by Tom Wood
A confused look passed over Callo’s face. ‘Business?’
‘Yeah,’ Sykes said. ‘Business. You know, the diamond trade. How is it? You making lots of money?’
‘I… I guess. It could be better.’
Sykes laughed. ‘Could be better?’ He glanced at Abbot and Blout. ‘You hear that guys? Could be better. I heard about your little trip to that Greek bar. You were throwing cash around like it was going out of style. And that villa overlooking the beach; bet a week’s rent on that is a month’s take home for me. So don’t be modest. I don’t know how you do it. Uncut diamonds look like shitty little rocks to me, but you’ve got the magic eye, don’t you?’
‘I guess.’
‘What did I say about modesty?’
‘Okay, I’m good at what I do.’
‘Then just facking say so, prick,’ Abbot spat.
‘Excuse my friend here,’ Sykes said. ‘He’s pissed because the coffee machine doesn’t work. I’d offer you a water, but I guess you’ve had enough from the hose.’
Callo shook his head. He had been in a constant state of thirst for two days. ‘No, some water would be good.’
‘Okay,’ Sykes said. ‘Answer a few more questions and I’ll have a cup brought in for you, how does that sound?’
‘Thank you,’ Callo said.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Sykes put his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Tell me about your relationship with Baraa Ariff.’
Callo hesitated. ‘What about him?’
‘Just what I said. Tell me about your relationship with him. And don’t forget about the lie detector.’
‘I… I sell his diamonds for him.’
Sykes tilted his head to one side. ‘You mean you fence his diamonds for him that he receives as payments for arm sales in Africa?’
‘I don’t know where they come from. I just-’
‘You’re a clever boy, take a guess. What else would an arms dealer trade for diamonds?’
Abbot scooped out some flesh from one of the destroyed oranges and ate it. ‘Hot orange ain’t that bad.’ Juice dribbled down his chin. ‘Fancy a bit, mate?’
Callo shook his head. Blout threw some anyway. It hit Callo on the cheek.
‘I’m waiting,’ Sykes prompted.
Callo said, ‘He gets the diamonds for arms.’
‘That wasn’t so hard,’ Sykes said. ‘I know you’re afraid that word might reach Ariff that you ratted him out, but that problem only exists if you ever leave this place. Get the subtext? So make right now your priority and start answering my questions faster.’ Sykes’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now, we’ve established that you fence Ariff’s diamonds for him, so you profit from the illegal arms trade.’
‘But I didn’t know.’
‘I don’t give a shit whether you knew or not. I don’t give a shit about who you are. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re not a very important individual. Does anyone even know you’re gone? Would they care if they knew?’
Callo averted his eyes.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Sykes said. ‘Back to Ariff. What else do you know about him?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Abbot gestured angrily. ‘You’re not sure what you know? What kind of bullshit answer is that?’ His face was red. He looked at Sykes. ‘We should cook his testicles right now. That will make him sure what he knows.’
‘ No, no,’ Callo pleaded. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’
‘Where is Ariff?’ Sykes asked.
‘I don’t know. Why would I know?’
Abbot slapped Callo across the face. ‘Because you were seen in Antwerp a week ago selling a large amount of uncut ice.’
‘Which you got from Ariff,’ Sykes added. ‘So we know you’ve seen him recently. Are you really so dumb you do not get that some of the questions we ask you we already have the answers to? You tell me one more lie or try to be even the slightest bit evasive when answering and we’re going to turn on the lie detector and go get your water. That’s a two-minute round trip. Think what your nuts are going to look like after one hundred and twenty long seconds.’
Tears streamed down Callo’s cheeks and he blinked to clear his eyes. ‘Ariff’s living in Lebanon now. He has a house in Beirut.’
‘Where in Beirut?’ Sykes asked.
‘I don’t know where exactly, I’ve never been. I last saw him in Cairo. It must be in the hills above Beirut because he said he had a great view of the city below and the sea. On the slopes of Mount Lebanon, because he said he had to get some cedar trees cut. They grow up there.’
