The Icon Thief (30 page)

“Copy that,” Barlow said after a pause. “Watch the door. We’re on our way.”

“Okay.” Powell drew his gun. His mouth had gone dry. Listening to the dull thump of the music overhead, he wondered what the two men were doing. Ilya had called with the offer of an exchange, but the aquarium would not be as secure as the courthouse, so they would be sure to arm themselves accordingly—

Half a minute went by. He was about to speak into his headpiece again, asking what was taking the unit so fucking long, when a pair of muffled blasts exploded from behind the closed door.

“
Shit
,” Powell said. “Command post, I have shots fired downstairs. Do you copy?”

Without waiting for a response, Powell forced himself to move toward the source of the shots. Halfway down the corridor, a second doorway opened into the hall. Leading with his gun, he swung inside and saw a disused kitchen piled high with rusty appliances. He ducked into
it, crouching in the protective well of the doorway, only a few steps from the door of the office.

Leveling his gun at the closed door, Powell waited for it to open. He was terrified, but this fact seemed insignificant. He hoped that the momentum that had brought him this far would not abandon him yet.

T
en minutes earlier, a busboy had emerged from the service entrance of the club, which faced an alley below the level of the boardwalk. Propping the door open, he went down a concrete ramp to a shed with a corrugated metal roof. This shed adjoined the vacant space beneath the boardwalk, which provided a convenient home for the club’s fleet of Dumpsters.

Unfastening a padlock, the busboy slid open the door of the shed and wheeled out the nearest Dumpster, which was empty. As he did, it seemed to him that the alley was darker than usual. Glancing up, he noticed that the streetlamps on the boardwalk overhead had gone out.

He was about to go back for the garbage when a shadow detached itself from the rear of the shed and pressed a small hard object against his side. Before he could react, he felt white lightning flow through all the nerves of his body, then slumped, twitching, to the ground.

Ilya held the stun gun against the busboy’s side for five seconds. Although the victim was paralyzed, he was still conscious, his eyes looking reproachfully at his assailant as he was hauled into the depths of the shed.

Propping him up in a seated position, Ilya removed
the boy’s apron and tied it around his own waist. Then he headed for the door of the club. A few minutes earlier, he had cut the electrical wire strung between the street-lamps, aiming with the laser penlight through a gap between the shed and the boardwalk.

He entered the club, leaving the door open. Through a brightly lit doorway in the hall, he could hear the voices of kitchen staff. He moved silently past this door, not pausing, and was not observed.

Rounding the corner, he found himself in a corridor on the ground floor. Up ahead was a disused kitchen. To his left, a flight of stairs led to the dining room. The office was to his right.

He knocked on the closed office door. “Open up. I need a case of Stolichnaya—”

There was the sound of a man rising from his desk. A few seconds later, the door opened. To his mild disappointment, it was not Sharkovsky, but the restaurant manager, a tough old crook who had run various clubs and restaurants in Brighton Beach for twenty years. When the manager saw his face, his eyes widened. Before he could close the door, Ilya reached through the gap, set the stun gun against the manager’s sternum, and pressed the button.

A blue arc jumped between the electrodes at the business end of the gun. The manager convulsed, froth spraying from his lips, and fell to the ground. Ilya stepped over the body into the office and closed the door.

Taking the manager beneath the arms, Ilya stuffed him into the corner. The manager glared at him, eyes rolling in his frozen face, as Ilya bound him with a few twists of wire and sealed his mouth with tape.

Ilya took off the apron. Going to the other side of the office, he rolled back a corner of the rug, revealing the gun safe in the floor. He opened it and reached inside, pulling up the rack of weapons. It took him only a second to select a revolver, which he slid into the empty holster in his waistband.

After filling his pockets with moon clips, he sat down at the desk. He was about to reach for his phone when something else occurred to him. Looking at the computer, he saw an email inbox in one window. He scrolled through the most recent messages until one caught his eye. Although he had never seen the sender’s name before, he knew exactly who it was from.

He closed the program and turned off the computer. Taking out his phone, he dialed a number. After a few rings, a familiar voice answered, disco pounding on the other end. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” Ilya said quietly. “Do you want to give it another try? Or are we done?”

