A Time to Die

by Tom Wood

  He checked the magazine, somewhat disappointed to find it had a ten-round capacity instead of the twenty a Five-seveN could accommodate, but the larger magazine was only available for law enforcement or military purchase, even in nations where handguns were legal. The bonus was that Georg had supplied a second magazine. Ten in the gun and ten spare was still plenty of ammunition when it took but a single bullet to kill.

  There was a suppressor too, along with boxes of both subsonic and standard 5.7 mm ammunition elsewhere in the Rimowa.

  The weapon and ammunition were of prohibitive expense, and rare as a result. Rare weapons were harder to obtain and traffic. Victor doubted Georg had such items lying around. She would have gone to a lot of trouble to secure this for Victor. He recognised the gesture. Even if she had not said so on the phone, the Five-seveN said it for her: Thank you for saving my life.

  He smiled. You’re welcome.

  FIFTEEN

  Victor had been in Belgrade for five days before contacting Banik. He sent the message from a second-hand tablet computer he bought from a pawnshop, using the free Wi-Fi at a railway station. The email account was only used to contact the MI6 man and was bounced twice around the world through numerous other accounts with preset forwarding scripts as well as anonymous redirection servers to disguise its origin. It was next-to impossible to hide electronic communication from the supercomputers of the world’s spy agencies, but intelligence had to be actionable to be useful. The pre-established codes Victor used would first need to be cracked for any message to be deemed worthy of attention, and by the time it had been traced back to its origin, Victor would be long gone.

  The encrypted email to Banik stated Victor was accepting the contract and would begin preparations in earnest. It didn’t hurt to have a head start, and now that he was armed, with his safe house and go-bag prepared, it was almost the truth.

  The port of Belgrade was set near Pancevo Bridge in the centre of the city, in the shadow of the hilled fortress. Like the city itself, the port was small and compact, stretching just over a kilometre along the south bank of the Danube. Even so, there was two hundred thousand square feet of warehouse space inside its borders and triple that space for outside storage to cater for the ships, boats and barges that came and went year round.

  The MI6 dossier on Rados stated he was believed to own one of the warehouses, though his name did not appear on any paperwork. A trading company in Croatia was the official holder of the lease and paid the fees to use the port’s facilities. Rados’ name didn’t feature in the list of directors or shareholders of the Croatian shell company, but his chief lieutenant, Ilija Zoca, was listed as the chief financial officer.

  Victor left at 9 p.m. It was a thirty-minute journey to the docks, extended to ninety minutes to account for counter surveillance, which left him another ninety minutes to get into position and prepare. A comfortable amount of time, given the expected security. He was dealing with criminals and civilian guards, not professionals.

  The docks were busy round the clock, but less so at night. So as not to appear out of place as he made his way through the compound, he wore blue overalls and a hard hat purchased earlier in the week. A high-visibility vest would have added to his disguise, but would have made slipping away unnoticed all the more problematic.

  He had no pass and no identification, but the lack of credentials did not concern him. There were many firms operating within the port, plus an ever-changing rotation of ship crew and contractors. Unfamiliar faces were as common as familiar ones. Legitimate port workers had no reason to question anyone else’s presence, and the security guards were there to discourage criminal acts, not check IDs. If someone was on the right side of the fence, it was assumed they were meant to be there.

  Victor carried a clipboard as an extra layer of defence. It was a psychological weapon, lending him an air of authority and at the same time diverting attention from the bag, which might otherwise have seemed out of place. The first thought of any onlooker would be: What is he checking? Not: What’s that he’s carrying? And afterwards it would be: Did you see the guy with the clipboard? Not: Did you see the guy with the bag?

  Prevention over cure, and it worked. No one asked him to show identification or tried to make small talk or even gave him a second glance. He appeared busy and important, and that was enough.

  The warehouse was simple to break into. It was no fortress and relied on the port’s own security, which was basic even by civilian standards. The building was modern and well made, equipped with a number of CCTV cameras, but to cover the entire structure would have required at least twice as many. He doubted Rados had anyone watching them full-time. They were for show, at best. They might not even be recording.

  The sturdy new build meant that the drainpipes were galvanised steel and bolted securely in place, while the walls were corrugated steel. The construction was suited to climbing; Victor selected an area that wasn’t covered by the cameras and faced on to the river, where the chances of being spotted were negligible. He was on the roof in less than two minutes.

  The roof was sloped but the incline wasn’t steep enough to impede movement. It was made of transparent polycarbonate to let sunlight pass through and provide illumination during the daytime. The polycarbonate wasn’t clear, so those inside would be hard pressed to make out his silhouette against the night sky. Access to the various air conditioning units and vents and aerials dotting the roof was provided by a stainless steel door. The lock was a good one and took Victor longer to pick than the warehouse had taken to climb.

  There was no alarm, and he slipped inside. He found himself on a metal walkway suspended high above the warehouse floor below. It was linked to a series of walkways and ladders that crisscrossed the space, enabling access to the roof and offices above ground level.

