The Hunter

by WOOD TOM

  Aniskovach was already moving when he screamed, ‘EVERYBODY OUT.’

  Victor let the magazine fall out of the rifle and slammed in the second mag. He worked the action, ejecting the previous round and loading an API. Through the sniper scope Victor watched the van’s rear doors swing open. He hovered the crosshairs over the fuel inlet.

  A man leaped out of the back and ran. More boots dropped out of the back onto the road behind the first. Victor fired. The bullet punched a hole through the body work. Inside the van the incendiary charge ignited the traces of fuel in the inlet. Flames rushed through the fuel pipe, reaching the tank.

  The van exploded.

  It lifted off the ground, the force ripping outward, decimating it in a single instant. The fireball was huge, mushrooming upward, engulfing the operatives not fast enough to follow Aniskovach’s lead. The shock wave blew out the glass of the neighbouring vehicles.

  Black smoke rose towards the sky.

  CHAPTER 44

  Paris, France

  Monday

  10:07 CET

  Rebecca returned to her apartment with a bag of groceries. She locked the door before walking to the kitchen, where she placed the bag down on a work surface, poured herself the last of the coffee from the pot, and drank it bitter and lukewarm. In the lounge she stood in the gloom for a moment before opening the drapes to let some light in. Outside, Paris was grey and depressing. Her hair was wet and lank from the rain. She knew she looked awful without having to look in the mirror.

  Paranoia made her check that all the windows were closed and locked. The apartment was old, the walls, floor, and ceiling thick. Little noise found its way into the space and the quiet unnerved her. She took a breath in an attempt to control her anxiety. No one knew about the apartment. It wasn’t hers. It had belonged to her uncle and was now the property of one of her cousins. She’d stayed for a few weeks a couple of years ago when she was given a set of keys and told to stay whenever she liked. Her cousin lived outside the city and didn’t rent it out but was too sentimental to sell it.

  She tapped the space bar on her laptop to get rid of the screen saver. She’d left it powered on continuously – with only a laptop’s processing power the code-breaking software she was using could take several days, maybe even weeks, to breach the cipher on Ozols’s memory stick. Unsurprisingly it hadn’t found the code yet. The software displayed an ever-increasing count of the combinations tried. Billions down, billions more to go. Maybe tens of billions. Maybe more. If so, they would never crack it. Rebecca would die of old age long before the password had been discovered.

  She considered e-mailing her friend at Langley who worked for the cryptography department. He had access to supercomputers that could smash open almost any cipher in hours, if not minutes. But her nameless companion was right, doing so would put them too close to their enemies.

  Rebecca had entered into the software every word she knew that might have significance to Ozols. As part of the operation she’d been privy to much information on the Latvian, which in turn she’d passed on to his killer. None of those words had helped. The code was probably something with no significance, a blend of numbers and letters for added security.

  After making herself fresh coffee, black with sugar, she sat down on a small, creaking armchair in front of a second, recently purchased computer. A similarly new printer rested on the floor.

  On the screen was the home page for a financial consultant in London: Hartman and Royce Equity Investments. The home page was minimalist, elegant, with an artist’s impression of the London skyline, at the centre of which was Canary Wharf, where the offices for Hartman and Royce were located.

  Rebecca navigated through the site until she found a page listing the company’s executives with some biographical highlights and accompanying photos. She scrolled down and stopped at the name Elliot Seif in the middle of the screen. A click opened up Seif’s details, complete with a larger picture of the man.

  She right clicked and saved the picture.

  At a nearby phone booth she entered the dialling code for the UK, followed by Seif’s office number.

  A woman answered in a polite but serious British accent. ‘Hartman and Royce, Melanie speaking, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like an appointment to see one of your financial advisors please.’

  Five minutes later Rebecca left the booth with a next-day appointment booked to see a man called Brice to discuss private investments and her stock portfolio. The appointment would give her the perfect opportunity to get a close look at Seif and survey his offices.

  She went back to her research. Already she had street maps of the Canary Wharf district in several scales, as well as photographs of the building and surrounding ones. She had a variety of CIA-supplied software on her computer that allowed her access, some legally but mostly illegally, to a number of useful sources.

  Sharing a common language with the UK made things much easier than compiling dossiers on citizens of other European countries. She logged onto the UK electoral-register database to find Seif’s home address. He had homes in both Surrey and London, and a second voter was registered at the Surrey address by the name of Samantha Seif, who Rebecca assumed was Seif’s wife.

  After a few minutes of clicking and typing, she had phone numbers and a credit history. Seif’s résumé was next. A while later, she had surrounding area maps of the two addresses and a growing list of biographical information.

  By the time her companion returned, Rebecca wanted to know everything about Elliot Seif there was to know. She glanced towards the other computer.

  The software had stopped counting.

  CHAPTER 45

  St Petersburg, Russia

  Monday

  17:25 MSK

  The amber-coloured liquid sloshed into the glass, and Aleksandr Norimov threw the Scotch down his throat. He clenched his teeth and poured himself another drink. The heat from the whisky felt good spreading through his insides. He was surprised and glad to be alive. When the shooting started, he felt sure that he wasn’t going to make it out of there. He put a hand to his chest. His heart was still thundering. He was too old, too out of practice for such excitement.

