The Hunter v-1

by Tom Wood

  ‘The only known acquaintance. Aleksandr Norimov, a former KGB, then FSB, agent. He’s now a criminal operating out of St Petersburg. He claimed to believe the assassin was dead until I proved to him otherwise. I would have liked to take him away for more intensive questioning, but I had no power to do so.’

  Prudnikov nodded. ‘Norimov’s name has surfaced again.’

  Aniskovach was surprised and intrigued, but he did his best to maintain a detached composure. ‘In what context?’

  ‘On the desk is a transcript of a telephone conversation. Read it.’

  Aniskovach walked to the large mahogany desk and picked up the piece of paper. He read it carefully, despite his growing excitement. When he was finished he looked at Prudnikov. His mouth felt dry. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to finish what you started. I want this Banarov matter closed neatly and with the utmost discretion.’

  ‘Why do you want me to do it?’

  ‘Banarov may have had his fair share of enemies, but he was not entirely without friends. Some of those friends have become powerful in the time since his death and have influence in our government. His younger brother has risen highly within the GRU as well.’

  ‘I heard.’

  Prudnikov continued. ‘Recently, and with increasing frequency, I find that this Banarov matter is brought up in my company. I consider answering the questions of imbeciles who only through accident of fortune have become my superiors tiresome to say the least. Since it was your original probing that gave them reason to ask such questions, these parties will take much interest in whatever you say on the subject. You were the one who first believed Banarov was murdered; you pushed the case when no one wanted to know. Your integrity in this matter is without question.’ Prudnikov took a sip from his drink. ‘If you say this incident has been resolved, it will, finally, be left alone.’

  Aniskovach considered for a moment. The head of the SVR was asking him for a favour. If he completed this task with merit, he would find Prudnikov a most beneficial mentor for as long as his patronage had value. And when that value was spent, maybe these friends of Banarov or his brother would make better allies.

  ‘I’ll need resources,’ Aniskovach stated, careful to sound enthusiastic but not to sound too enthusiastic. ‘A team, agents with military backgrounds.’

  ‘You can have your pick of men and equipment.’

  Aniskovach’s back straightened. ‘And authority.’

  ‘You shall receive any and all powers you might need. But there is a condition.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You must be satisfied with apprehending Banarov’s killer. Question him, yes; kill him, of course. But your investigation ends there.’

  ‘But we can learn who sent him, who had Banarov murdered. Surely, that’s the point.’

  Prudnikov shook his head. ‘I want this wound closed, not opened further. This is my condition. Accept, and you shall find your stock within the organization rapidly gains value. Decline, and wait for another opportunity of this magnitude to present itself.’

  Aniskovach had only pursued the Banarov matter as a means to create a name for himself. So the condition was an easy one to accept. Nevertheless, he stood silently for a minute in a pretence of deliberation.

  ‘Then I accept the condition,’ Aniskovach said.

  Prudnikov nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘Tell me, though, why do you want this done so quietly?’

  ‘Because,’ the head of the SVR said a moment after it became obvious, ‘it was me who had Banarov killed.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Meridien Forest, Russia

  Sunday

  07:43 MSK

  The earth squelched underneath Victor’s feet. The forest floor was soaked from the winter downpours. He was fifteen miles west of Moscow, just north of Krasnogorsk, in the sprawling Meridien forest. The temperature was in the mid-thirties, average for the time of year.

  Victor was dressed for the outdoors in thick cotton pants, boots, and a heavy coat over several layers. He had a black wool hat over his head and ears, insulated leather gloves over his hands. In his left fist he carried a shovel, in the right a pickaxe.

  A mile to the east was one of Russia’s most-famed country clubs, a carbon copy of those found in the West. It was complete with saunas, restaurants, golf courses, swimming pool and tennis courts, and offered cross-country skiing and Russian banya.

  Victor had driven into the complex and set off on one of the many forest trails, usually busy in the summer, but in the winter gloom thankfully empty. At this time of year the club received few visitors, and he had seen no one else around.

