Bad Luck in Berlin

by Tom Wood

  ‘That’s not what this is about.’

  ‘Then perhaps you might tell me what is behind your actions.’

  Victor didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  Basayev said, ‘I didn’t take you for a humanitarian.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘So is this atonement for some past wrong or failing? If so, I find that quite touching. But one should be more careful to keep your emotions in check in our line of work. Otherwise, before you know it, you won’t like what you see in the mirror.’

  ‘I already don’t like what I see in the mirror. But that has nothing to do with what I do for a living.’

  ‘If your mind is made up and money cannot tempt you then you should be aware of something. You noticed me as soon as you entered the bar, correct?’ He didn’t wait for agreement. ‘Yet you were not sure of me until you performed that ridiculous stunt with your glass.’

  ‘Which worked.’

  ‘Yes, it worked,’ Basayev agreed with a nod. ‘It was an effective trick. But in your rush to defend your actions you fail to see the greater point. I performed no trick. I needed no stunt. I had only to observe you to know you. And I did so before you had even entered the bar. I saw you at the blackjack table, maintaining your surveillance on that Hungarian and trying not to win too many hands. I knew everything about you then. Tell me, did you see me on the casino floor? Did you see me watching you? Would you have looked at me twice had I not sat alone in the corner as you would have done yourself?’

  Victor remained silent.

  ‘I take it you understand my point.’ Basayev waited for an answer he didn’t get. ‘You still have a chance to withdraw. Don’t be foolish. Don’t let your ego convince you you are something you’re not.’

  ‘I’m not the one trying to persuade the other to back off.’

  ‘I’m explaining to you that you’re out of your depth.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Victor said, ‘but tonight I’m feeling lucky. What time is it?’

  ‘I don’t need to glance down at my watch to know the time. I don’t believe you do either.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to take Anika back. You can walk away. I can reimburse you for your costs. You can even make a profit.’

  ‘When I first saw you I could see you handled yourself well. You were observant and discreet, but not quite enough of either to notice me or disguise yourself from my notice. There is no shame in that. You are still young, after all. Neither that crass Hungarian gangster or the local crew or the casino security had any idea of your motives. Had you not decided to interfere with my work you could have continued your surveillance and learned what you needed to learn to be ready for when your target arrived. If you were good you would have. If you were good you would not have allowed yourself to be in this position. And to beg for your life’ – Basayev shook his head in disgust – ‘it’s pathetic. You’ve embarrassed yourself. Have some honour. Have some self-respect. Meet your end with a little dignity. Had you stepped aside willingly I could have taught you how to spot an enemy faster and to understand your limits and to know when you’re out of your depth. And now you have learned that the line separating self-confidence and arrogance is the most dangerous of all. And now there is no going back.’

  Victor said, ‘What time is it?’

  Irritation found its way into Basayev’s face. ‘What does it matter what time it is? You think keeping me here talking will prevent the inevitable?’

  ‘I’m asking because you’ve missed the last plane to Chechnya.’

  Basayev’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then you know who I am.’

  ‘I’ve had the Interpol highlights.’

  ‘Then you are even more foolish than I imagined for electing to stand in my way.’

  ‘Interpol know you’re in Berlin.’

  Basayev laughed briefly. ‘That is a good try. And even if they did, Interpol know me by reputation only. No evidence ties me to any crime. And they do not know what I look like. I know this because my sources are just as resourceful as your own.’

  ‘I doubt that. Tell me, when you gun me down in a casino bar, with that pistol you somehow got past security, do you think Interpol won’t make the connection?’

  ‘I’m somewhat more imaginative than that. Who says how or when I’ll dispatch you? I believe that’s my prerogative. I respect your perseverance, but not your desperation. I can see what you’re doing. It is written all over your face though you are doing everything to keep it from there. You want to keep me talking. The longer we talk the more familiar the situation becomes, the more relaxed, the more comfortable. Whatever it is you hope to achieve was always destined to fail against someone like me. The line between self-confidence and arrogance. You should have paid attention to that lesson. It was never going to work.’

