ENEMY -THE-

by WOOD TOM

  ‘Phone Yamout,’ Abbot repeated coldly, ‘and say what’s on the facking piece of paper.’

  Callo picked up the phone and dialled the number.

  ‘Please,’ Callo said. ‘But no one will answer. It’ll go to voicemail. Then I’ll get a call back.’

  Abbot shrugged. ‘Just make sure you act scared.’

  Callo didn’t get it, but he sat listening to the phone ring for about ten seconds it went to voicemail.

  Callo repeated what he saw on the paper. It was just a few short sentences – an outright lie – and Callo didn’t have to act scared.

  Before he’d finished the last line, Abbot snatched the phone from him and hung up. ‘That was good.’

  He seemed genuinely happy and Callo managed a weak smile in return, despite his face still stinging. Blout went back into the other room.

  Callo looked at the piece of paper again. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I missed out the part about the hotel. I’m sorry.’

  Abbot gave a big shrug. ‘That don’t matter. The exact details aren’t the important bit, it’s the delivery that sells it. And yours was top notch. Very convincing.’

  ‘Really? Thank you.’

  Blout returned with a rucksack that he set down on the dining table. He opened it and took out a wallet. He threw it to Abbot, who emptied the contents. Callo watched his credit cards, receipts, cash and other litter from his wallet rain down on to the carpet. Abbot then tossed the wallet away and used his foot to spread the pile around on the floor.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Callo asked. ‘That’s my stuff.’

  Abbot didn’t answer. Callo looked to Blout, who was rooting around inside the bag.

  ‘Is that all you wanted me to do?’ Callo found the courage to ask.

  Abbot rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘That was half of it, and you did great. You did a good job. Like I said, very convincing. Which is what we needed you to be. But now we need you to be convincing for the second part.’

  Callo nodded, eager to please. ‘I can do that.’

  Abbot gave a strange smile. ‘I’m sure you’ll do fine.’

  Blout put on a pair of latex gloves. He gave a second pair to Abbot.

  ‘When do I make the next phone call?’ Callo asked.

  Abbot shook his head and stretched the gloves over his big hands. ‘No more phone calls. What we need you to do now is convince your A-rab friends that you were attacked like you told them.’

  Callo’s gaze flicked back and forth between Abbot and Blout. ‘But I said I’d escaped my attackers.’

  ‘Ah,’ Abbot said with a nod, interlacing his fingers to push the latex into place, ‘but they found you again.’

  Blout stepped menacingly closer. Callo stared up at Abbot, finally understanding, his eyes filling with water, head shaking weakly from side to side.

  Abbot stood over Callo and pulled his right elbow back and made a fist.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Abbot began, ‘but you really should have seen this coming.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Victor arrived back at the Best Eastern half an hour after leaving the Europe, which was quicker than how he would prefer to do things, but proper counter surveillance wasn’t an option with an injured arm. Two hours making sure he wasn’t followed was fine in theory but not if the wound got infected as a result or was spotted by a vigilant police officer.

  In his room, he stripped off his clothes and ran a bath. While the bath was running he examined his wound in the mirror. Blood stained his entire arm. The wound itself was about four inches in length, maybe an eighth of an inch in depth, and it was bleeding far worse than when he’d first been shot. He fitted the plug in the sink and turned on the hot water tap. The hotel room came with a kettle, mugs, teabags and sachets of instant coffee and sugar. Victor dropped two teabags into a mug and poured in just enough cold water to wet them. He took a clean T-shirt from his luggage and ripped it into strips. The resulting pain made him grimace.

  He lowered his injured triceps into the sink and in seconds the water had turned a pale red. With gritted teeth, he washed the wound to get rid of any traces of clothing or other debris. He patted dry his arm with a towel, took the damp teabags from the mug and pressed them over the wound. He kept his elbow and shoulder horizontally aligned to balance the teabags while he wrapped a strip of T-shirt around his arm. He bound the wound firmly, but not too tight, to give the teabags the best chance at working. The haemostatic tannins found naturally in tea would help stop the bleeding, reduce the chance of infection, and aid the healing process. Victor checked the teabags after five minutes, finding them soaked with blood. He replaced them with two more and bound the wound with slightly more pressure. When he checked after another five minutes the bleeding had stopped.

