by WOOD TOM
Victor put on the thermal imaging goggles, turned off the lights, and switched the goggles on. They detected the infared light omitted and the room became shades of black, grey and white. He released the P90’s magazine and checked the front of the weapon where the infrared wavelength laser aiming module was located beneath the barrel. The laser designator was integrated into the receiver and didn’t affect the P90’s performance in any way. Victor flicked the adjustment switch from off to high intensity. There was a low intensity setting too, but Victor didn’t plan on using the gun long enough for battery life to matter. He set the goggles so hot was displayed as black, cold as white.
A thin black beam, invisible to the naked eye, cut across the room and glowed where it struck the far wall. Victor swept the glow on to the television mounted on the wall. He squeezed the trigger, putting an imaginary burst into his reflection’s head.
Plastic explosives, a sniper rifle, two handguns, and a sub-machine gun.
Yes, Victor thought, probably enough weapons.
CHAPTER 18
Washington, DC, USA
Nelson’s Diner was a shiny sausage-shaped building a twenty-minute drive from Langley. Procter sat with a cup of coffee in a booth along the far wall from the entrance through which Clarke entered with his nose wrinkled at the smell of grease and frying meat. The place was almost full, lots of people like Procter who could do with losing a fair chunk of pounds. Clarke slid on to the vinyl-covered seat.
‘You might want to try acting more like you belong here,’ Procter said. ‘You’ll draw less attention that way.’
‘Well, I don’t belong, do I? Anyone can see that. Including you, I’m assuming. Which makes me ask, why here?’
Procter’s gaze strayed off Clarke. ‘Because this place makes the best steak sandwiches you’ve ever tasted. You should try one. It’s worth coming to work just to have one at lunchtime.’
Clarke glanced over to a table where a couple of guys in overalls were eating hamburgers with fries and a few token lettuce leaves on the side. The buns looked flat and soggy and the fries were anorexic sticks of potato in thick oil coatings. Behind the counter a wide, sweating Latino was flipping burgers. Grill fat sizzled.
Clarke grimaced. ‘I think I’d rather skip the stroke at seventy.’
‘Cut the bourgeois prejudice for once, Peter.’
‘So I’m prejudiced against plaque in my arteries. Sue me.’
A waitress appeared. She was tall, and young and pretty enough for Procter to quickly look her over, but too skinny around the bust and hips for him to look twice. Clarke paid her no attention.
Her smile was big and bright. ‘Get you coffee?’
Clarke nodded.
‘Another for me, please,’ Procter said.
She filled Clarke’s cup and poured Procter a fresh one. He added lots of cream and sugar. The diner did coffee thick, strong and exactly how Procter liked it. Just because it didn’t have an Italian name, come in a waxed paper cup and cost three times as much, didn’t make it inferior. Clarke took his black, as always.
‘How’s the coffee?’ Procter asked.
‘Like piss.’
‘Well, I’m buying, so you’d better enjoy it.’
‘We’re not here to discuss the quality of caffeine-delivery systems.’ Clarke put his cup back down. ‘What’s the situation?’
Procter said, ‘Thanks to information we sucked out of Xavier Callo, we’ve been able to make a lot of headway in a very short time frame,’ Procter began. ‘It seems that Ariff’s people have been negotiating with a Belarusian gangster named Danil Petrenko for some time now. Petrenko has access to big stockpiles of guns that Ariff wants to add to his collection. There’s a face-to-face going down in Minsk tomorrow night. Ariff is sending his top man to liaise with Petrenko. That top man is a Lebanese guy called Gabir Yamout. And yes, that’s the same Yamout who we know has been at Ariff’s side for years. Yamout is now Ariff’s business partner, according to Callo. They’re both Christians and are so close they’re practically family. Which is why I’m sure you’ll agree with me that Yamout makes the perfect target to take this thing of ours to the next level.