  ‘It was never meant to work,’ Victor said. ‘What time is it?’

  Basayev’s face showed more irritation, but then a measure of intrigue that became concern. His lips pursed to speak, to ask why he kept being asked the same question.

  Victor spoke first. ‘Interpol may not know what you look like but they’ve been informed the Chechen killer known as Basayev has spent the evening sitting in the bar of the Golden Talisman casino. And they know you’re armed. They know because I told them.’ Victor lifted up the phone he’d placed on the table. ‘Would you like to check my call log?’

  A pause, then, ‘You’re bluffing.’

  ‘We’ve been talking for three and a half minutes. One and a half minutes longer than you declared you’d give me. Four minutes and eleven seconds have passed since I sent that message. Let’s say thirty seconds to digest the information. One minute to pass it on to the Federal Police. One minute for the tactical response unit on standby to get in their vehicles. One minute forty-one seconds left.’

  Basayev smiled. ‘Not enough time for the BKA to get here, wherever their headquarters is.’

  ‘It’s less than two miles away.’

  ‘Even with lights flashing that’s at least a four-minute journey through an urban area. How long does it take to withdraw a gun and squeeze a trigger? I’ve still got two minutes and twenty seconds to kill you and walk out of here.’

  ‘Two minutes and eight seconds now.’

  ‘Plenty of time.’

  ‘And leave a mountain of evidence behind for them? They’ll have a corpse, a bullet, your face on the casino cameras, witness statements. You won’t be able to get out of Berlin. Your anonymity will be ruined. I take it you value your anonymity.’

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ Basayev said again, but quieter.

  Victor held open his arms. ‘Then squeeze the trigger. One minute fifty-one seconds left.’

  Basayev smiled, skin creasing around his mouth and eyes.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Well played. You’ve saved your life and given that whore a respite. But now I’m going to walk straight out of here, having committed no crime. And I’ll return someday to take her back to where she belongs. Or are you going to protect her for ever?’

  ‘You won’t be back. Not after this. Because even with nothing on you the BKA will pull your face from the security cameras just on the strength of Interpol’s request. That picture will be passed on to anyone who needs it. The whole of Europe is about to get very difficult to travel through. And if you return to Germany you’ll be in custody the moment you step off the plane.’

  Basayev’s smile widened. ‘You’re forgetting something. My face may soon be known, but now I know yours. And I’m the worst enemy you’ve ever had.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  Basayev’s pale green eyes stared at him, unblinking and burning with rage and the promise of vengeance. ‘I’ll find you. One day. You know I will.’

  Victor stared back. ‘And I’ll be waiting.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Victor stood to leave a minute after Basayev. It was 00.29. Anika kept her gaze on the clock to avoid looking Victor’s way as he crossed the bar to
wards the exit. He didn’t try to say anything to her. He just left. Outside the casino he saw the blue flashing lights approaching and heard the wail of sirens. Three police cruisers. He watched them race past the Golden Talisman, on their way to where an anonymous tip reported three bodies were lying in a subterranean restroom, victims of a professional killer known only as Basayev, who was now fleeing the scene.

  Victor climbed into the crew’s Audi, and drove it away. Before the sun rose it would be nothing but a smouldering shell sitting on a strip of wasteland miles away from here with its licence plates tossed off a bridge into the Spree. There would be no link to the three bodies. The crew probably had records, and would be identified quickly even without IDs in their pockets, but those who knew where they had spent the evening worked for Farkas in Budapest and weren’t going to help the German authorities trace the kill team they’d hired.

  Without further evidence, the BKA would likely determine Basayev had killed the trio in a professional assassination for an indeterminate reason. If anyone ever figured out anything closer to the truth the security recordings at the Golden Talisman would have long since been deleted. Victor didn’t want the BKA picking up his face from them any more than Basayev did. Victor didn’t doubt Basayev would manage to slip out of Berlin, and if he used the sources he’d boasted of, would discover the BKA had surveillance footage of him, but he still wouldn’t come back to Berlin. Not when he found out the BKA had a photo of his face anyway, taken by Victor when he held up his phone no more than three feet from where Basayev sat opposite.

