Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

Hunter headed across the street. A very narrow pavement followed the road leading into the underground car park. He walked along it, carefully scanning up ahead. When a green Mercedes overtook him on its way in, he instinctively made use of the side mirrors to check nobody was following him. It was clear.

The tyres of the Mercedes squeaked on the smooth floor as it drove to the far side and parked. Hunter loitered in the cover of a white Range Rover while he listened for the slamming of the Mercedes door to echo around the car park, and footsteps to fade. Only then did he approach the Transit van. It had parked next to a fire door with a no-entry sign. The driver – Hunter didn’t recognise him – looked straight ahead without even acknowledging Hunter’s presence. When Hunter reached the van the door opened, as if automatically. Dennis Cunningham appeared. There was no superfluous greeting. ‘Building manager’s name is Ravinder Singh,’ Cunningham said. ‘Indian laddie. Knows we’re coming. He should be waiting for us in reception.’

Hunter nodded his acknowledgement and closed the van door. He quickly crossed the car park, past the green Mercedes, towards a lift on the far side. Inside the lift, he hit the ground-floor button. As the lift ascended, he found himself examining the removable panel in the roof. Force of habit. He could just about reach it if he needed to.

The doors pinged open and Hunter stepped into the reception area. A large, airy, open space, with comfortable sofas and enormous indoor plants. Mirrors everywhere. Piped music. On the opposite side, Hunter saw the revolving doors he’d been watching earlier. There were ten or twelve people here – residents, Hunter reckoned, leaving and arriving – and he immediately identified the building manager. Singh wore a black suit and tie and stood by the reception desk, nervously clutching his hands and blinking frequently. He was looking round, as though searching for someone. When his gaze fell on Hunter, Hunter nodded. The manager swallowed hard, looked around again rather conspicuously, then approached. ‘Are you the gentleman I’m waiting for?’ he said. He was much taller than Hunter and spoke very precise English with an Indian accent.

‘We need a private space where we won’t be disturbed,’ Hunter said.

The manager was still clutching his hands. ‘Follow me please,’ he said. He called the lift and took them back down to the basement. He was blinking so often that Hunter assumed he must have something in his eye, but then decided it was a nervous tic. At first, he thought the manager was leading him to the Transit van, but it became apparent that he was heading for the no-entry fire door to its side. He lifted the security bar, opened the door and switched on some flickering overhead strip lights in the room beyond. The space was large but with a low ceiling. Concrete floor, breeze block walls and exposed piping in the roof wrapped in silver lagging. It was warm, and against one wall was some kind of boiler or heat-exchange pump, Hunter didn’t know which, rattling noisily. Boxes of cleaning products were piled up, along with a stash of orange traffic cones, barrels of water for dispensers and all manner of random stores required for keeping the Mansion House running. Most importantly, it was empty of personnel and it was private.

‘Stay there,’ Hunter told the manager. He returned to the Transit van, checked there was nobody in the car park to view them, and knocked on the back door. The door opened and, at a word from Cunningham, the others filed out, the Regiment guys carrying their flight cases. The driver stayed where he was. The Regiment team and the three police officers joined the manager in the boiler room. Hunter closed the door while Cunningham turned to the manager.

‘You’ve been briefed by our people?’

‘In a manner of speaking, sir,’ the manager said. He blinked several times and didn’t appear to know whether to look at Cunningham’s face or the hardware in his ops vest. ‘I have to say this is most irregular. The comfort and convenience of our tenants is my first—’

‘You need to do exactly what we tell you. You got that?’

The manager swallowed hard again and didn’t answer. Cunningham stepped up to him and repeated his question at half the volume. ‘You got that?’

The manager nodded nervously.

‘What’s the personnel set-up on the penthouse?’

The manager spoke hesitantly. ‘Mr Rostropovic is in town,’ he said. ‘He is very infrequently here, but when he is, he keeps himself to himself. He hardly leaves the apartment.’

‘Who does he have with him?’

‘Some guests, I believe. A family. He is of course not obliged to inform anybody whom he invites into his apartment. We are simply here to ensure our tenants—’

‘What about security?’

‘Mr Rostropovic takes his security arrangements extremely seriously,’ said the manager. ‘There are always two gentlemen guarding the corridor outside the penthouse apartment at any one time.’

‘Armed?’

The manager glanced uncomfortably at the police officers.

Cunningham took a step closer to him. ‘Listen here, laddie, the more we know about what’s waiting for us up there, the less chance you have of ending up like the inside of a haggis. Are they armed?’

The manager nodded. ‘Mr Rostropovic pays a small surcharge . . .’ he mumbled.

Cunningham gave him a bleak smile. ‘He slips you a backhander not tae mention the guns to the police?’ The manager looked away. ‘We’ve looked at the plans of the building. The penthouse has its own dedicated elevator, correct?’

‘Correct, sir.’ The manager seemed pleased that the conversation had taken a different turn. ‘Only Mr Rostropovic and those with whom he entrusts a key fob may use it.’

‘But the service elevator also goes tae the penthouse?’

‘Yes, sir. But that is not for public use.’

‘We’re not the public,’ Cunningham said. ‘You have a master key to get intae the penthouse itself?’

The manager looked reluctant to reply. ‘A key fob,’ he said. ‘It accesses all the rooms in the building.’

‘You have it on you?’

The manager nodded.

‘Hand it over.’

The manager looked from Cunningham to the others and back again. Realising he had no option, he took a fob from his top pocket and handed it over. ‘Sir,’ he said as Cunningham took the card, ‘I must inform you that both elevators sound a brief alarm when they reach the penthouse, to alert security that somebody is arriving. You understand?’

‘Aye,’ said Cunningham. ‘I understand.’ He turned to Hunter. ‘Your guys are still watching the exits?’

‘Yep,’ Hunter confirmed.

‘Keep them there. Our targets could leave at any time.’

‘Wish they fucking would,’ Hunter said. ‘Save us a job.’

‘I don’t think that’s likely.’ Cunningham pointed at one of the flight cases. ‘Your missus told me you like a bit of role play. There’s a couple of BT engineer uniforms in there. Get one of them on.’ He looked over at Parsons. ‘You too,’ he said.

Hunter didn’t much like the way Cunningham was curtly taking charge, but he knew better than to make a meal of it right now. He opened the flight case. It didn’t only contain BT uniforms. There was a canvas bag containing engineering equipment, a thick wodge of sturdy cable ties, three assault rifles nestled at the bottom of the case and several cardboard packs of ammo. The manager’s eyes widened when he saw the weaponry. Cunningham, Hobbs and Moore each took a weapon. Hunter took out the uniforms and handed the larger of the two to Parsons. Unembarrassed about changing in front of the others, they switched clothes. The uniforms were creased and had a faint hint of body odour. That was by design: fresh, neatly pressed uniforms were more likely to stand out.