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  What now? He was losing precious time and needed to do something right now.

  Stay calm. You know you only fastened the screws loosely, just in case they needed to be removed again. Maybe there’s some other implement around here which would get them out.

  He checked the minibar and found a corkscrew. Rushing back into the bathroom, he tried to hook the point of the implement into one of the corners of a screw head and persuade it to turn. It was useless; he flung the corkscrew down in frustration.

  Glancing desperately around the room, his eyes alighted on a small pair of nail scissors on the counter, alongside one of the washbasins. He jumped up and grabbed the scissors. As he examined them, he realised that if he set the blades almost, but not completely closed he could fashion a tool with two sharp points set just a few millimetres apart. If he could get those pointed tips to engage with opposing corners of the cross shaped recess in the screw head, maybe – just maybe – he could get sufficient purchase to turn the screw.

  With trembling fingers, he tried it on the first of the screws. Sure enough, he was able to exert some turning force, but although the screws had not been fully tightened, this first one, at least, was refusing to budge. As he tentatively applied more and more force, the blades of the scissors began to flex and move apart from each other. He feared the makeshift tool might break at the pivot point of the blades.

  Holding his breath, he applied just a little more force and … the screw turned a little. Suddenly it was easy; once the initial resistance had been overcome, the screw turned freely. A couple more turns raised the screw head sufficiently for Ethan to grip it with his fingers and spin it all the way out. One down – seven to go. He checked his watch: 8.14 p.m. It was going to be tight, but now that he had mastered the technique he figured he could get the rest of the screws out in time to cancel the countdown.

  The second screw took him about two minutes to remove and the third less than a minute. He began to breathe a little more easily. The fourth, however, proved to be more problematic: it was tighter than the others. After struggling for several minutes to loosen it, he applied just that little bit too much force. The blades of the scissors separated and fell to the floor, with a tinkling chime of metal against ceramic tiles.

  Ethan gazed in dismay at the two parts of the now-useless tool. He checked his watch: 8.21 p.m. With just nineteen minutes left, he needed to make a decision: if he was going to make a run for it, he needed to go now. If he lingered much longer he would be absolutely committed to defusing the bomb.

  He made that commitment. He had never yet failed in any assignment he had taken on, and he had an unshakeable faith that, when the chips were down, he could pull through.

  The panel was made of white, moulded plastic. It didn’t look all that substantial. With three of the screws removed, he was able to hook his fingers behind a corner of the panel. Bracing both feet against the side of the bathtub he pulled hard, and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound as the panel fractured. With the release of tension, he fell backwards, his backside skidding across the pool of blood.

  He scrambled to his feet and rushed back to inspect the results of his efforts: a jagged section, representing about one third of the total panel had broken away. Unfortunately, it was at the opposite end of the bathtub to where the bomb was situated. He grasped the sharp edge of the remaining portion of the panel and pulled with all his might. This time, however, it refused to yield; the five intact screws held it firmly in position. He thumped the top of the bathtub with a balled fist, letting out a roar of frustration.

  But wait – although he couldn’t actually see the bomb properly through the hole he had made, he might be able to get his hand inside and hit the override switch. He lay down on his side, now completely oblivious to the amount of blood which smothered his clothes. Reaching though the jagged hole, he grasped at thin air as he sought, in vain, to find the bomb. Pushing himself further forward, he felt the sharp edge of the broken bath panel pressing painfully against the side of his neck. He forced himself even further forward, the broken plastic edge now cutting into his skin. He gritted his teeth against the pain as the warm trickle of blood slid down his neck.

  Stretching to the absolute limit of his reach, he finally found it: the control panel of the bomb.

  At that precise moment, the air was rent by the harsh, two-tone wail of a siren. The sudden shock made him lose his bearings and his fingers lost contact with the control panel. After around ten seconds, the sound of the siren was overlaid with the amplified and distorted tones of a voice announcement; the accent was English.

  ‘Attention – this is an emergency evacuation announcement. Would all guests and members of staff make their way immediately to the nearest exit and vacate the hotel. This is not a drill. I repeat – this is not a drill. You must evacuate the hotel immediately.’

  ‘Shit!’ he hissed, out loud, ‘What the fuck do I do now?’

  It took him but a matter of seconds to decide that now, more than ever, he had to defuse the bomb. If it detonated after the targets had evacuated the room, it would completely fail in its objective. Furthermore, even if Natasha succeeded in retrieving the memory stick, Mandelson and Gench would now have to be eliminated by other means. If the bomb went off while hundreds of people were evacuating the hotel, probably in a state of panic, their chances of locating and eliminating their targets would be minimal at best.

  He groped desperately under the bathtub, adrenaline endowing him with the strength to push through the pain caused by the sharp plastic edge cutting into his flesh. Finally, he located the control panel once more. With trembling fingers, he felt along the row of toggle switches. The manual kill switch was third from the left; he felt his way along the row of switches until he located it. Taking a deep breath, he flipped the switch. He was rewarded by an electronic beep, indicating that the command had been successfully received.