  Victor tore open a sachet of granulated sugar and carefully poured it into the wound channel. He didn’t know if the wound was infected, but the sugar’s antimicrobial action would ensure that it wouldn’t become so. And if it was infected the sugar would hopefully kill the bacteria, or at least slow its spread. He then rebound his arm with another strip of T-shirt, downed two miniature bottles of vodka from the mini bar and lowered himself into the bath, keeping his right arm clear of the water.

  Now his wound was clean and had stopped bleeding it could begin healing properly. He was going to have another scar, but when he already had so many one more wouldn’t make too much difference. He wasn’t in the habit of taking off his shirt in public, but if the scar turned out to be too prominent yet more of his money would end up in the pocket of plastic surgeons. Aside from rich women, assassins were probably their best customers.

  Good as teabags and sugar were at patching up injuries, it would have been better to use proper first-aid equipment. He hadn’t been able to risk trying to find an all-night pharmacy so soon after the attack as the police would be at their most watchful. Victor doubted they would know they were only looking for one man, at least so far, but if he was out on the streets he could be stopped at random. They would probably be smart enough to put hospitals and drug stores under surveillance.

  The police presence would be huge all night, with the hope of catching the culprits as they fled. Running was the expected course of action. It was what criminals did in such situations. And Victor considered it a fine tactic in a crisis. If a location was compromised, withdraw. Once out of the initial danger area stop, regroup, formulate a plan. But a hasty withdrawal in this case was too risky with his wound. At night there were few people on the streets to disappear among and less means with which to escape with speed. While so fresh, the injury would be hard to disguise and would hinder him if he was spotted.

  He felt tired. The adrenalin hangover was at its peak and he had to fight to keep his eyes open. Images of the attack flashed through his mind. It couldn’t have gone worse: Yamout had escaped, Victor had been forced to kill someone’s surveillance team, and he’d been wounded in the process.

  He didn’t know much about the team, but he knew they had been there to record the meeting between Yamout and Petrenko, yet had no affiliation with either despite their intervention when Victor had started massacring everyone. If they had been associates of Yamout or Petrenko they would have responded to the cries for help. They weren’t Belarusian security services either. The watcher’s Russian hadn’t been good enough for a local, and cops or domestic spies would have identified themselves as such, and tried to arrest Victor instead of shooting at him.

  He pushed the thoughts out of his mind for the time being. He wasn’t going to work anything out lying in the tub, and it was all moot if he didn’t get out of Minsk.

  The taps pressed uncomfortably into his shoulders but it was necessary to face the bathroom door. He had it open so he could see into the bedroom and the small mirror positioned on the floor and angled so he could watch in it the reflection of the hotel room door. He didn’t expect anyone would be coming through it, but precautions only paid off if they were taken every time.

  He spen
t twenty minutes in the bath enjoying the heat and the alcohol in his bloodstream. His tolerance was high enough that the intoxicating effect was minimal. A jolt of adrenalin would easily override it if it came to it, but the effect was just enough to help him unwind. He kept the watcher’s SIG in his left hand at all times.

  When he was dry, Victor tidied and cleaned the bedroom and bathroom. Where blood had been, he wiped with a strip of T-shirt dampened with more vodka from the mini bar. The bloody towel and evidence of his ad-hoc first aid went into his attaché case. He set out a clean set of clothes and ordered room service, then got dressed while he waited for his food to arrive. After he’d refuelled and ensured all of his effects were packed and he was ready to flee at a second’s notice, he tucked the SIG into the front of his waistband and lay down atop the bedclothes.

  If his employer at the CIA hadn’t already found out what had happened, he would soon. Maybe the voice would be more forgiving if he knew that only the intervention of a third party had prevented the contract’s fulfilment. Or maybe killing those men would prove to be costly and put his paymaster under too much pressure.

  And make Victor a liability he could do without.

