by WOOD TOM
Kasakov raised a hand to the air to acknowledge the celebration of his underlings. He felt no joy at having won the fight by cheating, but neither was he ashamed. When faced with a greater enemy a smart man used whatever methods he could to even the field. The Russian was happy to accept the large payment for sparring with Kasakov so he would have to accept fighting by the Ukrainian’s rules.
He climbed out of the ring and nodded and smiled to his underlings as they congratulated him on a great body shot. Some would not have noticed the blow had been illegal but plenty would have had an uninterrupted view. No one even hinted at it being even on the belt, let alone very low. The benefits of fear, Kasakov told himself. Illarion would not have placated him had he been there to bear witness, but he would have respected Kasakov’s desire to win at any cost.
A head-on collision outside of Kiev had orphaned Illarion and killed Kasakov’s only other living blood relative – his younger brother – as well as his brother’s wife. Kasakov had done the noble thing and taken in the orphan. Children had once seemed irrelevant to Kasakov, but he enjoyed young Illarion’s company far more than he would ever have imagined and soon, despite himself, thought of the boy as a son. Kasakov had no children of his own, and though he refused to have himself tested, was sure he was infertile. He and his wife never spoke of the situation, but it was the single stain on their otherwise perfect marriage and grew larger all the time.
One of the underlings unlaced his gloves and the arms dealer wiped the sweat from his bare torso, arms and face with a soft towel.
It was another minute before the Russian could stand back up.
After showering and changing, Kasakov left the locker room to see two well-dressed individuals – one man, one woman – standing expectantly nearby. Both were in their forties, the man was a fellow Ukrainian, the woman a Russian. Together they formed Kasakov’s innermost circle. Each was supposed to be busy with other duties, so the presence of both indicated something important had arisen and their dour expressions told him this was not good news.
He imagined it was in regard to the recent attempt on his life in Bucharest. His people had been working hard to determine what had actually taken place and who had orchestrated it. No one had yet claimed responsibility for saving his life, so the arms dealer believed he had been saved merely as beneficial side effect of the morning’s kill. Even so, he would like to know more.
The fact that he had nearly been killed convinced Kasakov to reevaluate his travel and security arrangements, but did not unduly worry him. He had a long list of enemies, and had been the target for assassination more than once. Though this time had been the first in over a decade, the last being a French hit squad that had shot off half his left ear. Kasakov would have preferred a quieter life, but the billions of dollars he was personally worth easily made up for the risks of his chosen business.
Yuliya Eltsina was the first to speak. She was a former officer in the Russian security services and had been in Kasakov’s employ for nearly eight years. Close to a foot shorter than Kasakov, slim, with age now marring her once obvious beauty, Eltsina still carried the air of hawkish knowledge and casual brutality that had propelled her through the ranks of the KGB and then SVR. Kasakov had no affection for Eltsina and often found her humourless company tiresome. The woman was, however, a genius at devising new strategies to keep Kasakov’s arms trafficking empire flourishing beneath the noses of the international community. Her numerous contacts and friends in the intelligence agencies of Russia and the surrounding states enabled her to provide Kasakov with an assortment of otherwise inaccessible information on his business partners, rivals, suppliers and customers.
‘We have a situation you need to be aware of.’
‘Details,’ Kasakov responded.
She handed Kasakov a dossier. ‘In this file you’ll find a police report pertaining to a bomb explosion that took place in Germany, last week. The bomb killed a Hungarian named Adorján Farkas, a high-ranking lieutenant in a leading Hungarian organised crime family. For the past two years Farkas had been supplying Baraa Ariff with cheap assault rifles. My people tell me that Ariff had Farkas killed because he was seeking to bypass Ariff and go direct to his customers.’
Ariff’s business practices were of little interest to Kasakov so he waited patiently for the reason Eltsina was providing him with such information. Ariff’s network didn’t stray into Kasakov’s, or vice versa. Kasakov’s attempts to move into the small arms trade had always been unsuccessful. Ariff’s network was established long before Kasakov had even started in the business, and could not be competed with.