  Half an hour later, Victor felt his phone vibrate. There was a short message from his employer, but one weighted down with significance.

  Change of circumstances: Farkas can wait for the moment. Your skills are needed in Romania. Right now.

  Read on for a preview of Tom Wood’s new novel, The Enemy, out now

  CHAPTER 1

  Bucharest, Romania

  It was a good morning to kill. Impenetrable grey clouds obscured the sun and the city beneath was dark and quiet. Cold. Just how he liked it. He walked at a relaxed pace, in no hurry, knowing he was making perfect time. A fine rain began to fall. Yes, a particularly good morning to kill.

  Ahead of him a refuse truck made its slow way along the road, hazard light flashing orange, windshield wipers swinging back and forth to flick away the drizzle. Refuse collectors followed the vehicle, hands buried under armpits while they waited to reach the next pile of trash bags on the sidewalk. They chatted and joked among themselves.

  He interrupted the group’s banter as he passed through the spiralling cloud of exhaust fumes condensing in the spring air. He felt their gaze upon him, taking in his appearance for the few short seconds before he’d gone.

  There was little for them to note. He was smartly dressed – a long woollen coat over the top of a dark grey suit, black leather gloves, thick-soled Oxford shoes. In his left hand he carried a metal briefcase. His dark hair was short, his beard neatly trimmed. Despite the cold, only the bottom two of his four overcoat buttons had been fastened. Just a businessman on his way to the office, they would assume. He was a businessman of sorts, but he doubted they would guess the nature of his uncommon profession.

  Behind him, a trashcan clattered into the road and he looked briefly over his shoulder to see black bags split open and refuse spilling across the asphalt. The garbage men groaned and rushed to gather up the trash before the wind could spread it too far.

  After a short walk, the businessman arrived at a large apartment complex. It stood several storeys taller than the surrounding buildings. Balconies and satellite dishes jutted out from the dull brown walls. He made sure not to appear rushed as he took the half-dozen steps up to the front door. He unlocked it with his day-old key and stepped inside.

  There were two elevators, but he opted for the stairs, climbing twenty-two flights to the top floor. He reached his destination with little trace of fatigue.

  The corridor beyond the stairwell door was long and featureless. Spaced at regular intervals were numbered, spyholed doors. Dirty linoleum lined the floor. The paint on the walls was faded and chipped. The cool air smelled of strong detergent. Somewhere a baby cried softly.

  At the end of the corridor, where it intersected with another, was a door marked maintenance. He placed his briefcase down, and from a pocket removed a small packet of butter taken from a nearby diner. He unfolded the wrapper and carefully smeared the butter on to the hinges of the door. He placed the empty wrapper back into the same pocket.

  From inside his coat, he removed two small metal tools: a tension wrench and a slim, curved pick. The lock was significantly better than most, but the businessman unlocked it in less than sixty seconds.

  A door opened behind him.

  He slipped the lock picks back into the pocket. Someone said something in gruff-sounding Romanian. The man with the briefcase spoke several languages, but not this one. He stayed facing the door for a moment in case the speaker was talking to someone inside the apartment. A slim chance, but one he had to play nevertheless.

  The voice called again. The same guttural words, but louder. Impatient. His back still to the speaker, the businessman reached inside his coat. He withdrew his right hand and kept it out of sight by his hip. He turned side-on, to the left, to look at the resident, keeping his head tilted forward, eyes in the shadow of his brow.

  A heavyset man with several days’ worth of stubble was leaning out of his front door, fat fingers white on the frame. A cigarette hung from thick lips. He looked over the man with the briefcase and removed the cigarette from his mouth with a shaking hand. Ash fell from the end and on to the marked linoleum.

