by WOOD TOM
The footsteps grew louder, closer.
The Hungarian with the long dark hair opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. The room was larger and nicer than the one he was sharing with two of the others. It smelled better too. He saw the black notebook and scooped it up into a hand. He slipped it into his inside jacket pocket for safekeeping.
He turned to leave, but on a whim of boredom opened the door to the adjoining bathroom.
Again, it was much nicer than the main bathroom that was quickly becoming a mess with the toiletries of four men competing for space. The shared toilet was already filthy with the bowl ringed by piss puddles. The Hungarian examined the expensive bottles that Farkas had lined the sink with and selected an intriguing tube of cream. He opened it, sniffed it, squeezed out a drop, and rubbed it into his hands. They felt soft afterwards. He replaced the tube exactly as he had found it. Farkas was a good boss most of the time but he was careful to maintain the hierarchy.
The Hungarian left the bathroom, reset the alarm and left the apartment. He didn’t remember disabling it but he didn’t think twice about it.
Victor heard the front door shut and remained as still as he could for exactly sixty seconds just to be sure before moving from his position. He pulled the curtain to one side and dropped down from the window sill where he’d been balancing with his legs contorted, his back pressed flat against the glass, arms stretched out for support. The sill hadn’t been as deep as he would have liked, but the guy hadn’t noticed the hang of the drapes wasn’t quite as straight as they should have been.
The moment his shoes touched the carpet the alarm started to beep. Victor hurried to the panel and typed in the code.
Back in the bedroom, he took his bag from the wardrobe where he’d placed it with Farkas’s luggage, set it on the bed, and took out the bomb. Confident in his decision, it took him less than four minutes to place the bomb and he was outside the building shortly after resetting the alarm. For Victor the job was effectively over.
Now it was all down to Farkas.
CHAPTER 12
Adorján Farkas was drunk. A couple of beers had preceded his steak and more beers and a few cocktails had followed the meal. His men had convinced him to make a night of it, and when five Hungarians did that the results were often messy. While in a country where no one knew Farkas, or how he made his money, he felt more relaxed than he often did at home, but he was in Germany on business and as such had to keep some level of control.
The members of his entourage had shown less restraint, downing copious amounts of German beer with their own meals before moving on to a range of spirits in the bar. They were well behaved, as he liked, and it was good to see his men having fun. Farkas encouraged such behaviour because socialising strengthened the bonds of loyalty. He had been a boss in the Hungarian mob long enough to know that he only maintained his position because his men allowed him to be in charge. They needed him to pay them and he needed them to carry out his orders and protect him against the hazards of the organised crime trade. Farkas knew that without his men to exert his will he was all but impotent.
There was a line though, a line between employer and employee that could not be crossed. His men needed to like him and respect him and in turn feel that he liked and respected them, but he could never be friends with them. There might be a time when a man in his service became a problem, either deliberately or unknowingly, and Farkas had found it was hard to torture and kill a friend. With no friends working for him, he was free to operate without interruption from that annoying little thing called guilt.
He walked behind his men as they made their way back to the apartment building. He was quiet while his men joked loudly with one another. Though collectively they had enough alcohol in their systems to kill a bull, he knew that they still had their wits about them. In Farkas’s business one of the primary traits a man needed for success was to be able to handle his drink. A couple would probably spend most of tomorrow swallowing aspirin, but by the evening they would be ready to work.
On that day Farkas was due to meet some potential new suppliers. He was always looking to expand his burgeoning empire and he felt good about this trip’s prospects. The suppliers came highly recommended and if things went well they would help round out Farkas’s arms inventory. He shipped cheap Eastern European Kalashnikovs down to an Egyptian dealer, who in turn sold them throughout the Middle East and Africa. The money was okay and the risks minimal, but Farkas knew if he could get his hands on more sophisticated Western weaponry, he wouldn’t have to deal with the Egyptian bastard – who Farkas knew ripped him off – he could go straight to the smaller dealers. He would cut out the middleman and massively increase his margins.
With luck, these German suppliers might be able to help him do just that. He had his eye on some nice Heckler & Koch gear: MP5s, G36s, UMPs, the works. The market was there, ready and waiting. Farkas just needed to get his fingers on the goods. He also wanted a new pistol for himself. Something flashy that the other bosses back home didn’t have.
In the penthouse, his men started raiding the kitchen for anything edible or drinkable. Farkas likened them to a pack of scavengers, already full and intoxicated but eager to gorge on whatever could be found. One of his men grabbed the TV remote and began flicking through the channels in search of porn and Farkas knew it was time to call it a night when he saw the genital-to-genital close-up on the screen.
His decision provoked some jeers but he waved his hand dismissively and headed to his bedroom. He turned on the main light and began undressing, throwing his dirty clothes in one corner. Then he unzipped his suitcase and rifled through until he found his pyjamas.
In the en suite, he brushed his teeth and washed his face before returning to the bedroom. He switched off the main light and climbed into bed. Taking the novel he’d brought along for the trip off the bedside table, he flicked on the lamp.