Kasakov’s second advisor, Tomasz Burliuk, said, ‘Also in the dossier is the chemical analysis completed by the BKA of the explosives used to kill Farkas. The reason this has come to our attention is that the analysis shows the compound that killed Farkas was RDX high explosive, Russian army issue. The RDX was unique in that it contained an experimental marker compound. There was an agreement between several countries to come up with a way of tracking explosives in an effort to combat terrorism. A few batches were made up, but the idea was abandoned. We bought the surplus marked RDX a few years back.’
Burliuk was one of Kasakov’s childhood friends. He was tall, though not as tall as Kasakov, and had the easy confidence of a man who knew he was handsome and looking even better with age. He was immaculately groomed, hair perfect, beard expertly trimmed. He had been at Kasakov’s side since the early days, for longer than Kasakov could even remember. A good man and a hard worker, Burliuk had started off by handling the accounting and number-crunching of the operation. Balancing the books wasn’t something Kasakov was good at, but Burliuk was a master at managing money. These days, as well as the accounts, Burliuk handled most of the day-to-day decisions, leaving only the most important ones for Kasakov to make.
‘That RDX was in turn shipped to Istanbul to be sold via an intermediary so it couldn’t be traced back to us,’ Burliuk added, then removed an inhaler from his inside jacket pocket, shook it briefly, and took a hit of asthma-relieving gas.
Eltsina continued for him. ‘While in Istanbul it was hijacked by persons then unknown.’
Burliuk put away his asthma inhaler and delivered the climactic point. ‘As you are aware, it was in this incident that your nephew, Illarion, was shot and killed.’
Kasakov had stopped reading the file the moment Istanbul had been mentioned. He felt pain worse than any punch flood through him. It made him feel weak, light-headed. He pictured Illarion’s dead face and vivid bullet holes puncturing his corpse-white skin.
‘How much of this is verified?’ Kasakov said through clenched teeth.
Eltsina spoke again. ‘The BKA forensic evaluation of the explosive is beyond question. Farkas was killed in Berlin at the end of last week by the marked RDX that was stolen in Istanbul four years ago when Illarion was killed. So far, there are no police suspects for the Farkas bombing. My contacts tell me that it was widely known in the Hungarian mob that Farkas was in Germany to buy new weaponry. He planned to set up his own network and cut out Ariff to increase his profits. Farkas’s mob associates are convinced it was Ariff and want him dead. They don’t know where he is, otherwise they would already be seeking retribution against him.’
Kasakov nodded, satisfied with the evidence he had been presented with. ‘So if Ariff killed Farkas with my RDX then it was Ariff’s people who stole it from me in the first place. And therefore it was Ariff who murdered Illarion.’
‘But we need to exercise restraint,’ Burliuk said quickly. ‘Ariff’s network is as strong as us, his reach is perhaps longer. We don’t need a war with him while the North Koreans are watching us. Any hint of strife and they’ll buy elsewhere. And we badly need that deal. They’re already angry you couldn’t make the meeting with their broker in Bucharest. Vladimir, please, you must listen to me. You must—’
But Kasakov wasn’t listening. He handed back the file. ‘Find and kill Ariff,’ he said easily. ‘This is our number one prio
rity. Nothing else matters. Hire the absolute best. I don’t care how much it costs. Torture and kill his family first. Make him watch.’
CHAPTER 20
Minsk, Belarus
From where Victor stood, the Hotel Europe looked like it deserved its five stars. It was seven storeys of early twentieth-century Modern-style architecture and occupied the north-west corner of a city block where Lenina Street met Internatsionalnaya. Bright white stone walls rose to sloped roofs of grey tiles. Lush trees lined the sidewalk. A young doorman stood outside with a military-straight back and a welcoming smile. Victor first walked past east along Internatsionalnaya, before circling around the block to walk north on Lenina. He grabbed a coffee and waited half an hour before walking south on Lenina and then west on Internatsionalnaya. An hour later, he reversed the routine. He wanted to take in as much information about the building and its immediate environs as possible and explored the surrounding nine-block area in detail.
