Silencer by Andy McNab Page A

handful of dollars. I didn’t know precisely what the caption said, but it was pretty fucking obvious. I wondered if there were any other countries in the world that had to publicize the perils of people-trafficking alongside the attractions of Diet Coke and Nescafé.
    Lena didn’t have much solid intelligence on Diminetz, but was able to tell me he didn’t have a home: he hung out in the kind of five-star hotels that had sprung up in Chisinau to suck money out of people like him. Off his tits on drink and drugs most of the time, he shagged his life away between deals. Frank was right. This lad might have a big wallet, but it hadn’t lifted him out of the gutter.
    Lena had listed my most likely targets and I’d already tried the Maxim Pasha and the Prezident in the centre of town. Numberthree was just outside, in a park called Valley of the Roses. Not that I could see any.
    It was a large, two-storey, rectangular shrine to the God of White Walls and Glass. A veranda fringed the first floor like a crinoline, possibly in an attempt to give the place some kind of colonial vibe. Lights glowed; expensive cars gleamed on the gravel forecourt. An island of cash floating in a sea of corruption.
    I went up a short flight of black brick steps and in through a pair of gold-sprayed, aluminium-framed doors. The riot of brass and multicoloured fabric that hit me as soon as I’d crossed the threshold was like an artist’s impression of a migraine. Saddam Hussein would have felt completely at home there. Maybe he’d lent them his interior decorator; the only bit of Baghdad chic missing was a gold bust of the great man at the reception desk.
    The signs were all in Moldovan with English translations, and the woman sitting behind them had scraped-back jet-black hair and drawings for eyebrows. I nodded at her as I passed, scanning the mauve chairs, swirling Oriental carpets and futuristic red lightshades. Moldovans kept their heads well below the parapet and never asked questions; it was a prerequisite of survival in this neck of the acid-rain-drenched woods. Even the shopkeepers never asked you how your day was or if they could help. They just left you to do whatever you needed to do. Old habits die hard.
    It was dinnertime. Maybe Diminetz was sitting quietly with a nice bowl of boiled cabbage, but I doubted that was his style. In any event, the restaurant was the last place I’d check. I’d have to have a reason to go there – to eat or to meet – and I’d draw unwelcome attention to myself if I then walked away.
    The bar and terrace were another matter. I could wander through them to my heart’s content. If they were empty, I would try the gym and the swimming-pool, but something told me that Diminetz wasn’t the sort to pump iron or clock up lengths. He had money to burn before it all ended in tears, and Lena had given me the impression he kept the furnace roaring.
    I headed for the sliding patio doors, which were open just enough for one person to pass through. It would have made anice spot for dinner, but now it was a smoking area. A scattering of couples chatted over a glass of something and a cigarette. Three or four women sat on their own, each with a thick layer of make-up and weapons-grade hairspray. They weren’t there for the repartee. They cast an eye over me: I was alone and not about to join the natives in Marlboro Country. I had to be a foreigner and a potential punter.
    For all the glitz, teak flooring and shiny chairs and tables the terrace had to offer, it had one glaring design flaw. The air-conditioning units that fed the rooms above were busy sucking up the smoke and dribbling condensation onto the deck in return, but nobody seemed to mind.
    I moved back inside, past the bright red velvet curtains and migraine-triggering wallpaper, following the sound of loud voices and laughter.
    Diminetz and his entourage sat around a small cluster of low tables piled with nuts and bottles in the bar area; six of them, in