Zero Hour by Andy McNab

were still more statues of Lenin than you could shake a Red Flag at. Yet another tank was mounted on a ramp beside me, the third T55 I’d seen as a monument to Communist glories since we’d crossed the border.
    Heavily armed police loitered on every street corner, twiddling batons and pushing up their peaked caps. Old women in headscarves and long, threadbare coats shuffled past. Rainwater dripped from gutter pipes that disgorged their contents straight into the street.
    Irina and I sat double-parked on Constitution Street, staking out Manik. Anna had gone in to check if Slobo was already at the bar. The right-hand side of the road was pulsating with life. On the left was the inky blackness of the graveyard where some of the fifteen thousand dead from the USSR’s eight-year war in Afghanistan lay. A massive billboard hung above the gates. This one featured the hard-line president, Igor Smirnov, shaking hands with Dmitry Medvedev, the president of the Federation. It looked like an ad for a sci-fi convention. With his big eyebrows and bald head, Smirnov was the spitting image of Ming the Merciless, Flash Gordon’s nemesis, and Medvedev was a ringer for Captain Kirk.
    Neon lights splashed the bar’s name across the night. It was one of dozens along this stretch. Tinted-glass frontage had fucked over the ground floors of the faded ex-Soviet stucco buildings. It sounded like each bar was trying to out-music the last. The noise poured out onto the cobbled street like a demonic DJ’s mix.
    BMWs and Mercs waited outside with their engines running. Each of the new Mafia elite who piled out of them had a couple of heavy-looking lads to keep an eye on them. This was where some of the millions of dollars changed hands each night that made it a dangerous town.
    A lone figure moved down the road towards us, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. The tip of her cigarette glowed with each inhalation. Her blonde helmet and long dark coat began to take shape as she got closer.
    Anna opened the passenger door and jumped in. ‘I felt like a grandmother in there.’ She shivered as I powered down her window. She got the hint and threw out what was left of her cigarette. ‘He hasn’t shown yet.’
    Brake lights glowed, then sidelights, in the middle of the line of cars nearer the bar. I fired up the Skoda’s engine to take the space before anyone else. I glanced at her. ‘Now we wait, yeah?’
    Anna kept her eyes glued to the bar entrance. Irina leant forward. ‘I hope Mr Lover Man hasn’t stood me up.’
    I pulled into the kerb and closed down the engine. ‘Maybe he had second thoughts. Maybe you’re too old for him.’
    My reward was a punch in the arm.
    We settled down and watched in silence.
    I opened my window a few inches to cut the condensation. I could feel the bass notes pounding through the darkness. Lights flashed and bodies gyrated in the bar’s murky interior.
    A group of men came past us, leather-jacketed and smoking. They made their way up the three concrete steps and through the double glass doors.
    ‘Don’t take any chances, Irina. This guy has a weapon.’
    ‘That makes two of us.’ Irina stretched her legs along the rear seat. ‘Don’t worry about me. I will do my part and we will nail him together, yes?’
    A flash of red bounded up the steps. I had a glimpse of kneelength coat, fat face and a mop of frizzy hair. ‘We’ve got a possible.’
    I kept focused on the entrance. ‘Where did he come from? Anyone see his car?’
    Neither of them answered.
    Irina was already reaching for her door handle. I leant back and gripped her arm. ‘Anything that isn’t right, just walk. OK?’
    She nodded, but not convincingly enough for my liking. ‘Let’s hope our friend likes what he sees.’ She slipped out of the car, along the short stretch of sidewalk and disappeared inside.
    I peered at my G-Shock. A quarter of an hour later, she was still nowhere to be seen. I unpeeled a stick of gum and popped a couple of