  Letting out a long, loud exhalation of breath, he extricated himself from the bathtub and staggered to his feet, sitting down on the lid of the toilet while he took a few moments to steady his ragged breathing.

  OK, what next? He stood up and regarded his reflection in the mirrored door of the cabinet located above the washbasin. His white shirt was badly bloodstained, and more blood was flowing freely from the wound inflicted by the jagged edge of the bath panel. However, the mission was still alive – albeit severely compromised. If he was to avoid drawing undue attention to himself as he re-joined Natasha and tried to retrieve the situation, he would need to clean himself up.

  He opened the mirrored door of the cabinet and was gratified to find a small first-aid kit inside. He cleaned the wound with some gauze and antiseptic spray, before sealing it with two wound-closure strips and finally applying a large Band-Aid. Now all he needed was a change of clothes and he would look presentable enough to take up the hunt for these bastards who had outwitted them.

  Fortunately, he and Natasha had not packed away all their clothes. They had planned to slip away from the reception as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible; having to retrieve suitcases and tow them through the main lobby would have been an unnecessary impediment to that plan. Thanks to that decision, he knew there were two clean, white shirts and a spare suit hanging in the closet.

  Ripping off his ruined shirt, he dampened a towel and wiped away the remaining streaks of blood from his shoulder and chest, before hurrying over to the closet to grab a clean shirt.

  Returning to the bathroom he put on the shirt, fastened his tie and donned the spare suit. Inspecting the results of his efforts in the mirror, he decided he was ready to re-join the fray.

  Suddenly, an unexpected sound intruded. Beep … Beep, Beep … Beep … Beep, Beep … Beep … Beep, Beep …Beep …

  That was the signal that the bomb would detonate in precisely two minutes’ time. A hollow dread eviscerated him from inside I must have flipped the wrong fucking switch!

  Chapter 37

  Natasha was fuelled by
an all-consuming rage. She and Ethan were now on the brink of losing out on a huge payoff – far more than either of them had ever before earned for a single contract, and probably enough to retire on. What hurt even more, though, was the fact that she had been outsmarted by the woman in the white dress. Naturally she wanted to retrieve the memory stick and rescue the mission, but she wanted, even more, to watch that bitch die. Now it was intensely personal.

  But how should she go about finding her? There was no possibility to check inside the main function room: she would never be able to get past the bag-check area with the gun she was now carrying. In any case, it was very unlikely that this woman, and her male accomplice, would have re-entered the function room once they had procured the vital research data. She tried to put herself in the other woman’s Louboutins. What would I have done?

  If this woman was a professional – and Natasha was convinced that she was – then she probably wouldn’t just assume that she had the correct memory stick; she would most likely want to check its contents. The chances were that she and her partner would have gone back to their hotel room – assuming that they were, indeed, staying in the hotel – and plugged the flash drive into a computer to make sure that they had the right one. In that case, they would probably not yet have left the hotel. Now, when they did leave, which exit would they use? If they were to use an emergency exit, they would probably trigger an alarm somewhere. No, she reasoned, it was more likely they would leave by the main entrance. If Natasha positioned herself so as to be able to observe everyone entering or leaving by the main entrance she stood a reasonable chance of spotting them. If she followed them outside, she could choose the best time and place to kill them both and retrieve the flash drive without attracting the attention of passers-by. It was the best plan she could come up with, under the circumstances.

  Concealing the Glock beneath her wrap, she made her way across the hotel lobby, searching for a suitable place to watch and wait. There were two large, circular pillars which flanked the main entrance and, either side of these, some secluded seating areas. She chose the one which gave the clearest view of both the main entrance and the elevators at the far side of the lobby. She sat down to wait, the Glock nestled in her lap, under her wrap, and a newspaper alongside her, with which she could conceal her face if necessary.

  She had been sitting for barely a minute when the subdued hubbub in the lobby was pierced by the harsh tones of the alarm siren followed, some seconds later by the voice warning to evacuate the hotel. The voice, in spite of the distorted tone imposed upon it by the P.A. system, sounded strangely familiar.

  What the …? How on earth did they find out about the bomb – which, by now, would have been defused anyway?

  But there was no time to ponder this question – the priority now was to decide what to do in the light of this unexpected development. If Professor Mandelson and Bob Gench left the hotel unharmed, she would have to deal with them as well as the rival hit team. The odds of success on all fronts were now looking slim indeed.

  Before long, there would be hordes of people streaming towards the main entrance, making the tracking of individual targets much more difficult. Furthermore, all the emergency exits would now also be in use. The main entrance was probably still the most direct route out of the hotel for people exiting the function room, but there was no telling which exit the rival assassination team might now use. The whole situation was rapidly slipping from her grasp.

  As the first wave of guests began to hurry towards the main entrance, it became increasingly difficult to see what was happening at the entrance to the function room. Natasha abandoned all efforts at stealth or concealment and rose to her feet, anxiously scanning the approaching throng for any sign of the professor, or the bitch who had stolen the memory stick.