The hotel stood in the cultural heart of Minsk. Places of worship seemed to be everywhere. Two blocks west, spires of the eighteenth-century Russian Orthodox cathedral rose above the nearby buildings, and further north on Lenina, Victor could see the St Maria Cathedral. Diagonally north-east across the intersection was Minsk City Hall, across Lenina stood the huge department store. Just walking around the locale, Victor passed the National Academic Yanka Kupala Theatre, the National Art Museum, the Belarusian State Academy of Music, and the mighty Palace of the Republic. Predictably, the area was a tourist hotspot and the streets were crowded.
The Belarusians and foreign tourists wore a mix of styles and fashions. Suited men were common enough for him to blend in easily with his chosen urban attire. The temperature was a pleasant seventy-two degrees and Victor kept his jacket open. The sun wasn’t bright enough to demand sunglasses, but he didn’t look out of place wearing them either.
The information supplied by his employer stated the meeting would take place in the hotel’s Presidential Suite on the seventh floor. The suite had been booked for a single night by Petrenko’s people, who were expected to number at least five, including Petrenko himself. Yamout was known to travel with up to five or six companions. So, maybe six or seven for Yamout’s party, and three to five for Petrenko. Nine in total at the lowest estimate. Twelve at worst.
In a situation such as this, Victor would have expected a window of at least two weeks in which to plan and survey properly. He would spend that time working through every conceivable scenario, analysing each potential opportunity, working through a dozen possible approaches. He would operate using the most feasible plan at the best possible time. But that wasn’t to be. He had just one night, just one opportunity to kill Yamout.
Doing it fast meant one of two options: from close quarters or from range. There were precious few potential sniping positions, and none that guaranteed a view of Yamout. Because the most up-to-date photo of Yamout the CIA had access to was a decade old, Victor was sure the Lebanese would employ preventative measures when travelling, such as entering the hotel through an entrance other than the main one and exiting via some other way. The hotel had several to choose from and Victor had no way of knowing which Yamout would use at a given time. Since sniping Yamout on his way in or out of the hotel wasn’t viable, the only other option for a ranged kill would be to shoot Yamout through a window of the Presidential Suite. There were several buildings that offered angles on the seventh-floor windows of the suite, but at the moment all its drapes were drawn. If they stayed that way, Victor wouldn’t get a shot. Even if Petrenko’s people opened them all, unlikely as that was, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t be closed again for the meeting, or that Yamout would helpfully stand in front of one.
That left close quarters. Which meant Victor would have to fight his way through the bodyguards to get to Yamout. If they had any tactical sense, there would be guys outside the door creating a first layer of defence and combined advance warning, probably two men, one of Yamout’s and one of Petrenko’s. Then more guys forming a second layer, maybe five guys strong, probably occupying the main lounge area, with the last layer – comprising Yamout, Petrenko and their most trusted guys – wherever the deal was to be negotiated, in the dining room or one of the bedrooms.
It was a tactical nightmare whichever way he looked at it. To get to Yamout required going through close to a dozen enemies, all carrying guns, all no doubt willing to use them. Petrenko’s men were unlikely to throw themselves to Yamout’s defence, but in the chaos of battle they would assume the threat was to them as well and fight back accordingly.
Even if Yamout and Petrenko stayed out of proceedings, Victor could be up against ten gunmen. Close quarters as well. The dossier stated that Yamout employed only top-class bodyguards, ex-military, probably guys that cost a small fortune to hire but kept their cool in a firefight. The intelligence on Petrenko suggested his men would be of a lesser calibre, but as members of the Belarusian mob, they would know how to un-safety a pistol. And it didn’t require much skill to hit a man-sized target in an enclosed environment where the average range would probably be no greater than seven or eight feet. All anyone would need to do was point and squeeze.
The only way he was going to pull it off was to do it fast, with maximum surprise. Hit them hard when they weren’t expecting it.
And not miss.
Victor had been supplied with blueprints of the hotel, but a two-dimensional representation of three-dimensional space was only so much good. The suite was occupied until check-out time and then the maid would take over and clean before Petrenko’s arrival. Victor didn’t know what time that would be, but there was a chance he would be able to do a walk-around of the strike point beforehand. But if Petrenko arrived too early, then Victor wouldn’t get that opportunity. Presidential Suite aside, he still wanted some first-hand experience of the hotel before the time to attack came around.
