Neal Stephenson - Reamde

“Oh, but that’s not what I asked. I asked whether you had put it on, at any point, after you chambered a round and cocked it. You seem like the sort who would. The way Ivanov spoke of you. Your protectiveness of Zula. You are thoughtful, careful, deliberate.”

Csongor said nothing.

“I only ask,” Jones continued, “because the Makarov has an interesting quirk: when you put the safety on, it decocks the hammer. Taking the safety off doesn’t re-cock it. No. You’re left with a weapon that’s loaded but not yet in a condition to fire. Quite unlike Ivanov’s fine 1911 here, which is both loaded and fully cocked. If I apply even the slightest amount of pressure to the trigger, I’ll put a rather large piece of metal all the way through Zula’s neck and from there into your heart, killing you both so rapidly you’ll never even know it happened.”

Sirens were approaching: more than one cop car, making its way around the inlet, headed their way. Jones glanced in their direction for a moment, then centered his gaze on Csongor’s face again and continued: “You’re not even going to get the romantic experience of lying there bleeding to death with her decapitated corpse on top of you, because a hydrostatic shock wave is going to travel straight up your aorta into your brain and render you unconscious and maybe even pop out your eyeballs. You, on the other hand—should you decide to take any action—have a very long trigger pull ahead of you. It’s that first round out of the Makarov’s magazine that is the bitch. Because the hammer isn’t cocked, you’re going to have to pull hard on that trigger for what seems like forever in order to get it drawn back for the first shot. And since your finger is about two inches in front of my left eyeball, it’s going to be bloody difficult for you to do this in a way that’s going to surprise me, isn’t it?”

Csongor said nothing. But Zula could sense in his breathing that Jones’s words were hitting home. Between that, and the approaching cop cars, the fight was draining out of him.

“What are the odds that you can make it to the end of that trigger pull while you and Zula are still alive, Csongor?”

Jones was staring straight into Csongor’s eyes, unblinking, awaiting his submission. “Did I mention, by the way, that being handcuffed to this bitch is a serious pain in the arse? I should like nothing more than to be rid of her.”

“Csongor,” Zula said. “Listen. Can you hear me? Say something.”

“Yes,” Csongor said.

“I’d like you to have a look at the pistol that Mr. Jones is holding up to my neck. Do you see it?”

A pause, then, “Yes, I am looking at it.”

“Do you note anything remarkable about the condition of its hammer?” Zula asked him.

Jones, still looking at Csongor, had been surprised by Zula’s entry into the conversation. Now, though, he smiled broadly. Zula, it seemed, was doing his work for him. Reminding Csongor, in case he’d failed to appreciate it the first time, that the 1911 was only a microsecond away from killing both of them.

Then the grin was replaced by astonishment as Csongor’s trigger finger went into motion, executing that long hard pull that Jones had only just warned him of.

THE BELLHOPS WHO would see Sokolov running in had never seen him run out of the hotel. In a smaller place, this might have aroused suspicion. But this place was forty stories high, and he knew that they would think nothing of it as long as he didn’t act in a way that would arouse suspicion. If working as a security consultant had taught him nothing else, it had taught him how to walk in and out of expensive hotels. He jogged up the street, turned into the hotel’s huge curving entry drive, slowed to a trot, and entered the shade of its awning, which was big enough to shelter twenty cars. There he dropped to a brisk walk, checked his wristwatch, and pretended to press one of its little buttons. He pulled his towel out of the CamelBak’s external pocket, unfolded it, wiped his face, and then draped it over his head like an NBA player just sent to the bench. He put the CamelBak’s drinking tube into his mouth and pretended to suck on it while pacing back and forth for half a minute or so along a line of potted shrubs that had been planted along the edge of the drive. These grew in big rectangular boxes of concrete, surfaced with pebbles and filled with dirt. Interspersed with them were waste receptacles, constructed in the same manner, with sand beds on top where waiting taxi drivers could stub out their cigarettes, and open slots below where refuse could be deposited.

At this point he had no particular plan, other than that he would enter the hotel and then try to think of something. But now, glancing into one of the waste receptacles, Sokolov noticed something that looked like a credit card, though emblazoned with the logo of this hotel. It was a key card that some departing guest had thrown away; or perhaps a taxi driver had found it abandoned in his backseat and had tossed it there. On the pretext of throwing away some small bit of debris, Sokolov picked it up and palmed it. Then, using his other hand to wipe his face with the towel—he hoped that this might complicate future analysis of the surveillance video—he approached the hotel’s entrance. He bent down, letting the towel drape around his head, and pretended to pull the key card out of his sock. A bellhop opened the door for him and gave him a cheerful greeting. Sokolov nodded and entered the lobby.

What was their ridiculous word for gymnasticheskii zal ? He was scanning the directional signs, trying not to be too obvious about it.

Fitness Center . Of course.

It was on the third floor, a nice one, with windows overlooking the waterfront. Key card access only. He swiped the card he had stolen and got a red light. Rapped the card against the window and got the attention of an attendant, a young woman, who smiled and hurried to the door to let him in.

They had tiny bottles of water and bananas. Thank God. But he had to pace himself or it would look very strange indeed. A grid of pigeonholes, just by the entrance, served as a place for guests to stash their belongings while they worked out. Sokolov slid his CamelBak into one of these. Stuffed with cash, it did not sag and wobble the way a water-filled one should have, and so he pulled it out and put it on the top shelf where it might not be so conspicuous. Half a dozen other pigeonholes were occupied, two with women’s bags, the rest with only a few small items such as key cards and mobile phones. Sokolov went into the men’s bathroom, made sure he was alone, turned on a faucet, bent over, and drank from it for a while. Dust from this morning’s activities was frozen into the hairs on his arms. He rinsed them clean and splashed water on his face. Exiting the bathroom, he plucked two bottles of water and a banana from the display and carried them over to a bank of treadmills. This was served by three large flat-panel television sets, two showing CNN and one showing a Chinese news channel. Sokolov got on a treadmill that was closer to a CNN screen but in view of the Chinese one, and walked on the thing for a while, drinking water, eating the banana, and monitoring local news coverage. Most of this seemed to be about the diplomatic conference. There was a brief story that seemed to be about a fire in Xiamen. But that was only a guess, based on the graphics and a few fleeting video clips of fire trucks and ambulances in a crowded street, people caked with dust, limping and stumbling, supported by astonished bystanders.

Of course they would claim it was a gas explosion. Everything was always a gas explosion. But Sokolov knew that the PSB investigators now working on the case were under no illusions.