Sykes turned down the corners of his mouth and nodded. ‘That’s pretty damn good deduction there. I’m impressed. Genuinely. Now, you sold his diamonds and you’ve got his cash and we know Ariff doesn’t like to use banks. So how were you going to give it to him?’
When Callo hesitated, Sykes gestured to Blout. ‘Flick the switch.’
Callo screamed, ‘ NO.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘It’ll be somewhere in Europe or the Middle East. It always is. But I won’t know until I get word. Then I’ll go and hand over the cash. It’s how it always works.’
‘Will you meet Ariff himself?’
‘Or his business partner,’ Callo said. ‘Gabir Yamout.’
‘When will you get that message?’
‘It’ll be soon. Maybe this week.’
‘Good boy,’ Sykes said with a smile. ‘You’re doing great. Keep this up and you’ll even get to see the sun again. Now, tell me how you’ll receive the message.’
Sykes questioned Callo for a further hour before getting him his water as promised. It couldn’t have gone better. Procter was going to be thrilled with the information Sykes had collected. It had been clear to Sykes just from reading about him that Callo would talk without the need for too much encouragement, or coercion as the CIA liked to call it. Sykes had read the torture bible of permissible interrogation techniques in the run-up to Callo’s arrival, and knew what was allowed and what wasn’t. Ball frying definitely fell into the latter category, but then this wasn’t as it seemed.
The set-up Sykes had fixed for Callo had been perfect. They were in an abandoned Cold War bunker that served admirably as a CIA black site. Some rented locals had played the parts of prisoner and interrogators for the little vignette Callo had just happened to witness, with pork chops over a camping stove providing the smell of burnt testicles. The generator was real, though, the exploding oranges were real, but Sykes wasn’t going to flick the switch. He just wanted Callo to believe he would.
Sykes’s orders had been explicit. Callo was not to be harmed in any way, which was better than he deserved, but good because Sykes had some experience of violence and he knew he didn’t have the stomach for real torture. Scaring Callo shitless was necessary, however, and a bit of roughing up was allowed so long as it left no marks. Callo was a career criminal and a fence with fingers in lots of illegal pies, so hurt or not, today’s unpleasantness was a bit of karma for his long list of sins.
And, Sykes was surprised to admit to himself, it had been a lot of fun watching Callo squirm and beg.
CHAPTER 11
Berlin, Germany
The first of Farkas’s entourage arrived alone. Victor spotted him easily enough, walking with a certain level of arrogance, expecting others to move out of his way, giving hard stares to anyone who didn’t. The man looked about thirty with pale skin and dark hair that reached below his ears. He wore a poorly fitting suit and talked into a cell phone, shouting in Hungarian to someone Victor guessed was a wife or girlfriend.
Victor’s grasp of the language was passable at best. He’d been refreshing his understanding of Hungarian since he’d first received the assignment, but there was still a long way to go. The Hungarian kept the phone wedged between his head and shoulder as he fumbled for his key to open the door. Sipping his orange juice outside the cocktail bar, Victor couldn’t see whether the man was armed. He wrote a number
one on a fresh page in his notebook and next to it listed the man’s physical attributes and tactical awareness — None.
It was an hour before he made any more notes. The man left the building and returned thirty minutes later, this time laden with shopping bags and carrying a tray of five coffees. A supply run then, getting essentials in for the boss’s arrival. Victor added the time the trip took and the brand of coffee purchased to his notes as well as writing Unarmed.
Farkas must be arriving soon, otherwise his coffee would get cold, so Victor finished his drink, gathered his things, and walked slowly along the street, a casual pace, just a local in no hurry to get to where he was going. He took out his phone, pretended to answer it, and engaged in small talk with the fictional person of reasonable wit.
The phone gave him a reason to loiter on the sidewalk outside the apartment building. He stayed a few yards away from the front steps. He wanted to be close when Farkas arrived but not close enough to smell his cologne, or lack thereof.
