Free Cold Warriors by Rebecca Levene Page B

to walk out of here on his own, carrying whatever they were worth in exchange.
    That just couldn't be the plan. The young man must have some guaranteed way of getting the prize to safety. But Tomas didn't know what it was - he had a severe information deficit. If he let the young man walk out of here, the chances were he'd lose both him and the briefcase.
    Behind Tomas, the waiter Karamov had summoned flipped open the hatch of the bar to squeeze out into the main restaurant. Tomas didn't pause to think as he snatched the towel from the waiter's shoulder and tossed it over his own. The waiter looked almost comically shocked, his mouth open in a round, cartoon "O". It made it easier to pry the notepad out of his slack fingers.
    He was still staring at Tomas's back as Tomas wove through the crowded tables to reach Karamov. In a moment the waiter would start making a fuss, but not quite yet. Tomas knew that if you did anything - however outrageous - with enough confidence, people usually let you get away with it.
    The bodyguards glanced at him and away as he walked between their tables, pulling their chairs in tight to their meaty thighs to let him through. That was something else Tomas's career had taught him. Wear a uniform of any kind, even one as simple as a towel and a notebook, and that was all most people saw.
    As he drew level with Karamov's table, he let his arm sweep down, knocking against the bottle of wine so casually that it looked like an accident. The bottle rolled off the table and onto the floor, giving Tomas all the excuse he needed. He muttered an apology in the few words of Hungarian he knew and dropped to his knees. His fingers reached for the bottle and he let them touch but not grasp it, so that it rolled right under the table. He dived under the tablecloth after it.
    Karamov was cursing him, the young man too, and the bodyguards were beginning to turn around in their seats. In the background he could hear another raised voice. Probably the waiter. Tomas had seconds, if that.
    The space under the table was crowded with legs. The bottle had wedged itself between Karamov's, his fleshy calves terminating in improbably delicate winkle pickers. There was one suitcase down there, too, but Tomas couldn't tell which. They were too similar in size and design - no doubt deliberately.
    He knocked the case over as he pulled the bottle out and it fell sideways with a musical tinkle. This was the other one, then - the payment and not the prize.
    That meant the case he wanted was in Karamov's lap. There was no way he could pull it away discreetly.
    Tomas reached up, scrabbling his fingers across Karamov's massive thigh. The big man grunted and swore but he still seemed to be assuming that Tomas was just a clumsy waiter. Do something stupid enough, Tomas thought sourly, and at least no one thought you were a pro.
    Not much longer, though. The waiter's voice was getting louder. The chair legs scraped at the other side of the table as the young man rose to his feet and Tomas thought that he, at least, had realised something was wrong.
    And then, finally, he felt the leather of the case under his fingers. He clutched and pulled, dragging himself and the case away from the table in one smooth movement.
    Karamov let out a cry that was more startled than angry and more chairs scraped as the bodyguards started rising to their feet.
    Tomas kept low, crawling on hands and knees underneath the nearest table and out the other side, the case tucked under his arm. A hand grabbed at his ankle but he kicked out as hard as he could. There was a yelp of pain and the pressure released.
    It was odd to be so frightened, and feel no physical manifestation of it. No pounding heartbeat, no ragged breath. Only his racing thoughts told him this was one of the stupidest stunts he'd ever tried to pull.
    He pulled his knees under him and rose to his feet while he was still half underneath the table, setting his shoulder to the wood. It was much