The doorbell snapped him out of his daze. He walked across and let the bellboy in.
“Is there anything else you need?” the young man asked as Bishop tipped him for delivering his bags.
“Matter of fact, there is. I’m new in town and I’d really like someone to show me around.” He smiled. “Preferably of the female variety, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course, sir.” The bellboy didn’t miss a beat. “Perhaps there is a particular style of woman that you would like?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I’ve always been partial to Russians.”
“Yes sir, very good sir.”
“Highest quality of course, money’s no issue.” He handed over a few more crisp notes. “I’m going to be in town a few days and I’d love some company for the whole time.”
The bellboy nodded. “I will have someone call you when she arrives. Perhaps you could meet her at the bar later this evening to see if you get along.”
“That would be splendid. Gives me enough time to unpack and freshen up.”
***
Seven hours later Bishop strolled into the Promenade Lounge on the ground floor. The bar was tastefully decorated in a similar manner to the reception area. Warm wooden floors, white ceilings and walls, and huge windows that looked out over the hotel grounds. Long white rayon curtains rippled in the cool ocean breeze.
Bishop sat at the black polished bar on a stool. He’d changed his slacks and polo for a dark-blue suit and white shirt, open at the collar. The sun had set and he thought the attire would be more suitable for a drink with a strange woman in a five-star hotel, even if she was of the ‘working’ class.
He spotted her as soon as she entered the room. Long and slender legs drew the eye first, expensive-looking heels accented her calves. Her dress hugged every curve revealing an ample bust and lean stomach. Light-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders like a horse’s mane. She strutted confidently across the room to where Bishop was sitting.
He stood as she came closer. Her facial features were exquisite: a thin nose, full lips, high cheekbones, and beautiful gray eyes. This was not at all what he was expecting. He offered his hand with a small amount of trepidation. “Hello, my name is Anthony.”
“My name is Katya,” she purred softly in her Russian accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Anthony.”
“The pleasure is all mine. Can I order you a drink?”
They chatted at the bar for almost an hour as they swapped cover stories. Bishop’s expectation of a trashy Russian escort was completely dispelled. Katya spoke flawless English and claimed an expensive education at an Ivy League college.
After a few of the hotel’s most expensive cocktails Bishop asked her what they did for fun in Limassol. An arched eyebrow suggested something a little more intimate than he intended. “There’s time for that later,” he said smiling. “Are there any clubs?”
“Of course there are.” Her eyes lit up. “I can get us into all the best clubs.”
“Excellent, but how about we start the evening with a bite to eat?”
“That’s a good idea, what do you feel like?”
“I’ve heard the seafood around here is very good.”
“I know just the place.”
“Bartender, can you have the car meet us around the front. We’re going to hit the town.”
***
Bishop sat on his balcony watching the soft glow of the sun rising over the Mediterranean. Since his parent’s death, sleep had been difficult for him. Every time he closed his eyes he saw their faces, and feelings of guilt came flooding in. It took every ounce of his willpower to push the thoughts from his head and focus on the here and now.
The girl, Katya, had passed out still dressed on the king-size bed. They had danced until the early hours of the morning in no less than a dozen different night spots, most of them Russian owned. Bishop had thrown huge amounts of money around, buying overpriced bottles of champagne like they were soft drinks. He had regulated his own alcohol intake carefully, ensuring he only become mildly inebriated.
The pocket of his jacket began vibrating and he reached around to where it was hanging on his chair. He thought it might have been the MP3 player. He had carried Mitch’s receiver since he arrived but it was silent. Sifting around the pockets he pulled out his cell phone. As he answered the call he slid the door to the bedroom closed. “Anthony speaking.”
“Bish, it’s Vance. Didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“I was just watching the sunrise.”
“With your lady friend?” Vance dropped a romantic note into his tone.
Bishop laughed. “Negative, she’s currently passed out on the bed.”
“Ah Russians, they love their booze.”
“They certainly do. Plus six straight hours of dancing and only a salad for dinner, poor thing’s exhausted.”
“Yeah, I bet you’ve really worn her out.”
Bishop shook his head smiling. “Now, you can’t live vicariously through me, Vance, and I’m pretty sure this isn’t a welfare call. So what’s up.”
“You had any luck locating Simeon and the Mafia boss’s Villa?”
“Not yet, I just got here. I’m not real keen to straight-up ask, but I’ll try and get the girl to take me there tonight.”
“That shouldn’t be too much of a problem for a young stud like you.”
“The problem is I’m going to run out of cash. People party bloody hard in this part of the world.”
“Not likely, bud, we already wired you another two hundred K to your account.”
“That should see me through another day or two.”
“Have you got any info on Simeon’s boss yet?” Vance asked.
“Negative, Karelin actually seems to lay pretty low, despite the parties and the hookers.”
“That’s why we need you inside.”
“I’m on it.”
“I want this op wrapped up in the next twenty-four hours, Bish. No rest for the wicked.”
“OK, next twenty-four hours. Got it,” said Bishop wearily. “I’ll check in as soon as I have positive ID on Karelin.”
