by Tom Wood
‘Run faster than you’ve ever done before and I’ll let you.’
They didn’t.
He left them alive, but he would be flying out of Belgrade long before any of them were walking again.
SEVENTEEN
The setting sun was unobstructed and the nearby clouds had haloes of orange and red. They looked on fire. Victor walked below them, his shadow out before him in a long, jagged smear. The wind blew behind him, pushing against the back of his neck and flattening his hair forward from his crown.
He couldn’t risk asking questions at the club, not after he had hospitalised three locals. Word of such things spread fast. He had no bruised knuckles – one of the many reasons he had used only the palm for hand strikes – but he was a stranger and his questions would make him suspicious enough without the potential link to the recent violence.
So he’d spent the rest of the day in his safe house, waiting for night to fall before making his way back to the scrap yard. Unlike the previous night, it showed signs of human presence – lights and vehicles.
A crane, used to stack cars and other scrap, offered a perfect vantage point to watch the portacabin. Victor lay on top of the crane’s cab, his silhouette blending into the night behind.
Zoca himself appeared a few minutes after midnight. Bright headlights flashed in the distance and white cones illuminated the tall heaps of scrap metal, glistening with rainwater. The headlights bounced up and down as the vehicle crossed the broken ground. They disappeared out of sight behind one of the towers of wrecked cars, leaving only the disembodied beams visible, before appearing again a moment later. The vehicle neared the office cabin, and the light emanating from its windows revealed it to be a rugged Land Rover caked in mud.
The cabin door opened before the Land Rover had come to a stop and a couple of guys came out to greet the new arrivals. One tossed a cigarette away. The burning end glowed on the wet ground and faded to nothing.
Zoca disembarked from the Land Rover at the same time as his men. No one opened the door for him. He dressed like them and acted like them. He was no older, and there was nothing in his behaviour to suggest he was their senior. There were handshakes and pats on the arm, but carried out in an organic order based on who was closest. Had Victor not seen a photograph of the man in the dossier it would have been impossible to identify him as the boss.
There were three heavies who had arrived with Zoca, and together with the two who had been waiting, they all went inside.
At this range, Victor could not see the telltale bulges and creases of hidden weapons, but it was highly unlikely they were unarmed. He gave it two minutes after the cabin door closed before he moved. Though it was dark, he didn’t want to risk being caught out descending the crane if someone from the Land Rover had forgotten their phone, so he moved fast, sliding down the ladder until it was safe to drop. There was no great need for stealth as they wouldn’t have a hope of hearing him until he was in the immediate vicinity of the cabin, and he wasn’t planning on getting anywhere near that close.
The parabolic microphone was an old model, out-of-date and well-used. Given that Georg’s base of operations was Hamburg, Victor suspected it had been in service with the local police until, surplus to requirements and destined for the scrapheap, it had been sold on by an enterprising cop or official. Newer models were half the size and had twice the range, but this one was more than adequate for Victor’s requirements.
Having judged the angles and lines of sight from the cabin, he made his way to the spot he had chosen. It was in the shadow of one of the junk mounds, with a clear view of the cabin’s west side. The door was on the eastern side, but there were two windows facing west.
Victor settled into the darkness and removed the parabolic microphone from his rucksack. Though intended for covert surveillance, for some inexplicable reason this model was coated in white plastic. Victor had used spray paint to darken it to a matt grey finish. He set the earpiece in place, switched it on, and directed the microphone at the first of the two windows.
It worked by picking up the sound vibrations on the windowpane and in his earpiece Victor could hear a distorted version of the conversation going on inside the cabin. As he had expected, they hadn’t yet turned to business. Instead they were catching up and swapping anecdotes. Victor used this time to adjust his aim and to modify the settings on the microphone to improve the signal.
Even at its best, in the hands of a specialist operator, the parabolic microphone was limited. Aside from the difficulties posed by obstructions, they were affected by air pressure, precipitation, humidity, ambient noise and wind. And if two people spoke at the same time it was almost impossible to separate the words. Nevertheless after twenty minutes Victor was sure there had been no mention of Rados.
It was a full hour before Zoca turned the conversation towards business. Again, Victor could not decipher all that was said, but four words in particular held significance:
Tonight. Three a.m. Shipment.
EIGHTEEN
The word shipment comes from a nautical source, and though it is used nowadays for land-based deliveries, in this case Zoca really did mean it in its literal sense. The port of Belgrade dealt with trade from all over the Black Sea. A shipping container full of hashish or heroin from Afghanistan or Kazakhstan was the first possibility that sprang to Victor’s mind.
From the snippets of conversation Victor could decipher he came to understand Zoca and his men were responsible for looking after the merchandise. They were relaxed and there was no mention of needing to go to the warehouse at the port, so it had to be delivered to them here at the scrap yard. The warehouse itself would be used as nothing more than a way station – somewhere the shipment could be dismantled out of sight and put on a truck. He had seen nothing there to indicate it had any purpose other than a front.