  Norimov sat behind his desk, wondering what the hell was going to happen next, when he heard the cars pull up outside and poured himself a third drink. He’d finished his fourth by the time the office door was thrown open and the man walked in. There was an arrogance and casual menace in the way he carried himself, even with the fresh wound dressing that covered his left cheek from nose to ear and eye socket to jawbone.

  ‘He killed five of our people this afternoon,’ Aniskovach spat. ‘Tell me where he is.’

  Norimov gestured to the dressing. ‘Bet that’s going to leave a nice scar.’

  Aniskovach was still for a second before swiping his arm across the desk’s surface, knocking the bottle of whisky, glasses, and a stack of papers to the floor.

  ‘WHERE IS HE?’

  Norimov pushed his chair back and bent over to pick the bottle and two cracked tumblers off the floor. He set them back on the table and sucked the Scotch from his fingers.

  ‘How the fuck would I know?’ Norimov reached for the bottle. ‘You’re the SVR, not me.’

  ‘If I thought for one moment you told him we were there …’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid.’ Norimov shook his head. ‘And don’t assume that I am either. It was you who screwed it up by having men in the parking lot. I told you he’d spot them.’

  Aniskovach looked around, as if trying to formulate an appropriate rebuttal. After a moment he took the seat opposite Norimov, and placed his gloved hands on the table. He spread his fingers. ‘Yes, yes you did.’ He gave a crooked smile then grimaced and put a hand to his face.

  Norimov hid his amusement perfectly. ‘Smiling stings, eh?’

  Aniskovach frowned. ‘I guess I should have listened to your advice. You’re not as over the hill as you look.’

  Norimo
v ignored the comment. He took hold of the whisky bottle. ‘Drink?’

  Aniskovach regarded him for a minute. ‘Thanks,’ he said eventually.

  Norimov took a new glass and poured Aniskovach a Scotch. He took a sip. ‘He didn’t try leaving via the airport,’ Aniskovach said.

  ‘Did you think he would?’

  Aniskovach didn’t say anything.

  Norimov smirked. ‘Getting the first plane out of the country is exactly what you’d expect. So that would be exactly the last thing he’d actually do. He’s good, or did you not pay attention to that lesson earlier?’

  Aniskovach frowned. ‘So where is he?’

  Norimov shook his head. ‘You’re persistent if nothing else. Why would you think he would ever tell me where he was staying or where he was going? He never did in the past either.’

  ‘Would you tell me if you knew?’

  ‘If there was enough money involved.’ Norimov sat back. ‘Speaking of which.’

  Aniskovach gestured to an SVR guy standing in the doorway. He walked over to the table and placed a briefcase in front of Norimov and opened it. Inside it was full of American dollars.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d actually pay,’ Norimov said as he examined the money. ‘When you came in here I thought you might kill me.’

  Aniskovach smiled as much as his injuries would allow. Norimov, who was studying his face intently, didn’t join in.

  ‘If I ever learn you have double-crossed me in any way, I won’t hesitate to order your execution,’ Aniskovach stated evenly. ‘But I’m a man of my word. We had an arrangement and I will honour it.’

  Norimov brought the glass to his lips. ‘I didn’t know you people had honour.’

  ‘Let’s call it professional courtesy then. The end result is still the same.’ He paused for a moment, his finger gently touching his wound. ‘Did he have any idea you were working for us?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then maybe in the future he will again need to contact you.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Norimov said. ‘But I thought that the previous time. So what do I know?’

  Aniskovach tilted his head to one side. ‘And you would have no problem letting us know again if he does? Even though he used to be your friend?’

  Norimov thought for a moment. ‘He is my friend still. But business is business.’ He paused. ‘He would understand that.’

  ‘I would never betray a friend.’

  ‘Then you won’t get far in your chosen profession.’

  Aniskovach pulled the copied flash drive from his pocket and studied it in his hand. ‘Did he give you any indication what information is contained on this?’

  Norimov shook his head. ‘He didn’t know. That’s why he needed my help. You haven’t decoded it yet then.’

  Aniskovach stood. ‘Of course we have.’ He headed for the door, but stopped. ‘And, just so there is no confusion, you’re quite sure you have no idea where he might be?’

  Norimov, who was counting his money, didn’t look up. ‘He’ll be out of the country by now, of that you can be certain.’

  CHAPTER 46

  East of Kohtla-Järve, Estonia

  Monday

  16:45 CET

  The service station was little more than a large café/bar with a surrounding area of uneven asphalt that served as a car and truck stop. On one side of the parking lot was a row of fuel pumps under a crumbling shelter. It was snowing, and the windshield wipers swept back and forth in front of Yukov sitting high in his truck’s cab. The suspension was shot, and he bounced around in his seat as he manoeuvred the big vehicle across the parking lot. The tyres churned up brown slush.

  Yukov stifled a yawn and pulled the truck to a stop. It had been a long drive from Russia, and he was desperate for a piss and a thick sandwich. He might allow himself a drink or two. Maybe even a nap if he thought he would have time.