  He enjoyed being in the forest, alone, away from other people. The air was damp, clean, and the smell of trees, of nature, sweet. He savoured his time away from the stress of civilization. He was cold, but he didn’t care.

  A quarter of a century before, he had been crouched down among trees not unlike those that surrounded him now, rifle butt pressing into his shoulder, its weight making his arms tremble. Numb hands clutched the weapon. His index finger just touched the trigger.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ his uncle had said.

  But he was scared, had never been more afraid. He didn’t want to shoot the fox.

  ‘Steady now.’

  The fox appeared out of the bushes, nose sniffing the ground. His uncle was still talking to him, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying, the thundering of his heartbeat drowned out all other sounds. The animal moved slowly, nose testing the air. Victor wasn’t sure if it could smell them or not. He thought what his uncle might do to him if he let the fox escape.

  He fired.

  There was a brief flash of red, and the fox disappeared from sight.

  The whole world seemed to stop. Victor stared into the trees where the fox had been. He didn’t know how long he had been staring before his uncle let out a roar that made him drop the rifle.

  ‘WHAT A SHOT.’

  His uncle’s voice seemed louder than the gunshot had been. ‘I can’t believe you hit it. Why didn’t you wait until the fox was closer?’ His uncle was on his feet, trying to see the kill. He was laughing. ‘Did I teach you to shoot like that? I did, didn’t I?’ His voice was full of pride.

  Victor didn’t answer, couldn’t. His heart was beating so fast he thought it was going to explode. He felt the flat of a hand slap him between the shoulder blades. It was the first time his uncle had ever touched him like that.

  He squinted his eyes and forced the memory out of his mind. Already he couldn’t remember the make of the rifle or what colour his gloves had been. Over the years details had diminished, one after the other. One day he hoped he would forget that horrible flash of red as well.

  After twenty minutes walking he crossed a narrow footbridge, and from the most northerly post he walked exactly fifty paces due north into the trees. He found the fallen trunk without any difficulty and headed east ten paces from its stump. Victor was up to his waist in bracken. It was dark under the canopy, the meagre morning sun barely finding its way between the birches and pines. He started digging.

  It was difficult work, but he was thankful of the rain that turned the earth, usually frozen hard at this time of year, into a workable mud. He used the pickaxe to loosen the hardened soil under the mud before digging with the shovel. About two feet down he dug carefully until he hit metal. He scraped the soil away until he could see blue canvas.

  He found the edges and scraped the soil away until he cleared a rectangular area, two feet by three. The canvas sheet was tied together in the centre with nylon rope. Victor undid the knot and opened up the sheet. The brushed aluminium briefcase was still shiny, if a little marked from the digging.

  No matter. Victor cared nothing for the case itself, only what it protected. He pulled it out of the hole and placed it to one side. He took a pocketknife and lighter from his coat and used the disposable lighter to heat up the knife. He then cut through the watertight wax seal t
hat filled the small gap where the two halves of the case met.

  Victor opened the case, relieved to find that no moisture had reached inside. The weapon was cold to the touch but could be assembled and fired at that very moment and work.

  Encased in sculpted foam rubber was a Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova. Known in the West as the Dragunov SVD. A sniper rifle. The first Dragunov was formally adopted into the Red Army in 1963, and rumour had it that the Soviet special forces, the Spetsnaz, had tested the weapon on American servicemen during the Vietnam War. Just an old soldier’s tale, Victor had been sure. That was until he had met one of the snipers.

  The rifle was disassembled into its component parts, with its stock, barrel, grip, and scope separate to allow it to fit inside a standard-sized briefcase. There was also a long suppressor. Victor’s was the latest variant of the SVD, with stock and hand guards made from high-density polymer to lighten the weight, instead of the original wood furniture.

  Though not as sophisticated or accurate at long range as some Western sniper rifles, Victor had a fondness for the Dragunov because of its reliability in all conditions and its no-nonsense mechanics.

