The Isis Covenant (39 page)

‘Sounds like we’ve got our man. Oleg Samsonov has a son called Dmitri.’ Danny’s voice sounded oddly subdued. ‘I guess this is where it gets complicated.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The way I see it, we have two choices. Either we stake out his house and wait until our killer turns up looking for blood and the Eye of Isis—’

‘Which could take forever and places an innocent family at risk.’

She nodded. ‘Or we warn Oleg Samsonov that he’s being stalked by a cold-blooded killer who will take any risk to get the diamond his father left him, and walk away and let the London cops take over.’

There followed a long silence while they considered the choice that was really no choice at all. Fisher leaned across the bed to kiss him on the lips.

‘It was good while it lasted, Jamie Saintclair.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not over yet. We still have a few days. I don’t suppose we can just phone him and tell him?’

‘Nope. Even if we got through to the man himself, which is doubtful, he’d think we were a couple of crazies. Somehow we have to convince him to meet us face to face.’

Jamie’s friend Samantha had supplied them with the details of Samsonov’s address. ‘A great big Modernist cube of a house out by Regent’s Park. Awful place, you can’t miss it’, adding that their chances of getting inside were ‘slimmer than an After Eight mint, darling’, which wasn’t encouraging. They decided the quickest way to get there was by Tube to Baker Street, then take a taxi the rest of the way. Before they set off, they spent half an hour discussing how they might breach Oleg Samsonov’s defences.

They walked towards Lancaster Gate and Jamie decided it was safe to switch on his mobile phone. A few
seconds
after he’d pressed the button it began to buzz like an angry hornet. He felt a terrible foreboding as missed call after missed call registered, all of them from the same number. Danny saw him go pale and stutter to a halt. ‘What’s up, Jamie?’ He ignored her, fumbling for the buttons to access his voicemail. As he listened, he grew paler still.

‘I have to get to the office.’

The forensic team had done their work and the body had been removed. Fine silver dust coated every surface, including the phones and the barren no man’s land between Jamie’s scattered dumping ground and Gail’s perfectly aligned in-tray and computer. Without thinking, he moved the meetings diary so it was exactly parallel with the tray.

‘Why? She never harmed anyone.’

The question was addressed to Danny, but it was the plain-clothes officer in charge of the murder investigation who answered.

‘She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, sir. An accident of nature. Nothing in the world anyone could have done about it. You said she often worked late?’ Jamie nodded without really thinking. He felt Danny’s eyes on him. ‘They would have watched her and seen that she was alone in the building. You’re sure there’s nothing else missing?’

‘Just the petty cash. A few pounds. We don’t keep any paintings or anything like that on the premises.’

The detective said something sympathetic, but Jamie’s attention was caught by the sound of the answering machine. Another officer sat beside it listening to the message Jamie had sent. ‘This is you, sir?’ He took the silence that followed as confirmation and flicked the machine off. But Jamie could still hear the words ringing in his head.
Rich Russian. Oleg Samsonov, O-Oscar, L-Lima
… His eyes caught Danny’s and he could see that she was thinking the same. They
knew
.

Paul Dornberger looked down at his father’s body and listened to the tortured sound of his breathing. Like waves breaking across shingle, each intake seemed to take an age and each elastic pause between breaths threatened to be the last. For the past week it had been as if his whole system was fighting itself. Only the plastic tubes carrying liquid nutrition in and his body waste out kept him alive. The major organs fluttered in some limbo between life and extinction, uncertain whether they were required any longer. His was a world of pain, every nerve end exposed like a rotting tooth, and, despite the opiates the doctors prescribed to ease his way to the end, every moment was a torment that made him twist and turn and groan, sapping even further his fading reserve of energy.

‘I can never forgive you for what you made me,’ Paul said softly. ‘But still you are my father. I will not fail you.’

He went to the floor safe and punched in the
numbers
. The velvet sack was as he had left it and he picked it up and carried it to the bed. He retrieved the Crown from the depths of the thick cloth and held it for a moment, his chest thickening as he felt the suppressed power of it. Could an object feel? Could it demand? Of course not. Yet a voice inside his head harangued him to do what he must do, and it seemed to him that the voice and the Crown were one.
Soon
, he thought.
Soon you will be reunited with what is rightly yours
.

