deign to give him a reply, and he stalked from the penthouse and back across the sky lobby, with Misha and Gregor falling into step beside him. Outwardly, the granite-hard lines of the Russian’s face were rigid and emotionless, but inwardly he nursed his fury.

  The plan had always been for the other men in the Combine to be removed when the opportunity presented itself, but now he was certain that the Italian had to be excised at the earliest opportunity.

  He made a call to Andre on his encrypted Blackphone as the elevator descended to the ground floor.

  ‘I have some additional work for you,’ he explained. ‘I am moving up the timetable on certain contingencies.’

  ‘Understood.’

  The French hacker knew exactly what that meant.

  ‘There is more,’ he said. ‘Set up a private meeting with Pavlo Chumak. Tell him I have a business proposition.’

  TEN

  Down on the seafront, the steady breeze off the Black Sea cut the heat of the late afternoon sun. Racing fans and tourists crowded the public viewing spaces to catch a glimpse of the powerboats, as the vessels roared around the course markers. The video screens erected along the walkways and in front of the temporary bleachers showed images from camera drones following the boats that were beyond line-of-sight of the spectators, as they bobbed and weaved around shallows and rocky outcrops.

  It was only the second day of qualifying, and already a racer had been badly injured in a bone-crushing collision out at the far end of the course. Here in the Russian Federation, the safety regulations were a little slacker, the speeds a little faster, the danger a little closer. The spectators and the sponsors alike loved it, the crowd shouting in a single awestruck voice each time a racer dared to cut a line too close, or blast a rival with their frothing wake.

  ‘They ought to strap guns to those boats and go for it.’ From beneath the peak of a neon-green baseball cap, Grace side-eyed one of the video screens with a cynical sneer. ‘That’s what these chumps really want.’ She adjusted the mirrored sunglasses on her nose and indicated the crowd.

  ‘You’re a real student of human nature, ain’t you?’

  Walking alongside the other woman, Lucy kept her pace easy even though she was wound tight.

  ‘I am,’ Grace replied. ‘You ever watch Russians play soccer? It’s like Fight Club out there. They love that macho shit.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Lucy left it at that, adjusting the dark-coloured floral wrap dress that billowed around her arms and legs, conveniently concealing the holstered Beretta Nano semi-automatic at the top of her thigh. Lucy wore mirrored glasses, too, but hers were vintage tea-shades that set off the Breton-style sun hat perched on her head. Beside Grace in her designer cut-offs and blouse, they looked every inch the pair of wealthy tourists taking in the excitement.

  It was a good cover, and it had already got them inside the race enclosure with no questions asked. But Lucy couldn’t dial back her tension, not for a moment. It wasn’t enough for her to be on guard around the ALEPH security operatives roaming the area; she also had to keep one eye on Grace at all times. She wasn’t about to let the rogue ex-CIA agent leave her sight, not for a second.

  ‘Mobile, checking in.’ Marc’s voice hummed in her radio ear-bead.

  ‘Active is okay,’ she replied.

  ‘Mobile on station. Standing by.’

  That meant that the Brit and the Finn were parked out front of the Marine Luxe, ready to get them away from here if something went badly wrong. Lucy didn’t foresee that kind of trouble, but this mission had been nothing but unpredictable from the get-go.

  ‘Active copies. Going silent.’

  ‘Mobile confirms.’

  ‘Boyfriend checking up on you?’ Grace studied her. ‘When do I get a radio?’

  ‘Same time you get a gun. Which is never.’

  Grace looked away, disappointed.

  ‘More cops,’ she said, from the side of her mouth. She ran her finger over the peak of her cap, indicating the direction.

  Lucy looked without making it obvious. A pair of uniformed officers from the Regional Police were questioning a young guy in a race crew jumpsuit, taking notes as he made shapes in the air, talking with his hands. He pointed out different parts of the boat docks, and one of the cops snapped photos with a digital camera.

  The talk of the race was the ‘sabotage’ that had apparently taken place in the hours before dawn. That was the story that the Veloce Cup organisers and the Marine Luxe management were going with, explaining away the penthouse break-in and subsequent mayhem as a failed attempt to disrupt the race and damage one or more of the powerboats.

  Tersely worded press releases had already gone out, and there was a new tension in the air among the racing teams as they cast long-eyed looks at their rivals and wondered.

  All bullshit, of course, Lucy reflected, but you gotta admire Da Silvio’s ability to make things work for him.

  If anything, word of the ‘sabotage’ had doubled audience interest in the coming race.