The doorman gave Victor a big smile and opened the door for him. Victor nodded and walked into the lobby. It was a vast and impressive atrium, illuminated by natural light that shone through the hotel’s elegant glass cupola over one hundred feet above. Internal ringed balconies for each floor overlooked the central open space and two glass-fronted elevators that stood in the middle of the lobby. Luxurious sofas and chairs were clustered in various locations. A lobby bar occupied the wall to Victor’s left, the long reception desk directly opposite. Perpendicular to the elevators, a gigantic Florentine mosaic panel-painting rose almost to the ceiling high above Victor’s head.
He didn’t slow down as he entered to avoid risking being mistaken for a new arrival and catching the eye of one of the two receptionists. He walked at a casual pace, his eyes moving constantly, matching what he was seeing to what the blueprints had showed or hadn’t showed. The lobby was busy but not crowded. A steady flow of people moved about, entering or exiting the restaurant or bars, walking towards or away from the elevators. Others waited, sitting at the lobby bar or on one of the tastefully upholstered sofas. The high price of the rooms ensured the hotel had a wealthy patronage. The less-obviously affluent, Victor took to be tourists whose currency went further in Belarus than at home.
Killing Yamout in the lobby had seemed a possible option before, but it was too big, too open, and as Victor didn’t know how Yamout would enter, it would be impossible to set up properly. Yamout and his people were likely to use the elevators, but it wasn’t guaranteed. Besides, there was another problem.
There were several blips on his threat radar caused by patrolling security. They had the competent look of well-trained rent-a-cops who wouldn’t necessarily go out of their way to enter a gun battle, but probably wouldn’t flee from one either.
In addition to the security, Victor noticed a single man sitting on an armchair near the elevators, holding a folded newspaper but not reading it. He seemed uncommonly interested in who walked in and out of the elevators. He wore a brown suede jacket and dark trousers. His complexion and hair were both too dark fo
r a Belarusian. A tourist then, except a tourist wouldn’t have been pretending to read a Belarusian newspaper. Interesting. One of Yamout’s men, Victor presumed. Maybe he was here to scout the hotel before Yamout arrived.
The watcher paid Victor no attention as he walked past but Victor would have to be careful. Even though the watcher probably had orders to observe only what Petrenko’s people were doing, if he saw Victor enough times he might realise he was someone to watch.
In his pocket Victor carried the hotel master keycard, which gave him easy access throughout the hotel. Though watchful of security cameras, he had been in enough hotels throughout the world to know their most likely positions, and therefore kept his face angled away from them as best he could. It didn’t always work perfectly, but better they recorded him now if it meant he could avoid them when it mattered most.
There were no guest rooms on the ground level. Instead, the floor was occupied by the hotel’s many facilities. The sixty-seven-room Europe offered all the normal services of a high-end hotel, plus a hairdresser’s, beauty parlour, five bars, a night club and Turkish bath. The amenities were of little interest to Victor, and he planned to kill Yamout in the Presidential Suite, but he had been in the assassination business long enough to know that even the most thoroughly planned job could go awry. The ability to improvise was an important attribute in the contract killer’s skill set. And if he did have to improvise, he wanted to have a good understanding of his surroundings. Victor took his time here, checking where all the exits were and how usable they would be in a range of circumstances pertaining to his escape. He didn’t see the job going down any other way except one that would require him to leave in an extreme hurry. Even with suppressed weapons he couldn’t kill twelve men silently.
Eventually things were going to get noisy and once that happened he would have only minutes before the police arrived. The nearest metro station was a ten-minute stroll, a five-minute hustle or a two-minute run. The closest bus stop was far nearer but he would need to get off the streets as quickly as possible and waiting for a bus wouldn’t help him do that. His best bet was to grab a taxi and get out of the city centre before the police presence escalated and blocked him in. But he had to rely on a taxi passing by, and he hated leaving something so necessary to his escape to chance.