by WOOD TOM
Upstairs there were two bedrooms. The first was small, with a single bed against one wall and another camp bed against the other. Each had been recently slept in. That made three. The suite back at the Europe must have been used purely for surveillance then, with the team commuting from here, probably operating in some kind of shift arrangement, travelling back and forth to rack up the trip meter. Victor searched through the suitcase he found next to each bed. Like the one downstairs they had clothes and toiletries and nothing to tell him who these guys were. As with the one downstairs, they had open but empty pockets, one on the front of the case, the other on the inside lid.
The last bedroom was larger than the first, with a slept-in double bed where the fourth team member had rested, most likely the leader. When Victor stepped inside the room his heart rate increased by several beats per minute. Not because there was an open suitcase sat on the bed, with clothes scattered around it on the bedclothes. Not because there was nothing else inside it of use to him. His heart rate quickened because on the opposite wall to the double bed was a fifth recently used camp bed.
But no suitcase.
CHAPTER 29
Zürich, Switzerland
In a dark room two men who were not Swiss stood before an antique wooden desk. The first man was in his early thirties and wore jeans and a windcheater. The second was old, very short, wearing a suit. He stood slightly hunched over. Before them a laptop computer sat on the desk. Video footage filled the laptop’s screen. The footage had been recorded with state-of-the-art infrared cameras, of a hotel suite. The recording showed three men, acting shocked and confused. The laptop’s speakers played strange sounds.
‘He’s shooting through the door,’ the man in the windcheater explained.
The older man nodded and watched as one of the three men jumped down behind a sofa a second before the suite door burst open and a man with a sub-machine gun and night-vision goggles charged in and opened fire, mercilessly gunning down the two standing men, and then the third through the sofa. There was no sound of gunfire, only the results of it.
The man in the windcheater said, ‘Silenced FN P90. He’s using subsonic ammo. That’s why we can’t hear it.’
The video footage cut to another camera as the man with the P90 continued his assault, shooting through a bedroom door and lying down next to it, before opening the door and killing those in the room beyond.
The man in the windcheater rubbed his tired face and said, ‘My team is next.’
The gunman was then shot by two men arriving behind him, and played dead until they had passed him, then killed them also. He exchanged fire with a final man, before shooting him and leaving. The video jumped forward in time, and the man had returned to squat down next to the last man he’d shot, who wasn’t dead. He stayed squatted down for almost half a minute.
‘Is he questioning him?’ the old man in the suit asked.
‘I expect so. The microphones didn’t pick it up. He wouldn’t have told him anything.’
‘How else are we exposed?’
The man in the windcheater answered. ‘The authorities will have found the surveillance equipment, of course, but I retrieved and disposed of the plane tickets and passports of the others. Our computer was destroyed – I believe by the assassin as a precaution. Not that it helped him, as we had the footage continuously backed up to the safe-house server, otherwise we wouldn’t have anything of him.’
‘Show me the other part.’
The younger man tapped some keys on the laptop and used the track pad. The infrared footage was replaced with colour footage of the hotel suite. Two men were visible, conversing in Russian.
‘Which is the one who killed my boys?’ the old man in the suit asked, leaning closer.
‘The guy on the left is a member of Petrenko’s entourage. The man on the right claims to be from hotel management, but he doesn’t work there and does nothing except look around the suite. Reconnaissance, of course.’
‘So we have his voice, and his face.’
‘And nothing else. I’m so sorry, Father.’
‘But that’s enough,’ the old man in the suit said as he reached for his phone.
CHAPTER 30
Mount Lebanon, Lebanon
‘This is Xavier Callo,’ a scared voice said. ‘I’m in Minsk.’ There was a pause, the sound of heavy breathing. ‘Tell Yamout it’s a trap. Vladimir Kasakov is going to kill him.’ Another pause, longer, more breathing. ‘He tried to kill me already but I got away. Tell Yamout—’
‘That’s it,’ Yamout said. ‘That was Callo’s message. He made the call shortly before he was beaten to death.’
Baraa Ariff nodded, not quite believing what he was hearing. He sat in an eighteenth-century Turkish armchair carved ornately from ebony. Before him a mobile phone set to speaker sat on a coffee table. Yamout sat opposite Ariff, perched on a hand-stitched silk couch.
‘Play it again,’ Ariff said.
They listened to Callo’s words another time. Ariff shook his head before the recording had finished.
The two arms dealers sat in silence for a moment. They were in the combined lounge and bar of Ariff’s private wing on the second floor of his mountain villa. It was cool and quiet in the room. Ceiling fans thrummed softly overhead. Set within the north-east corner wing he also had an office, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and balcony for his exclusive use. The area was inaccessible to his wife and daughters due to an electronically sealed door that only he and Yamout knew the code to.
Ariff sat back in the armchair. ‘What time was the call made?’
‘The voicemail log says nine-thirty, last night.’
‘Nine-thirty,’ Ariff said thoughtfully. ‘Shortly after you were attacked.’
Yamout nodded.