  ‘You need to relax, sister,’ offered Grace. ‘You’re gonna blow this. Seriously, you’re so stiff I’m afraid you’ll break something.’

  Lucy didn’t dignify her with a look. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘So chic,’ she retorted. ‘You have to move like you’re on the catwalk in Milan. Effortless, casual. You’re walking around like you have a gun strapped to your dick.’

  ‘Keep running that mouth,’ warned Lucy. ‘See where it takes you.’

  ‘Just trying to be a team player.’

  A wide deck shaded by pergolas extended out over the water from the sunward side of the Marine Luxe, and the elite of the race clique were watching the action from the long, sculpted ice-bar.

  The targets Lucy and Grace were looking for were up there, but it was the most ‘very’ of VIP areas, and neither of them had the access pass that would get them past the velvet rope.

  Lucy looked for a spot where they could watch unobtrusively from outside, but Grace walked past her, right up to the rope, as if destined to be let in.

  A good-looking older guy with a deep tan and a serious expression moved seamlessly to block Grace’s path and said something in Russian. His body language was polite but firm. Sorry, madam, members only.

  Lucy’s grasp of the language was from her time in Delta Force – mostly phrases to get people to drop their weapons and surrender, that kind of thing – so she couldn’t follow everything Grace said.

  But it was slightly unnerving to watch the other woman change right before her eyes. Grace’s posture and tone of voice shifted, going seamlessly from poised and arch towards that false-child, little-girl coy thing that some men went for. She obviously pushed the right buttons, because the guy’s face grew a wide grin and Grace patted him on the arm. She actually giggled, and Lucy did her best not to react, putting on her own mask of blank vapidity.

  Grace pouted, theatrically sad as she made a half-hearted attempt to enter the VIP area. It did the trick, and the man laughed, his eyes dropping to linger over the curves of Grace’s body, and then Lucy’s.

  Lucy pretended not to notice, mentally showering it off.

  His grin going wider still, the man unclipped the rope and let them in, and he cupped one cheek of Grace’s backside when she passed.

  Lucy sniffed. ‘Should I be impressed or disgusted?’

  ‘Like I give a damn,’ said the other woman, as they moved across the sun deck. ‘Just respect the skills.’

  The girlish persona disappeared, and Grace’s manner turned shark-eyed and purposeful once more. There was something remarkable about the woman’s ability to alter personalities, but it was only one half of her talents.

  ‘How d’you do that?’ Lucy studied her. ‘I mean, it’s one thing to play a role—’

  ‘But knowing what face to put on, and when?’ Grace smirked, and it was chilling. ‘That’s the real trick. I’m good at reading people, sis.’ She indicated the group around them. ‘If you know how to look at them, everybody’s made out of glass.’

  Note to self, Lucy thought. Never ever let this ice-cold witch know anything personal about me.

  ‘The spooks in Langley must have loved you.’

  Lucy grabbed a long drink and sipped it through a straw, leaning up against the bar where she could see the whole of the sun deck.

  ‘They did. At first.’ Grace took the same drink and mimicked Lucy’s pose down to the last detail. ‘But I make people uncomfortable.’

  ‘Can’t imagine why.’

  Grace licked her lips and surveyed the people on the deck.

  ‘Guy in the green silk shirt and too-tight shorts, table two. Bratva, by the tatts on his hands and neck.’ Lucy looked and found the man in question. He fiddled with a wedding band around his finger. ‘He’s cheating on his wife,’ continued Grace. ‘The way he keeps looking in your direction, I’m guessing he likes the dark meat.’

  Lucy raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, letting her continue.

  ‘The chubby one in the bad suit, table ten, with the entourage? Vitali Borodin, the Russian minister for sport. Trying to stay one step ahead of an embezzlement scandal.’ She jutted her chin. ‘Next table over, wise guys from the ’Ndrangheta . . .’

  ‘Calabrian Mafiosi, yeah,’ said Lucy. ‘Heard of them. You’re well informed.’

  As much as she instinctively disliked the woman, Lucy was impressed – not that she would admit it.

  ‘I pay attention.’ Grace nodded at another knot of hard-faced men, congregating around an unsmiling thug in a sports jacket. ‘Now, this charmer? Pavlo Chumak, Ukraine’s answer to El Chapo. That guy’s a horror show, believe it. Steer well clear.’

  Lucy filed that away and continued to scan the sun deck, until she spotted a familiar face out by the guard rail.

  ‘I have eyes on Sunny Wehmeyer. Eleven o’clock. Blue dress.’

