by WOOD TOM
‘They don’t travel first.’
‘Ah,’ Victor said, not commenting on the various Russian-language conversations going on nearby.
Fisher allowed himself a smug grin. ‘You have a name, son?’
‘Peter.’
‘You’re a lime— you’re a Brit, ain’t you?’
‘Very perceptive,’ Victor said, adding a more stereotypical British emphasis on the mid-Atlantic accent he’d been using.
‘I hope so, friend. That’s nigh on ninety per cent of my job.’
Fisher stank of bourbon and, aside from the volume of his voice, seemed harmless enough. Some people just liked to talk.
‘Just been brokering a big-ass deal with the Reds,’ he explained, before adding, ‘Is it still okay to say that?’
‘No more or less so than “limey”.’
He let out a booming laugh. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Habit.’
‘No offence taken.’
‘In mergers and acquisitions,’ Fisher announced. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m a consultant.’
‘What field?’ Fisher clicked his fingers before Victor could respond. ‘No, don’t tell me.’ He bit his lip and pointed. ‘Human resources.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
Fisher clapped his hands together, pleased, proud. Other passengers looked over in response at the sudden noise. ‘Soon as you stepped onboard I said to myself: here’s the man who does the hiring and firing.’
‘Mostly firing.’
‘Sounds cutthroat.’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘You have no idea.’
Three minutes after the departure time the train hadn’t started moving. No announcement had been made. Victor liked punctuality, even more so when he had enemies in the same city. He stood up to take a better look out of the window. Fisher watched him. Victor couldn’t see anything to explain the delay. Nothing to worry about then. Probably.
‘So anyway,’ Fisher said. ‘On the way here …’
Victor sat without talking as Fisher recounted a story about his supposedly hilarious journey from his hotel to the train station. Fisher was drunk and talkative and by exchanging pleasantries Victor had given his new best friend licence to talk for the entire trip. Another time Victor might have enjoyed playing the part of Peter the human resources consultant to pass the time, but Fisher was too inebriated to control the volume of his voice, and he was drawing too much attention. That attention was naturally focused on Fisher, but those passengers might also remember who Fisher was so loudly talking to.
When the train hadn’t moved after another four minutes, other passengers were becoming disgruntled. There were lots of heads turning to look out of windows and mumbled annoyance. A stewardess with a trolley was making her way along the aisle offering drinks. When she reached Victor he asked for a mineral water. Fisher requested a bourbon.
‘Still or sparkling?’ she asked Victor.
‘Sparkling, please.’
She looked through the bottles on her trolley for a moment before turning back to Victor. She frowned.
‘I’m sorry, sir, it appears I only have still today.’ She seemed genuinely apologetic.
‘Don’t worry about it, still is fine.’
‘Are you sure? I can go and look for some.’
‘You’d better not,’ Victor said. ‘If you don’t serve these people some alcohol first you might not make it back alive.’
She smiled while she served Fisher his bourbon. The smile was inviting, pinks lips glistening. ‘I think I’ll brave it. Be right back.’
As soon as she was out of earshot Fisher slapped the table with the flat of his palm. People looked again. ‘You lucky son of a gun, you’re in there.’
Victor remained silent.
The stewardess brought Victor his sparkling mineral water and placed it on the table with a clear plastic cup of ice.
‘Thank you so much,’ Victor said, giving her his best smile. ‘You’re an angel.’
She smiled again. Maybe Fisher was right, maybe he was in there.
‘Honestly,’ she said. ‘It’s quite all right.’
Her tone told him he had breached her professional wall. It hadn’t been hard. First-class passengers rarely had the inclination even for eye contact. One who was polite, offered praise, and made her smile probably became an instant confidant.
‘Could you tell me what’s with the delay? Victor asked.
Her brow creased in deliberation and she quickly looked from side to side before leaning closer to him.
‘I’m not supposed to say,’ she confessed. ‘But we’re holding the train.’
