"Help me." She seized his arm and pulled him in.
Mike Vance was standing in the middle of the room, weaving shakily, now grasping a letter opener in his right hand.
"Get the hell out of here." He started moving on the Russian, brandishing the weapon, but stumbled and had to pause to collect his balance.
"He drank half a bottle of tequila and went crazy." She was shouting in Russian. "Do something!"
Igor nodded knowingly. He came from a land where alcoholism easily edged out soccer as the national pastime.
"What is problem?" The hulking Soviet moved forward, gingerly trying to retrieve the letter opener from Vance's hand.
"Get away from me." Vance shoved him off, then stumbled back.
"No, you must give me knife," the Russian demanded. "We want no trouble."
Nobody noticed, but the time was 10:30. Exactly.
The room was brought up sharp by the sound of the door slamming and a click of the lock. They turned to see a figure wearing a black ski mask and the uniform of a Strand Palace security guard. In his right hand was a 9mm automatic.