  The young woman had a vacant smile, looking out across the water with a glass of champagne in one hand.

  ‘Oh, I see her.’ Grace nodded. ‘Well, she isn’t happy to be here.’

  Lucy frowned at that. Sunny was surrounded by her entourage from the Horizon Integral team, all of them poised, bronzed and perfect.

  ‘You could have fooled me.’

  ‘I know, that’s no challenge,’ Grace said, as an aside. ‘The girl, though. Look at her. She’s sitting up there like she’s posing for an Instagram shot, but she’s faking it. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes, sis. She wants very badly to be somewhere else.’

  Lucy said nothing, mentally adjusting her perception of the scene, and after a moment, she saw it, too. She had been so hyper-focused on being aware of anything and everything, the more subtle cues had slipped past her.

  Reframe the target. Lucy studied Sunny’s face and posture, imagining it through the cross hairs of her sniper rifle. Which way is she going to jump? And slowly, she started to see what Grace had picked up on in an instant.

  Sunny’s attention kept straying to the waves, and then back to something on the shoreline, and each time it did, her eyes became distant.

  ‘She’s looking at the crew,’ Lucy realised.

  In front of the viewing platform were the boat docks, and Sunny Wehmeyer couldn’t stop herself from staring at the figures swarming around number 7, Horizon Integral’s sleek racer.

  ‘She has a thing for someone down there,’ said Grace. ‘You reckon the boss’s daughter is banging one of the staff? Shocking.’

  ‘What happens in Sochi, stays in Sochi,’ Lucy noted.

  ‘No,’ Grace countered. ‘What happens in Sochi, we can use to blackmail her. Isn’t that the whole point of this little exercise? To get a win?’

  ‘Waste of time.’ A new voice, a Chelyabinsk accent laced with vodka and overconfidence, inserted itself into their conversation. The man with the silk shirt had installed himself at the bar, and now he leaned closer, nodding in the direction of Sunny and the HI team. ‘Betting on the Australians is no better than setting your money on fire!’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Grace did the switch again, becoming perky and wide-eyed. ‘Did you hear that?’

  Lucy nodded, and Mr Silk took that as encouragement.

  ‘Da. They have performed badly in other races. No podium places! Everyone knows they do not have the . . . the guts!’ He clenched his fist and bared his teeth. ‘They are not serious. Just the toy of a silly little girl playing with Daddy’s money. They are like . . . makeweight. You know that word?’

  Grace toyed with her cap. ‘But let me guess – I bet your team is nothing like that, right?’

  ‘Da!’ He nodded eagerly, his attention still wholly on Lucy. ‘Akula-X! Fast like lightning. I am sponsor.’ The man grew smug. ‘We will get podium here at Sochi. You will see.’ Then his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘This is not like Europe or America races. With too many rules and politics. Here . . . anything goes!’

  He finished off with a leer, making it abundantly clear his words had more than one meaning.

  Lucy hesitated for a moment. They weren’t going to get any traction out here, not while this idiot was getting in their faces, and given Grace’s reading of the situation, she figured they needed to back off and approach this in a different way.

  She sighed, and gave Silk a lingering look.

  ‘Is your boat . . . a big one?’ Lucy let her question hang.

  He rubbed his shirt. ‘The biggest.’

  Lucy dropped her gaze to his tight shorts and shook her head.

  ‘Doesn’t look like that from where I’m sitting.’ She stood and beckoned Grace to follow. ‘C’mon, let’s jet. I don’t like the company.’

  *

  Malte put the Hunter in a parking space a few vehicles down from the front entrance of the Marine Luxe Hotel, leaving the bulky Russian 4 × 4 nose-out so they could make a swift getaway if required. In the passenger seat, Marc shifted position and pretended to be toying with his phone.

  He tapped the microphone hidden under the collar of his polo shirt.

  ‘Mobile, checking in.’

  Lucy’s voice whispered in his ear. ‘Active is okay.’ She sounded close.

  Malte gave him a nod of affirmation.

  ‘Mobile on station,’ Marc continued. ‘Standing by.’

  ‘Active copies. Going silent.’

  ‘Mobile confirms.’

  The comm channel went quiet and Marc took a breath. He didn’t like waiting around.

  It was the worst part of the tradecraft for him – the stakeouts and the standbys. That felt like something out of Marc’s past, something he had left behind, and when time came for him to slow down, he found it hard.

  Beside him in the driver’s seat, Malte was the picture of calm. The Finn had a way of being alert without showing it, a talent Marc would dearly have loved to learn.