ENEMY -THE-

by WOOD TOM

  The low sun made Victor reach for his shades as he walked back into central Bologna. He passed through the crowds, unnoticed, unremembered. When he had been young he’d wanted everyone to look at him. Now, if anyone did, they were his enemy until proved otherwise.

  He used the city’s punctual buses to get around. For some reason, taxis didn’t seem to stop when hailed. Victor spent an hour swapping between buses, before heading to the train station where he sat on a platform bench, thumbing through a classic car magazine. When the eighteen-fifty train to Rome arrived he waited until eighteen-forty-eight before boarding. A few people boarded after him.

  On the train, he stood in the vestibule, his hand on the door, counting each passing second. Through the window, he watched for the attendant on the platform give the train driver the all-clear, then he flung the door open and jumped out. He slammed it shut behind him and heard it lock a moment later.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the attendant shake his head. Victor ignored him, looked back and forth along the platform.

  No one else had disembarked.

  The café was small, elegant, with round white tables and stools instead of chairs. The walls were smooth and white with lots of mirrors. Victor liked that. For once he could sit anywhere he chose and with mere flicks of his eyes see the entrance, counter, restroom doors, even the long, perfectly toned legs of the blonde sitting to his right. Though the distraction the latter caused was certainly more of a hindrance than a benefit.

  The scent of freshly ground coffee perfumed the air. The establishment was spacious but full, vibrant and noisy. Victor sat with a newspaper spread out before him and a tall glass of orange juice sitting next to it. Condensation beads hung from the glass. The hands on the clock above the counter said that it was nine p.m. He would give it another ten minutes, enough time to explain some bad traffic. If he hadn’t shown by that time then it would be too bad.

  He came through the door as Victor was finishing off the last of the orange juice. He looked the same as he always had – slim, tanned, blond, flawlessly groomed, perpetually young, unshakably confident, impossibly good looking.

  He smiled at Victor as he approached and said, ‘Vernon, my favourite shark, come all the way to Bologna to see me. This whole city is honoured by your presence.’

  ‘A shark?’

  The blond man sat down opposite. ‘It seems to me the metaphor fits quite aptly. I was thinking about it on the way here.’ He leaned closer and whispered, ‘You swim undetected through the ocean, strike without warning and then disappear back into the depths, unseen but always feared.’

  ‘Nice imagery,’ Victor said, without inflection.

  ‘I know, right?’

  ‘You’re late, Alberto.’

  Alberto Giordano shrugged, didn’t say anything, the action itself the explanation for his tardiness.

  ‘I almost left,’ Victor continued.

  ‘And not see me? Preposterous. People always wait for me.’ Giordano’s smile suddenly disappeared as he noticed Victor’s right hand was under the table. ‘What’s that about, Vernon?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Giordano made a face. ‘Such bad manners. I thought we were past all that nonsense. If I’m so threatening, why did you even want to meet?’

  ‘I’m lonely.’

  He gestured to Victor’s unseen hand. ‘When you treat people like that, I can’t say I’m too surprised.’

  ‘Says the man who sent me halfway around the city today.’

  Giordano grinned. ‘A little adventure never hurt anyone. Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it. Besides, you always told me I needed to be more careful. A multi-faceted defence, and all that silly stuff. This is me being more careful. If people want to see the great Giordano himself they can dance to his tune so he can first see their true rhythm. And it works, too. Can’t have this handsome face marked by some uncouth ruffian now, can we? And don’t try to act offended – you put a friend of mine on a train to Rome. He got caught without a ticket. Do you know how much the fines are in this country? I swear the fascists are still in power.’

  ‘I don’t like being followed.’

  A waitress approached, her elegant uniform stretched tight over her curves. Her eyes lit up when she saw Giordano and she gave him a wide smile. If she noticed Victor, she didn’t show it. Giordano ordered an espresso for himself and another orange juice for Victor.

  ‘I assume, despite the obvious pleasure of my company, you’ll be requiring the usual product,’ Giordano said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What nationality?’