Rados hadn’t been mentioned by name but Victor thought he caught the Serbian word for boss on a few occasions. He had no expectations of finishing the contract tonight, but there was always a chance that Rados himself would come here to oversee the delivery of the shipment. If so, Victor was more than happy to take advantage of the situation.
A saying existed in the military: no plan survives contact with the enemy. Victor lived by the same principles. It was impossible to control the world around him. The ability to improvise was key. A reliance on seeing a plan through increased the chances of an unfulfilled contract in the best case. In the worst case, it would get him killed.
At a little after 2 a.m. another vehicle turned up. It was a flatbed truck without a trailer. Two men climbed out of the cab while one stayed behind the wheel with the engine running. It was heading out again soon. One of the guys who climbed out went inside the office cabin.
At first it seemed he was going to converse with Zoca, but he reappeared a moment later with a two-wheel trolley, the kind delivery men used, on which the second man stacked three shrink-wrapped cases of bottled mineral water taken from the truck’s cab. The first guy wheeled it next to the office cabin and left it there, then both climbed back inside the cab.
As they did so, Zoca and his men filed out of the office cabin. Zoca’s hair was bone white, cut short and brushed forward. The hair was so white and the skin so pale it was hard to see where they separated. His eyebrows were two narrow strips of pure black. He was thin, with prominent cheekbones and chin, but fit. He looked both old and young at the same time. Danger radiated from him.
The noise of the rumbling truck engine rendered the parabolic microphone useless, but Victor read only seven this time on Zoca’s lips. Some of his guys shrugged or scratched while they considered this. Everyone started smoking as they watched the truck perform a long three-point turn and make its way out of the scrap yard.
It took so long that by the time it had gone the cigarettes were finished and the smokers were heading back inside. One used the chemical toilet first.
With the three from the truck, Zoca had eight men at his command.
A sizeable number, even for a valuable shipment. No sign of Rados himself though, so whatever the shipment’s value it wasn’t worth his presence. Perhaps because he stayed away from any hands-on part of his business, or perhaps because Zoca was more than capable, or maybe this particular shipment was routine and unworthy of his attention. Whatever the case, the shipment had to be valuable, judging by the number of heavies in attendance. Its loss would be significant. It would necessitate Rados’ involvement. If his chief lieutenant failed with so many men, whom then could he trust?
A noise made Victor turn, and he watched without surprise as a cat dragged itself from beneath one of the junk piles. It was thin and its black fur was ragged and dirty. He didn’t know much about cats but he could tell this was a stray. He expected it to run away from him, but it seemed happy to hang around near to his feet. After a moment, he realised it was trying to get his attention and he squatted down and offered the back of his hand for it to rub against. It purred.
‘How’s the hunting?’ he whispered, even though he knew the answer. A cat this thin wasn’t having much success catching mice or rats, or maybe it didn’t like how they tasted. He had no foood to give to it.
He moved his hand away because, even if the cat didn’t have the time or inclination to keep its fur clean, he didn’t want to coat it with silicone in case it was toxic to the animal. He didn’t want to make its life any harder.
The cat arched its back against his shin and wandered away. After a moment, it had disappeared into the shadows.
The truck returned at 3 a.m., this time towing a trailer, on top of which sat a shipping container. Zoca and those inside the portacabin filed outside to await it. Victor couldn’t be sure from what he heard via the parabolic microphone.
Victor thought about the large number of guys and the bottled water and realised his plan wasn’t going to work because he now knew what merchandise was inside the container.
It wasn’t drugs.
NINETEEN
It was people. The shipping container had enough space for forty people standing up and packed in tight, or fifteen with space to lie down, or for about eight with a modicum of supplies and room to sleep and use buckets in one corner for bodily functions.
In all, he saw seven women brought out of the back as he watched from the shadows nearby. They squinted against the glare of the artificial lights, holding up their hands to shield their eyes. They could have spent days in near darkness, journeying across the Black Sea and along the Danube. Apart from the sensitivity to light they seemed unhurt and healthy. They were all under thirty, and half looked to be under twenty. In addition to youth, they had beauty in common, despite their dishevelment. Judging by their dark hair and olive skin tone, they were probably a mix of Armenians, Georgians and others from the South Caucasus. Victor might have mistaken them for refugees or illegal migrants had it not been for the fact they were all women and it was clear they had not undertaken this journey of their own free will.
Nowhere in the dossier on Rados had it been suggested he was involved in anything but the usual organised crime staples. MI6 had no idea he was a people trafficker.
One of the men tore into the shrink-wrapped packages and began handing out the bottles of water. There was no kindness in the gesture. This was Rados looking after his product. Dehydration would lessen the value of the women.
While the women were unscrewing caps and drinking, Zoca paced back and forth in front of them, evaluating. He gestured and pointed and his men separated the women out into three groups – two of two and one of three – based on age range.
The women were distressed and scared but had no choice other than to comply. The group of three, which was made up of neither the youngest nor eldest women, could take some solace in their number. The two youngest women, little more than girls, were most upset. Victor noted one of the older two women seemed more angry than afraid. He was curious as to why she didn’t cower, but instead scowled. Unlike the others her hair was cut short and choppy. She moved to comfort one of the youngest women, but was dragged back into place.
