A Time to Die

by Tom Wood

  ‘She hasn’t brought my brandy,’ Hector said with a look towards the waitress.

  Victor settled on to the plastic chair. ‘An essential of any nutritious meal.’

  Oblivious to the irony in Victor’s tone, Hector took an electronic vapour device from the jacket he had hung over the back of his chair. The device looked new – still shiny and clean.

  ‘I’m trying to quit,’ Hector explained.

  Victor said, ‘You’ll feel better for it.’

  ‘You smoke?’

  Victor shook his head.

  ‘Ever smoked?’

  Victor shook his head again, thinking of the last cigarette he had smoked and how glorious and satisfying it had felt.

  ‘Then how do you know I’ll feel better?’

  Victor looked him up and down. ‘Can you feel any worse?’

  Hector frowned. ‘I’ve never had a day off sick in my life.’

  ‘Have you ever worked a day in your life?’

  The frown deepened, but then became a grin. ‘Hustling doesn’t count, does it?’

  ‘No,’ Victor said. ‘It doesn’t count.’

  Hector fumbled with the vapour device and sucked in a lungful. He exhaled, disappointed. ‘It’s not the same without the burn.’

  Victor resisted adjusting his seat. He didn’t like having his back to the rest of the space, but he wasn’t about to show that he was aware of such vulnerabilities, nor that he was concerned about them. Instead he watched Hector’s eyes because Hector was watching the room over Victor’s shoulder. The fixer was a nervous man, weak and fragile, dealing with ruthless people; tolerated as long as he was useful to them; making more enemies than friends because in his business, like Victor’s own, there were no true friends. Alliances were only ever based on mutual advantage. Loyalty was in direct correlation to personal benefit.

  ‘Wherever it is,’ Victor said, ‘you need to take out seventy-five per cent and hide it elsewhere.’

  Hector’s bloodshot eyes were wide with incomprehension. ‘What?’

  Victor looked at the greasy hair and unwashed, shabby clothes; the plastic watchstrap and the old shoes. ‘You obviously don’t spend money on your appearance, but you don’t work for free. And if I heard about you, then you must be doing something right.’

  ‘So?’ Hector responded, guarded and unsure.

  ‘So,’ Victor echoed, ‘you have a stash somewhere – earnings from your hustling. Hidden away and growing all the time, waiting for you to take and run with, to go buy that beach hut in Fiji and live the good life.’

  Hector’s lips stayed closed.

  ‘If I know you have it after meeting you only twice, then sooner or later someone else is going to realise it too, and they’re going to knock on your door in the middle of the night, and you’re going to let them in because you think you know them. But you don’t. You think they like you. But they don’t. And if you’re lucky they’re going to point a gun at your face, but at worst they’re going to tie you up and go to work on you with a pair of pliers and a box cutter because you won’t give up your life savings when they ask where it is. So, what I’m trying to tell you is, split your stash in two, one small and one larger. That way, when the knock on your door comes, you won’t need to get cut up trying to protect your dream of a better tomorrow. You can give up the smaller stash and stay in one piece to collect the true stash.’

  Hector hadn’t blinked in a long time. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  Victor shrugged. ‘I’m not entirely sure. But I always root for the underdog.’

  ‘You don’t want my stash?’

  ‘No,’ Victor said. ‘I want to know if you did as I asked.’

  Hector should have hidden his relief better, but Victor didn’t comment. He had given him enough advice already.

  Hector said, ‘I have a car for you.’

  ‘Tremendous.’

  Hector fished a set of keys out of his pocket and dropped them on the table. Victor saw by the badge that the fob was for a BMW, and it was at least twenty years old.

  ‘It’s parked across the street. Beige.’

  ‘My favourite colour. What about the other request?’

  ‘I put the word out,’ Hector explained. ‘Nothing too obvious or try-hard, but I’ve made the right people aware that I know a guy who can get things done. The firms in this town don’t like using outsiders, just so you know.’

  ‘Every firm likes to use outsiders for the kind of jobs I’m good at.’

  ‘Well, it’s funny you should say that.’ Hector glanced around to make sure no one was listening. A useless check, considering what had been discussed thus far, but he had something more sensitive to say. ‘It’s funny because someone got back to me. They want to meet you.’

  ‘Who wants to meet me?’

  Hector shook his head. ‘No names. Not at this stage. You’ve paid me, yes, but this isn’t your town, people don’t know you like they know me. I have to think about that first.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I get where your loyalties lie. But I need some information about who wants to meet. Are they a serious player or a wannabe?’

  Hector licked his cracked lips. He nodded. ‘Definitely more of the former. You can meet them tonight.’ He gave an address.

  ‘What’s there?’

  ‘Auto-parts shop. Near the port.’

  ‘I want my money back,’ Victor said.

  ‘What? Why do you?’

  ‘Because you’re giving me nothing.’

  ‘No refunds,’ Hector said. ‘No money-back guarantee.’