After a long pause, Sharkovsky said, “You
suka
. You’re working for the police.”

“No. If they’re watching you, it has nothing to do with me. But my offer still stands. Eighty thousand and my bag in exchange for the package. Meet me at the aquarium in ten minutes. If not, I’m coming after you.”

Ilya switched off the phone. Then he rose, turned off the lights, and withdrew into the corner by the door. As he loaded the revolver, he could see the whites of the manager’s eyes, which were rolled up to meet his own.

A minute passed. Another. Leaning against the wall, Ilya remained perfectly still, his breathing slow and even,
and when he finally heard footsteps in the hallway outside, his pulse quickened only slightly.

The door opened, casting a trapezoid of light. Ilya pressed himself against the wall, retreating before the door as it swung inward. The lights came on, revealing the manager on the floor, gesturing frantically with his eyes.

Sharkovsky’s voice sounded low and bewildered. “What the fuck is all this?”

The door swung closed. As it shut, Ilya came out of the corner, handgun raised. When Sharkovsky turned, Ilya could feel the old man gathering his resources swiftly, like a fist. Misha, by contrast, radiated a diffuse, nebulous rage, and Ilya saw at a glance that he was drunk.

“Up against the wall,” Ilya said, the revolver held in a combat stance. “Both of you.”

The two men began to turn. Ilya took a step forward, the sequence of motions clear in his head. Disarm them, get them on their knees—

With startling speed, Misha went for the gun in his belt. Ilya had been applying two pounds of pressure to the trigger, but had not been expecting such a reckless move, and it was only reflexively that he fired.

The first gunshot caught Misha in the chest, while the second took away most of his lower jaw. He fell to his knees, dead before he hit the floor, and toppled sideways. One of the pictures on the wall, the framed photograph of a line of dancing girls, had been struck by the second blast. It hung askew, dangling from a single fastener, then fell off and shattered.

Sharkovsky looked down at Misha’s body, shirt
speckled with the other man’s blood. “Stupid, going for his gun like that.”

“I might have done the same.” Ilya forced the old man against the wall and frisked him, the ringing in his ears beginning to diminish. “I want my bag and books. I know you have them here, so don’t lie to me.”

“Why would I lie?” Sharkovsky gestured toward the desk. “They’re in the drawer on the right. As for the cash—”

“You can keep it.” Ilya went to the desk and opened the drawer, keeping the revolver trained on Sharkovsky. As the old man had said, the bag with his books was there. Ilya slung it over his shoulder, where it hung beside the tube secured beneath his clothes. “It was never about the money—”

He broke off. A sound had come from the hallway outside. It had lasted for only an instant and had been cut off at once, but he recognized it. It had been the feedback from a police radio.

Sharkovsky turned to Ilya. “Looks like someone is here,
suka
. Friends of yours?”

“No,” Ilya said, his mind working furiously. He could not leave the old man behind. To get the answers he needed, he had to walk out of here with Sharkovsky alive. “The truck in the parking lot. You have the keys?”

Sharkovsky’s visible eye blinked once. In the corner of the office, the manager began to howl against his gag, flailing helplessly on the floor. The paralysis had worn off. “Yes, I do.”

“Good.” Keeping his eye on the door, Ilya motioned with the gun. “Let’s go. You’re coming with me.”

P
owell crouched on the threshold of the disused kitchen, his pistol raised, eyes on the office door. Thirty seconds had passed since he had heard the twin blasts of the revolver. At last, Barlow’s voice came over his earpiece: “We’re on the move. Wolfe, I want you downstairs.”

“Already here,” Wolfe said. Powell turned to see her standing two yards away. Her blouse had come untucked from when she had drawn her pistol from its concealed holster. Their eyes met as she spoke again into her headpiece. “I’m with Powell. We’re covering the office door.”

“Maintain your position,” Barlow said. “We’re taking the service entrance now.”

Even as these words went over the air, there was a commotion in the kitchen. Within seconds, the corridor was filled with members of the assault team, four men in hardshell vests and web gear, shotguns loaded and racked. A fifth man had been left behind to secure the entrance. Barlow stood at the head of the group, his radio in a harness across his chest.

