Zenith Turbo, locked the door, and made their way down the hallway. The
Strand Palace security guard was still on the service elevator,
unconscious but beginning to stir.
"What do you propose we do with him?" Novosty gave the Irishman a
shake.
"How about a little more ether," Eva suggested. She was clasping the
Zenith next to her. "And then let's get out of here."
He obligingly gave the man a final dose from the almost- empty bottle,
leaving the rag across his face. By the time he finished, the elevator
had reached the service area in the basement. Their Soviet limousine
was parked in the alley, ready. In seconds they were in it and gone.
Tuesday 10:43 P.M.
Michael Vance, Eva Borodin, and Aleksei Novosty were luckier than they
knew. When they emerged, the Japanese guard Jiro Sato had stationed at
the Burleigh entrance had momentarily been called away by radio to
confer at the Strand corner. Since the alleyway was curved slightly, as
London alleys invariably are, the huddled Yakuza team saw nothing but
the tinted windows of a limousine with diplomatic license plates
speeding past. They paid it no heed.
Watches were checked one more time, and then the dark-suited men fanned
out. The guard stationed down Burleigh returned to his post, while the
five who had been in the Docklands office made their way into the
teeming lobby on the Strand. While two started up the fire stairs, the
other three converged on the KGB guard, disarmed him discreetly, and
then informed him that he had pressing business outside. He was shoved
into one of the waiting Fords, gagged, and handcuffed to the steering
column. It took less than a minute to neutralize him.
Then the three returned to the lobby and got on the elevator. On the
eighth floor they met the other two, who had come in from the stairway
at the opposite end of the hall. Together they swept the corridors.
The KGB guard was nowhere to be seen.
"Perhaps they pulled the security on this floor," one of them said.
"Or he has gone into the room, to piss out some vodka," another
suggested.
"This will be easier than we thought," a third was heard to observe.
Together they converged on the room registered in the name of Michael
Vance, and then they stood aside as one knocked.
When there was no answer, they elected to shoulder it in.
As they rushed the room, they were met by a fusillade of automatic
pistol fire from a boiling mad KGB security agent, nursing a headache
and crouched just inside the bathroom door.