He took the Crown to the bed and placed his father’s hands upon the metal. It had an instant effect. Immediately, the breathing eased and the groans melted away. He bent and kissed the clammy flesh of Max Dornberger’s deeply furrowed brow before calling the front desk with the instructions.

Normally, he took a taxi to his work, but today he drove the car, a BMW X-5 with blacked-out rear windows, and parked it as close as he dared. He walked past the main entrance, a high wooden gate topped with spikes that provided vehicle access and was opened either automatically from inside by one of Oleg’s fleet of limousines or by Gerard, who would be watching on the security camera that constantly scrutinized the area. Along the roadway beside the faceless security wall with its wired top, and round the corner to the staff entrance. Smile into the camera for Gerard. The slightly over-long pause that was meant to irritate him before the door clicked open to reveal Vince’s mocking, disinterested eyes and the barrel of the MP-5 carelessly pointed in his general direction.

‘Morning, Vince.’

‘Somebody said you were sick.’ The American made it sound like an accusation.

Dornberger shrugged. ‘You know how it is. Miracle recovery. The boss wouldn’t thank me for taking an unnecessary day off right now.’

‘Sure.’ Vince led the way to the security door at the bottom of the stairs.

Dornberger wore his normal business uniform of suit and dark cashmere overcoat and carried his briefcase in his left hand. As he entered the enclosed stairway, he used the briefcase to shield his right as he dipped into the custom-made inside pocket of the long coat. There was no rush. Just let it happen. His father had always planned for the possibility that Oleg Samsonov might need to be liquidated. He had played out this scene a thousand times in his mind. Practised it over and over again in the basement of the big, rambling house. The door at the top of the stairs clicked open. Kenny was in his usual position to the left of the entrance, with Gerard at the security screens just inside the door at the top of the stair. Gerard barely glanced up as Dornberger walked into the space between them. Kenny grinned and opened his mouth to say something. Dornberger calmly raised the silenced pistol from behind the briefcase and shot the Australian through the eye. In the same movement he turned as Gerard reacted to the sound and shot him in the head before his hand could get anywhere near the Glock on the desk. Blood, bone
and
brains spattered the wall and the former SAS man slumped over his keyboard. Kenny’s body had fallen with an audible thump. Dornberger waited by the doorway connecting the security centre with the guards, living quarters, but there was no reaction. Satisfied, he opened the door and scanned the corridor. Empty. He walked swiftly across to the door of the living quarters, took a deep breath and walked through. Three of them, as normal. They were so used to him going back and forth to get his morning coffee that none showed any sign of suspicion. One on the bed and two at the card table. The two at the card table wore their pistols in shoulder holsters, while that of the man on the bed hung from a peg on the wall above him. Only the man on the bed glanced up. Dornberger walked towards the kitchen. He had planned for a dozen different scenarios, but they made it easy for him. When he was level with the back of the closest card player he lifted the pistol and shot his opponent between the eyes over his right shoulder, adjusting instantly to fire into the back of the nearer man’s skull. He could hear the man on the bed scrabbling for his weapon as he turned, but by the time the guard’s hand reached the pistol Dornberger had placed two slugs through his spine. As he fell back, Paul stepped forward and put a bullet in his brain. The temptation was to linger and admire his handiwork, but he forced himself to concentrate on his next move. Quickly. They’re dead. Don’t waste time checking. The timetable was set to allow minimal time for imponderables
to
intrude on the operational matrix. If he stuck to it, there was less chance of something going wrong. He walked out into the corridor, changing to a full magazine as he approached the offices. Mary, Samsonov’s secretary, looked up as he entered, a frown on her face that would remain there forever as he brought the pistol up and shot her through the head at point-blank range.