‘We don’t know how Yamout is travelling to Belarus, or where he’s staying, but what we do know is that Petrenko has booked the top suite at the Hotel Europe in central Minsk for a single night. Tomorrow night. So Tesseract will strike at the hotel while Yamout is there.’
Clarke’s long face was unimpressed. ‘I really don’t like the idea of a hit taking place at a hotel. Especially with such a short lead time. Could get messy.’
‘Tesseract said the same thing. Look, is it ideal? No, it’s not. But Yamout setting foot outside the Middle East is too good an opportunity to miss.’
‘A hotel hit will get airtime.’
‘I’m counting on it,’ Procter said. ‘It will be all over the news in Europe and therefore Ariff is going to hear about it very soon afterwards. And we want him to know with as little delay as possible.’
‘Okay,’ Clarke said, seemingly satisfied with the logic. ‘Yamout isn’t going to be travelling alone. Petrenko won’t meet him by himself. Could be a lot of guys there for Tesseract to deal with. Might be too much, even for your MVP.’
Procter shrugged. ‘I’ve got no reasons to doubt him. It’s not like he has to go through every single one to get to Yamout. Besides, if he can’t pull this kind of job off then it’s about time we found that out.’
‘So we’re gambling with his life now.’
‘If you want to put it like that.’
‘Tesseract is going to think we’re playing him.’
‘We are playing him.’
Clarke sat forward. ‘He won’t like it.’
‘If he stamps his feet, we’ll remind him who his daddy really is.’
‘And he’ll like that even less.’
Procter frowned, leaned forward. ‘Do you seriously think I’m not already aware of everything you’ve just said?’
Clarke leaned forward too. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve thought it through, Roland, but we’re coming to polar opposite conclusions.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, my friend. We’re coming to the same conclusions. But while they concern you, I’m happy with them.’
‘You’re happy with an angry assassin running around out there who may or may not do as he’s told?’
Procter selected his words carefully. ‘I’m content with it.’
‘So tell me, what do we do if he’s angrier than we thought?’
‘Then we activate the contingency I’ve prepared.’
Clarke sighed. ‘I think it’s about time you revealed what that actually is.’
‘I can’t do that.’
Clarke’s face flushed red. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘We may be in this together, but some things are best not shared, for mutual safety. As you are well aware.’
‘I’m not sure this counts, Roland.’
‘Okay, if we’re going to put all our cards on the table, I want to know who is bankrolling this operation of ours.’
Clarke was silent for a moment. ‘You know I can’t say. We agreed on anonymity to protect all parties if something went wrong. I’ve told you all I’m at liberty to.’
‘Spare me the speeches. Who are they?’
‘I won’t answer that,’ Clarke said. ‘So quit asking. And may I remind you that our sponsor doesn’t know who you are.’
‘Okay, don’t tell me,’ Procter said. ‘But it works both ways.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Clarke protested. ‘Knowing what you plan to do with Tesseract, should he become a problem, is not going to compromise me.’
‘Maybe not,’ Procter admitted. ‘But I don’t want to ruin the surprise.’
Clarke was quiet for a moment. ‘Why do I get the impression you’re playing me as much as you are Tesseract?’
‘Because you’ve been in this business too long, Peter. Like me. But we’re on the same side here. We both
want to take down these gun-running scumbags, and this is the way – the only way – to make that happen.’
Clarke seemed placated, at least for the time being.
Procter said, ‘You haven’t updated me on Kasakov yet. Is he still in the dark about Farkas?’
‘So I’m led to believe,’ Clarke began as he leaned back in his chair, ‘but I expect he’ll be emerging into the light any time now.’
CHAPTER 19
Moscow, Russia
The punch was a straight right that followed a stiff jab and caught Vladimir Kasakov a half-inch above his left temple. It wasn’t a flush blow, but Kasakov didn’t see it coming, and the ones that weren’t seen always hurt the most. The Russian boxer who threw the punch was a solid two hundred and fifty pounds, a professional heavyweight, and known for his one-punch knockout power. The sixteen-ounce glove did little to cushion the blow that jolted the Ukrainian arms dealer’s senses. He kept his guard high and tight as his opponent unleashed a flurry of hard left hooks and overhand rights.