‘What’s the reason?’
‘The company haven’t told us.’ She leaned even closer and he felt her breath on his cheek. ‘But if you ask me there’s someone on this train who shouldn’t be, if you know what I mean. I think they’re sending some people over as we speak.’
Victor didn’t have to pretend to be concerned. He waited until she was serving someone else before standing. He walked down the aisle, into the vestibule, and entered a toilet. He waited ten seconds and flushed the bowl, using the noise to screen the clatter of broken glass as he smashed the mirror above the sink with an elbow.
From the basin, he selected a piece of glass about six inches in length, roughly triangular in shape, long sides and a short base. He slipped it, point up, between his suit jacket and shirtsleeve on his left arm. He folded the cuff of his shirt back to act as a stopper and shook his arm to make sure it was secure.
He left the toilet and moved to the near exit. The door was already open. Cold air blew in from the platform. On the other side, six feet away, were three men. The first man was tall and lean with a hard angular face, dressed in a suit and overcoat. The other two were shorter, wearing dark trousers and casual jackets, the first with a patchy beard, the second wearing rimless glasses. They weren’t cops, and they looked different from both Petrenko’s men and the surveillance team members. They hesitated, surprised to see him, unsure what to do. Not that experienced then.
He stepped off the train and walked straight at them.
They halted, confused by his actions, nervous because of the sudden change in the hierarchy of predators and prey. The one with glasses gripped the pistol at his belt.
‘What are you going to do,’ Victor asked him as he neared, ‘shoot me here with thirty people watching?’
The man’s eyes were narrow behind his glasses. He didn’t respond but the hand moved a little away from the gun.
Victor stopped three feet away. ‘Shall we take this elsewhere?’
Both shorter guys immediately glanced at the tall man but he didn’t look back, didn’t see them. He stared straight into Victor’s eyes, unblinking. His angular face showed nothing, but Victor could feel his thought process, weighing up the many pros of taking Victor somewhere a little more private as opposed to the many cons of shooting him in front of a train full of witnesses.
‘No reason why we can’t be civilised about this,’ Victor added.
‘Yes,’ the tall man said with a little smile, ‘let us be civilised.’
CHAPTER 32
There were no other travellers on the platform, but the bald guy in a train company uniform was staring in Victor’s direction. The tall man backed away a step, his gaze never leaving Victor, and motioned with his hand for him to walk forward.
Victor did and the two shorter guys immediately moved to his flanks. They were both muscular, serious expressions, confident enough in Victor’s passivity not to grab hold of him or to keep hands close to weapons. The bald guy continued to stare.
Victor remained stationary while the shorter guy with the patchy beard patted him down on his thighs and hips, and around his waist and under his arms. It was done quickly to avoid attracting attention. Which was smart. But the frisk didn’t go anywhere near Victor’s left wrist. Which wasn’t smart.
The searcher found the SIG in the back of Victor’s waistband and slippe
d it into one of his own pockets. ‘He’s good now,’ the guy said.
The tall man motioned with his head.
With the guy wearing glasses in front and the other two men behind him, Victor was led along the platform, but away from the concourse, towards the bald guy in the uniform, who opened a worn-looking metal door. He then hurried away, doing his best to avoid eye contact with Victor.
The tall guy nudged Victor in the back. ‘Eyes forward, my friend.’
He followed the first man into the corridor beyond the metal door. It was dark and cool with bare brick walls, dimly lit. The door closed behind Victor and he heard the muted sound of the train to Hrodna pulling away from the platform. He hoped Walt Fisher found someone else to talk to.
They took a left turn and he was led down a series of long featureless corridors until the only sounds were those of their shoes on the floor. Victor kept his head fixed forward, but his eyes moved continuously, taking in everything about the location, memorising the route and looking for advantages. All the corridors were the same: bare brick, plain doors, sprinkler nozzles in the ceiling. Nothing to tip the odds in his favour.
