The face was younger than it would be now, but the gaze was still direct. The hair was blond and rumpled, there was no gray moustache and no smoked glasses. But it was the same face, the face of the young Jason Monk.

Grishin made two phone calls and left his listeners in no doubt that he would not tolerate delay. From the contact in the Immigration Department at the airport he wanted to know when this man arrived, from where, and Whether he had left the country.

To Borodin he ordered that the detective return to the Metropol and discover when Dr. Peters checked in, if he had left, and if not what his room was.

He had both answers by midafternoon. Dr. Peters had arrived on the scheduled British Airways flight from London seven days earlier, and if he had left the country it was not via Sheremetyevo. From Borodin he learned that Dr. Peters had checked into the hotel with a prearranged reservation from a reputable London travel agent the same day he arrived at the airport, had not left, and was in Room 841.

There was only one odd thing, said Borodin. Dr. Peters’s passport was nowhere to be found. It ought to have remained with reception, but it had been removed. All staff denied any knowledge of how this came to be.

It was no surprise to Grishin. He knew how far a hundred-dollar bill would stretch in Moscow. The passport for getting in would have been destroyed. Monk would now be under a new identity, but among the six hundred foreigners at the Metropol no one would notice. When he wished to leave he would just go without paying; vaporize, disappear. The hotel would shrug and write off the loss.

“Two last things,” he told Borodin, who was still at the hotel. “Obtain a passkey and tell the manager that if a word of this is breathed to Dr. Peters, the manager will not be expelled, he will be spending ten years cutting salt. Spin him any story you like.”

Grishin decided this was not a job for his Black Guards. They were too recognizable and this affair might end up with a protesting American Embassy. Ordinary criminals could do it and take the blame. Within the Dolgoruki mafia there was a team who specialized in high-quality break-ins.

During the evening, after repeated calls to Room 841 to ensure no one was at home, the room was entered by two men with a passkey. A third waited among the leather chairs at the end of the hall in case the room’s occupant returned.

A thorough search was made. Nothing of interest was found. No passport, no files, no attaché case, no personal papers of any kind. Wherever he was, Monk must have his alternative identity papers with him. The room was left exactly as the burglars found it.

From across the corridor the Chechen who had taken the facing room eased his door open a fraction, watched the men enter and leave, then reported back on his mobile phone.

At 10:00 P.M. Jason Monk entered the hotel lobby as one who has dined and wishes to retire to bed. He made no approach to the reception desk, having his plastic key on him. Both entrances were covered by observers, two at each, and as he entered one of the elevators, two of the watchers sauntered to the other. Two took the stairs.

Monk walked down the corridor to his room, tapped on the opposite door, was passed a suitcase from inside, and went into 841. The first two gangsters, having taken the second elevator, appeared at the end of the corridor in time to see the door close. Shortly after, the other pair arrived by the stairs. There was a brief conversation. Two settled themselves in the club chairs from where they could survey the corridor while their companions went back down to report.

At half-past ten they saw a man leave the room opposite the target, pass them in the lobby area, and head for the elevators. They took no notice. Wrong room.

At 10:45 Monk’s phone rang. It was Housekeeping, asking if he wished for any more towels. He said he did not, thanked them, and hung up.

With the contents of the suitcase Monk made his last dispositions and prepared to leave. At eleven he went onto the narrow balcony and pulled the glass doors closed behind him. As he could not lock them from outside he secured them with a strip of strong adhesive tape.

With a length of stout cord from around his waist he lowered himself one floor to the balcony of Room 741 just below his own. From there he hopped over four intervening barriers to the windows of 733.

At 11:10 a Swedish businessman was lying naked on his bed with his organ in his hand, watching a porno movie, when he was electrified by a tap on the window.

In a panic-stricken choice between a terrycloth robe and the freeze-frame button, he chose the robe first, then the remote control. Decently covered, he arose and went to the window. A man was outside gesturing that he be allowed to enter. Completely mystified, the Swede unlocked the catch to the balcony door. The man stepped into the room and addressed him in the molasses drawl of the American Deep South.

“Mighty neighborly, friend, yes sir. I guess you’ll be wondering what I was doing on your balcony …”

He was right, there. The Swede had not the faintest idea.

“Well, I’ll tell you. It was the darnedest thing. I’m right next door to you here, and I just stepped out to smoke a seegar, not wanting to smoke in the room and all, and would you believe it the goddam door swung shut in the wind? So I figured I had no choice but to hop over the divider and see if you’d be kind enough to let me through.”

It was cold outside, the cigar-smoker was fully dressed with an attaché case in his hand, there was no wind, and the balcony doors were not self-locking, but the businessman was beyond caring.

His unwelcome guest was still babbling his gratitude and apologies when he let himself out into the corridor and wished the Swede a mighty fine evening.

The businessman, who very fittingly marketed toilet fixtures, re-secured the balcony door, drew the curtains, disrobed, hit the “play” button, and returned to his econobudget pastime.

Monk walked unobserved down the corridor of the seventh floor, descended by the stairs, and was met on the curb by Magomed in the BMW.

At midnight three men entered Room 741 with a small suitcase, again using the passkey. They worked for twenty minutes before leaving.

At 4:00 A.M. a device later shown to have contained three pounds of plastic explosive in a shaped charge detonated just below the ceiling of Room 741. Forensic exerts would deduce that it had been placed on top of a pyramid of furniture on the bed, and had gone off precisely beneath the center of the bed in the replica room upstairs.

Room 841 was completely gutted. The mattress and duvet on the bed had been turned into a layer of fabric and down, most of it charred, which had settled on everything else. Beneath this were fragments of timber from the bed frame, wardrobe, and cupboards, shards of glass from the mirrors and lamps, and numerous slivers of human bone.

Four emergency services arrived. The ambulances came and soon went, for there was nothing for them save the hysterical occupants of three other rooms along the corridor. However, the screaming occupants spoke no Russian and the ambulance men spoke nothing else. Seeing there were no physical injuries, they left the screamers to the night manager.

Tags: Frederick Forsyth Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net