Last Snow - Eric van Lustbader [110]
Gurov rolled down his window in order to press a red button and recite something, perhaps a code phrase, into the grill of a small speaker. A moment later, the gates swung soundlessly open and they rolled through, tires crunching on a wide, looping bed of crushed shells.
The Magnussen estate was something out of a storybook, or a gothic novel, possibly Wuthering Heights, because its high stone walls, turreted garrets, and dizzying spires were more appropriate for the English or Scottish moors than for a seaside playground. Nonetheless it was impressive and, furthermore, gave an excellent window onto the elder Magnussen’s predilections.
As the taxi approached the house a pair of black-and-white Russian wolfhounds came bounding out of the front door, their eyes bright and curious, their pink tongues lolling.
“Boris and Sasha,” Gurov said helpfully.
“Don’t look at me, I’ve never been here,” Annika said, in response to Jack’s silent query. “I’m surprised that Ivan has, but then I shouldn’t be, our sliver of the world is so compartmentalized—watertight, as we say. That’s how superior security is built brick by brick from the foundation up.”
The wolfhounds—thick, shining coats; small, spear-point heads—pounced on the people as they piled out of the car. Initially they went right to Gurov, but gradually they became interested in Alli who, alone among all of them, knelt on the gravel, engaging them at their own level.
As Jack watched her distractedly a man appeared, came down the wide front steps, and approached them with the easy gait of someone born to money or power, possibly both. So this is Mikal Magnussen, he thought, making his first appraisal of the man he took to be the leader, or one of the leaders, of AURA.
He was a sturdy, even stolid man with startling platinum hair and even more startling blue eyes. His nose, like the prow of a wrecked ship, and ruddy, almost feminine lips, advertised an unsettling dissidence that set off in those who met him a sense of impending disaster. He wore a casual outfit that made Jack think he’d spent the afternoon hunting grouse. The wolfhounds circled him like moons, their tails wagging unrelentingly, licking his polished knee-length leather boots. Those boots, the color of burnt sulfur, were another curious contradiction: hunting boots, clearly handmade of glove-soft leather, without a scratch on their gleaming surface.
His bowlike mouth broke into a smile as he held out his hand. “Jack McClure, at last you’ve found us.” His hand enclosed Jack’s in a firm, dry grip, but he spoke to the others. “Ms. Dementieva, thank you for bringing him, and Ivan, thank you for ensuring they got here safely.”
He had not yet let go of Jack’s hand, and now he returned his attention to him. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McClure. May I introduce myself? My name is Grigor Silinovich Kharkishvili.”
DENNIS PAULL did not see it coming, but then you never do, not this kind of ferocious death, or at least deadly intent. There are people out there in the world who mean you harm, who think of your ending, plot your demise as meticulously as a military campaign. These people don’t matter in the end, the ones who wish you harm, who conspire at arm’s length, studying methods of destruction in small, windowless rooms, swept daily for electronic listening devices, only to return home at the dwindling of the day to their wives and families, their potent cocktails and robust meals. It is their agents, the ones who you come face-to-face with, who matter, because they’re the ones who carry your destruction in the palms of their hands or on their fingertips as if it were a bottle of champagne