Being more experienced, Firuta had got a few steps ahead of him. The man repeated his request. Caramarin shrugged then stepped forward and tugged Firuta sleeve.
"He's asking for some water. Finish serving the top table then go to the kitchen for some," she interpreted. Caramarin nodded.
He finished dishing out his samosas and then picked up the empty mineral water bottles and walked to the kitchen, his eyes never leaving those men in western business suits. But he still couldn't see Timur Ozgan anywhere in the room.
Looking at his watch as he collected more mineral water bottles he realised there was not too much time left. Maybe Ozgan couldn't make Subrata Mohanraj's wedding, after all. No, no way. The man wouldn't travel all the way from Odessa and then not show unless he'd had an accident.
Caramarin pushed his way back into the room, into the sensory overload. No, he couldn't allow himself to be overwhelmed. Remembered what his instructor during sniper training, back when he'd been a Paratrooper in the old days, had told them. Focus. Sure, take in the big picture but concentrate on the essentials only. Don't allow yourself to be distracted by all the other stuff.
There, at one of the round tables near the waterfall of lights, now shimmering a soft blue; was that Engin Hasanov? The man was wearing one of those long Indian jackets, in a soft, buttery yellow. Slim build, long dark hair neatly combed back. Could be.
Caramarin returned to the kitchen for another platter of samosas and spring rolls. Now the top table had been served, he was free to see to the guest tables. Firuta pointed out which ones were his. He made his way over to one next to Hasanov's. As he dished out their food, he scanned the next table.
His heart leaped with a dark joy. Yes, that was Hasanov. No doubt about it. So, the broad shouldered, grey haired man sitting next to him had to be Timur Ozgan. The gang boss was also wearing a richly embroidered jacket in a dark plum. But maybe to make a subtle point at this over-the-top wedding, he also had on a plain white Islamic skullcap.
Caramarin glanced at his watch. He saw he had only a couple more minutes left to take action. He looked around at the incredible scene of exotic beauty, dished out some more food, working round his table until Ozgan's table was directly behind him. Took a deep breath. Now was the time. If he was going to do it, now was the point of no return. He set down the platter, drawing a few surprised glances from the guests.
Unhitching his shirt-tail from out of his pants, Caramarin reached behind his back then withdrew the hunting knife. Light flickered off its wicked serrated edge but it was like nothing happened, like he'd turned invisible. One young woman frowned, looking confused.
Now he really understood how waiters feel to be totally ignored, just part of the background scenery to most diners. No more than menial flunkeys, just there to serve their betters and keep out of the way. But he changed all that in an instant.
Caramarin turned with his knife in his hand. He was now standing directly behind Timur Ozgan. With one fluid motion, Caramarin grabbed Ozgan's right arm, then skewered his hand to the table.
For a second or two, nothing happened. It was like he'd carried on serving food. Then, like a bomb blast ripping through a crowded place, the chaos and fear and noise spread outwards in circles. Ozgan looked at his hand, half the blade and hilt sticking out. Blood oozed out of the wound, then more poured out staining the snowy table cloth a bright crimson. The blood looked nothing like spilled wine.
Then Ozgan screamed. A yell of pure pain and rage. He reached out with his left hand to wrench the blade out of his wrecked hand. Caramarin punched the gang boss full in the face, rocking the Abkhazian's head back. The force jerked his pinned hand back, widening the wound, blood gushing from it now, spreading further out over the linen tablecloth.
The other people at the table looked on with horror, some stood up, chairs crashing back to the floor. Men gasped. A woman screamed. People at the nearby tables craning their necks to see what was happening. Caramarin pulled his CZ-75 out of his waistband and then jammed the pistol into Ozgan's face.
"Shut it, you bastard," he said. Glancing around he saw a man on his cell. Swivelling round, Caramarin pointed the semi-automatic at the man.
"No calls," he shouted. The man didn't understand his words but got the idea anyway. He dropped the cell like it was red hot. He pointed the pistol at several random people but he knew people at tables further away would soon be making calls. That's if they hadn't already. He turned back to face Timur Ozgan.
"You set me up, you bastard. You set me up to take the fall for Mihai Pojer. Just like you did with that dead girl back in Odessa. I fuckin' knew I shouldn't have had anything to do with you."
Next to Ozgan, Engin Hasanov jumped to his feet. The young man's face was pale, his eyes staring with shock, his little Errol Flynn moustache a black scrawl on his lip.