She struck the man who moved her with a slap to the face. The sound echoed and the guy retaliated with a slap of his own, dropping the woman with short hair to her knees.
A ripple of terror spread through the others. They gasped and recoiled and cried, while shock and expectation registered on the faces of Rados’ crew. Zoca approached the man who had slapped the woman. He knew what was coming, and didn’t fight back or try to protect himself as Zoca grabbed the back of his head and doubled him over, then slammed a knee into his face.
The man dropped, spitting blood.
Zoca then helped the woman to her feet, in a show of apology, only to punch her in the solar plexus. She fell once more, gasping for air.
‘Not. The. Face,’ Zoca hissed to his men.
If the women had been scared before, now they were terrified. Zoca addressed them as his men kept them subdued.
‘Do as we ask and no one need be hurt,’ Zoca explained, his voice quiet and almost soft. He spoke in Russian, which was a common second language in the part of the world the women came from. ‘We are kind men. We are gentle. We will respect you and treat you like royalty, provided you do the same in return. If you are unpleasant to us, if you are disrespectful, we will be the same. We can be kind or we can be cruel. It is your choice which we will be. But know this: we are now your employers. You work for us, and if you do your jobs well then you will be rewarded well. You will stay here tonight, and tomorrow you will be given new clothes and make-up and jewellery. You can take hot baths and sleep in soft beds. Some of you will remain here in Belgrade. Others will journey to far and exotic lands. Work hard and in time you will earn much money. In time you will be able to go home. Think of this as a holiday.’ He grinned at them, but the smile could not hide his psychosis. ‘Think of this as one great big adventure.’
Zoca gestured again and his men began leading the women away to the three shipping containers, one group to each.
He took the arm of the woman who had hit him and dragged her to her feet from where she had been slumped on the floor, stunned by pain and struggling to breathe.
He used a finger to raise her chin so he could look into her eyes. ‘It’s so nice to see you again, my dear. I see you didn’t learn your lesson last time when you worked for me. I see that I must take it upon myself to teach you how to behave like a lady. I see that I must instil some manners into —’
She spat in his face.
Zoca blinked, but his expression didn’t change. He let the saliva slide down his cheek and into his white stubble.
The absence of reaction induced terror in the woman with short hair. She had expected to be hit again – she had been willing to be hit again to have that show of defiance.
Zoca said, ‘I hope you enjoyed that, my dear. I really mean that. I want you to breathe that moment in deeply. I want you to hold it and feel it. Hold it here’ – he touched the left side of his chest with two fingers – ‘close to your heart. Only then, when we will once again be alone, can you truly know if it was worth it.’
TWENTY
Victor watched as Zoca’s men secured the women in the three static shipping containers that sat near to the office cabin, padlocking them shut. Some headed back inside the office cabin while others stayed outside to smoke and make jokes and re-enact the slap and punch and spit.
Then Victor waited. He waited because there was nothing else to do. He was here to sabotage the shipment, to harass Rados’ organisation and in doing so learn more about it and lead him closer to his target. Heroin or hashish, he could destroy, but not seven women. He had the means to, of course, but killing unfortunate civilians was not in his playbook.
Assuming he was prepared to cross that line, it was still an impractical course of action. He couldn’t hope to kill them all undetected. Zoca and his men would become involved. It would lead to a firefight.
No, Victor wasn’t going to destroy Rados�
�� shipment. But he could still disrupt it.
He waited until the men outside had finished their cigarettes and began to leave. Three climbed into the truck’s cab while two set off on foot to where a car was parked outside the scrap yard, as was evident a few minutes later when Victor heard an engine start.
Zoca and the others remained inside the office cabin. But for how long? It was nearing 4 a.m. By 5 a.m. Victor had decided that these guys were here for the duration, which made sense. They couldn’t leave the women unguarded.
He couldn’t know when the women would be taken away, but he only had a couple of hours of darkness left.
He broke cover and backed away. He looped around the mountain of scrap metal and crept to the boundary of the site, following the chain-link fence to circle the centre area as far from Zoca and his men as possible. He wanted to be far out of sight and sound. In the dark it was possible, even likely, he would disturb some unseen piece of metal, making noise that could give him away, or shifting the angle of some chrome or glass to catch and reflect what little light there was.
By the time he had made his careful way back to the shipping containers and office cabin there was no sign of anyone outside. Victor could hear them inside the office, noisy and carefree, their work for the evening done. Now, they were relaxing. Tobacco smoke drifted out of a window. He heard glasses clink in toast. It sounded as if they were comfortable and complacent.
No time like the present.
He kept to the darkness, moving from shadow to shadow, dropping to a crawl when crossing areas where light penetrated, muddying and tearing his clothes on the wet and stony ground. The three shipping containers differed only in degrees of corrosion. He selected the one holding the two youngest women because it was furthest from the office cabin. It had a fat padlock sealing the door shut. Not the best model out there, but far from the worst.