Up the stairs, taking his time now. The only threat left was Vince at the gate, and he wouldn’t leave his station without being relieved. Even if he tried to contact Gerard and received no reply, his first assumption would be that his comms were down. Irina appeared at the head of the stair. ‘Paul.’ Her face broke into a smile that turned into a frown as she remembered he shouldn’t be in the house. He brought the pistol up and shot her in the left breast. The bullet threw her backwards and she fell, clawing at her chest. Without breaking stride he aimed the cylindrical barrel of the silencer between her eyes, but it seemed a sacrilege to mar that beautiful face and some impulse froze his finger on the trigger.

Oleg Samsonov must have heard something because he emerged from the gym area wearing a tracksuit and with a towel around his neck.

‘Paul?’

Dornberger ignored him and allowed the pistol to slide towards the round-eyed presence that had appeared to his right. Dmitri.

‘I’ll give you one chance, Oleg. Get me the diamond
or
I’ll shoot him in the guts and we can listen to him scream.’

Samsonov’s eyes flicked between the boy and the gun. Dornberger saw the questions going through his mind. Where were the guards? What had happened to Kenny and his men? The billionaire’s screaming brain struggled to come to terms with what he was seeing. Outrage, fear and fury fought for supremacy, but it was fear for his son’s safety that triumphed. The victor’s instinct that made him the man he was told him to fight, but he knew he had no chance of reaching Dornberger before he shot Dmitri. The gunman’s eyes told him everything he needed. They were the eyes of the hired killers who never left the Chechen Mafia bosses’ side. He saw those eyes every day when Kenny gave his daily briefing. This was a different Paul Dornberger from the smiling aide who anticipated his every need. A moment of puzzlement intruded when he wondered how Dornberger had known about the diamond, but he thrust it aside. The only thing that mattered was Dimi and at the first sign of a threatening move Dmitri would die.

‘Stay still, Dimi. Do not move.’

Dmitri didn’t need to obey his father. He was frozen to the spot.

‘The diamond, Oleg.’ Dornberger moved so that he could cover father and son with the gun.

Samsonov edged his way towards the panic room. He formed half a plan to risk grabbing Dmitri and hauling him inside, but Dornberger preempted him by stepping
forward
to take Dimi by the arm. He reached the door and raised a shaking hand towards the keyboard.

‘Careful.’ Dornberger knew that if the wrong combination was entered an alarm would go off at the local police station. Oleg swallowed and carefully punched in the correct numbers.

‘Good,’ Dornberger said soothingly. ‘Now the stone.’

The billionaire slid past the Van Gogh that had been his pride, but which now seemed to mock him. The painting half shielded him from Paul Dornberger’s gun and he knew he could probably reach the door and take refuge either on the top floor or the floor below. Dornberger was unlikely to kill the boy while the father was free. But he couldn’t take the chance. He would not leave his son alone with a psychopath.

He pressed a button on the wall that raised the safe to chest level and at the same time released a keypad on the side of the shining metal pillar. When he punched in the number the top of the pillar opened up in a series of smooth movements to reveal the prize within. The Eye of Isis.

For a moment he swayed in the glare of the Eye’s brilliance. He remembered standing by his father’s death bed as the old man had related the story in the same words the German prisoner had used. The Eye and the Crown. The passage to eternal life. His father, an old and hardened party man had laughed at the tale even as he coughed away his existence. It had never occurred to him to try to find the Crown, because to do
so
would have threatened the life he had created in Soviet Russia. But Oleg had been captivated by the possibility. Even then, he already had everything the world could offer. Yet he was a Russian, and as his own father’s life slipped away he was presented with a vision of his own mortality. One day, he too would be lying on his death bed with his lungs filling up and his heart ready to explode. No amount of money would change that. Yet now he was presented with the possibility, however unlikely, that the moment could be delayed indefinitely. He had never told another living soul about the diamond, or the myth that made it so prized, but from that day on he had used his resources to try to reunite the Eye with the Crown. It occurred to him now, as he contemplated his own death and that of his son, that all the years of effort had been wasted. How could a man choose to live for ever when it meant he would watch the passing of his wife and children, and their children, for all eternity? It would take a harder and more flawed man than Oleg Samsonov to make that choice.