  Victor took off his shoes before he moved any further. Even with careful steps the vast interior space would echo the noise of footfalls on the metal walkways. There was little to no ambient noise to disguise the sound, and as there was no cover on the walkways, anyone glancing upwards was sure to spot him.

  No one was going to see him, however, and no cameras were going to record, because the warehouse was empty. There were no drugs stored here, and no legitimate products to provide cover. There were no employees or security guards or even office stationery.

  However Rados operated his business, it was not from here.

  Zoca’s name also appeared on the ownership deeds of a property just outside of the city. The scrap yard, or car breakers as the sign translated to, occupied a triangle of land: its north point fed into a used-car dealership; to the west lay train tracks.

  The scrap yard was surrounded by a stainless steel chain-link fence, twelve feet tall, with posts spaced every six feet. The top of each post bent outwards at an angle of forty-five degrees and forked into two spikes. Between the spikes hung coils of razor wire, galvanised and sharp. The sections of fence facing the surrounding streets were reinforced with a haphazard collection of corrugated iron sheets, bolted and welded and jammed and wedged together to block a passer-by’s view of the yard. Scattered throughout the arrangement were occasional sheets of plywood, presumably where there hadn’t been enough corrugated iron to hand, or to fill gaps when the original iron sheets became too rusted and full of holes to do their job.

  Signs advertised the easy money to be made by trading in old cars, white goods and other scrap. Spare parts for vehicles were also available on enquiry. It was hard to know whether the business was run for profit or as a front or even as a base of operations. Organised crime had many needs that such a place could fulfil.

  The scrap yard was a blight on the riverbank, huge and ugly, hiding the river behind towers of rusting car shells, crushed cubes that had once been cars and a host of unidentifiable parts. The dealership operated only during business hours, so Victor waited for nightfall to check it out. Unlike the warehouse, which was protected by the security of the wider ports, this had non
e. There was no one keeping watch overnight, no CCTV cameras or prowling dogs. It was left to the fence alone to keep out intruders. Which Victor found interesting.

  The chain-link fence surrounding the scrap yard was topped with coiled razor wire. A formidable barrier to the average person, but nothing Victor hadn’t scaled with ease a dozen times before. He had even climbed one with his hands bound with plasticuffs. He tossed up an old rug so it covered the razor wire and climbed the fence, using one of the posts for support.

  He scaled the barrier with only a short-lived increase in heart rate and waited in a crouch on the other side for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was little ambient light to pierce the shadows of the high fence and the towering mounds of scrap.

  No security could mean there was nothing worth stealing – though the scrap metal clearly had sufficient value to make it worth trading in, else the business would cease to exist. Or it could mean that local thieves knew who owned the place and whatever could be stolen would not be worth the wrath it would unleash. But it could also mean that what went on here was not to be recorded by CCTV cameras or glimpsed by anyone’s eyes but members of Rados’ crew.

  There were no signs of human activity, but Victor took his time regardless. He crept through the compound, watching his step, careful not to disturb anything that might reveal his presence. A horn sounded in the distance as a barge passed along the river.

  The air stank of iron and motor oil and something else. Something organic. It wasn’t hard to imagine rivals crushed into cubes and buried beneath the car towers. Victor imagined rats scurrying beyond his sight, watching him from the darkness.

  Twisting pathways rounded the mountains of car shells and scrap metal. One pile consisted of what had to be thousands of firearms, presumably left over from the wars – mostly old automatic rifles, long since discarded or collected in armistices. Even if they hadn’t been deactivated, they were useless now. They had been left to the elements for years. Metal and alloy had corroded. Wood had warped or rotted. They would be half-full of water and dirt. Parts would be missing.

  At the centre of the yard was a portacabin office the size of a large caravan. It stood on locked wheels and stilts, half a metre off the ground, with a short set of aluminium steps leading to its single door. There were two small windows on each of its long sides. Nearby stood a pair of chemical toilets, and then a line of three shipping containers.

  Victor tried the office door. It was locked, which was no surprise, but it wouldn’t have been a surprise to find it unlocked either, given the lack of other security. The lock was basic and survived ten seconds of raking tumbles before it clicked open.

  Inside, the cabin offered nothing Victor hadn’t expected. There were a couple of desks and chairs, phones and computers to go with them, filing cabinets, a kitchenette and a calendar on one wall featuring topless women and sports cars. He used a small torch to look around. He had used superglue to stick red acetate over the lens to change the colour of the light and preserve his night vision.

  The computers had been shut down and he left them alone. Rados was not listed in the company records, so Victor didn’t expect to find his name on any electronic file or hard copy. He didn’t expect to learn of his location at all, but he wanted to explore every avenue as he gathered intelligence on Rados’ organisation. He checked the desk drawers and petty cash box, riffling through receipts and documents. He searched the filing cabinets. He found purchase orders and invoices and letters and tax forms, but nothing he could use. The scrap yard and scrap metal dealership was legitimate and profitable. If it was used for illicit purposes, those were well hidden and undocumented.