  As a semi-automatic rifle, the Dragunov had a much better rate of fire than a typical bolt-action sniper rifle, though the greater number of moving parts that made the rifle semi-automatic also made it less accurate than a bolt-action. But as a semi-auto the SVD could also be used as an assault rifle and was fitted with conventional iron sights and bayonet mount for just such a use.

  The Soviet philosophy on arms manufacture had been ease of use and reliability over accuracy, and Victor had found there to be a lot of merit in the ideal. Weapons that were world beaters on the range weren’t much use if they didn’t work under battlefield conditions.

  There were two magazines for the Dragunov. Each held ten 7.62? 54mmR rounds that tended to make a considerable mess of anyone unlucky enough to be on its receiving end. Victor had two types of ammunition for the rifle: the first was the standard lead encased in a copper jacket, the second were API rounds.

  The armour-piercing incendiary rounds were made of solid steel with a hollow core. Inside the core was a small phosphorous incendiary charge, which would ignite when the bullet hit its target — typically a vehicle’s fuel tank.

  Victor closed the case and reached back into the hole for the large leather sports bag that had been underneath the rifle case. Gritting his teeth, Victor hauled it up and out of the hole.

  Inside, tied up in a waterproof sack, was a range of supplies and equipment, most of which Victor ignored. He took out a Glock handgun, a suppressor, a three-inch-thick wad of American dollars, extra ammunition for both the rifle and the handgun, and a Russian passport. All went into the pockets of his jacket.

  The waterproof sack was then retied, the sports bag closed and lowered back into the ground. He refilled the hole and patted it flat before scattering dead bracken over where he’d dug. Back in the country club’s parking lot he placed the metal briefcase in the trunk and slammed it shut.

  He hoped he had wasted his time.

  CHAPTER 42

  Milan, Italy

  Sunday

  21:33 CET

  Sebastian Hoyt spent money so fast it was lucky his company generated a small fortune each year. As the sole owner of a modestly sized but highly lucrative consultancy firm, Hoyt conducted his business interests across a wide range of fields. In these he almost always acted as an advisor, broker, or middleman. He traded mostly in information, information he harvested from one area and sold to another. Information, he had long ago discovered, was one of the world’s most precious commodities, and it also happened to be one of the easiest to trade.

  He advised the mafia on private investments to make the most of their money. He helped corrupt judges in Eastern Europe set up bank accounts for payoffs. He put arms dealers in touch with African militias. He supplied travelling Middle Eastern businessmen with access to call girls, alcohol, and narcotics. He brokered the dealings between contract killers and their clients. As long as Hoyt had access to people who needed information and those who could supply it, his bank balance would stay healthy.

  The proposal he was checking through was boring him senseless, so he took a break and turned his attention to the Italian newspaper on his desk. It was a couple of days old and carried a small story about a shooting in Paris that was of interest to him. The article discussed what little the police had since discovered and named some of the dead. One of the fatalities was an American, James Stevenson, a hitman based in Brussels, whom Hoyt had conducted business with on several occasions.

  One of Hoyt’s most recent endeavours was acting as a broker between a nameless client and the American mercenary. Hoyt had given the American several contracts, and no client had ever complained about Stevenson’s services. So when he was asked to hire an assassin who could assemble a team, Hoyt had gone where he had gone plenty of times before. He didn’t expect the hitman to be killed in a mass murder in central Paris that received news headlines all the way to Italy.

  It was a shame that Stevenson was dead, but only because Hoyt had lost an easy revenue stream. Just to be on the safe side, he’d put some of his underlings on the scent to see if they could find out anything about what happened. It wouldn’t do his reputation any good if Stevenson had performed poorly. So far, the overpaid and undertalented simpletons working for Hoyt had given him nothing more than what he had read in the papers. In this instance it seemed no news was good news.

