Angel and the Assassin 3: Sins of the Father

the door leading to the
    kitchen—but inside the dining room—while Kael stood at the door that led to the
    entrance hall. Maids came and went continually, while footmen stood at attention about
    the room, alert for instructions. The small, semiformal dinner proceeded without
    incident. It was mostly small talk, nothing important. That would happen after dinner,
    when the spouses of the politicians and all the servants left the room.
    On countless occasions Kael had been in life-threatening situations. He had been
    attacked, beaten, taken prisoner. He had killed more people than he could count, and
    never had his heart pounded as it did now. No matter what the situation, his training
    and his natural ability to focus, avoid distraction, and remain in the moment always
    won out. But at that moment, his mind was in a whirl. He forced himself to remember
    to scan the room and listen intently above the noise of conversation and laughter for
    any threats.
    “You’re the image of your father.”
    Throughout the meal, Romodanovsky’s gaze gravitated to Kael, watching him for
    longer than necessary. On the rare occasions he had acted as minder in the past, the
    mark barely looked at him and never spoke with him unless the mark got frightened.
    During dessert, Kael saw Romodanovsky look directly at Angel for more than a minute.
    To Kael’s relief, Angel never once looked directly at the man.
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    An hour into the dinner, Mackie spoke on the PTT. “Sir, there’s a car at the front
    door. The bobbies obviously let it through the gates, but there’s nothing on the itinerary
    about a late visitor.”
    “See who it is,” Kael said quietly.
    A minute later, Mackie said, “It’s the Russian ambassador to England. He says
    he’s stopping only for a moment on his way back to London since he’s never met Mr.
    Romodanovsky.”
    “Where’s he coming from?” Kael asked.
    “He says he’s been in France, sir, and he’s on his way back to London.”
    “Keep him outside until I give you the go-ahead.” The butler entered the dining
    room, going directly over to the home secretary to announce the visitor while Kael went
    into the entrance hall, punching in his code to reach Conran.
    “Where has the Russian ambassador to the UK been for the last twenty-four
    hours?” Kael asked as soon as Conran picked up. He strode across the entrance hall to
    the front door but did not open it.
    “France,” Conran said a moment later.
    “Send me a mug shot.”
    The dining room door opened, and Romodanovsky walked out with Townsend
    beside him. The Russian looked at Kael and smiled. Ignoring the man, Kael watched the
    screen on his phone, waiting for the picture.
    When the front door opened, he slapped the phone closed and stuffed it in his
    pocket, removing his Glock 26 from the holster in one smooth movement. Mackie
    entered beside a tall, thin man. “I told you to wait!” Kael said.
    “His ID checked out, sir,” Mackie said.
    Striding toward Romodanovsky, the man spoke in Russian. “Mr. Romodanovsky,
    a pleasure to meet you.” Moving in quickly beside the man, Kael watched his right
    hand going into the pocket of his long, dark overcoat. The swiftness of the man’s
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    movements and a general sense of unease made Kael stick the muzzle of his gun against
    the man’s temple and fire. The gunshot was no more than a small pop , not disturbing
    those in the dining room.
    The stranger crumpled, his gun slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor.
    “Who drove him?” Kael demanded, looking at Mackie.
    “He drove himself, sir. He’s the Russian ambassador. I checked his identification.”
    Mackie’s voice rose.
    In Kael’s pocket, his phone buzzed. Snatching it out, he flipped it open and looked
    at the picture. “That is the fucking Russian ambassador.” He showed the picture of a
    fat-faced, dark-haired man, first to Mackie and then to Romodanovsky and the home
    secretary.
    Mackie’s shoulders slumped. He paled visibly. “Sorry, sir.”
    Romodanovsky spoke in Russian, looking at Kael. “Did you already have that
    picture?”
    “No. I asked my superior to send it as soon as I heard that someone wanted to see
    you, but I did not see it until just then.”
    “Then how did you know?”
    “I just knew.” Kael held the man’s gaze. “I’m psychic.” He half smiled before
    turning to Mackie, who shrank under his scrutiny. “Drag