  ‘Then I’ll take your stash,’ Victor said. ‘All of it. I know where you live.’ He didn’t. ‘I know your stash is there. You couldn’t bear for it to be out of reach, could you? That’s not smart. Why don’t we have a race and see which of us can get there first? But by the look in your eyes I guess you don’t fancy your chances of outrunning me. So you’re going to need some backup, aren’t you? Do you think you can call in enough favours and get some friends together to help you out before I find the stash and disappear with it?’

  Hector was silent because he had no idea what to say.

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be like that,’ Victor said. ‘I’m a reasonable person. I expect you to be the same. So far you’ve given me an address. That’s an expensive piece of nothing, unless you manage to assure me you’re being straight and this person is worth meeting. The kind of people I work for are not street thugs.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Never words I like to hear.’

  ‘Okay,’ Hector said. ‘I’ll tell you the truth.’

  Victor sighed. ‘It’s getting worse, not better.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Am I supposed to go alone tonight?’

  Hector nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you’re coming with me.’

  Hector didn’t respond.

  ‘So I can trust you,’ Victor said. ‘If this is a legitimate lead, there is nothing to worry about.’

  Hector took a moment to think, then nodded. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘No,’ Victor said. ‘You’ll meet me here an hour before and we’ll go together.’

  ‘It’s only a ten-minute drive.’

  Victor said, ‘I like to be early.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Victor disliked meeting unknown people at unfamiliar locations as much as he liked being early. It was a good way of walking into an ambush, which happened now and again. The risk was inevitable when dealing with people like Hector – criminals who were always looking to make money or gain favour. Intimidation and threats were no help in such situations. Without revealing more about himself than he wanted people to understand, it was difficult to make the Hectors of this world more afraid of him than they were of those people they did understand. Monetary payment was a double-edged sword. The more he handed over, the more he advertised himself as a worthy target.

  But there were few ways of learning about a ci
ty’s underworld without a contact such as Hector, who was right when he said organised criminal networks didn’t like outsiders. Setting aside racial, regional and national prejudices, outsiders could be undercover cops or rivals. Victor could embed himself in the city for weeks on end, talking and listening and learning; gathering knowledge and improving his understanding of its underworld, but he would always be an outsider, always mistrusted. He could never acquire what Hector had. Besides, to stay in one city that long would be to write his own death sentence. He had to keep moving, working or not.

  Victor was waiting for Hector for an hour before he turned up at the appointed time. He wore the same shabby clothes, but they were hidden somewhat by a smart leather jacket. He was making an effort in his own way.

  Hector sucked on his vapour device while he stood on the pavement outside the restaurant. He was nervous and couldn’t stand still. If he was scared of Victor then that might mean he took the threat seriously, but equally it could mean that he was setting Victor up. At this moment, there was no way of knowing which was more likely.

  No one joined Hector, and Victor had spent long enough waiting to know no one had been put in place beforehand, so he left the shadows and made his way along the street to where Hector stood. Again, he didn’t notice until Victor was close by. Hector’s success as a fixer must come from his contacts – putting the right people together; sellers and buyers; services and customers – because his street smarts were non-existent. How he had embedded himself in the underworld for so long without falling victim to it was a mystery.

  ‘You’re late,’ Hector said, slipping the device back into his inside jacket pocket.

  Victor didn’t defend his apparent tardiness.

  ‘Where are you parked?’ Hector asked.

  ‘We’ll take your car.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I said so.’

  Hector didn’t argue. He shrugged as though it didn’t matter and gestured for Victor to follow him. Hector’s ride was close by, parked at a skewed angle against the kerb on a quiet side street. The car was an old hunk of junk.

  Hector unlocked it. ‘Do you want to drive?’

  Victor shook his head.

  ‘You want me to be your chauffeur?’

  Victor didn’t react to the sarcasm. He climbed into the back.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Hector had said it was a ten-minute drive, and it was. Past a traffic island near the port Hector drove down a dark street lined by commercial and industrial properties – Victor glimpsed signs for a self-storage unit, a van-hire firm, a solvent factory – until they slowed as they approached a used-car lot and the auto-parts shop that lay next to it.

  A low gate blocked the entranceway, so Hector parked on the adjoining street. Victor saw no one around, but lights were on at the auto-parts shop, filtering through a pebbled windowpane and blinds.

  ‘We’re here,’ Hector said.

  Victor climbed out of the car first. It wasn’t his nature to trap himself in a confined space with a potential enemy, however weak, outside. Hector was slow getting out of the driver’s seat, but only because of the unaccustomed exertion.

  Victor drew his Five-seveN from his waistband. Hector backed away at the sight of the weapon.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Car keys,’ Victor said.

  Hector panicked, breathing hard, but handed them over. Victor dropped the handgun into the compartment of the driver’s door and locked the car.

  Near the river and with only low buildings for protection, the wind was cold and fierce. The latter was always welcomed by Victor – it meant any sniper waiting to kill him would have a much harder shot to make. He let Hector lead the way across the used-car lot to where the auto-parts shop stood beyond a token divide formed of short wooden posts painted white.

  Victor noted the two vehicles parked out front. Both were immaculate Range Rovers with blacked-out windows.

  Six to eight guys, Victor said to himself.

