Silencer by Andy McNab Page B

leather bucket chairs. He held court with a glass of something expensive in his hand, telling some joke by the look of it; everyone was very attentive apart from the two BG in black suits who seemed much more interested in whichever stockinged thigh was nearest to them.
    I perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, ordered a Coke and busied myself with a bowl of pistachios. It was easy enough to keep eyes on the group. The wall behind the optics was mirrored. Diminetz faced away from me. His hair was a bit longer than it had been in the picture and he’d put on a bit of weight. He looked like any other dickhead in his early thirties with a big gob and too much money. His girlfriend wasn’t the normal pick-up for the night, though. She was in severe need of a few plates of chips. The rings around her eyes matched her frizzy dark-brown hair and her shoulder-blades stuck out from her strapless blue dress like shelf brackets. You could have fitted a wedding ring around her arms. Her look was more underfed whippet than heroin chic. She wouldn’t have stood a chance against the competition on the terrace.
    Diminetz dominated the room. The other customers did theirbest to ignore the noise as he gobbed off at a hundred miles an hour. I stole a glance at the BG. They were older, forties maybe; efficient haircut with a touch of grey at the temples. They’d seen a bit, judging by the state of their noses, but were now monstrously overweight. This was probably the best job they’d ever had: money, drink and women. What more could they ask for? Looking after a total dickhead just went with the turf.
    Diminetz sparked up a cigar the size of a broom handle. The smoking area was clearly only for law-abiding morons. A haze of blue smoke billowed above his head and drifted round the room. The barman was unimpressed. He turned and walked to where his boss was standing. Both wore little red waistcoats, white shirts and bow-ties. The barman waffled away in an urgent whisper, but his boss just shrugged. What the fuck could they do?

7
    23.56 hrs
    I sat in a gilt and green velvet chair in Reception with my latest cup of coffee, the remains of a club sandwich and another bowl of pistachios on a table in front of me. I flicked through the last of the pile of magazines I’d worked hard at looking engrossed in.
    I’d been there for about an hour, drinking, snacking and paying in cash while Diminetz and his entourage continued smoking, hollering, laughing, shouting and drinking too much. He didn’t look the gangster, organ-trafficking kind of guy, just a dickhead. But that’s the problem with people: you can never tell. I thought I saw the odd recreational item getting popped as well, but maybe they kept some ready-shelled pistachios in their pockets.
    I’d had to leave the bar after an hour or so: there’s only so long you can hang around with a Diet Coke. Staying in Reception was fine because, unless they had a rush of blood to the head and relocated to the terrace, they couldn’t go anywhere without passing me.
    The shrieks and laughs got louder as the evening wore on. My biggest problem now was boredom. I’d read every article singing Moldova’s praises as a wonderful holiday destination and focus for investment.
    My iPhone started to vibrate and spin on the half-nutshell I hadbalanced it on to pass the time. I’d texted Anna an hour ago: Saw L. Boy OK?
    Her reply was: Boy good .
    I deleted the message so the phone stayed sterile. She wouldn’t contact me again until I contacted her – she was far too switched on. But I still needed to know how Anna and my boy were doing.
    The young woman at Reception was getting ready for the long night ahead. She’d retreated to the back office, behind a frosted-glass screen. I could hear the gentle jabbering of a TV through the half-opened door. To the right of it hung two cardholders on blue lanyards. They were some distance away from the card-enabling machine behind the counter, so they had