The Rain-Soaked Bride

First published in the UK in 2014 by Del Rey, an imprint of Ebury Publishing A Random House Group Company

Copyright © 2014 by Guy Adams

Guy Adams has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780091953164

From the other side of St Isaac’s Square, a driver beats his horn twice in quick succession. It echoes like a musical sting from a trumpet, bouncing around the buildings of St Petersburg. Toby Greene, a man who is doing his very best to appear relaxed, nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound.

‘A little on edge, old thing?’ asks the voice in his ear. ‘Do try not to scream in panic at every bit of traffic noise.’

‘It’s all right for you,’ Toby mutters, straightening his bow tie, keeping his lips still and his voice only just loud enough for the mic to pick up. ‘The worst thing that can happen to you this evening is that you get a parking ticket.’

August Shining, Toby’s superior, leans back in the driver’s seat of his hire car, looks through the windscreen at the young officer’s retreating back and smiles. ‘This is true. But you’ll be fine. Probably.’

‘Thank you for your confidence.’

Toby continues to walk, tugging the sleeves of his dress shirt from within the cuffs of his dinner jacket, wanting to wear it well.

‘The name’s Greene,’ chuckles August in his ear, ‘Toby Greene.’

‘You don’t walk into the lobby of the Astoria in jeans and a T-Shirt.’

‘I don’t walk
anywhere
in jeans and a T-shirt. Now stop talking, someone will hear you.’

‘Maybe they’ll be of more help.’

Toby looks up at the illuminated dome of St Isaac’s cathedral as he crosses the street and walks towards the hotel entrance. The Russians treat God well, he thinks; they grant him five-star accommodation and shower him in opulence.

He steps through the doors of the Astoria and fixes an affable smile in place. Everywhere he looks, people are serious. The staff are earnest, the guests, as is the way with wealthy travellers, are looking for something to disapprove of. His smile makes him unusual. In his experience, however, people suspect a man with a big grin on his face of little but being drunk. People will remember the emotion but little else.

The foyer is a mixture of gold and cream. As much an embodiment of a luxurious heaven as the cathedral across the road. Gold drapes shimmer. Chandeliers glitter. The veined marble floor tiles sprout upwards into pillars. It’s like walking into an ostentatious oyster.

Toby ignores the reception desk and moves straight through to the bar.

He nods at a girl mixing cocktails as if he knows her well and takes up residence at a small table near the exit, his back very carefully aimed towards a large and raucous group of Russian men in the far corner. He doesn’t need to face them, he can watch them in the mirror that hangs behind the bar.

‘Party in full swing?’ asks Shining.

Toby doesn’t reply, he’s smiling at the waiter who has come to his table enquiring after his order.

‘Go on,’ says Shining. ‘Ask for a vodka Martini. I promise not to laugh.’

‘Gin and tonic,’ Toby orders in impeccable Russian. Languages are his strong point. He has an excellent ear.

‘I’ll make the call,’ Shining informs him, and Toby leans back in his chair, glancing around, smile in place. Just a wealthy idiot, nothing to see here. He glances at his watch and shoots the occasional look towards the foyer as if waiting for someone. In his ear he can hear Shining talking on his mobile.

In the car, the old man has poured himself a cup of coffee from a flask and is making a very passable imitation of being an angry guest.

‘I can’t relax with all the noise,’ he is saying. ‘I like a party as much as the next man but I swear I just heard someone screaming and that’s nobody’s idea of fun.’

Toby can’t hear the response of the hotel receptionist but he can imagine their unctuous tones, their promises to deal with the situation at once.

A couple of minutes pass and a stressed manager appears. This is good. This is according to plan. The man looks towards the loud party in the corner, takes a breath, attempts to look stern and walks over. Toby watches him in the mirror as he draws the attention of the alpha male of the pack, a hirsute beast in a suit so shiny Toby suspects he could comb his hair in its reflection. Toby knows this man. His name is Bretzin, he is the ‘Brigadier’ of the St Petersburg brigade of the Bratva, Russia’s organised crime syndicate. The hotel manager is right to look scared – Bretzin has killed people before now for no greater irritation than spilling his drink. In London, Toby had read this man’s file and for a moment, just a moment, wondered if they weren’t biting off more than they could chew.

The manager is walking a delicate line. The Rock on the phone has forced him to face up to a Hard Place and he is deeply uncomfortable. There is a lot of deferential nodding and his body language makes it clear he would love nothing more than to run away. He cannot. He stands by his duty, passing on the complaint even as the intimidating man wears him down. Toby has no doubt that the Bratva pays the hotel well to be able to use their private suites but the Astoria is a hotel of distinction and can only turn a blind eye for so long.

