“Not the wisest choice you could make,” said Irvine.
Grishin sneered.
“And who do you think will help you? These pigs?”
Pigs was the wrong word. There was a thump at a table to Grishin’s left. He half-turned. A gleaming switchblade had been jammed into the tabletop and was still quivering. It might have been the diner’s steak knife, but he already had one of those. To the left another diner removed his white napkin from in front of him. Lying underneath it was a Steyr 9mm.
Grishin muttered over his shoulder to the Black Guard behind him.
“Who are these?”
“They’re Chechens,” hissed the guard.
“All of them?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Irvine gently as Vincent translated. “And they really don’t like being called pigs. Moslems, you see. With long memories. They can even remember Grozny.”
At the mention of the name of their destroyed capital, there was a rattle of metallic clicks as safety catches came off among the fifty diners. Seven handguns were pointing at the three Black Guards by the curtains at the door. The headwaiter was crouched behind his cash desk praying that he would see his grandchildren again.
Grishin looked down at Sir Nigel.
“I underestimated you, Anglichanin. But never again. Get out of Russia and stay out. Cease interfering in her internal affairs. Resign yourself to never seeing your American friend again.”
He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. His guards followed him out.
Vincent let out a long exhalation.
“You knew about the people around us, didn’t you?”
“Well, I hoped my message had got through. Shall we go?”
He raised his glass with the last of the strong red wine to the room.
“Gentlemen, your very good health, and my thanks.”
Vincent translated and they left. They all left. The Chechens staked out the hotel through what remained of the night and escorted the visitors to Sheremetyevo the next morning where they boarded their flight for London.
“I don’t care what the offer, Sir Nigel,” said Vincent as the British Airways jet banked over the Moskva and turned west. “But I am not, repeat not, going back to Moscow.”
“Well, that’s fine, because neither am I.”
“And who’s the American?”
“Ah, I’m afraid he’s still down there somewhere. Living at the edge, right at the edge. And he’s rather special.”
¯
UMAR Gunayev let himself in without knocking. Monk was at a table, studying a large-scale map of Moscow. He looked up.
“We have to talk,” said the Chechen leader.
“You are not happy,” said Monk. “I’m sorry.”
“Your friends have left. Alive. But what happened at the Silver Age last night was crazy. I agreed because I owe you a debt, from long ago. But we are running out of debt. And the debt is from me alone. My men do not need to be put in danger because your friends want to play crazy games.”
“I’m sorry. The old man had to come to Moscow. He had a meeting, very important. No one could handle it except him. So he came. Grishin discovered he was here.”
“Then he should have stayed in the hotel to eat. He would have been reasonably safe in there.”