‘So Kasakov went after Callo and you simultaneously. A coordinated strike against us. But Callo’s death matters nothing to me except I have now lost the money he owed us, and we need the services of a new diamond merchant. Both of which are trivial. What is important to me is that you, my dear friend, were cunning enough to escape Kasakov’s foul assassins.’
Yamout made a face. ‘Yet I came within a hair’s breadth of losing my life. His men were but a room away from killing me. I employed no cunning in my escape, only terror. I am lucky to be alive. It is nothing short of a miracle.’
Ariff gave a mocking smile. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. God would no sooner save you than he would me. Miracles are reserved for the pure and the good. We are neither. Men like us must make our own miracles.’ Ariff stood. ‘Come.’
Yamout followed him through the door into the rest of the villa. The décor changed markedly. Ariff liked his private rooms to be simply decorated – animal-skin rugs on the floor, comfortable furniture, nothing that did not serve a practical purpose. The gold-painted armchairs, bronze statues, Persian rugs, crystal chandeliers, exotic house plants and original oil paintings in the rest of the villa were the doing of Ariff’s wife. She had extravagant tastes and had the interior of the house set like the palace of an opulent prince.
They descended the huge marble staircase. When Ariff reached the bottom his youngest daughter appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and sprinted straight up to him. He caught Eshe under the armpits and hoisted her off her feet. He blew raspberries on her belly. She laughed hysterically. Yamout watched and smiled.
The nanny came rushing after Eshe. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said to Ariff. ‘Eshe, come here, don’t bother your father.’
Ariff lowered Eshe and stroked her hair. ‘Do as you’re told, my dear.’
The nanny took Eshe’s hand and pulled her away.
Ariff was still smiling when they entered the massive garden that lay behind the villa. It stretched into the distance, seeming to meet the mountainside that rose high behind the villa. There were no clouds and the sun was hot. A guard patrolled on the far side of the crescent-shaped swimming pool. He was armed with an assault rifle – not one of the cheap AKs that were Ariff’s main pro
duct – but an American-made Armalite. The villa was set within forty thousand square feet of land patrolled continuously by six mercenaries. Two more were stationed inside the house itself while another two monitored the twenty security cameras and dozen motion sensors that ceaselessly watched over Ariff’s home. Ariff only employed the best to watch over himself and his family.
‘If he came after me,’ Yamout said. ‘He’ll come after you too.’
He walked the thirty feet to where a large pergola stood near to the swimming pool. Beneath its tiled roof were couches and chairs. Ariff took a bottle of Sabil mineral water from a freestanding refrigerator. He offered one to Yamout, who shook his head. Both men sat down in the cool of the shade.
‘And we will be ready for his assassins when he does,’ Ariff said.
‘You don’t seem particularly concerned.’
‘Don’t think that means I am naive. Remember, they could not get to you when you were so far away from home.’ He gestured at the guard. ‘Do you think they will be more successful where we are strongest?’ Ariff relaxed in his chair. ‘Ever since I was a boy my life has been in danger. Now my hair is grey and my face is lined yet I still breathe. Will Kasakov survive as long as I?’ He shook his head again. ‘But for caution’s sake move yourself and your family here with me until this thing is over. I have six bedrooms standing idle. It will be good to finally make use of them.’ He smiled. ‘You will not be in the way and your own men can be added to those already here. We will be invincible.’
‘Thank you, I would feel better with my family behind your walls.’
‘Don’t mention it. Your family is my family.’ Ariff held his arms out. ‘This will be our castle. I welcome his killers to try and strike at us here. We will show that fool just how foolish he really is. Let Kasakov send his killers into our domain and we shall send them back to Russia in little pieces.’
Yamout exhaled and stood. ‘But why attack us now, after all these years? We do not fight for the same business.’
Ariff sipped some water and said, ‘He should have no reason for wanting you or I dead, agreed. We have made no move against him, nor has there been any strife between our traffickers. And if there were some unknown personal grievance there would be no need to kill Callo. But remember, Kasakov has been trapped in Russia for some years now. The UN pressure to apprehend him is considerable. This could be affecting his ability to deal in heavy armaments.’
Ariff set his water down and stepped out from under the pergola. He unhooked his cufflinks and folded up his shirtsleeves. He walked to the edge of the stone patio, slipped off his sandals, and walked barefoot on the grass. It was cool and moist beneath his feet. Yamout walked with him.
Ariff said, ‘Vladimir does not have the infrastructure to flourish in the small arms trade. His giant cargo planes that are so good for delivering tanks to warlords are not subtle enough to sneak assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenade launchers into a war zone. He knows he can’t compete with us, which is why he has never made more than token efforts in the past. But he must believe if he can wipe us out he can fill the void that is left.’ Ariff shook his head but smiled. ‘He must be insane to think that, and to have come after us like this, so blatantly, so arrogantly. That he failed to kill you, which of course I am glad of, is proof enough that his intelligence is second to his ambition. He will suffer for his lack of foresight.’ Ariff stopped to face Yamout. ‘We are now at war, Gabir.’
Yamout exhaled and squinted against the sun. ‘Yet how are we going to strike back? Russia is a long way for us to reach.’