  One of whom appeared in a rear doorway as they drew closer, having seen them through a window or on a CCTV camera. He wouldn’t have been able to hear their approach over the wind.

  The man was dressed in black jeans and a blue denim shirt. He looked tough and capable, and Hector tensed when he saw him. The man in the denim shirt gave a look of recognition as he glanced at Hector and then one of confusion as his gaze found Victor. No words were exchanged but the man gestured for Victor to raise his arms for a pat-down. It was done with competence, if not to professional standards. Victor wouldn’t have been able to hide a gun from the search, which was why he had come unarmed, even without knowing what he was walking into. He hadn’t wanted to relinquish his only handgun, as he would have done now had he brought it along. Better to have it nearby than to lose it completely.

  The guy in the denim shirt pushed open the door and gestured for Victor and Hector to go inside. They did, Victor letting Hector go first. They made their way along a short corridor that smelled of oil and paint fumes, and out on to the shop floor, where three men were waiting.

  Two of whom Victor could tell were hardened criminals from the way they stood. They were mob soldiers – enforcers; muscle. They were there as a show of strength and to provide protection for the man Victor was to meet. He was hoping to make some progress in the hunt for Rados, but was willing to waste his time tonight on the off-chance Hector knew the right people. It was a gamble, but not a lottery.

  Victor had anticipated tonight’s meet would be with a better-connected fixer, or maybe a low-level lieutenant from a mid-sized crew. If the fates were smiling on him, that person would have connections with Rados’ organisation, or at least know someone who had the kind of connections Victor needed. Hector seemed to know Belgrade’s underworld well enough to provide such a link in the chain.

  In between the two enforcers was a man who had his back to Victor. The presence of the three heavies was telling, as was Hector’s bowed head and hunched shoulders – reverence and fear. This man wasn’t a fixer and he wasn’t any low-level lieutenant.

  The man turned around as they neared.

  Milan Rados said, ‘So you’re the one who wants to get hired.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Victor was as unprepared as he had ever been. It hadn’t occurred to him that he would be talking to Rados at this stage in his preparations – a man who had been hidden for six years; a man whose organisation had just come under attack; a man who relied on subordinates to handle the day-to-day running of his business.

  His target was standing before him, within point-blank range, but he might as well have been a mile away in a concrete bunker. Victor was unarmed and surrounded by at least three armed threats with the possibility of more nearby. Even if he grabbed a tyre iron and managed to slay Rados with a well-placed blow to the temple, Victor couldn’t hope to survive the aftermath.

  Given that he was an assassin now at the mercy of the very man he was trying to kill, it was not a given he would survive the enounter.

  Rados didn’t look like a gangster and he didn’t look like a former warlord. He looked like a fifty-year-old businessman, or maybe a politician. His build was average and his manner neutral. It was the smile that gave him away. It was an imitation of a smile, because Rados was a psychopath.

  He wore a tailored navy suit with brown brogues and white twill shirt. The suit had a sharp, tailored cut. The lining was bright red satin. His tie was woven silk, steel grey. His cufflinks were miniature gold shovels – maybe because he had buried so many bodies.

  His eyes were a washed-out blue, as if once they had been bright but the colour had leached out of them, leaving only a memory behind. His skin was smooth and seemed younger than the grey hair indicated. The eyebrows were thin, but still dark, as was the five o’clock shadow.

  It was as if he had aged since the picture of him in Banik’s dossier, but at the same time grown younger. No one added a decade to their lives without paying a price, but w
ealth could buy many things, including health. Rados looked healthy. Like a man who exercised every day and had his personal chef cook him nutritious meals using only the best ingredients – grass-fed, free-range, organic and unprocessed. He didn’t seem vain, but careful of his well-being. More than most, he knew how fragile life was, or maybe he feared death and what might lie beyond.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Victor nodded. ‘You’re Milan Rados.’

  ‘Good,’ Rados said. ‘That saves us some time. But how do you know who I am?’

  ‘Everyone in my business knows who you are.’

  Rados tried to hide it, but his eyes smiled. Psychopaths were usually narcissists.

  ‘I don’t like fame,’ he pretended. ‘I don’t chase it, but it has its benefits, I suppose. I don’t have to wait in line very often, for example. It’s the small things that make the most difference, don’t you agree?’

  Victor said nothing because his first impression of Rados was that he was not the kind of man who liked to surround himself with yes-men.

  ‘Did you know you were meeting me?’

  ‘I had absolutely no idea.’

  It was perhaps the most honest answer to a question Victor had ever given.

  Rados spent a moment studying Victor, then gestured to Hector. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Hector stuttered and gestured at Victor. ‘He, uh, wanted me to accompany him.’

  The washed-out eyes stayed locked on Hector, but the question was to Victor: ‘Scared to come alone?’

  ‘I prefer stepping into the unknown with a bargaining chip.’

  Rados looked his way. ‘And you think my wife’s only brother qualifies as such a chip?’

  At last Victor understood how Hector had managed to survive in Belgrade’s underworld. He had the best protection anyone could ask for. He walked around with a bulletproof vest made of Rados’ reputation.