  Finally, Natasha spotted her: the woman in the white dress, and her partner; they had just emerged from a staircase at the far side of the lobby. They had obviously intended to leave by the main entrance, but appeared to be having second thoughts when they saw the crush building up there as more as more people tried to get through. They were conducting some sort of quick-fire conversation, heads turning this way and that, apparently seeking an alternative route. Then Natasha spotted an anxious-looking Professor Mandelson amongst the crowd spilling from the function room. He was clutching his laptop to his chest as if it were a baby.

  The situation was becoming almost impossible. It was now necessary to kill the other two assassins, retrieve the memory stick, kill Mandelson, and take or destroy his laptop. If the targets all decided to choose different routes then any last hope of salvaging the mission would be dashed.

  Her only hope was that Ethan, having dealt with the bomb, would now show up so that they could divide their resources according to what the multiple targets decided to do.

  Where is he for Christ’s sake? Surely he’s dealt with the bomb by now?

  ***

  Ethan was out of time: even if he decided to abandon the mission and make a run for it, it was doubtful that he’d be able to get far enough away by the time the bomb detonated.

  Now oblivious to any concerns about his appearance, he dived to the floor, slipping and sliding in the pool of blood as he thrust his hand back into the jagged gap in the bath panel. He pushed himself forward, groping for the bomb, but now he was disoriented; he had lost his bearings completely, and could not locate the control panel. Panic was now starting to take hold, and his efforts to locate the panel became more and more desperate. But Ethan was a professional: he knew the signs of panic setting in, and he was trained in techniques to control it.

  He stopped groping for the bomb and took several long, slow breaths. OK, he told himself, concentrate. Now how, exactly, were you lying? Where, exactly, did you have your arm? Just relax and do what you did before. He closed his eyes, recreating, in his mind, the precise position he had adopted when he had previously located the control panel.

  As he sought to suppress his rising panic and concentrate on recalling exactly how to locate the control panel, he felt the jagged edge of the bath panel once again pressing painfully against the wound he had just treated. He was sure he was reaching for the same place as before, but still his trembling fingers could not find the switches. As he pushed forward to the absolute limit of his reach, he recognised that the pain inflicted by the sharp edge of the broken bath panel was not as agonising as he would have expected. Why?

  And then it came to him: it was because of the jacket he was now wearing. The collar was riding up, providing additional padding and protection to the wound. In a flash, though, he realised that this was also why he could not locate the switches; the bulk of the jacket he was now wearing was preventing him from pushing forward that last vital inch.

  Letting out a roar of frustration, he withdrew his arm, jumped to his feet, and ripped off the jacket, losing precious seconds in the process. Launching himself back into the gap, he tried once more to find the override switches. Concentrate, he told himself, desperately trying to control his ragged breathing, you can do this.

  He gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain caused as the jagged edge of the broken bath panel cut right through the Band-Aid and sliced into his flesh. Finally, his fingers finally found the switch panel. Taking a deep breath to try to steady his nerves, he felt carefully along the row of switches. One … two … three … They were all in the ‘up’ position. Feeling for the fourth switch he found it was in the ‘down’ position. That was the switch which initiated a fixed ten-minute countdown, overriding any previously set time. As he had guessed when he heard that dreaded two-minute warning, he had inadvertently flipped the wrong switch. He moved his hand a little to the left, feeling for the third switch: the one he should have flipped before. His fingers found the switch, but—

  He was a few hundredths of a second too late. The very last things that Ethan Peterson experienced on this Earth were a blinding white light and a pulverising, percussive blast.

  Chap
ter 38

  When the bomb detonated, the last few guests who were leaving the function room were lifted bodily from their feet by the blast, flung forward into the lobby amid a storm of debris. The hot pressure wave hit Natasha like a sledgehammer, almost knocking her from her feet.

  Even in the shock of the moment she realised that Ethan was probably dead. She wasted no time on regret or mourning; her main concern was that it was solely down to her now to complete the mission – under the most challenging of circumstances.

  She looked towards what was left of the function room. The effects of the blast had been even more devastating than they had planned. Not only had the ceiling above the top table come down, but there was now an enormous hole in the wall dividing the room from the main lobby, through which she could see that practically the entire ceiling had collapsed. Anyone still in that function room would surely now be dead.

  But Mandelson was not in there; she could see him standing, dazed and confused, in the centre of the lobby. His previously-dark suit was now completely covered in whitish-grey dust. He continued to hug his laptop to his chest as he sought a means of escape, glancing desperately in all directions. He had evidently decided against joining the panicked scrum at the main entrance and set off across the lobby, making for a corridor on the far side. Now she had a dilemma: should she go after the professor or the other two?

  It turned out to be a decision which was not necessary, because the rival team had spotted Mandelson too. As he hurried towards the corridor opposite, they followed him. Clearly, they too had concluded that, as Mandelson had escaped the bomb, they would need to eliminate him and seize or destroy his laptop. In a way, that perhaps made things a little less difficult: assuming they still had the memory stick with them, she could wait until they killed the professor and choose that moment to surprise them, kill them both, and retrieve the memory stick. Maybe she could still pull this off, after all.