  ‘I’m thinking Italian this time.’

  Giordano smiled. ‘Vernon, please, I’m not sure you’re beautiful enough to be one of us.’

  ‘I’m beautiful on the inside.’

  Giordano laughed and they made small talk until the waitress reappeared and placed their drinks down. She spent a few minutes flirting with Giordano, leaning over the table so the fact the top buttons of her blouse were undone was obvious. The temperature must have spiked in the interval since she took their order, Victor thought. He sipped his orange juice and tried not to get in the way. Eventually, she took Giordano’s number and went back to her work.

  ‘It can be a curse, being me,’ Giordano said wistfully after she’d gone. ‘When you look like this, every woman wants to talk with you. I can’t not, otherwise they’ll think I’m rude. And before you say anything presumptuous, I even talk with the hideous ones. I just don’t call them.’

  Victor didn’t respond. He said, ‘The identity has to be genuine. And completely clean.’

  ‘For you, Mr Shark, nothing less. You have a photo, I take it?’

  Victor took a passport-sized photograph from a pocket and handed it to Giordano. ‘There’s something else I could use your help with.’

  ‘I can try and teach you how to talk to women if you like,’ Giordano said with a wide grin. ‘But I can’t promise they’ll want to talk to you.’

  ‘I do get by, Alberto.’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know what that means, my friend. My sister, though no beauty, is a pleasant enough woman. I think you’d get on. She’s quiet, like you.’

  ‘You’d let your sister see someone like me?’

  ‘What a person does for a living does not define him. We all need money, do we not? How we elect to acquire it is not a reflection of our hearts but our society. Am I a forger or am I Alberto Raphael Giordano, friend, lover, artist, son? Besides, you are a good man, Vernon, even if you don’t want to believe it.’

  ‘I appreciate the offer, but a date is not exactly what I had in mind.’

  Victor withdrew his hand from under the table and placed one of the wireless cameras he’d procured in Minsk on to the tabletop. Giordano stared at the empty hand for a moment, smiled, and shook his head.

  ‘Now why would you be so mean as to make me believe you were holding a gun? I’m hurt.’

  ‘I’m sure the waitress will help you feel better.’

  Giordano smiled again and picked up the camera. ‘Nice,’ he said, examining it carefully. ‘Better than nice.’

  ‘What can you tell me about it?’

  ‘It’s US made. Wireless range of up to fifty metres in an urban environment, up to a hundred outside. Both full colour and infrared, high-resolution images. Lasts a week on a nine-volt battery. This is brand new tech. Government use only. Vernon, I had no idea your tastes were so refined.’

  ‘How would you go about getting one of these?’

  ‘With enormous difficulty, and more money than I would spend to win the heart of Venus herself.’

  ‘But it would be possible if you weren’t an American government agency?’

  ‘Anything is possible.’

  ‘Could you get hold of a dozen of these if you needed to?’

  Giordano held up his hands. ‘I appreciate the vote of confidence, Vernon, but I wouldn’t even try. I’m sure I could get one, maybe even three, but I have no
wish to have CIA beasts kicking down my door to ask me why I have restricted materials.’

  Victor nodded, and tried to keep his thoughts from his face. He asked, ‘Could you trace the camera’s serial number to find out who bought it?’

  ‘For you I will happily try.’

  ‘See what you can do,’ Victor said. ‘But be discreet. Don’t take even the slightest risk for this. Please. Whatever the outcome, you can keep the camera.’

  Giordano glanced in the waitress’s direction. ‘I might test it out later.’

  Victor shook his head. ‘How long until I can collect the passport?’

  ‘A few days,’ Giordano said.

  ‘Call me the second it’s ready.’

  ‘I detect an urgency that is most unlike you.’

  Victor didn’t respond.

  ‘In some trouble, Vernon?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Then why not leave that trouble far behind you and retire while you’re still young and relatively good looking? Live, don’t just exist.’