Eventually, Bretzin nods, making no attempt to hide his disgust at being forced to act. The manager walks away so quickly he’s almost running.

Bretzin speaks into the ear of one of his men, passing on a set of orders. This is one of Bretzin’s
boyeviks
, or ‘warriors’. A loaded gun. The man puts down his drink without a hint of complaint, gets to his feet and makes his way towards the exit.

‘Any luck?’ asks Shining.

Toby reaches into his pocket, takes out his mobile and pretends to place a call.

‘Hi,’ he says, still speaking Russian and getting to his feet. ‘Yeah, that should be fine.’

He takes some money from his wallet and leaves it on the table next to his half-finished drink.

‘I’m on my way now,’ he says, following the Russian out of the bar and towards the lifts. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

He hangs back slightly, pretending he has trouble hearing the other person on the line, letting the Russian get into the lift first. Access to the private suites is only possible via a key card and Toby doesn’t have one. Of course, he knows a man who has. If he enters the lift too quickly the man may try and force him to leave, insisting that he’s only heading to the top floor. He has to get this just right. Like so much in life, espionage is all about the timing.

The Russian has entered his key card and pressed the button for the top floor. Toby moves again, grabbing the closing door of the lift and forcing his way in. The Russian tries to complain but Toby presses the button for the fourth floor, one beneath the suite level, smiles distractedly at the Russian, and continues with his phone call.

‘I know,’ he shouts, ‘I know. It’s just about getting them onside. Hopefully, if we sit back they’ll do the hard work for us and we can reap the benefits.’

‘Are you actually talking to me?’ Shining asks in his ear.

‘Not really,’ admits Toby, turning his back on the Russian and watching the floor numbers click upwards on the display above the control panel. All the time he keeps his head low so that the camera in the roof doesn’t get a clear shot of his face.

He continues talking. White noise. An irritation but not a threat.

As the lift passes the second floor, he spins around and punches the Russian in the throat. It’s a dirty blow but Toby isn’t of a mind to worry about such things. The Russian drops forward and Toby brings his knee up into the man’s face. He steps over him, slips the phone into his jacket pocket, grabs the Russian’s head and twists hard. There is an unpleasant crunch. It has taken Toby four seconds to reduce the population of the elevator to one.

‘Are you all right?’ Shining asks.

‘Fine. Clock’s running.’

‘Understood.’

From this moment on Toby is in serious danger. He can hope that nobody saw him kill the Russian on the security camera, they can’t be monitoring all the feeds all the time. Likely it will be footage that will be consulted after the fact. But he can’t
know
that. Worst-case scenario: the alarm bells are already ringing.

The lift stops at the fourth floor. Toby glances out. The corridor is empty.

The doors close again and the lift continues to the private suite.

Toby takes the Russian’s gun, a heavy and ostentatious .45. Typical gangster swagger, Toby thinks. The dead man’s world is all about size and volume, every shot fired is an act of violent PR. He checks the safety catch then tucks it in the waistband of his trousers, damn thing won’t fit in any of his pockets but his training tells him to hold on to it, better to have too many weapons than not enough, it’s there in reserve should he need it.

He removes his own gun from the holster beneath his arm. It’s a subcompact pistol, easy to conceal but concealment doesn’t mean a damn thing once you’ve fired it so he’ll have to do his best not to. He cocks it and returns it to the holster.

He lifts the Russian to his feet. He’s so heavy, Toby isn’t quite sure he’s going to manage but he finds his balance, standing directly behind him as the lift doors open out onto the private suite.

‘Grigory?’ a voice asks, confused by the sight of his colleague.

Toby shoves the dead Russian forwards, jumping over him and launching himself at the man who has been left to babysit.

Gangsters are slow, Toby tells himself, they don’t have the paranoid training. It takes them a few seconds to react and that’s his window. That’s his opportunity.

There is nearly too much space between them, the gangster has had time to draw his weapon as Toby reaches him. But not time to aim it.

Toby grips the man’s wrist and forces it upwards, using the momentum he has built running across the room to send them both falling backwards onto the deep red carpet. Toby throws his weight into it, driving his forearm down onto the man’s windpipe as they hit the ground. The babysitter’s eyes bulge and his mouth splutters spit onto Toby’s cheeks. He keeps up the pressure, forcing himself down while still holding the gun out of harm’s way. Finally, the babysitter stops moving.

Toby gets to his feet.

‘All this exercise,’ says Shining in his ear. ‘You’ll be aching tomorrow.’

‘Hope so,’ Toby replies.

‘If your back is still towards the lift, the main bedroom is ahead of you,’ Shining continues. ‘To your left is a bathroom and an adjoining corridor leading to the second and third bedrooms.’