They turned another corner and the lead guy opened a door. He gestured for Victor to enter the dark room beyond. He walked in first and the light was switched on to reveal a small room, ten feet square. Cardboard boxes were stacked against one wall and a simple table with plastic chairs against the other. A mop and metal bucket stood in a corner. The air smelled stale and dusty.
‘Sit,’ the tall man said.
Victor turned around. ‘I prefer to stand.’
The tall man took a step closer. ‘It was an order, not an offer.’
‘All the same,’ Victor said. ‘I think I’ll stand.’
The tall man’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Sit. Down.’
Victor remained standing.
The tall man made a gesture and the patchy-beard guy rushed forward. He had short, blond hair and dark circles beneath his eyes. He was maybe five inches shorter than Victor, but far more heavily built, jacket straining against the strength in his shoulders and arms. In return, Victor knew the guy saw only weakness. Which was how he always preferred it. He offered no resistance as he was flung backwards against the wall. He grunted, but didn’t need to.
Maintaining eye contact with him the whole time, Victor straightened down his jacket and took a step towards his assailant. It was a long step, bringing him well inside the blond guy’s personal space. An unmistakable challenge that was greeted with a smile.
The punch itself was fast but clumsy – they were too close together, no room for the man to get all his power into it, his posture awkward, lacking in balance. Victor tensed his abdominals but didn’t try to stop it. The punch hit square in the gut. He dropped to one knee, coughing.
All three of his captors laughed and Victor continued to cough and splutter far longer than he needed to. The guy who’d punched him stepped back to where the other two stood closer to the door.
‘Perhaps you are ready to sit down now,’ the tall man said.
Victor slowly stood and pulled out one of the plastic chairs. He sat down in his own time.
‘What happens next?’ he asked, a pained and broken edge to his voice.
They gave no response. The tall man took a cell phone from his hip pocket and hit a speed-dial number. He held it to his ear while it rang.
‘We have him,’ was all he said when it connected.
There was a pause, the person on the other end talking.
‘Yes, at the station,’ the tall man answered. ‘No, he is still alive. Do not be concerned, we have him out of the way. Your source can show you where.’ Another pause. The tall man stared at Victor, who sat sheepishly. ‘No, we can take care of it. He has been no trouble at all.’
So far, Victor silently added.
He noticed the two shorter men weren’t watching him particularly intently. All their attention was on their boss and the phone call. They weren’t worried about Victor – he’d already shown them he could be easily subdued. Good. But all three were clustered together by the door on the far side of the room. Not so good.
The tall man mumbled something and slipped the phone away.
‘Not long, my friend,’ he said to Victor, ‘and then this is all over.’
‘Suits me,’ Victor said back. ‘I hate waiting.’
The tall man smiled and took a step towards the table. Victor could smell cigarette smoke on the man’s clothes.
‘I hope you do not mind me saying, but you are being surprisingly calm about this.’
‘I’m always calm,’ Victor admitted.
The man nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose men of our profession must learn to be in control of our nerves.’ He sat down opposite. ‘Did you ever believe that this would be how it all ended?’
‘Can’t say I did.’
The tall man stroked his chin for a moment. ‘How long you been in this business?’
Victor acted as if he had to think. ‘A long time,’ he said eventually.
The tall man nodded. ‘That is what I deduced. Myself, I am relatively inexperienced. But I am a fast learner.’ He smiled, revealing sharp, irregular teeth. ‘Before, I was a police officer. Not as generous a wage, but it taught me a lot about how not to get caught doing this more profitable work.’
‘Prefer this?’
‘Absolutely, my friend. Not only is it far better paid …’ He flashed another smile. ‘It is a lot more satisfying.’
‘A man should take pleasure from his work.’
‘Indeed.’ He shuffled his seat forward. ‘Though no means of employment is without negatives, of course.’
‘Very true.’
‘Since you are more experienced than I, have you any advice to share with me?’
‘Don’t get killed.’