  CHAPTER 27

  Danil Petrenko was as angry as he was scared. It enraged him that someone would dare try to take him out in the middle of his own city, and it terrified him that they had very nearly succeeded. As a precaution Petrenko clutched a .50 calibre Desert Eagle as he paced about his apartment, barking orders or just venting his frustration and anxiety. His lieutenants had called every man under his control and had them rush to his residence to provide protection. If whoever had attacked before tried again, they’d have a small army to get through.

  He had men outside the building, in the lobby, and guarding the elevators and his front door. Six of Petrenko’s biggest, meanest gangsters were with him in the apartment itself. All were armed. Every window was locked closed, all blinds or drapes shut, every light was switched on and candles had been set and lit in every room in case the power was cut like last time. Like Petrenko himself, his men were on edge, aware that mere hours before three of their own had been killed in a merciless assault.

  Aside from his men now acting as guards, there were more out on the streets banging on doors and snapping fingers, all trying to find out who was behind the attack and why. Every other criminal he knew or cop he paid off was doing their part, some out of fear, others because they were scared of losing income if Petrenko was killed. Motives were irrelevant to Petrenko. All he cared about were results.

  The Lebanese bastard hadn’t been behind it. That was pretty obvious to Petrenko. He had seen the look in Yamout’s eyes as they had climbed through the bathroom window and on to the precarious ledge. No one could fake that kind of terror.

  It had been about three hours since he’d fled the Europe with his only surviving man. His apartment was the penthouse of a ten-storey block in one of Minsk’s most expensive and desirable neighbourhoods. He lived with his glamour-model girlfriend, who had locked herself in the guest bedroom to keep out of the way of Petrenko and his men.

  One of his men came out of another room. He had a shotgun in one hand and a cell phone in the other, held with the speaker against his chest.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from downstairs,’ the man said. ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Okay,’ Petrenko said, nodding. ‘Send him up. But make sure him and his men have no weapons. And don’t take your eyes off them for a second. Got it? Not for a second.’

  While his man gave the go-ahead to the guards in the lobby, Petrenko splashed some water on his face, swiped his sweaty hair back from his forehead, had another fat line of Bolivia’s finest. He wiped the white residue from his nostrils, took a deep breath and waited in the lounge for his guest’s arrival.

  A minute later, there was a knock on the door and Petrenko heard his men taking guns and ushering the guest through to where he sat. He stood up the moment Tomasz Burliuk entered. The tall, handsome, immaculately groomed Ukrainian, Vladimir Kasakov’s closest advisor, was followed by two bodyguards.

  ‘Danil,’ Burliuk began and took out his asthma inhaler. ‘What’s with the lack of manners?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tomasz, but I can’t be too careful. You don’t know what it’s been like for me. I almost died tonight. I almost died.’

  Burliuk put the inhaler to his lips and breathed in as he depressed the mechanism. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Petrenko flopped back on to a chair. He shrugged and gestured as he assembled his thoughts. ‘We were just beginning negotiations when all the damn lights went out. I thought it was nothing. A fuse maybe. But no more than thirty seconds later my men started dying. Damn it, Tomasz, someone tried to kill me. In my own city. I had to climb through a window just to get away. Look –’ he gestured to his wrists, which were lightly scabbed where the broken glass had grazed him ‘– I almost killed myself in the process.’

  Burliuk slipped the inhaler back into a pocket and took a seat in an armchair opposite Petrenko. ‘What about Yamout?’

  ‘What about him?’

  Burliuk stroked his beard. ‘Did he escape as well?’

  ‘He got away. None of his bodyguards did. He brought six men with him. Can you believe that? At the time I was enraged by such disrespect, but now I should thank him. Maybe if he hadn’t brought so much muscle, I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Where is Yamout now?’

  Petrenko scoffed. ‘How would I know, and why would I care? The second we left the elevator we went our separate ways. We didn’t hang around to discuss travel arrangements. He’s probably back in the desert by now.’

  ‘Was he injured?’

  Petrenko frowned. ‘Who gives a fuck? For all I know, it’s his fault I nearly died … Wait a second. Maybe they weren’t after me, but Yamout.’

