The reception area was in darkness, but they were close enough to make out vague shapes moving against the glass doors; a hand, a face.

“I’ve seen this before. So have you, Petrovitch.” Chain started to jog toward the tower.

“What does he mean?” asked Marchenkho, holding Petrovitch’s arm.

“Come with me and I’ll show you.”

They caught up with the detective as the tower darkened the sky. It became all too clear that there were people trapped inside; some of the glass panels had starred through attempts to break them, and the reflections of the three men distorted as the doors were shaken. But there seemed to be no way out.

“Hivno!” grunted Marchenkho and put his hand on his gun. “Some answers, now.”

“If it’s computer controlled, it’s gone wrong.”

Chain pressed his police card to the glass. “Back off,” he shouted. “I’m going to try and shoot my way in.”

“That won’t work,” said Petrovitch. “But if you insist, let me take cover before the ricochet drills a neat hole in my skull.”

Those inside crushed themselves tighter to be near to Chain. He couldn’t shoot even if he wanted to. “Got a better idea?”

“I do,” said Marchenkho. He spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Grigori? We need Tina and her box of tricks.”

Meanwhile, Petrovitch was shoving Chain out of the way. “Not like that. Like this.” He got level with the staring eyes of one frantic sarariman and said haltingly: “Shinkansen ha mata hashirou.”

“What?” said Chain. “What did you say?”

“Zatknis!” Petrovitch pushed him away again, raised his voice and repeated. “Shinkansen ha mata hashirou.”

The man inside blinked for the first time. He turned away, his face losing definition behind the smoked glass. Then he came back and nodded, mouthing “hai.”

Valentina slid a steel briefcase onto the floor next to him. She clicked the catches with her long fingers and opened the lid.

“Nice,” said Petrovitch, inspecting the contents.

“Do your job. Get them away from the doors.” She busied herself with a lump of plastic explosive, forming it into a disc in her hands.

Petrovitch mimed what the woman was intending to do, including the explosion that would follow. They didn’t understand until she started pressing detonators into the gray wads of plastique she’d stuck to where she hoped the opening mechanism was. Then they moved in a clump, all clutching at each other, as far as the banked reception desks.

“Ready,” she said, briefcase in one hand, roll of thin wire in the other. She trotted toward the first fountain, trailing cable behind her. Marchenkho, Chain and Petrovitch followed, and squatted down next to her behind the hard cover.

“You do remember you’re just supposed to blow the doors off, don’t you?” said Chain, and received a withering look in response.