  Even still, Hoyt had been expecting a communique from a pissed-off client for a few days now, but none had yet arrived. He was not overly concerned by this. The nature of such business meant that things could go bad and go bad publicly. The client obviously understood this, or maybe the hitman had been killed after the job’s completion so that the client didn’t care. Either outcome suited Hoyt. He didn’t know what the job had been and was glad of that fact. It was easier to sleep at night when he didn’t have to think about the messy consequences of his illicit dealings. Shame to have lost a revenue stream, but better to have maintained his reputation.

  That last particular business arrangement had been obscenely profitable. The client had offered a $200,000 purse, of which Hoyt had passed on a mere $128,000 to the American mercenary. For a few e-mails and a delightful afternoon in Brussels, Hoyt had personally pocketed $72,000. If he rounded up his billable hours to a working day of seven, which he knew was being very generous, that became $10,285 an hour. Even for Hoyt that was an exceptionally good rate. If only all business deals could be so satisfying.

  He opened his bottom drawer, took out a small black wooden box, and placed it on his desk. From the box he took out a hand-folded paper envelope. He tapped out some cocaine onto the desk and made a line of it with a razor blade. It was premium Nicaraguan, and the best money could buy — so finely cut it didn’t need any more chopping. Using a silver tube designed for just such a moment, Hoyt sniffed up the drug.

  He slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, pinching his nostrils. Christ, that felt good. He resisted doing another line and packed the cocaine box away. Hoyt prided himself on his self-restraint. It was time to head home. There was no one else at the office, so he made his way to the elevator in semi-darkness. His corporation, though highly profitable, was a small affair and consisted merely of himself, his personal assistant, five analysts, and a receptionist. They all worked from Hoyt’s plush offices in central Milan.

  Hoyt had lived in Italy for so long that he could easily pass as a native. The decades under the Mediterranean sun had stained his skin a dark tan, and his Italian was fluent. His naturally dark hair and eyes aided the illusion. If asked where he was from he would say Milan. Hoyt loved Italy — the land, the culture, the language, the people. It just suited his tastes perfectly. It was perhaps not the best place to conduct business, but over the years he had found its location provided many advantages. With clients in both Western and Eastern Europe, Africa and the Middle
East, Italy served as a fine centralized base of operations.

  It was a short drive back to his townhouse. Hoyt lived alone, had never married. He liked women, but the idea of one day losing half of everything he owned did not appeal to his work ethic. Inside, Hoyt fixed himself a big martini and ran a bath. He was tempted to call up a particular prostitute who did a special thing with her tongue that he was particularly fond of, but he was probably too tired for anything like that. A few drinks, bath, and bed were all he needed. It was going to be another busy day tomorrow.

  He was yawning heavily by the time he was on his second martini and getting into the bath. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth that he dismissed on account of the large amount of cocaine he’d consumed throughout the evening. He lay with his head resting on a folded towel and his eyes closed, wondering why the hell he was so tired. He had been up late every night for a week, granted, but he had still got plenty of sleep. I’m getting older, he reminded himself.

  The sedatives he had unknowingly consumed in the martinis ensured that he was sound asleep fifteen minutes later, that he did not hear the bathroom door open or the ever-so-quiet footsteps approach him.

  A shadow fell across his unconscious face.

  Reed squatted down next to the bath and took a large leather wallet from inside his suit jacket and rested it on his thigh. He unzipped the wallet and withdrew a small glass medical vial and hypodermic syringe. He unscrewed the cap and rested the vial on the floor before taking the plastic safety sheath from the syringe. He estimated Hoyt’s weight to be no more than 180 pounds, so, after picking the vial back up, he inserted the needle through the membrane and pulled eight centilitres of potassium-chloride solution into the plunger.

  Gently, Reed took hold of Hoyt’s jaw with his free hand and opened his mouth. He placed the needle under Hoyt’s tongue and pushed the tip into the lingual artery. With a slow, smooth motion, he injected the solution into Hoyt’s bloodstream.