Ariff nodded. ‘Do not forget that Kasakov’s empire overlaps with our own. We deal with many of the same parts of the world, with the same clients. Our paths cross frequently. If he thought he could sweep us away without leaving himself exposed he is very much mistaken. We need not stretch our arm all the way to Russia when Kasakov is already so close. We will attack his network. We will destroy his shipments. We will kill his traffickers. We will slice off his fingers one by one and leave his empire crippled.’
Ariff smiled and set his hands on Yamout’s shoulders. ‘Then, when he has no strength left to resist us, we will deliver the killing blow.’
CHAPTER 31
Minsk, Belarus
Victor climbed out of the taxi and into the cold, wind and rain immediately darkening his overcoat. His gaze swept over the small group of taxi drivers standing together under a bus shelter, laughing and joking, smoking cigarettes. No one else nearby was stationary. Pedestrians hurried on their way, faces down, shoulders up. The weather was too bad to be outside without the strongest of need. Even watchers would want to stay warm and dry. If the train station was under surveillance it would be from inside not out. That suited Victor just fine.
Minsk Central was a huge station built in the Stalinist style that managed to remain grand and imposing despite the freezing downpour. Crossing the road, Victor could see a couple of armed police officers patrolling the square. Both looked alert. Not unusual. He showed nothing on his face, displayed nothing in his actions – just another anonymous businessman on his way home.
There was a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it. He moved around a Belarusian family who seemed happy enough to wait in a position where they blocked the better part of the main entrance.
Air travel was the quickest way of creating distance, but also the most watched, the most regulated, the most restricting, and by far the best way of getting apprehended. A car offered the most freedom, but, whether he stole one and gambled with the watchfulness of the police, or hired one and added exposure to one of his aliases, was not without its negatives. A train, though not perfect, was usually the best option. He could pay cash without being noted, needed no identification, and created no paper trail outside of a ticket that would be destroyed once its use was spent.
As a boy he’d loved trains, and had spent endless hours watching them from his dorm window that overlooked a station. Back then he’d longed to drive them. Instead he killed people, and now his fondness for trains extended only to their benefits in extraction.
Inside the station the concourse was noisy and crowded with commuters. Victor glided among them. His eyes, partially shielded behind a pair of non-prescription glasses, flicked back and forth between the faces of those standing along the walls or sitting down, where he would position himself if he were watching people enter. He was searching for recognition, some action or movement that would give away surveillance, but he saw no indication that he was being observed. He didn’t relax. Just because he saw no one watching him, it didn’t mean that no one was. If Petrenko’s network was large enough and they were smart enough, his description, maybe even a picture, could have been passed around. Train stations and airports could be watched.
He circled the concourse several times. He bought a cup of coffee, a newspaper, browsed books, acting casually, trying to cut down as many lines of sight as possible in the hope of drawing out watchers. Professional shadows could be working in multi-sex couples or disguised as station employees. He doubted Petrenko’s network would be that proficient, but he had no doubts that whoever the surveillance team worked for were. He noticed an athletic and alert young woman with a buggy but no child in his peripheral vision twice. The child might be with the father or there might be no child at all. Passing windows, he watched her reflection to see if she was watching him, but at no time did she look his way.
Victor headed to the men’s room and spent five minutes waiting in a stall before coming out to find the woman was nowhere to be seen. He checked the departure boards, found an appropriate train, and joined the queue for the ticket counters. He behaved like any other Belarusian, not worthy of attention, but he caught a short man look his way. It was only one time and maybe it meant nothing but maybe it meant everything. The man had a round face, bald, about twenty pounds overweight, wearing a train company uniform. Victor looked at his watch for a few seconds and stepped out of line. He entered a p
harmacist and perused the shampoos before looking up in the direction of the bald guy. He wasn’t there.
‘Hrodna,’ Victor said in Russian when he reached the ticket counter. ‘The next available train.’
‘Seats are only available in first class.’
‘That’s fine.’
He waited until three minutes before the train to Hrodna was due to depart before walking to the platform. He watched every man or woman that came on to the platform after him. If he had a shadow, they would be forced to wait too so as not to risk getting on the train to find he wasn’t following. No one hung around, or otherwise made him suspicious. Victor waited until just one minute before the departure time before boarding. No one followed.
He found his seat in the first class carriage at the front of the train. It was on the aisle, set facing forward, with a table. Victor sat down. A man was sitting opposite.
‘Boy do I hate trains,’ the man said in American-accented English, talking loudly. ‘All the waiting around. I mean, let’s go already. Know what I’m saying?’
Victor looked at him, but didn’t answer.
‘Walt Fisher,’ the man said, offering his hand across the table. ‘I figure you’re not a Ruskie.’
Fisher looked mid-forties, dressed in a striped shirt, top button undone, tie loose, suit jacket draped over the seat next to him. His cheeks were flushed and fine droplets of sweat lined his hairline.
‘You mean Belarusian,’ Victor said, deciding it wasn’t worth pretending not to speak English. He shook the hand. It was warm and moist.
‘Whatever. Belarusian, Russian, is there a difference?’
Victor shrugged.
Fisher nodded. ‘Exactly.’
‘How did you know I’m neither?’ Victor asked, genuinely intrigued.