Stealing Sacred Fire by Storm Constantine Page B

when no humans were left upon the earth, and the
desert sands would blow over the last of their bones. Melandra
shuddered. The thought was too disquieting.
    Shemyaza had been traced to a
house in London. Melandra had received an encrypted e-mail message
via her notebook computer, which had given her a script for the job
to come. It appeared her target was booked into his hotel under the
name Michael Jacobs. Melandra would pose as an employee of a
company called Prussoe Estates, which she presumed was a Grigori
outfit. She would arrive at the hotel under the pretence of
delivering some documents to Jacobs, and intended to talk her way
into his room. It sounded too easy, but she had prepared herself
mentally for unexpected developments.
    Melandra wondered from where
Fox got his information. Surely the Grigori would be aware of any
human infiltration, and the only other explanation was that a
Grigori themselves was leaking data to the Children. That seemed
even more unlikely. Some things didn’t quite add up for Melandra,
and it made her uneasy. Still, she trusted her instincts and had
faith in her Lord. A silver cross hung at her throat; her
protection. She would prepare herself with prayer before she left
her room.
    Lighting a cigarette, Melandra
went to the window, where she lifted aside the nets. Down on the
street, traffic surged up and down. He was out there somewhere. Did
he know about her? She shivered and dropped the net. Later that
night, she would find him and kill him, or die in the attempt.
    Melandra walked through the
city streets in the early evening. She felt tranquil, almost
euphoric. The light was benign, the air balmy. Music filled the sky
from the bars and cafes whose doors were thrown open to the summer
night. She had effected a disguise, which she called her ‘secretary
look.’ Curly, mid-brown, shoulder-length wig with blond streaks;
high street store fashion clothes; make-up copied from the pages of
a glossy women’s magazine. She wore unflattering, but apparently
fashionable, spectacles and discreet gold jewellery.
    It took her half an hour to
walk to her destination. For a while, she stood opposite the old
building, smoking a cigarette in the arched doorway to a dusty
dress shop, conveniently situated near a bus stop, so it would look
as if she had left work for the evening and was waiting for her bus
home.
    He must be in there. It did not
look like a hotel; it did not look like anything particularly,
except perhaps the offices of a registered charity, who set up camp
wherever the generosity of patrons manifested itself.
    Melandra threw her cigarette
end into the gutter and crossed the road. No traffic about. A group
of young people ambled past her, their voices high with excitement.
They did not appear to notice her. Why should they? She looked like
a thousand other young women on the streets of London.
    She had her orders, her
instructions, her methods, her bolt-hole ready. When the job was
done she would disappear as quickly as a cat, and within a few
hours be on her way back to the States.
    She mounted the three shallow
steps that led to the closed front door. There was a peep-hole in
one of the panels. She would be looked at through it. She rang the
bell.
    All seemed silent and dead
behind the door. She could not sense life. Was it empty? She
pressed the bell again, and the intercom beneath it buzzed into
life. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Hello, this is Nancy Oakes. I
have some documents for one of your guests.’ Each statement sounded
like a question. She exaggerated her own accent.
    There was silence for a moment.
Then, ‘none of our guests are expecting visitors.’
    ‘Oh,’ Melandra answered. ‘Well,
I believe my employers did call. I work for Prussoe Estates. I am
expected.’ This was a crucial moment. If they checked with the man
himself, he wouldn’t know what they were talking about, but
someone, somewhere, had called this establishment earlier to
provide back-up to her story. She shouldn’t