Farkas read a few pages before tiredness got the better of him. The book wasn’t that good anyway – some thriller with too much talking and not enough killing. He folded over the corner of the page he’d reached and put the book down. He flicked the lamp off.
He lay in the dark for a few moments before switching the lamp back on and getting out of bed. He walked into the bathroom to relieve his bladder. Farkas pushed down the handle to flush the toilet. It didn’t flush.
He pushed the handle down again, harder.
Inside the tank, the handle rose to open the flush valve. It drove the firing pin taped to the top of the lever into the detonator attached to the underside of the tank lid. The detonator blew and ignited the main charge of RDX packed into the empty tank.
The shock wave travelled outwards with an explosive velocity of more than eight thousand yards per second, obliterating the tank, and everything inside the room. The door blew off its hinges and smashed into the far wall of the adjoining bedroom, followed by flames and debris.
Chunks of Farkas dropped from the bathroom ceiling.
CHAPTER 13
Linz, Austria
Before he was due to, Victor found himself awake on his hard hotel-room bed. There was a racket coming from the corridor outside. Running, yelling, laughing, banging into things. It sounded like a couple of kids playing up to their parents, who in turn were louder still in trying to quiet their children down. That was the problem with being a light sleeper who primarily slept when others were awake. People were even less considerate than they were the rest of the time.
It was something he’d been forced to get used to, as he had no fixed sleeping routine. He slept when he could, for as long as he could. If it wasn’t enough, he’d sleep another time. Those first few operations behind enemy lines had taught him the importance of getting rest whenever and wherever it was available, whatever the circumstances. It was a lesson he still put into practice. If he’d needed a comfortable bed and a good eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep each day to be at the top of his game he would have died a long time ago.
&n
bsp; Victor employed a controlled breathing technique to induce sleep quickly, which was one of the most important skills he’d trained himself in, though today it wasn’t working. No amount of controlled breathing was going to defeat two screaming children and two yelling parents. Earplugs would have helped, but they’d also help anyone who might want to get into his room uninvited. Occasionally waking prematurely was preferable to never waking at all.
He’d slept fully dressed, as always, and back in the bedroom he stripped off his trousers and shirt. He did a workout and then ran a bath. The shower looked particularly appealing but he resisted its pull. With his head under the stream of pressurised water, it wouldn’t take an expert to break into his room without him knowing about it. Only in the safety of his own house had he allowed himself the pleasure of a shower.
When the tub was almost full, he climbed in. The water was near scalding and just how he liked it. He lowered himself slowly until only his head and knees were protruding from the water. Unusually, the taps faced away from the door so he could bathe without stainless steel jabbing into him. He allowed himself half an hour, which wasn’t tactically shrewd, but he needed the bath’s help to relax his mind. The last ten days had been busy. Two contracts fulfilled with a gunfight in between. And people who worked nine-to-five claimed to have it tough.
He knew he had little justification to complain, however. No one had forced him into the life he led. He didn’t like to think about the past, but he knew he’d taken all the steps towards who he was today willingly, even if at the time he didn’t know in which direction those steps would eventually lead him. It was what he was good at, what he’d always been good at. From the fox to his first confirmed enemy kill to Farkas.
He closed his eyes and lowered his head under the water, but limited this luxury to no more than thirty divine seconds. He remembered something an associate had once told him: If you don’t like it, stop doing it. A simple statement, but true all the same. He knew it would be easier if he liked it, a lot easier, but the problem was he didn’t dislike it either. The fact the people he killed were even more execrable than himself made little difference.
He raised his head out of the water after twenty-three seconds. The relaxing effect of the bath disappeared. He felt agitated, restless. The price of thinking too much. Water splashed on the floor as he climbed out.
Later, he ate a high-protein, high-carbohydrate meal of trout and speckknödel dumplings at a nearby restaurant. He sat at a corner table, alone. The food was good but he cared more about the nutrients. The waiter, though probably no older than Victor, looked tired and old. Victor left him a considerable tip.
He had a couple of hours to kill and so explored central Linz. He visited the Lentos Museum of Art, the Castle Museum, and the seventeenth-century Church of Saint Ignatius with its bizarre choir stalls intricately carved with frightful, almost demonic figures. As the sun set, a pleasure boat ride along the Danube let him relax without constantly looking out for surveillance, before he disembarked and walked to the Hauptplatz at the heart of the old city. Tall baroque buildings surrounded the grand square, and Victor glided through the crowd to the Trinity Column at its centre.
Even if he hadn’t known exactly where to meet her, he could have used the looks and stares of the men in the square to triangulate her position. She didn’t see him approach, but few people ever did.
Victor took her wrist and she spun to face him, her surprise quickly replaced by a smile in turn quickly replaced by a kiss as she threw her arms around him.
It was dark in his hotel room. Victor lay naked on the bed. The sheets beneath him were crumpled, half on the floor. In front of the bed, a woman, bending over, retrieved her clothes from around the bed. Victor watched her, enjoying the spectacle created by her long, smooth legs and the thong that left her tanned ass cheeks exposed.
