The Doomsday Testament(10)

‘Ten.’

A red dot crept slowly across the screen of the laptop. One of the guards was on the move, but the others were exactly where he wanted them.

‘Nine.’

He looked around the van at the intense eyes staring at him from behind the night-vision goggles.

‘Eight.’

His hands ran over the equipment on the belts and harnesses strapped to his body. Stun grenades, taser electric dart gun, Russian-made GSh-18 pistol and ammunition.

‘Seven. Remember, from now on we speak only Russian.’

He closed his eyes and, for the final time, visualized the interior of the museum and the route he needed to take from the van to the side door.

‘Six.’

‘Street clear,’ the mercenary seated beyond the partition beside the van driver announced.

‘Five.’

He reached for the door handle.

‘Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . . Go!’

They leapt from the van into the darkness, and as he sprinted towards the Palace he could see – half a mile away – the spot-lit frontage of the Hermitage dappling the calm waters of the Neva. He didn’t need to hear the soft thud of boots on the tarmac to know the five men were following close on his heels. Seventy-five paces to the side entrance. Ignore the CCTV cameras, which would still be powered by their batteries, but would be sending their pictures to blank computer screens. The double oak doors. This was the moment of truth; what the client had paid all those millions for. The minute the power had been cut the computer would normally have locked down the entire museum, but the state-of-the-art software uploaded by the engineer had reversed the procedure. The Menshikov Palace was wide open and there for the taking. Still, he couldn’t resist a soldier’s prayer as he turned the handle. Now!

The six men burst inside where the familiar interior was bathed by an eerie underwater green in the prism of the night-vision lenses. No orders were needed. Three men to take care of the guards, two, including the armourer, to follow him to their target. The security staff would still be under the impression that they were in lockdown and would stay in position until the back-up generator restored power. Thanks to the client this was the third power cut they’d experienced this week and they’d have no reason to be concerned.

A harsh voice sounded in his earphone. ‘Item Six still outside rear of building.’ The two men left behind in the van were continuing to monitor the guards’ movements. The sixth guard was a nuisance, no more. Not even that, if he stayed out of the way.

Moving purposefully, but not running, he reached the end of the corridor and turned right, with the two men keeping pace and the others peeling off. Behind the mask he couldn’t help smiling. He recognized a Rubens, a Caravaggio and a Raphael. A hundred million dollars and then some and he couldn’t lay a finger on them.

‘Item One down.’ This was the operative tasked with dealing with the guard at the front entrance. If everything had gone to plan he would have first stunned the man using his taser then disabled him with a spray that would keep him unconscious for at least two hours.

‘Item Three down.’

He reached the stairway leading towards the cellars.


Even in the most well-protected buildings a man who knows his way around will find a route in and out that bypasses all that tiresome security. Especially a man who needs a smoke.

Dimitriy Yermolov cursed when the lights went out. Bloody power company again. Things were better under the fucking Communists. He had arranged for Yuri to unlock the steel door leading from the basement to the gardens and had been enjoying a quick Sobranie. Standing in the dark under the old linden tree beside the door, he lit another cigarette and felt a complete idiot. The power cut would have over-ridden the instruction and locked him out until the back-up kicked in. He thought of calling Yuri, but that would just make him look stupid. Even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good, his hand automatically reached for the handle. It turned easily. Strange . . .





* * *


‘Item Five down.’ Which only left the fool outside to the rear of the building. Maybe he’d been checking some earlier alert. Well, he could stay outside.

They reached the cellar level and he turned right. Below the Baroque splendour of the palace lay a rabbit warren of former kitchens and wine cellars from the days when the fabulously rich Prince Alexander Menshikov had entertained his friend the Tsar. Now they were disused boiler rooms and storage areas that held a share of the 95 per cent of the treasures the Hermitage didn’t have the space, or the will, to display. There were literally dozens of rooms, but he had studied floor plans of the museum and he knew precisely where he was going. They reached the door he was looking for. Still seven minutes before the power returned.