"No, you killed him," Hasanov shouted at Caramarin. His voice even shriller than normal. "You were the one who killed him."
Caramarin glanced round. People were shouting or screaming all around him, he noticed people running out of the dining suite's door. The bride and groom's family up on the top table were straining to see what was happening; what was wrecking their perfect day. A couple of girls, he thought they might be bridesmaids, were next to her, one pulling the bride to her feet.
Then all the alarms went off. The blaring sound adding to the fun house atmosphere of chaos and disorder all around. More people pushing and shoving their way out of the dining room. Some were panicking now, one woman screaming hysterically, her husband trying to pull her out of the room. Another man just standing vacant like his brain had shut down.
Caramarin smiled. A wolf's grin. The girl had come through for him. She'd phoned that bomb scare through. He had no time left now. None at all.
"Listen," Caramarin said to Hasanov. Speaking loudly over the din. "I never killed your friend. First, why should I? I had no beef with him. Second, he was killed by having his throat slit from ear to ear before being stabbed through the heart.
"For someone to get that close to him; up close and personal, he'd really have to trust them, wouldn't he? Who here wanted to rub out your lover and who did Pojer know? If it wasn't me and it wasn't you..."
Hasanov turned to Ozgan. "You bastard. You never needed to kill him."
Caramarin looked round. There was a lot fewer people in the dining room now. Caramarin flipped his CZ-75 semi-automatic then pressed the pistol into Hasanov's hand. Hasanov looked at it like he'd never seen a gun before.
"N, N, No," stumbled Ozgan. "Don't... I love..."
"It's up to you now," Caramarin cut in. "You loved Mihai Pojer. I were you, I'd doom the bastard. Send his soul to the great beyond."
There were still people pushing out of the room. A couple of uniformed security guards trying to force their way in but making no headway against the tide of brightly dressed people pushing out. One of the guards speaking into a mouthpiece like he thought he worked for the CIA or FBI or something.
The wedding feast was now a wreck of tangled chaos. Leaving Timur Ozgan to his fate, Caramarin vaulted over the nearby table then dodged through the wreckage and raced for the opposite doors leading to the kitchen area. He tripped over a dropped napkin, stumbled a couple of steps, recovered his balance, banging his wrist on a table's edge.
Caramarin barged through the swing doors nearly knocking Eva Konieczna flying, the woman's face filled with anger, not confusion. She seemed the only one who'd kept her cool. Respect to her. Her clipboard clattered to the floor so she stooped to pick it up.
Firuta shouted as Caramarin shoved past the two women.
"What's going on?" Firuta called after him. "Someone said there was a man with a gun?" She followed him over to the changing area.
"Don't know," yelled Caramarin over his shoulder. "And he's got a fuckin' bomb in there! I'm not paid for this – I'm out of here!"
He threw his locker open then tugged on his combat jacket over his uniform. "I think he might still be in the room." He carried on out to the rear of the Lombardia Hotel. All the chefs and kitchen staff were huddled together like smoking penguins, separate from the agency waiters.
Apart from the head chef and one of the sous chefs they all seemed to be enjoying the unscheduled break to their evening. After all, they were still getting paid. A hotel manageress in a hi-viz jacket was running around ticking off names from a clipboard. The alarms were much quieter outside the building.
Caramarin pushed his way through the crowds of staff and out of the rear exit to the street. Apart from Firuta, nobody knew him and nobody took any particular notice. So he used his anonymity to his advantage. Caramarin walked quickly down the side street. As soon as he was out of sight of the Lombardia Hotel he ran. Ran like the wind.
Immediately, he heard sirens wailing louder. The cops. Of course they'd respond instantly to a bomb scare at a packed venue like the Lombardia Hotel. Especially as their intel must have told them that some of the wedding guests were in the life. Blue lights flashed and bounced off the buildings. A car threw itself round the corner then sped towards him.
Caramarin ducked into a deeply recessed doorway and hid in the shadows. One, two more cop cars raced past his position. As soon as they were gone, Caramarin hurried down the street. A police motorbike whizzed past at high speed, its rider concentrating on the wet road.
Caramarin jogged to his parked Subaru. He breathed a sigh of relief as he fired the car up and pulled out. He passed what he thought must be an armed response van with blacked out windows. It splashed through a puddle, dark spray fountaining onto the sidewalk.
After that, nothing.