  ‘You can’t know that for sure,’ Burliuk said. ‘You have enemies, don’t you?’

  Petrenko nodded, but his thoughts were becoming clearer. He sat forward and said, ‘I have more enemies than God. Every criminal in this city wants my blood. But they are all rightly afraid of Danil Petrenko and what I can do to them and their families.’ He stabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. ‘I am the king of Minsk. Any attack against my throne is akin to treason. And anyone crazy enough to attempt to usurp me would at least have the sanity to strike when I’m at my most vulnerable, not when I’m surrounded by guards and with Yamout and all his men present.’

  ‘If you say so, King Danil.’ Burliuk gave a little bow of his head.

  ‘I’m glad you agree, Tomasz, because I hold you responsible.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You brokered the introduction between Yamout and myself. I would never have dealt with the man had you not first vouched for him.’

  Burliuk said nothing.

  Petrenko said, ‘I’m glad I sent for you, because now you need to make amends.’

  Burliuk laughed briefly. ‘You don’t send for me, little king. You request my presence, and by my grace I decide whether to grant you that favour.’

  Anger reddened Petrenko’s face. He stepped towards Burliuk, the cocaine in his blood making him feel powerful over these unarmed foreigners.

  Burliuk’s bodyguards immediately came to life, blocking his way. Petrenko smirked at them and brandished his Desert Eagle. If he wanted to, he could execute the two impudent weaponless thugs at any moment he—

  In the time it took to blink, one of the bodyguards drew a pistol and pushed the muzzle against Petrenko’s cheek.

  ‘You need to educate your thugs on how to properly frisk a man,’ Burliuk said emotionlessly.

  Petrenko gulped and dropped his gun. None of his own men were close enough to see what was happening.

  Burliuk whispered to his bodyguards and they backed off.

  He said, ‘There is no need for such unpleasantness, Danil. Let us resolve this amicably.’

  Petrenko nodded. ‘Fine.’

  ‘What would you
like me to do?’

  ‘I want whoever came after me dead.’

  ‘Why, when the target was Yamout, not you?’

  Petrenko scoffed. ‘The target is irrelevant. What matters is they attacked me, in my suite, in my city, and killed my men. I’ve told you that there are many who would like nothing more than to see my kingdom topple. I am stronger than any one rival, but not strong enough to fight them all. And now, after this humiliation, they’ll believe me weak. I need to show my strength and I need to show it fast. You can help me do so.’

  ‘Danil, I don’t think—’

  ‘Don’t you dare say no to me, Tomasz. I’ve been a good friend to you and Kasakov. How many shipments have passed through my land safely and without incident? I came across these guns myself and I offered them to Kasakov first, out of courtesy, but you weren’t interested. So I line up my own buyers, but then you come along and ask me to deal with Yamout instead, as a favour to you, and one which I am willing to do as a mark of respect. You don’t tell me why and I don’t ask, I just do. But that was before I had good men murdered because of that favour. And now I ask myself, why were you so keen to have me sell those guns to Yamout? You’ll be happy to know that I haven’t yet worked out the answer, but I’m sure whatever arrangement you had with Yamout was outside Kasakov’s knowledge. I wonder what he would say if I told him his right-hand man was up to something behind his back.’

  Burliuk didn’t answer for a long moment. Then he said, ‘You would forfeit your life so needlessly?’

  ‘I don’t think you are in a position to threaten me.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. I’m merely pointing out that if you bring this news to Kasakov he will kill you as surely as he will kill me.’

  ‘Nice try. But I’m a little harder to trick than that. Kasakov does not compete with Yamout, I know that much. He won’t give a shit that I have dealt with him. He’ll care that you have, though.’

  Burliuk laughed. ‘Then you are a fool. Kasakov would visit horrors upon you that are indescribable. My arrangement with Yamout is without Kasakov’s knowledge, you are correct about that. Yamout did me a favour, and in return I introduced him to you. This wasn’t a problem until recently. But now, Kasakov has discovered Yamout’s organisation is responsible for the death of his beloved nephew and he wants revenge. If he learns I have dealt with his sworn enemy I will suffer the same fate. As will you.’