Page 59 of Denied Access
He was here for another reason.
His vantage point was a bench on the pedestrian walkway on the south side of the same glass building to which he’d directed the Asian girl. The bench faced west and offered a lovely view of the Thames, Big Ben, and the Palace of Westminster’s unmistakable silhouette. A queue of people waiting to buy tickets or board the next cruise snaked across the walkway to his north, while a bored-looking bobby held down the street corner to his east. Though Ilya appreciated the sight line to the Thames, he’d chosen to linger on this bench for a different reason.
The bench was just a few yards from the boat’s disembarking passengers.
Getting to his feet, the former Spetsnaz operative conducted a quick but thorough assessment of his surroundings. To his left, the Thames flowed placidly by as other tourist boats competed for space with more mundane nautical traffic. To his right, the multistory County Hall building funneled foot traffic from the south toward the glass building. On the north side of the building, the pedestrian area broadened into the entrance to Jubilee Gardens—a park that encompassed three acres of valuable riverfront real estate.
The bobby noted his movement with a quick glance, but the police officer didn’t seem inclined to leave his post. Ilya had already walked the park and surveyed the surrounding shops, side streets, and alleys while assessing the area’s police presence. The beat cops seemed to be focused on deterring criminals through a show of force rather than patrolling the milling crowds.
That was just fine with Ilya.
This was his first time in London, but it was not his first time doing a job such as this one. Though if he were being honest, the detailed instructions that had accompanied this operation had been a bit disconcerting. That was saying something considering that his previous assignment had required him to saw off a man’s head and mail it in a hatbox.
Though he wasn’t thrilled with his current tasking, Ilya didn’t question his orders. If he’d ever harbored the naïve notion that men limited the depths of their depravity based on some internalized moral code, Afghanistan had cured him of that. He’d initially recoiled at the idea of seeding the countryside with children’s dolls containing explosive devices. That disgust had vanished the first time he and his team of commandos had been beaten to a downed Soviet aviator by the mujahideen. What the Afghans had done to the poor pilot was almost indescribable.
Almost.
Ilya still saw the man’s flayed body when he closed his eyes.
Afghanistan had taught him many things, but there was one lesson he’d internalized above all others: Victory goes to those with the fortitude to do what is required to win. The moral high ground is nice in theory, but in the real world, weakness equals defeat.
Someday he would have to atone for his many sins, but that was fine. To atone, one had to be alive.
Ilya’s gaze settled on the Asian girl.
This was going to be messy.
CHAPTER 32
THEboat’s doors opened, and passengers began to disembark.
The first two were a man and a woman. Americans. The rotund woman had attempted to adopt European fashion, but the stylish clothes didn’t sit well on her heavy frame. Her husband hadn’t even bothered to try. In defiance of everything that passed for fashionable attire on this side of the Atlantic, he wore high-waisted jeans paired with a button-down dress shirt and sneakers. As if to add insult to injury, a baseball cap sat at a jaunty angle on his shaved head.
Americans.
The couple breezed down the ramp connecting the boat to the dock and then onto the pedestrian walkway. The woman was chattering, and the man was nodding dutifully as he followed his wife. Ilya thought that ridding the world of these two might actually begin his atonement process, but he let the pair go. He was not a fan of Americans, but they were not his target.
A heartbeat later, a pair of men exited the boat together.
Both were dark-complected and about the same height, but their similarities ended there. The first man’s broad chest and powerfulshoulders strained the fabric of his suit. His head swiveled on a thick neck, scanning his surroundings as he placed his bulk between the second man and any perceived threats.
His charge was rail-thin with expensive taste and hungry eyes. His suit was expertly tailored and his leather shoes were expensive. Like his comrade, the thin man’s gaze swept the crowd, but rather than suspicious people or likely ambush sites, his attention lingered on something else.
Women.
Girls, actually.
According to his dossier, Youssef bin Muhammad had a penchant for prepubescent girls. At one point in his life Ilya would have found this practice abhorrent, but fires stoked by moral outrage no longer burned in his belly. The Afghan mujahideen had a penchant for children too, but their tastes ran more to boys. Boys kept chained like animals. Ilya’s feelings toward the thin man were more resignation than acceptance. If experience had taught him anything, it was that the world beyond the walls imposed by civilization was a dark place inhabited by dark men engaged in dark deeds. Youssef might be dressed like a cultured businessman, but he was still a barbarian.
After confirming the Syrian’s identity, Ilya turned away from the men and lit a cigarette. As he shook out the match, the Vympel operative marked the duo’s progress using storefront windows on the far side of the street. The bodyguard looked his way, and Ilya engaged in a fit of fake coughing, bowing his head under the stress of his spasming lungs.
A quick peek in the window confirmed that his subterfuge had been successful.
The bodyguard had continued his scan, perhaps searching for healthier threats.
Still tracking the pair via their reflection, Ilya deposited the lighter and cigarettes deep into his overcoat pocket with his left hand. His right hand was fingering something else. With a final glance at the window,Ilya took a steadying breath, turned, and drew the pistol from his right pocket in one smooth motion.
The Beretta handgun was chambered in 9mm. The rounds were subsonic, the action well oiled, and the stubby suppressor screwed onto the muzzle was custom-made. While not Ilya’s weapon of choice, he understood why another assassin felt differently.