Powell fell back as the unit took up position in the
hallway, guns leveled at the closed door. “What about upstairs?”

“We’re doing this in stages,” Barlow said. “We secure the ground floor first. Then—”

Barlow broke off as a squawk of radio noise burst from the epaulet of the agent at his side. The agent silenced his mike at once, but all eyes went to the office door. Barlow, furious, whispered, “If anyone else makes the least fucking bit of noise, I’ll send him straight to hell.”

He turned to the unit commander. “We’re going in. Take the fucking door down.”

The commander nodded, then signaled to the team. Two members of the unit stacked themselves on the knob side of the door, while a third covered them from across the hall. The breacher, a sledgehammer in his hands, listened at the door, watching his commander for a signal.

A second later, before any of them could move, the door swung open on its own.

The unit pulled back, their guns trained on the opening. Powell raised his own pistol, watching as the door opened all the way, revealing two figures on the threshold. One was Sharkovsky, his features drawn tight against the bones of his face. The other was a man whom Powell had never seen at close range. He had changed his appearance since the day of the courthouse, his hair shaved and bleached. His left hand was looped around the strap of a bag over his shoulder. With his other hand, he was pressing a revolver against Sharkovsky’s skull.

“Ilya,” Powell said, unable to contain himself. “Or should I call you the Scythian?”

At the sound of his name, Ilya turned to face Powell,
his eyes taking in the situation. He spoke quietly in English. “Who are you?”

Powell raised his badge, which hung from a lanyard around his neck. As he did, he suddenly remembered the thousand grenades that were stored somewhere on this floor. It was unlikely, yes, but if a gunshot struck one of the crated rockets, each of which carried a booster charge, the ensuing string of explosions would blow them all to pieces. “Alan Powell. Serious Organised Crime Agency. You want revenge, I know, but if you cooperate, we can take it further—”

“Stand back,” Ilya said flatly. “All of you. If you don’t lower your guns, he dies.”

Barlow kept his pistol raised. “How do we know that you won’t kill him anyway?”

In response, Ilya only pushed the gun harder against the old man’s head. Feeling the pressure, Sharkovsky took a gasping breath, saying, “You stupid fuck, give him what he wants. He’s already killed one of my men.”

Powell glanced into the office, but was unable to see past the doorway. “Misha?”

“He would have done the same to me.” Ilya scanned the room. “I came here to kill this man, but if you do as I say, I will let him go. If not—” He shoved the old man a step forward.

“Okay,” Barlow said, lowering his gun. “Standing down. Tell us what you want.”

Ilya’s eyes passed across the unit. Powell could see him working out the odds. “You have men on all the doors?”

“That’s right,” Barlow said. “I’m not going to lie to you. There’s no way out of here.”

“Tell them to fall back from the door leading to the
boardwalk. I’m walking out with Sharkovsky. If I suspect you’re even thinking about taking me down, I put a bullet in his head.”

Picturing the layout of the club, Powell understood his reasoning. There were three exits, one on the street, one on the alley, one on the boardwalk. The first two opened on blind zones, while the boardwalk stretched for miles in either direction, with nowhere to hide an ambush.

After a moment’s hesitation, which might have been feigned, Barlow pressed the button on his radio. “South side team, stand down. Pull back from the door.” He looked at Ilya. “Is that good?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Now lower your weapons and fall back. Fifteen feet on all sides.”

At a signal from their commander, the men in the tactical unit lowered their guns. Ilya pushed Sharkovsky into the hallway. Now that the door was no longer blocked, Powell could make out the outline of Misha’s body on the floor. A second man was slumped in the corner.

Ilya and Sharkovsky moved along the hallway, the
vor
going first, Ilya’s back to the wall. The unit stood aside, allowing the two men to pass. Once they had made it halfway down the corridor, Ilya forced Sharkovsky to execute a tight pivot, so that the old man continued to stand between him and the others. At the end of the hall, they rounded the corner and disappeared.

“Hold your position,” Barlow whispered to the unit commander. “I don’t want to start a riot. Powell and Wolfe, follow me.”