Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [7]
I’ve been looking for you for a long time, thought Ellis.
Boris held the door half open for a moment, partly shielding his body while he studied them; then he stepped back and said in French: “Come in.”
They walked into the sitting room of a suite. It was rather exquisitely decorated, and furnished with chairs, occasional tables and a cupboard which appeared to be eighteenth-century antiques. A carton of Marlboro cigarettes and a duty-free liter of brandy stood on a delicate bowlegged side table. In the far corner a half-open door led to a bedroom.
Rahmi’s introductions were nervously perfunctory: “Pepe. Ellis. My friend.”
Boris was a broad-shouldered man wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to show meaty, hair-covered forearms. His blue serge trousers were too heavy for this weather. Over the back of a chair was slung a black-and-tan-checked jacket, which would look wrong with the blue trousers.
Ellis put his backpack on the rug and sat down.
Boris gestured at the brandy bottle. “A drink?”
Ellis did not want brandy at eleven o’clock in the morning. He said: “Yes, please—coffee.”
Boris gave him a hard, hostile look, then said: “We’ll all have coffee,” and went to the phone. He’s used to everyone being afraid of him, Ellis thought; he doesn’t like it that I treat him as an equal.
Rahmi was plainly in awe of Boris, and fidgeted anxiously, fastening and unfastening the top button of his pink polo shirt while the Russian called room service.
Boris hung up the phone and addressed Pepe. “I’m glad to meet you,” he said in French. “I think we can help each other.”
Pepe nodded without speaking. He sat forward in the velvet chair, his powerful bulk in the black suit looking oddly vulnerable against the pretty furniture, as if it might break him. Pepe has a lot in common with Boris, thought Ellis: they’re both strong, cruel men without decency or compassion. If Pepe were Russian, he would be in the KGB; and if Boris were French he’d be in the Mafia.
“Show me the bomb,” said Boris.
Pepe opened his briefcase. It was packed with blocks, about a foot long and a couple of inches square, of a yellowish substance. Boris knelt on the rug beside the case and poked one of the blocks with a forefinger. The substance yielded like putty. Boris sniffed it. “I presume this is C3,” he said to Pepe.
Pepe nodded.
“Where is the mechanism?”
Rahmi said: “Ellis has it in his backpack.”
Ellis said: “No, I don’t.”
The room went very quiet for a moment. A look of panic came over Rahmi’s handsome young face. “What do you mean?” he said agitatedly. His frightened eyes switched from Ellis to Boris and back again. “You said . . . I told him you would—”
“Shut up,” Boris said harshly. Rahmi fell silent. Boris looked expectantly at Ellis.
Ellis spoke with a casual indifference that he did not feel. “I was afraid this might be a trap, so I left the mechanism at home. It can be here in a few minutes. I just have to call my girl.”
Boris stared at him for several seconds. Ellis returned his look as coolly as he could. Finally Boris said: “Why did you think this might be a trap?”
Ellis decided that to try to justify himself would appear defensive. It was a dumb question, anyway. He shot an arrogant look at Boris, then shrugged and said nothing.
Boris continued to look searchingly at him. Finally the Russian said: “I shall make the call.”
A protest rose to Ellis’s lips and he choked it back. This was a development he had not expected. He carefully maintained his I-don’t-give-a-damn pose while thinking furiously. How would Jane