Kasakov backed off and used his jab to keep the Russian at range. Kasakov’s opponent was three inches taller – six-six – but they had the same armpit-to-fist reach, which meant Kasakov could employ his jab frequently and effectively. The Ukrainian’s jab was his favourite punch; it was hard and accurate, and, though not a knockout shot, it set up other punches, and ten in the face each round took its toll on anyone and stopped them throwing back at the same time.
The Russian followed Kasakov as he backed off, flicking some jabs of his own but without the same conviction. He was just looking to throw the big punches, but Kasakov was using his better footwork and jab to stop the Russian setting his feet for power shots. The big man was good at cutting off the ring though, using lateral movement to slowly force Kasakov towards the ropes. That was where he definitely didn’t want to end up. He stopped backing off and threw some straight right hands and hooks after jabbing, but had difficulty getting them through the Russian’s textbook guard.
Kasakov wasn’t used to backing down in the ring or outside of it and he stayed toe-to-toe, throwing punches and taking them. The adrenalin surge was huge. Some of his ringside underlings were shouting instructions, but the arms dealer ignored them. When it came to boxing, Kasakov ignored everyone.
He’d listened to his old amateur coach, but he was long dead and Kasakov had never felt the need to seek another. He had been boxing since he was six years old, and after forty years’ worth of experience in the ring there was little anyone could tell him that he didn’t already know. He’d had an extensive and successful amateur career, winning regional and national titles but missing out on the Olympics due to an elbow injury during trials.
That amateur career had been cut short when he was drafted into the Soviet army and sent to fight in Afghanistan. He was assigned to logistics, and by the time of the withdrawal had made the rank of major. When the empire fell apart Kasakov was in a perfect position to acquire and sell the redundant munitions he had helped transport and manage. The market in small arms was already too strong to compete with but Kasakov saw an opening for heavier armaments. His first customers were his old enemies in the Islamic State of Afghanistan. He made a killing selling off Red Army T-55 and T-62 tanks, and when the Taliban took over the country he continued delivering weapons to his old customers in what became the Northern Alliance. But recognising a good opportunity when he saw it, Kasakov began trading with the Taliban at the same time, selling them rockets to defeat the tanks, and then mortars to the Northern Alliance to defeat the antitank teams. When one faction was gaining the upper hand, he held off on resupplies, and cut his prices to the other to prolong the conflict and keep his business thriving.
He soon expanded into Africa, and using aircraft from the grounded Soviet Air Force flew in arms to nations under UN embargoes. Before long he had customers in south-east Asia and South America too and was coming to the attention of the international community. To stay operating he reduced his hands-on involvement in the trafficking business, employing others to take the biggest risks for him. He made sure his name was never on anyone’s paperwork nor on any computer file. He wasn’t sure how many companies he had, but it had to be close to a hundred registered in a dozen different countries. By the time any agency started to get a handle on what one was up to, Kasakov closed it down and moved its operations to one of his other companies in another nation. The web of ownership was so complicated even Kasakov had difficulty keeping track.
The day the Twin Towers fell he was smart enough to cut all ties with the Taliban and anyone connected to Islamic terrorists, but the damage had already been done and international pressure for his arrest was escalating, regardless of his preventative measures. Acutely aware of the growing momentum against him, Kasakov moved from his native Ukraine to Russia. Having made the Russian government billions by brokering arms sales he had no trouble gaining Russian citizen ship. As Moscow never extradited nationals, he was safe.
That safety didn’t extend into the ring, where the Russian giant found an opening in Kasakov’s defences through which to send another hammer right hand. Kasakov saw it coming, but it still snapped his head back and momentarily buckled his knees. He’d never sparred the Russian giant before and now knew why his people had tried to keep them apart. The fight was tougher than expected. Much tougher. Kasakov wished he’d put in more time training in the preceding weeks, but with the assassination attempt in Bucharest and the slowdown in the business requiring his complete attention, he had drastically reduced his hours in the gym. He shook off the thought. So it wouldn’t be a walkover today for a change.