Adrianna was Swiss but born in England and spoke with the cultured accent of a British aristocrat. He knew her well enough to know she wasn’t an assassin or a cop or an agent of some intelligence service. He could relax in her company – which was an impossibility with someone he’d only just met. Victor didn’t trust anyone, but Adrianna was one of the very few people he didn’t completely distrust.
‘You shouldn’t bend over like that,’ he said. ‘It puts strain on your lower lumbar muscles. Bend with your knees instead, you’ll get a squat out of it too when you stand. Good for your thighs.’
‘Emmanuel, you are full of useless information.’ She looked back at him. ‘Turn a light on, please. I can’t see.’
‘There’s plenty of light.’
‘For you maybe. But I hate carrots.’
He said, ‘That’s not the way it works,’ and reached across the bed and switched on the second lamp. It had been repositioned so it wouldn’t cast shadows over the window.
‘Is that better?’
‘Much better, thank you.’ She found what she was looking for and stood up. ‘Bet you’ve had those blinds closed all day, haven’t you?’ He didn’t answer. ‘No wonder you’re so pale.’
He went to take a sip of his Scotch but found the glass empty. He watched Adrianna hook her bra and adjust her breasts so they sat correctly. She took a small brush from a snakeskin handbag and began running it through her hair. She could go from sex-messed to sophisticated businesswoman in under two minutes. She told Victor it was an art.
Adrianna always refused to tell him her age and when asked would simply answer, ‘Old enough.’ He didn’t tell her he knew she had just turned thirty, had a master’s degree in History from Cambridge, that both her parents were dead and her brother was living in America. He also knew that she worried about the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and that her hips were too big, but to Victor she was as close to perfect as anyone was ever likely to be. She never believed him when he told her she was beautiful.
She had an apartment in Geneva and one in London. He had been through every inch of both, though she had never invited him to either. The bugs he had planted were without invite as well. When they had first met in a Geneva bar he had shadowed her for a week before calling her number. He’d continued to shadow her on occasions in the following months. There had been nothing to be suspicious of. Which had surprised him. Eventually he had removed the bugs as an undisclosed courtesy. After all, he was a gentleman.
He poured himself a large measure of Chivas Regal. It was one of his preferred brands. A blend, but it trumped almost every other Scotch. Victor often found single malts to be overrated.
She laughed.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I can tell you missed me.’
‘Why’s that?’
She held up a cream silk blouse and cast him a sly smile. ‘It’s torn.’
‘You look better without it.’
She made a face and said, ‘Hmm.’ She slipped the ripped blouse on and buttoned it up as far as it would go. She huffed, pushing her fingers through the holes so Victor could see the top three buttons were missing.
He shrugged. ‘I’ll find them and put them aside.’
‘Throw them away, I don’t sew.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Both.’
‘Okay, I’ll buy you a new one.’
‘It’s last season’s,’ she said, pouting. ‘You won’t be able to get it any more.’
He sat up straighter. ‘Then I’ll have to buy you two others from this season, won’t I?’
She grinned.
‘How about I take you for a late dinner?’
She zipped up her skirt and tucked the blouse in. ‘I’d love to, but I really can’t. Business to take care of.’
‘You work too hard.’
‘Need to pay the bills.’ She sat on the end of the bed and bounced up and down a little, as much as the bed would allow. ‘It’s hard as concrete. You should complain.’
‘I like it.’
‘I’m amazed you get any sleep.’ She put her shoes on, then was still for a momen
t, she spoke softly. ‘Do you realise this is the first time I’ve seen you in over half a year?’ She paused. ‘I was afraid you were never going to call me again.’
He didn’t look at her. ‘I’ve been busy.’
She glanced back at him. ‘Work?’ When he nodded, she said, ‘You work too hard.’
‘Need to pay the bills.’
She smiled and then said, ‘I always wonder what it is you do.’
‘No shop talk, remember?’
Adrianna showed her palms. ‘I know, Emmanuel, I know. I just get curious about you. That is allowed, isn’t it? I have this fantasy where you’re like a secret agent.’
‘You think I’m a spy?’
She smiled shyly. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s because of your scars, I guess.’
‘I was in the army,’ he explained.
‘I know. As I said, it’s just a fantasy. I bet you do something really boring, like a banker or stockbroker.’ She paused and smiled. ‘I know, you’re an accountant, aren’t you?’
‘Actually,’ he said with a raised eyebrow, ‘I’m a professional assassin.’
She burst out laughing. ‘You can be so funny when you want to be.’
‘No, I’m serious,’ he said, sounding anything but. ‘I just blew up a gangster with a bomb hidden in his toilet.’
Adrianna laughed harder. She put a hand to her chest. ‘Stop it, please. You’re going to kill me.’
‘Only if you pay me a lot of money.’
He set his hands behind his head and Adrianna’s laugh eventually became a smile as she took control of herself.
She examined him and said, ‘You’ve put on a bit of weight. Muscle, I mean.’
He nodded. He’d always favoured speed over strength, but a recent and very painful encounter had convinced him that a little extra power could be useful.
‘I’ve put some weight on too.’ She pinched the skin of her stomach and grunted. ‘But it’s all blubber.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘You look great, better even.’