  Victor took a sip of orange juice and said, ‘When I was first starting out I used to think about what I’d do when I’d put away enough money to retire. I worked out a figure and promised myself I wouldn’t do this for a day longer than I needed.’

  ‘Sensible and commendable. How long until you reach this number?’

  ‘I reached it a long time ago.’

  ‘Retire then. Enjoy your life.’ He smiled and sat back. ‘Like me.’

  Victor shook his head. ‘If only it was that simple, Alberto. I’ve been doing this too long. I’ve made too many enemies. If I retire, I’ll get soft, I’ll get slow. I won’t see them coming when they finally track me down.’ The smile left Giordano’s face. ‘You were right – what you said before. I am a shark. As soon as I stop swimming, I’ll drown.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Zürich, Switzerland

  The man who met Zahm had a low centre of gravity. He was squat and overweight, with a face that was kind, while the soul beneath was anything but. Deep lines bisected his forehead and spread out from the corners of his eyes. He stood with a slight stoop brought on by the early stages of a kyphosis hump. His eyes were red and watery. Liver spots dotted the thin, wrinkled skin of his hands and forearms. He wore a loose linen shirt, slacks and sandals, and held a canvas shopping bag in his left hand. He stood a full foot shorter than the six-four Zahm and greeted him with his head tilted way back so he could look the taller man in the eye. Zahm wore sunglasses. The air was warm and dry. No clouds spoiled the perfect sky.

  ‘Hello, my son,’ the shorter man said with a smile that showed his small, perfectly white teeth. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Father,’ Zahm said back with an imitation of a smile. ‘You’re looking well.’

  Father cast his old eyes over Zahm’s muscular frame. ‘Not as well as you, of course.’

  Despite the smiles and friendly words there was no genuine warmth between them. Zahm played along because the pretence was important to Father. They shook hands, with Zahm careful not to squeeze too hard. If he didn’t think about it first he tended to hurt whoever’s hand he shook with what he considered a modest grip. And this was no man to hurt, physically or otherwise. They released hands and out of habit Zahm looked around for watchers.

  Zahm was well aware that his size made him easy to follow, so he had to pay extra attention to remaining unobserved. He stood with Father in the grounds of the University of Zürich. Students sat on the nearby lawns, reading books, making notes, or just enjoying the sunshine. A typical scene, peaceful, except Zahm detected surveillance. A young woman sat on a bench close by, eating an ice cream. On the surface she looked just like the other students – the same casual clothes, the same earbuds, the same well-worn bag. Her demeanour was all student too, enjoying the sun and being young, head bobbing gently to her music. It was her forearms that gave her away. They were slim but Zahm could see the ridges of strong muscles not gained from a conventional workout or from playing sports. Those muscles were honed from endless classes in self-defence and unarmed combat. The same classes that Zahm had so excelled in.

  He gave no indication he had made her. It would be impolite. She was not a threat, merely a precaution. Father liked to have people close by. He had survived three assassination attempts and was always on guard against the fourth.

  ‘Shall we take a walk?’ Father suggested.

  Father took short steps, partly due to his age and size, but mostly because he never liked to rush. Zahm’s long legs made it difficult for him to match the old man’s slow pace, and he had to concentrate so as to not stride ahead. After a minute he looked over his shoulder and saw the young woman had started walking too.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ Father said. ‘I’m so very sorry I had to disturb you on your downtime. Well earned, as always.’

  Zahm said, ‘No problem.’

  ‘Especially fine work your team did last month.’ Father patted him on the arm. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

  In Zahm’s mind the work was no finer or less fine than any of the other assignments his unit had performed.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, to be courteous.

  After a few more steps Father said, ‘I’m afraid that I may have to ask you to go away once again.’

  ‘So soon?’

  Father nodded. ‘Something has very recently arisen that I cannot trust to anyone else.’

  Zahm’s professional curiosity had been hooked but instead of further information he was led in silence for a minute longer. Father never liked to rush. When they were in a quiet corner of the campus, Father stopped walking and turned to face him. The young woman was out of sight but Zahm was sure she was nearby.

