Doctor Who_ The King of Terror - Keith Topping [19]
‘It was,’ noted Bulyjin. ‘I deactivated it whilst in the truck. Nothing else to do,’ he said, giving Joyce a cold stare.
‘Indeed,’ replied Joyce, with the kind of smile that sharks give just before they bite people in two.
‘Open it,’ said Ryman, impatiently.
Lewis opened it.
He spent half a minute carefully examining the contents inside. When he had finished, he closed the case and removed his gloves, dropping them into a pedal bin. Then he turned to Joyce and Ryman.
‘Well?’ asked Ryman.
‘Perfect,’ said Lewis.
‘Thank you, Mr Bulyjin,’ said Ryman turning to the Ukrainian. ‘I believe our business is more or less complete.’
‘There only remains the outstanding issue of five million US dollars,’ said Bulyjin, just as the two guards came through the door and grabbed him in a headlock. They dragged him amid muffled shouts and curses towards the vault door of a side observation room.
‘You animals,’ he shouted, before lapsing into a tirade in his native tongue.
‘What’s he saying?’ asked one of the guards, laughing.
36
‘That’s no way to talk to your hosts,’ said Joyce as the guard punched the Ukrainian in the small of the back, knocking him to the floor as though he were a novice welterweight being given the thrashing of his life by Mo-hammed Ali.
A gun butt smashed into the bridge of Bulyjin’s nose and suddenly there was blood everywhere as the guards dragged him back to his feet.
‘Another happy volunteer for your DNA contraption,’ noted Ryman as he watched Bulyjin being thrown into the room and the door closing behind him. ‘In the fifty-million-to-one chance that this actually works, make sure that Sanger’s told about it immediately,’ he said as he turned his back on the bloodied Ukrainian who was hammering his fists soundlessly against the glass of the door.
‘And if you could make the process last as long as possible, I’d be really grateful,’ he added, with a look of pleasure on his face.
It was a typically beautiful midsummer Parisian afternoon, with a civilised breeze taking the fire from the heat of the day.
Pavel Luvik’s car crossed the Petit Pont in the shadow of Notre Dame cathedral and the driver parked on the corner of the bustling Rue de la Huchette.
Luvik walked the last thirty yards to La Maison Blanc, acknowledging its owner with a friendly smile. As he reached the restaurant a poorly dressed man approached him and asked him for money.
‘ Fichez-moi la paix! ’ said Luvik flatly.
‘ Allez-vous-en sinon j’appelle un agent, ’ continued the proprietor angrily, waving his arms as the beggar scuttled off into a side street. ‘ Vous devrez le signaler à la police? ’ he asked Luvik.
Luvik shook his head. ‘ J’ai réservé une table pour deux. Un café noir, s’il vous plaît. ’
‘ Oui Monsieur. Comment vous appelez-vous? ’
‘ Je m’appelle Luvik. Je suis ici en voyage d’afaires. J’ai rendezvous avec Monsieur Alain Giresse. ’ Luvik felt momentarily embarrassed at his no more than basic command of conversational French, but the proprietor smiled benevolently.
‘ Le nom de votre compagnie, s’il vous plaît? ’
‘InterCom,’ said Luvik, straightening his tie.
There was a sudden change in the restaurant owner’s attitude. From slowly courteous to hurriedly businesslike and servile. ‘ D’accord. Prenez l’ascenseur jusqu’au troisième étage. ’
‘ Tres bien. Merci beaucoup, ’ replied Luvik automatically as he entered the lift and headed for the third floor. He found Giresse sitting at a balcony table overlooking the Seine.
37
‘ Salut. Comment ça va aujourd’hui? ’
‘ Quelle belle journée! ’ Luvik sat at the table. ‘This place is a little obscure, even for you!’
‘It was recommended to me by a friend,’ said Giresse for the benefit of Luvik who had never been comfortable with languages. ‘I love the Latin Quarter in summer. So alive and vibrant. A little wine?’
‘Thank you, no,’ answered Luvik. ‘I’ve already ordered coffee.’
Giresse moved the conversation to less mundane matters. ‘Developments in Prague since we last spoke?’ he asked.
Luvik shrugged sadly.