He smirked. ‘You know, my friend, you really should have listened to your own advice.’
Victor stared at him. ‘I’m not dead yet.’
‘Yet,’ the tall man echoed. He stroked his chin again. ‘I liked what you said before, about being civilised. I think I will use that myself sometime. You do not mind if I steal your line, do you?’
‘Not if I can get a cigarette while we wait.’
The tall man reached into his pocket. ‘Always happy to grant a dying man his last request.’ He smiled at Victor, man to man. ‘My wife keeps telling me to quit. Yap, yap, yap in my ear all day long.’
He took out a lighter and packet of cigarettes and put them on the table. He slid them towards Victor.
‘I stopped myself,’ Victor said. ‘About six months ago.’
‘And do you miss it?’
Victor slid the packet closer and toyed with the lighter. ‘Every day.’
The tall man looked at him with a degree of understanding. ‘Is that why you quit, for a woman?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, she will not see you now,’ the tall man said. He checked his watch ‘You have five minutes. Smoke all you wish.’
‘Actually,’ Victor said after he’d edged the cigarette packet a couple of inches closer, ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ He set the lighter on top of the packet. ‘Thanks anyway.’
The tall man shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, my friend. Now there is more for me to enjoy.’
He sat forward, reaching across the table. His fingers closed around the cigarette packet.
Victor grabbed the outstretched wrist in his left hand, pulled the piece of broken mirror from his sleeve, reversed his grip and drove the point through the tall man’s hand and into the table below it.
He screamed. Blood poured out from around the glass.
The other two guys hesitated an instant – pure shock. Victor leapt up from the chair, grabbed it, hurled it their way. The guy in glasses reacted in time to dodge, but the one with the patchy beard and blond hair was too slow. The chair struck him in the chest and sent him to the floor.
By the time the guy in glasses regaine
d his balance, Victor had already crossed the room and shoulder-barged him into the wall. He grunted against the hard brick, arms flailing, torso exposed. Victor punched him – a short uppercut to the solar plexus. The man gasped, breathless, face screwed up in pain, sagging against the wall.
Victor turned to face the guy on the floor as he scrambled on to his back, drawing a handgun out from under his jacket – a big .45 calibre suppressed Smith & Wesson automatic. Victor took a quick step forward, kicked the gun from the guy’s hand as it angled up, kicked him again in the side of the head and stamped down on his face. Bone and cartilage crushed under his heel. Blood cascaded over the man’s cheeks.
Victor spun back around to see the gasping man against the wall fumbling for his own gun in its underarm holster. With the suppressor already screwed on, the weapon was too long to draw with speed. An amateur mistake. Victor grabbed the hand on the weapon before it could be withdrawn and elbowed him twice in the face, smashing his glasses and fracturing a cheekbone. Victor felt the strength go in the hand, tore the gun away, pushed the suppressor against his enemy’s stomach and fired twice, turned around again in time to see the man with the smashed nose retrieving the .45 and swinging it in his direction.
Victor shot him three times in the chest.
The tall man screamed – no words – just an incoherent mix of fear, desperation and pleading.
‘No one can hear,’ Victor said. ‘That’s why you brought me all the way to this room, remember?’
The guy shot in the stomach slid down the wall, not dead but dying fast, his broken glasses hanging from one ear. Blood soaked his jacket. A smeared trail of exit-wound gore glistened on the wall behind him. He groaned quietly.
Victor stepped over the corpse on the floor so he could face the tall man. His angular features were warped – half pain, half terror. The skin of his face was white and sweaty with shock. The hand pinned to the table was pure red. Blood pooled around it and dripped from the closest table edge. His other hand, the left, was beneath his overcoat, struggling to get at the gun holstered under his left armpit. Not an easy thing to do at the best of times.
Victor pointed the .45 at the guy’s face and he stopped what he was doing. With his spare hand, Victor reached over and took the gun out for him. He saw it was a Smith & Wesson like the one he already had and tossed it away.