  There had been a delay at the border that had put him almost an hour behind schedule. He had no idea what was going on, but guards had been checking the identification of every vehicle heading out of Russia. They hadn’t even had the courtesy to let him know why.

  Perhaps the nap wasn’t a good idea. He had to be in Tallinn in a few hours, and if he overslept, he would be in for it. He pulled his coat from across the seat and put it on. It was blissfully warm inside his cab, but it would be far below zero outside. He grabbed his wool hat as well and pulled it down over his ears before slipping on his gloves. Kohtla-Järve was right on the northern coast of Estonia, and the wind blowing in from the Baltic could be murderous at the best of times. It was worse than normal tonight though – far worse.

  When the door was open he shuddered instantly. The windchill turned his face bright red. He locked his truck as fast as he could and hurried across the parking lot towards the service station.

  He had no reason to check his trailer before he left, and even if he had it was unlikely he would have noticed the split in the tarpaulin on the left side. It was a vertical cut about three feet in height held together on the inside by heavy-duty tape.

  Slowly, one by one, the pieces of tape were removed, and the tarpaulin was pulled open by hands trembling in the cold. A shaking figure emerged through the gap and dropped to the ground, where he collapsed onto the asphalt, his half-frozen legs failing to keep him upright.

  With enormous difficulty Victor pushed himself to his knees and, using the truck for support, pulled himself onto his feet. He was wet from the ground and knew if he didn’t get inside soon the water would freeze on him.

  His whole body shook uncontrollably. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet any more. The sound of teeth chattering stung his ears. The service station was maybe fifty yards away. He pushed himself from the truck and stumbled forward, walking fast to keep his balance. The wind, coming at his right, forced him to the left, and he leaned against it, jaw against his shoulder, hands pushed down the front of his pants because that was the warmest part of his body. He bounced back and forth off parked vehicles as he moved around them, unable to walk steadily.

  He had spent several hours in the back of the truck with only his clothes to keep him warm. Victor wore a thick overcoat, hat, and gloves, but they hadn’t been enough to keep the cold at bay. They should have been, but the weather conditions had been extreme, an unpredicted Baltic storm. Taking a flight or a train out of the country would have avoided the weather but also would have delivered him straight into the hands of his enemies. He couldn’t risk driving himself, in case he was stopped by the authorities. Hiding in the back of the truck had seemed a good idea before the weather had turned. The trailer was transporting vegetables, and he had squatted down between crates to try and escape the wind that found its way under the tarpaulin. The cut he had made to gain access only exacerbated the windy conditions.

  By the time the truck had reached the border, he had been in no state to defend himself had the guards been diligent enough to check the trailer. Knowing how cold the weather had been, he’d considered paying the driver to take him across so that he could sit in the cab, climbing into the trailer only as they neared the border. It would have kept him warm, but there was the risk that the driver would either give him up to the authorities or would give himself away by acting suspiciously.

  Victor reached the entrance and pushed open the door. He received several glances from the Estonian and Russian patrons. His appearance and demeanour couldn’t help attract everyone’s attention, but there was nothing he could do about that. His priority was to get warm. There was no point dying of exposure just to stay unnoticed.

  He made his way to the counter and said, ‘Coffee, please.’

  He didn’t speak Estonian so he spoke in Russian instead. About a quarter of the population were ethnic Russians, and the city was so close to the border it was likely Russian would be understood. With his teeth chattering and his voice hoarse he had to repeat himself twice more before the woman behind the counter could understand him.

  Victor downed the
coffee in one gulp, not caring that he burnt his mouth in the process. He needed to raise his body temperature – and fast. He asked for another coffee and drank it as quickly before ordering sweetbread soup and some pelmeenid, steamed dumplings stuffed with beef and served with sour cream.

  He ate the food quickly and didn’t care about the mess he made. It took a while, but finally he started to regain feeling in his fingers. As the temperature of his torso increased, blood returned to the extremities. He had never forgotten the words of his drill sergeant. Warm your insides, and your insides will take care of your outsides.

  Fifteen minutes later he could flex his hands; after thirty minutes he could feel each of his toes again. Forty-five minutes after entering, he was ready to leave. He would have liked to have stayed longer, to have taken a room and rested, but he was still too close to Russia to relax. But he couldn’t go anywhere dressed as he was.

  He purchased a bottle of vodka and sat with it while he waited for the right moment. He didn’t have to wait long until a man of similar height got up from his seat and headed toward the toilet. The man had no companions at the table he had vacated. Perfect. Victor waited a few seconds and stood up. He entered the toilet thirty seconds after the man.

  It was a stinking, filthy room, but Victor was unconcerned about the lack of hygiene. The man moved up to the urinals and began to relieve himself. There was another man alongside him and Victor waited by the sink, pretending to wash his hands, until the second man had left.

  He didn’t have much time. Someone could come in at any moment. He moved up behind the man at the urinal. He was fast, the man noticing him too late. Victor grabbed his hair with his right hand and slammed his head off the tiles above the urinals. The man grunted, dazed.