  ‘Last week I lost four of my boys,’ Father explained, sadness in his voice. ‘They were on a surveillance operation, in Minsk, watching a buy between a Belarusian criminal and a Lebanese arms dealer by the name of Gabir Yamout.’

  Zahm had heard the name Yamout before. He knew who he was, what he did, and who he did it for. Zahm frowned at the wasted opportunity.

  Father smiled sadly. ‘I can see your thought process, my son. Your operational skills may be exceptional but we really must work on your poker face.’

  Zahm looked away.

  ‘Yes,’ Father said, ‘we knew Yamout was in Minsk, and no, I did not send anyone to kill him. That would have been terrible manners, considering Yamout works for me.’

  Father began walking again. Zahm followed, waiting patiently for Father to provide additional details. This time when Father stopped he elected to sit on the grass of one of the University’s lawns. He removed his socks and sandals, and let out a satisfied groan as he made fists with his bare toes. Zahm squatted on his haunches, his shoulders to the sun. The young woman was back, this time in a light jacket, wearing sunglasses, no earbuds or ice cream, and with her hair tied back in a ponytail. To a casual observer she would look like a different person, but not to Zahm’s trained gaze.

  ‘Yamout works for me,’ Father said again. ‘But without his knowledge, of course.’ Father gave another little smile and his white teeth shone in the sun. ‘We’ve had people watching him and his business partner Baraa Ariff for over a decade. At their homes, where they go out for dinner, when they take their children to the zoo, and especially when they meet with their clients. The logic is very simple: our enemies will always desire weapons, and if it is not Ariff and Yamout who supply them, others will. Arms dealers are middlemen. Eliminating them solves nothing.’ Father paused. ‘But with Ariff and Yamout alive, we can watch them and their people and find out who they supply, and in doing so identify our enemies long before they put those weapons to use.’

  Zahm nodded, understanding the strategy and feeling annoyed with himself for being so quick to anger before he knew the facts.

  Father said, ‘There’s that poker face again.’

  ‘What happened to the surveillance team?’ Zahm asked.<
br />
  Father waited while two male students walked nearby, talking loudly and gesticulating in the way only those under twenty found acceptable. When they were out of earshot he continued. ‘Yamout was in Minsk to buy weapons, not to sell them, though we did not know that in advance. While he was meeting his supplier, an assassin attempted to kill him. My boys, passionate and selfless as they were, did not hesitate in intervening to preserve our link to Ariff’s network. We’ve protected both Yamout and Ariff in times past, always without their understanding, and in this instance my boys acted most courageously, but four out of the five were viciously murdered by the assassin.’

  Father took a moment to compose himself and wipe his eyes with a patterned handkerchief. He said, ‘Yamout survived the attack, so my brave boys succeeded in protecting one of our most valuable sources. But their sacrifice is no less tragic for that.’

  ‘Who were the shooters?’

  Father shook his head. ‘Singular. We have him on film. He worked alone. I’ve never seen so much death so quickly.’

  He reached into his shopping bag and produced a file folder. He handed it to Zahm, who looked through stills of the incident.

  ‘At this time we don’t know who the assassin represents, but as he went after Yamout once, he could again. Or others might in his place. Perhaps Ariff will be targeted too. If they die, one of their many lieutenants would likely take over, and it might take us months to adapt to the new leadership, all the while losing opportunities to track our enemies. An even worse outcome would be that some unaffiliated arms dealer or dealers steps into the void left behind and we would know nothing of them. We can’t allow that to happen.’

  Zahm nodded.

  Father said, ‘But there is more for us to consider than the need to protect the operation. I have lost four of my heroic children. And in dying they saved a life of the very worst kind.’ He paused, revulsion and anger taking the place of grief in his sagging face. ‘That fact sickens me to my stomach. What would their families think if they knew who their loved ones had died to protect?’ He paused again to compose himself. ‘My son, I want your unit to avenge them.’