  He swept the torchlight over the calendar. Apart from the obvious titillation, it was used to mark important dates; thumbtacks held in place scraps of paper and card. There were notes of deliveries and orders, and some were marked with a scribbled letter Z along, every week or so, with a sum of money and a time, always in the late evening, anywhere from 9 p.m. to midnight.

  The next entry was for tomorrow night.

  Victor flicked off the torch and listened. He heard no approaching vehicle or footsteps, but he couldn’t afford to hang around. He would have liked to set up a hidden recording device, but Georg had only been able to supply so much. He would have to make do with the parabolic microphone.

  He slipped out of the office and used his lock picks to relock the door. There were no signs of anyone on the premises or on their way. He would hear the scrape of the gate opening long before he needed to be hidden.

  He made his way back to the fence.

  Rados stayed hidden because he didn’t need to expose himself. His business, managed by his loyal men and headed by Zoca, grew year on year, running unopposed and efficient and making Rados a fortune. He was the figurehead and gave the awe of his name and reputation to his organisation, but he wasn’t involved in the day-to-day operations. Everything was taken care of for him. Everything ran smoothly.

  But what would happen if it didn’t run smoothly…?

  SIXTEEN

  The sunrise was pale and yellow, blocked and filtered by clouds so it was hard to locate in the grey sky. A poor sunrise by any qualification of beauty, but Victor appreciated it. He had always liked sunrises. Seeing one meant he had made it through another night.

  He liked Belgrade. He liked the way the city felt, the combination of cold and beauty fused together well, as if by tactile design. Serbs seemed polite and had an earnest nature, but were quick to laugh and joke. There had been so much recent turmoil that the country’s rich history had been almost forgotten outside its borders. It was still a young nation post communism, but old enough for its culture and customs to have created as strong a national identity as any of the more recognisable states. People here had good manners, and he respected that.

  The city was both old and new, ugly and beautiful; historic sites nestled between communist concrete; modern offices overlooked white-washed churches.

  He had Hector out there making enquiries on his behalf and a chance to observe Rados’ chief lieutenant tonight, but there was still work to be done. Victor wanted as many potential avenues to his target as possible. His advance research had provided him with the location of a club for former armed forces personnel. Rados hadn’t been in the regular Serbian army, but he had fought alongside it.

  The city changed the moment Victor crossed a wide boulevard and the park that lay beyond it. On the far side of the park the neighbourhood seemed all concrete and grime. The pretty pastel buildings of the old town were nowhere to be seen. Here was the poverty and the neglect. The people changed too. It wasn’t their clothes, which were cheaper and didn’t fit as well. It was their movements, which were slower. They were weighed down by everyday existence; in no rush to get on with it. That weight was as palpable as if it hung in the air.

  A homeless guy hassled him for change. His suit and overcoat made him stand out here. People watched him everywhere he went. It was impossible to watch them all in return.

  He straightened his back to add strength to his posture. His expression, usually neutral and forgettable, hardened to radiate the willingness to use that strength. He had no fear of opportunistic criminals, but it was better not to have to deal with them in the first place.

  Some buildings looked abandoned. Others were occupied though they appeared unsafe and uninhabitable. He passed a wall covered in beautiful graffiti. Someone had spray-painted swirling galaxies and glowing nebulae. He stood before the wall for a moment to better appreciate it.

  He moved on before he wanted to because other pedestrians were nearing. On another wall someone had painted a crude outline of a soccer goal, complete with skewed posts and a net with holes large enough for a ball to go through. Hanging around the goal was an old man in a sweater three sizes too big who offered him homemade slivovitz plum brandy. The old man was selling it in wine bottles repurposed for his business. Some bottles still had labels – Pinot Noir, Rioja and more, in
a multitude of languages. Victor bought a bottle because the old man looked like someone he had once known and whom he wished he could still know. The old man, so used to refusal or being ignored, insisted on giving Victor an additional bottle to show his appreciation of the rare sale. Victor took the second bottle but was equally insistent on paying for it. The old man was wiping tears away when Victor left him.

  The club was located in a neighbourhood with few residential properties. This was an area where no one would choose to live. It was rundown and industrial, derelict and unsavoury. Traffic was rare and foot traffic rarer still. Even the homeless knew to stay away.

  It was inevitable, he realised after the fact. He felt it coming long before it happened. He was a stranger here. His clothes, so useful for blending into the background of most urban environments, made him stand out here. He was a respectable-looking outsider in a bad part of town. Still, he should have avoided it – he knew how these things worked – but he had been too focused on the real danger posed by professional threats to spot an amateur one in time to sidestep it.

  They were a trio of local degenerates without fortune or brain cells enough to notice the signs he emitted that a fellow professional would have read. It was cold, yet his coat was open and his gloveless hands hung at his sides. His eyes never stopped moving, and his clothes, though of some quality, were not as suited to his frame as they could have been.

  None were big and all three were out of shape. They weren’t even real criminals. They were opportunists, drunk or high or looking to be. They took him to be an easy target – someone to scare into handing over a wallet or phone and making their week a little easier as a result.

  One showed a blade. ‘Give us your valuables and we won’t hurt you.’