Free The Sword of Moses by Dominic Selwood

of warm air from the overdoor heaters as the earsplitting sub-bass thuds of the techno trance music hit her.
    Scanning the room quickly, she could just make out a long dark bar bathed in a neon blue-black glow. Disorientated by the light and noise, she had no time to register anything else before she felt a gun in her back again, propelling her forwards, more roughly this time.
    The militiaman steered her towards the grey steel door of an industrial elevator being held open by another member of the team, clearly waiting for them.
    As she was shoved into the elevator, Ferguson glanced towards her, and his expression told her everything she needed to know.
    These guys were professionals.

 
    ——————— ◆ ———————

7
     
    Bar Akmola
    Saryarka District
    Astana
    The Republic of Kazakhstan
     
    It was late when Uri’s taxi dropped him off at the
Bar Akmola
in Astana’s north-east Saryarka district. It was the industrial part of town, rough and dilapidated—cluttered with rundown Soviet-era buildings.
    After paying the driver, he pushed through the bar’s battered door to reveal its shabby interior—a tawdry world where regulars blotted out the cold and the grinding monotony of life with cheap vodka.
    Uri immediately saw the liaison officer across the long smoky room. His white logo-plastered
Lokomotiv Astana
football shirt was distinctive without drawing unwanted attention.
    “Do you have the correct time?” Uri asked, approaching the table. “My watch has stopped.” He tapped it. “Freebie from a catalogue.”
    The man looked up at Uri. “Sorry.” His tone was sarcastic. “I guess that’s why I missed my supper. Again.”
    Uri glared at him. He didn’t have time for this.
    Clearly sensing Uri’s irritation, the man adopted a more professional tone. “All right—yes, I set my watch from the television news every day.”
    Uri pulled out a greasy chair from under the low wooden table and sat down facing him.
    “So this is a fun country,” Uri smiled mechanically.
    “I love it here,” the man replied, his voice heavy with irony. “I was bored of the sunshine and bikinis of Haifa anyway. I prefer the coldest capital on earth. The standard of living is great, too. I’m having a ball. My wife can’t understand why we didn’t come here before on holiday.”
    Uri felt sorry for him. He looked genuinely fed up.
    The man held out his hand. “Zvi. Zvi Ehrenwald. Diplomatic liaison.”
    Uri shook the offered hand. “So, what can you tell me?”
    Zvi did not seem surprised Uri had not reciprocated with his own name.
    He took a swig of his beer. “When I heard you were coming, we got our friends in the
Militsiya
, the local police, to pull some guys off the street—middle-ranking hoods from the local crime families who are always happy to cooperate in return for certain accommodations.”
    Uri was watching him closely.
    “You’re looking for a group of Africans, right? Heavily armed?” Zvi looked at him expectantly.
    Uri nodded.
    “Try Omsk Street. You can’t miss it—a dark green warehouse, smaller than the others. Seems a bunch of Africans have been seen coming and going there recently. Word is they flew in on a private plane with some kind of merchandise.”
    “Thanks.” Uri made a mental note not to have anything to do with the local families. “What about practicalities?”
    Zvi reached down to his feet and passed Uri a tatty dark blue rucksack under the table. “There’s a .22 Beretta, twenty clips of ammunition, keys to a brown saloon car with a full tank parked across the street, and keys to a safe flat nearby. There’s a map with directions to the flat in there, as well as a number you can call twenty-four hours a day.”
    Uri took the bag. “Thanks,
achi.
” He stood up to go. “Have a nice night.”
    “Count on it,” Zvi answered. “I bet that redhead in the black lace miniskirt over there’s dying to party with an overweight married Jewish guy in a borrowed