The Domino Game Read Online Free PDF Page A

setting in. His heart was pounding beneath the sheath of paper wrapped against his chest and his mouth had started to crawl with a bitter taste like aluminum. He tried swallowing against it but the taste stayed. And he had to keep moving.
    He patted down his shirt, straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket, hit the key pad inside the door, stood back and waited for the vault to open.
    The security camera tracked his progress back to the elevator then lost interest and whirred to another focus. Inside the car Gregori edged to the back, praying to God the monitors couldn’t pick up the outline of the tapes beneath his jacket.
    The ride back up to the first floor took an eternity; the long walk back to his office, twice that. When he finally did reach it he collapsed into the chair behind his desk and sat staring at the open door as the terror of what he had done swelled through his veins. Then, when he was certain it was impossible to imagine any greater fear than he already felt, he somehow forced himself to gather together a pile of computer print-outs, set them down in front of him, lowered his head and pretended to read.
    For ten minutes he sat like this, filled with an ominous dread, waiting, expecting them to come for him; expecting Vitaly Kolbasov to appear at any moment in the open doorway. Then, when they didn’t come for him – when no one appeared – the terror began to slowly ebb away and Gregori began to experience a curious light-headedness. A strange sense of guarded elation.
    Fifteen minutes more and he set the papers aside, rose unsteadily from his chair, walked the few steps to his private bathroom, closed and locked the door behind him and fell back against the heavy timber panel.
    Holy Christ! He had actually done it!
    He waited for the throbbing in his temples to subside then shook back his cuff and stared at his watch.
    Almost seven thirty. Late enough. And the sooner this was over now, the better. He was an accountant. Accountants weren’t made for this kind of thing.
    He dragged himself upright, pulled the tapes from his belt and the papers from his shirt and set them down on the vanity, then stepped across to the closet and pulled out an oversized shopping bag. Gloss white, red silk cord handles, the Laura Biagiotti logo, emblazoned stylish and bold in cherry and gray. The single, boxed silk chemise inside had cost him the best part of a month’s salary when he’d bought it at the designer’s store in the Radisson Slavjanskaya a week ago, while what was left over had covered a second purchase from a far less salubrious shop in an alley at the back of the Arbat. But why worry about the cost? If the plan came off it would have been a small price to pay, and if it didn’t…
    Moving quickly now he set the bag down on the closed lid of the toilet, pulled a penknife from his pocket and started work.
    Twenty minutes later Gregori Gilmanov snapped off his office light and set out again along the corridor, this time heading in the opposite direction.
    The work stations he passed were empty now, the evening darkness that had settled over them tinted by the faint electronic glow of a single active monitor. He walked evenly, with an apparent confidence that belied the clutching tightness that had once again settled in his gut.
    At the end of the passage he turned left, then left again into the main entry hall. The door that led to the car park behind the building lay just half a dozen paces ahead now, but with the manned security desk set squarely in front of it, it may as well have been on the other side of the Volga.
    The uniformed guard saw him coming, set his copy of Pravda aside on the table and rose to his feet. Gregori met him with a silent nod, hoisted his briefcase onto the desk and followed it up with the shopping bag.
    He watched silently as the guard worked through the normal routine. Open the briefcase. Shuffle back and forth through its contents. Close the briefcase. Satisfied, he snapped