“Roger, we’re relocating to Beirut to pick up a boat. Gonna sail from there to your location. Getting weapons in Cyprus was going to be too much of a goatfuck. You’ll be able to reach me on the satellite phone.”
“OK, I’ll check in tomorrow.” Bishop dropped the phone back into his jacket and lay on a chaise lounge to watch the sunrise. In a matter of minutes his head had fallen back and he was finally asleep.
CHAPTER 15
KARELIN VILLA, ZYGI, CYPRUS
Aslan Karelin stretched out on a recliner next to the pool in front of his beachside villa. Clad only in a pair of red swimming trunks, he bore a passing resemblance to the Star Wars character Jabba the Hutt. Thick rolls of fat had overtanned into mottled flesh that rippled with his every move. There could not have been a woman on the planet who found the fifty-year-old attractive. Yet the loungers around him were festooned with long tanned legs, peroxide-blonde hair, and fake breasts. A smorgasbord of prostitutes and gold diggers at his beck and call, such was the power of being one of the island’s most affluent residents.
The mafia boss was one of the most successful Russian criminals to emerge from the former Soviet Union. The twenty-bedroom villa behind him was evidence enough of that. His parties were renowned across the island for being the wildest and invitations were highly prized.
While most of the partygoers realized that the obese Russian was a criminal, they had no idea he also ran a legitimate multinational enterprise spanning half a dozen countries. Having no concept of ethics and able to leverage muscle when required, his businesses rapidly consumed any opposition.
“Boss, Simeon is here,” a burly guard said, waking Aslan from his slumber. The man had an AKS-74U carbine slung across his back.
“Good, send him over.” Aslan sat up, wrapping his impressive girth in a robe. He spotted his lieutenant skirting the swimming
pool. “Simeon, my boy, how are you?”
“I’ve been better, boss.”
“Come, sit. Tell me about this problem.”
It took Simeon a few minutes to outline the sequence of events that had led to him fleeing the UAE.
“So we know nothing of these people?” the Mafia boss asked once he was finished.
Simeon shook his head. “They appeared out of nowhere, destroyed my operation, then disappeared like fucking ghosts.”
“Calm down, Simeon, you’re acting like a scared girl.”
“They dropped me in the desert with Matra’s fucking head and you want me to calm down?”
“What do you mean ‘Matra’s head’?”
“What do you think I mean? They butchered Matra, chopped off his head, and gave it to me.”
“Hmm, interesting.” Aslan snapped his fingers and an attendant appeared. He ordered two drinks. “The man who interrogated you was an American?”
Simeon nodded. “He definitely had an American accent. I think he was a Negro, a big fucking Negro. He wanted me to bring you the message, the one I gave you on the phone.”
The drinks arrived and Aslan handed one to his subordinate. “You said they want us to cease all activities in the Emirates.”
Simeon took the drink and finished it with one gulp. “Yes, or they said they would come for you.”
Aslan laughed. “They can fucking try.”
“Boss, it might be wise for us to lay low over in Dubai for a while. Maybe look at increasing our footprint somewhere else while we find out who did this.”
“That’s not bad advice, Simeon.” Aslan smiled. “But I have already put a plan in place to deal with this problem.”
“And?”
“Tomorrow a team of specialists will arrive from Russia: eight of our best men, all ex-Spetsnaz. You will take them to the UAE, find our enemies, and kill them.”
“I still don’t think that’s––”
“Enough!” Aslan ordered, jowls wobbling. “Prove to me that you are still worthy to be my lieutenant.” He lifted himself off the lounger with a grunt and waddled toward the villa. “Use your time here to pull yourself together. Relax and enjoy the party tonight.”
Simeon sat in a chair and studied one of the ridiculously expensive yachts sailing along the coast. The idea of going back to Dubai to face the men who had kidnapped him was terrifying. The way he looked at it, he had twenty-four hours to convince Aslan that he was more use here in Cyprus.
CHAPTER 16
BEIRUT–RAFIC HARIRI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, LEBANON
The Gulfstream touched down at Beirut’s international airport at midday. Mitch taxied the aircraft off the end of the main runway and angled it toward a hangar. Lascar Logistics ran a freight service out of the facility and it would serve as PRIMAL’s point of arrival.
“Very smooth, Mitch, nicely done,” Vance said as he and Ice walked down the stairs from the aircraft carrying their backpacks.
Mitch followed them. “Thanks, old man, and to think I’ve only ever flown it in a simulator.”
“What the hell?” said Vance. “You kidding me?”
"Why would I be kidding?" Mitch said with a wink.
A Lascar Logistics employee and a Beirut customs official met them at the bottom of the stairs. “Welcome to Beirut, gentlemen,” said the Lascar man as the government official inspected their passports. “Your vehicle is outside,” he added, handing Vance the keys.
“Thanks.”
“How long will you be staying?” the official asked as he handed back the passports. A number of well-placed bribes had ensured the team’s entry into the country with only the most token of formalities.
“Just a few days,” said Vance. “Our boss has arranged a boat for us to cruise around the Med.”
“Ah, very nice. Well, everything is in order here. Enjoy your stay.”
