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When Oleg Krachev received the message about the ge of plan, he began to harbor doubts that he was dealing with an amateur. The whole thing with the two-way radios had suggested that his terpart was someone who had no idea what they were doing. Walkie talkies used radio waves that could easily be intercepted, heard or jammed by the police or ah a powerful ser and those were widely available in the shops on Nathan Road. The disposable phohough, suggested that whoever he was dealing with had used the two-way radio idea only to lead Krachev into believing that he was an amateur.From his KGB days, Krachev had knowo buy a gun in any major city. He recalled that the point of purchase was in gking Mansions, a crumbli of cheap hotels, unhygienic restaurants and dodgy tailor shops. It would have to do. gking Mansions used to be a spot oourist map, its cheap aodation and myriad variety of knock-off retail appealing to European backpacker types keen to see a bit of Hong Kong on the cheap before heading home after days of smoking pot on the beaches of Thailand. As gking Mansi<cite></cite>ons’ illegal immigrant population of Indians, Pakistanis and Nigerians grew, the tourist appeal of the place had gradually eroded. The Hong Kong gover had made several attempts over the decades to tear the place down but to no avail. The owners liked gking as it was. Despite its crumbling walls, dripping air ditioners and leaking pipes, it had made them billions over the years with very little being reied in the property. Besides, the place occupied valuable real estate on Nathan Road, he Tsimshatsui harbor front, land they were prepared to hold on to at any cost without taking the risk of redeveloping.
Krachev had trawled the oppressively humid corridors of gking Mansions sg o<q></q>ut establishments that he figured would have a side business in arms. He spotted several but decided to go with a Pakistani tailor shop called Suit Yourself. Photos displayed at the front of the shop suggested that several dignitaries had bypassed London’s Saville Row to have exquisite suits made by Imran and his sweatshop tailors at a fra of the price. It had taken a while for Krachev to persuade one of the shop’s attendants, a young good-looking Pakistani with movie star eyebrows, that he was a er who deserved the owner Imran’s personal attention. Fifteen minutes later, Krachev had availed himself of a ese-made pistol and some rounds at ></a>much less than the price of one of Imran’s business suits.
Krachev wa<u>?９９ｌｉb?</u>s pleased. He had just proved that even so many years after the fact he still knew how to play the game. The pistol felt hard and f wedged at the back of his trousers, the small cluster of bullets heavy in his pocket. He would not hesitate to use it. His retirement was at stake. The quantum chip would be his at all costs. Later on, after a late but particularly fulfilling meal of Chi Bhiriani, Onion Bhaji and yellow Pillaf rice at an upscale Indiaaurant, Krachev had picked up the disposable pho the Sunday shop the seller had indicated.
Now, he sat in the coffee shop in the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel ahrough the various sarios that could occur this evening. He was occasionally distracted by a bevy of ese beauties ing in and out of the hotel. Some of them were obviously call girls, he reed. High-price prostitutes that preyed on the affluent tele that stayed at a five star hotel like this one. One or two of them had him thinking really violent thoughts, his mind exploding with images of sheets traced with red and the soft whimper of girls subjected to his particular brand of sex.
He looked up at one of the clocks above the reception desk and <q></q>o himself. All he had to do was wait. And Oleg Krachev had been waiting a long time for this moment.
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