Though training and fighting were now very much a solitary pursuit for Kasakov, he had, for many years, trained alongside his nephew, Illarion. Although the kid didn’t have Kasakov’s passion for the sport, he always trained and fought hard. As he matured out of adolescence they sparred together, and despite being far smaller than his uncle, Illarion’s speed, youth and natural athleticism always made such bouts close enough that Kasakov did not have to fully pull his punches. He wondered what Illarion would say about how he was faring against the Russian. Kasakov was sure it wouldn’t have been complimentary.
He managed to dodge away from the ropes and back to the centre of the ring to set about turning the fight around. The Ukrainian kept no official scorecard for his fights, knowing that his underlings would score even the most one-sided beating against as a victory for their boss, but Kasakov scored the fight privately, for his own satisfaction. Neither man had landed anything significant in the opening round so he would have given that round even, but the last two had gone to the Russian, who had landed the bigger shots in both. Making it 30–28 against. Still three rounds to go. He would need to take them all to win the six-round contest. He might be able to jab his way to a draw, but Kasakov fought to win.
He attacked cautiously, throwing the jab, and landing flush, but doing little damage save for keeping the Russian giant at range. The giant’s face shimmered with sweat, and the bridge of his nose was red from the jabs, but otherwise he was unmarked. Kasakov couldn’t say the same about himself.
The Russian surprised Kasakov by jabbing back and Kasakov was happy to continue the jabbing contest, knowing he had the better technique. The arms dealer punched his opponent with four more to the face and one to the gut. Maybe this was going to be a walkover after all. The big overhand right that slammed into his left eye socket erased any thoughts of an easy fight in one humiliating instant. He’d been set up, tricked by a modicum of success, and timed to perfection. The punch hurt like hell and made the strength leave Kasakov’s legs.
His vision blurred and he stumbled, but stayed standing and covered up while he tried to shake off the effects of the big punch. The Russian unloaded on him and every second that passed meant more and more stinging blows to Kasakov’s arms, shoulders and head.
The Russian exploited Kasakov’s high guard by throwing some hard body shots that struck unprotected rib
s. In response, Kasakov lurched forward, wrapping his arms around his opponent’s, tying him up so he couldn’t punch, trying to buy the time until his sight returned and his head cleared.
He leaned into the Russian so that his opponent had to support his weight as well as his own. Kasakov was extremely fit for his forty-seven years and was a master of pacing himself during a fight. He knew he should be fresher than this at the current stage of the fight, but the body shots had stolen his stamina. Wrestling with the Russian, who was the bigger man in the ring by twenty pounds, was wasting even more energy. This wasn’t working, Kasakov told himself.
The crowd shouted their encouragement but their mirth was being beaten out of them as surely as the will to fight had been beaten out of Kasakov. The Russian wriggled his arms free and shoved Kasakov away. His head still swam from the big overhand right, and his legs had no strength. The next flush shot that landed would put him on the canvas. Even if he managed to get up again he wouldn’t make up the additional lost point. His opponent pawed with a jab, and followed with another overhand right that Kasakov managed to deflect with his left glove. He doubted he would be so lucky next time. The arms dealer tilted his body to the right as he stepped forward and threw a short left uppercut.
The Russian groaned as the gloved fist hit him square in the crotch. Like Kasakov he wore a groin protector, but the metal cup and padding were never enough to stop the agony. The Russian sank down to one knee, face red and contorted. From outside the ring a chorus of cheers erupted and one of the underlings began shouted a count.
‘One … two … three … four … five …’
Kasakov stood in a neutral corner, elbows up on the top rope, breathing hard. A thick film of sweat covered every inch of his skin. The Russian looked up at him and despite the pain in his face, Kasakov could see anger and disgust. He pretended not to notice.
‘Six … seven … eight … nine … TEN.’