A Lascar contractor had already unloaded the aircraft and they grabbed their kit bags, heading out of the hangar and through an airport security checkpoint. A van was parked on the other side.
“I think you’re the only one who knows where we’re going, Mitch.” Vance threw him the keys.
Mitch drove them along the coast road, heading north. They passed endless apartment blocks on the foreshore, many under construction as the city continued to rebuild following the civil war of the eighties.
“They’ve come a long way since I was last here,” said Vance.
“When was that? Mid-nineties with Charlie Sheen?” joked Ice.
“Christ, that was a bad movie.” Vance laughed.
“Because it was about SEALs. No one ever made a bad movie about Marines.”
“That’s because they’re angry muthas. No one likes to piss off a Marine; they’ll go all Lee Harvey Oswald on your ass.”
The banter continued for twenty minutes before they arrived at the marina, parking next to the office. The door jingled as Mitch led them in. The man behind the counter was portly, with a caterpillar-like mustache lodged above his infectious smile.
“You should have a boat ready for a Mr. Braithwaite,” Mitch said in his crisp accent.
“Ah yes, the Princessa Bella, a very fine craft.” He checked his paperwork. “Everything has been taken care of already. If you would follow me, please.”
The Princessa Bella was a Sea Ray 560, fifty-six feet of sleek lines, chromed railings, and powerful engines. She was capable of cruising at a comfortable thirty knots and had more than enough range for their needs.
“She’ll do just nicely,” said Vance as they stowed their bags below.
“I’ll leave you chaps to sort things out.” Mitch turned to leave. “I’ve got to catch up with an old friend.”
“You sure you don’t want to take Ice with you?”
“No mate, I’ll be alright. This is Beirut, not Glasgow.”
***
It took Mitch ten minutes to drive from the marina to Beirut’s main shipping port. He pulled into one of the container terminals and stopped in front of a boom gate. “I’m here to see Mr. Azooz,” he told the guard.
“OK, OK. Down there on the left.” The guard raised the boom and indicated with a wave of his hand.
Driving between the towering stacks of cargo containers, he slowed as a huge crane swung a container out over the pathway. He waited until it was clear before continuing to a warehouse. Parking the van out the front, he strolled into a workshop where two men were working on a dilapidated forklift.
“You need a hand there, gents?”
“Mr. Mitch, I would know that beautiful voice anywhere.” The man pulled his head out from under the forklift and wiped his greasy hands clean on ragged coveralls.
“It’s good to see you, Azooz. Been a long time,” Mitch said as they shook hands.
“It has, oh it has. I was so excited to receive your order. I did not expect that you would be picking it up personally. Will you be in town for long?”
“No, old man, just a few hours. I’m actually in a bit of a hurry.”
“No problems at all, your shipment is complete.” He led the way through the warehouse and out the back through a doorway.
The area behind the workshop was occupied by a row of containers.
“Some of the things you asked for were very hard to find. I’m afraid it’s going to be a little more expensive than I originally quoted you.”
“How much more?” asked Mitch.
“Forty thousand.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to stiff me, Azooz.”
“No, Mr. Mitch, things have changed. Western guns are harder to get now. Lots of my old friends have gone out of business. The market is flooded with all of the cheap stuff coming out of Russia. You know, the Curtain comes down and they flood the market with junk.”
They stopped at a container and Azooz unlocked it, cracked the doors, and invited Mitch inside.
“You first, Azooz.”
The inside of the container smelled dry and dusty. It was empty exc
ept for a stack of boxes covered by an oil-stained plastic sheet.
“Ta-da!” Azooz pulled back the cover to reveal a MAG58 machine gun and a Barrett Light 50 sniper rifle.
“Very nice, Azooz, you’ve outdone yourself.” Mitch inspected the two weapons; they were almost brand-new.
“I told you, I always have the best. There is special ammunition and also this.” He took a small plastic case from the top of a pile of ammunition boxes and opened it. Inside was a device that looked like a laser pointer.
“Well done, old man.” Mitch inspected the gadget. “This will do the job nicely. What about the tripod for the Gimpy, and the other gear?”
“Yes, it is all here.” He pulled back the sheet further, revealing the tripod for the machine gun and a duffel bag. “I put the pistols inside as well.”
Mitch unzipped the bag and checked the contents. “I’ll need to borrow a few tools.”
“No problems, you can use anything in the workshop.” Azooz stood next to Mitch for a few seconds then gave a cough.
“Oh yeah,” said Mitch. “Suppose you’d be wanting cash.” He reached into his jacket and took out an envelope. “Here’s the originally agreed price.”
“But...” Azooz feigned shock.
“Keep your alans on, mate. Here’s another fifty K for your efforts. The people I work for appreciate good service.”
“Ah, thank you, Mr. Mitch. My men will load your van while you work.”
It took Mitch twenty minutes to fabricate what he needed using the parts Azooz had supplied. By then the Lebanese merchant’s men had loaded all the weapons into the van and he left with a wave. Another fifteen minutes and he pulled up next to the wharf alongside the Princessa Bella.
PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series) Page 31