  He swayed as he spoke again, words slow and slurred. A drunk then. No threat.

  The businessman ignored him, picked up his briefcase and moved down the adjoining corridor, walking away from the drunk before he made any more noise. When a door clicked shut behind him, he stopped and silently retraced his steps, peered around the corner, saw no one, and placed the 9mm Beretta 92F handgun back inside his overcoat. He reset the safety with his thumb.

  Total darkness enshrouded the room on the other side of the maintenance door. Water dripped somewhere unseen. The businessman flicked on a slim torch. The narrow beam illuminated the room – bare brick walls, pipework, boxes, a metal staircase along one side. He negotiated his way across the space and ascended the stairs. His shoes were quiet on the metal steps. At the top, a padlock secured the rust-streaked roof access door. The lock was marginally harder to pick than the previous one.

  Eleven storeys up, the icy wind stung his face and every inch of exposed flesh. It subsided within a few seconds as the pressure equalised between the stairwell and roof. He crouched to reduce his profile against the sky and moved across the roof to the west edge. The wind was pushing the clouds northward, letting the glow of the rising sun spread across the city. Bucharest extended out in front of him, slowly awakening. Present location aside, a particularly beautiful city. This was his first visit, and he hoped his work would bring him back before too long.

  He turned his attention to his briefcase, unlocked it, and opened it flat. Inside, a sheet of thick foam rubber surrounded the disassembled Heckler & Koch MSG-9. He removed the barrel first and attached it to the body of the rifle. Next, he fixed the Hensoldt scope in place, followed by the stock and finally the twenty-round box magazine. He folded down the bipod and rested the weapon on the roof’s low parapet.

  Through the scope he saw a 10x magnification of the city – buildings, cars, people. For fun, he positioned the crosshairs over a young woman’s head and tracked her as she sipped her morning coffee, anticipating her movements to keep the reticule in place. She passed beneath the branches of a tree and he lost her. Lucky girl, he thought with a rare smile. He took his eye from the sight, repositioned the rifle, and looked through the scope once more.

  This time he saw the entrance to the Grand Plaza Hotel on Dorobantilor Avenue. The eightee
n-storey building had a modern façade, all glass and stainless steel, appearing both strong and sleek at the same time. The businessman had stayed in several hotels of the Howard Johnson chain while plying his trade around the globe, but not this particular one. If the Grand Plaza met the reasonable-to-high standards of the rest of the franchise, he imagined the target would have enjoyed a pleasant stay. He thought it only fitting that the condemned man should get a good night’s sleep before his morning execution.

  The man with the rifle took a laser rangefinder from his briefcase and aimed the beam at the hotel entrance, finding it exactly six hundred and four yards away in central Bucharest. Well within acceptable range, and only six yards under his estimate. He rotated the elevation wheel to correct for the distance and elevation.

  Outside the hotel entrance, a craggy-faced doorman revealed his bad teeth by yawning. Close to him, tied to a nearby streetlight, a purple ribbon fluttered in the breeze. The man with the rifle watched it for a moment, calculating the wind speed. Five, maybe five-and-a-quarter miles per hour. He adjusted the Hensoldt’s windage wheel, wondering how long it would be before someone realised the significance of the seemingly innocuous ribbon. Maybe no one ever would.

  He adjusted the scope’s power ring, decreasing the magnification to see a wider view of the hotel. There were few other people nearby. Some pedestrians, the occasional guest, but no mass of people. This was good. His marksmanship was excellent, but with just seconds to make the kill, he required a clear line of sight. He had no compunction about shooting whoever was unfortunate enough to stand between the bullet and its true mark, but such killings tended to give targets advance warning of their own impending demise, and as long as the target wasn’t mentally deficient, they moved.

  The man with the rifle checked his watch. Today’s unfortunate subject was due to appear shortly, if the itinerary included with the dossier was accurate. The businessman had no reason to doubt his client-supplied information.