It didn’t take long. A black Mercedes sedan pulled up outside the building and Farkas climbed out after one of his underlings held open the door for him. Farkas appeared fit and healthy, just shy of six feet and around one hundred and seventy-five pounds. The dossier listed him as both a couple of inches taller and some ten pounds heavier. Not too important intelligence to get wrong, but it didn’t say much for Victor’s sources. Unlike the other men who arrived with him, Farkas had a tan, probably fake. Too dark and too even. He wore an expensive-looking black suit with a red shirt and red tie. It was a stylish combination, or would have been without the chunky gold chain hanging above the shirt.
Victor continued his fake conversation and drew only a passing glance from one of Farkas’s men. Three arrived with Farkas, one in his forties and the other two in their thirties, un-athletic physiques, all in suits, each with a suitcase, one with two, all armed. Handguns in underarm holsters by the way their jackets hung. They were relaxed but watchful. Victor detected no special training, military or otherwise.
The guy who’d arrived earlier appeared, looking flushed and apologetic. He hurried down the steps, pushing his hair back behind his ears. Victor figured the man was saying sorry for being late and that the penthouse was ready for Farkas’s stay. Farkas looked at him with disdain but didn’t say anything.
Victor waited a minute before leaving. He entered a boutique on a nearby street where he bought an entirely new set of clothes, dressed in them in the changing rooms and carried his old clothes out in a store-supplied shopping bag. He took a seat outside the coffee shop on the same side of the street as the apartment building and ordered a cappuccino and chicken salad panini. His position offered him a more restricted view of the street than the bar had, but he could still clearly see the sidewalk immediately outside the building.
The afternoon was sunny enough to justify wearing sunglasses and warm enough so that Victor draped his jacket over a chair. He took his time eating. The coffee shop had a selection of newspapers and he took one to pretend to read. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to pretend for long as his instincts told him Farkas wasn’t the kind of guy to stay cooped up inside on his first day. Either he would need to get down to business or more likely he would leave to get something to eat. Sooner rather than later.
By the time Victor was finishing his second coffee his wait was over. Farkas appeared with all of his four guys just after three p.m. They were laughing and joking, Farkas too, though far less enthusiastically. Friendly, but not friends, Victor noted. He watched as they passed, overhearing the one who’d arrived first mention something about a restaurant.
Victor waited until they were out of sight before leaving his chair. He used the set of copied keys to let himself inside and made his way up to the penthouse. He stood listening in front of the door for a moment to ensure no one was coming or going below him. The pick gun, though not loud, wasn’t exactly silent either.
He removed the gun from his rucksack, inserted the long pick into the penthouse’s lock, and squeezed the trigger. Immediately the pick vibrated rapidly and in seconds the lock was open. Victor hadn’t used one for a while — lock picks could be disguised or hidden more easily — but he couldn’t deny the pick gun’s usefulness.
He opened the door and stepped inside. The alarm made its dull warning beep. Victor approached the keypad and entered one, five, eight, two. It didn’t work so he tried two, five, eight, one. The warning beep stopped.
Victor entered the lounge and saw the Hungarians had already made themselves at home. The smell of tobacco hung in the air. There were mugs left on the floor next to the sofas and luggage sat on the coffee table. He scanned the area for anything he could use to his advantage but quickly dismissed the lounge as a strike point; then again, he’d never expected it to be.
The problem of how to place the bomb had been on Victor’s mind since arriving in Berlin. It had to be somewhere where it was sure to be triggered, but only where Farkas alone could trigger it. With another four men sharing the penthouse with him, it meant that the answer hadn’t come easily.
Remote detonation was out. The bomb could be planted on the street outside the building and detonated when Farkas passed. However, there were no convenient trashcans where Farkas was certain to pass. The device could be placed under a car parked outside, but it would be a risk planting it in the first place and the car could easily be driven off before Farkas walked by. And that was without the very real risk of civilian casualties.
The bomb had to be set inside the apartment. It could be placed under Farkas’s bed and remote detonated when he climbed in, so long as he could be observed doing so. When the realtor had shown him around, Victor had looked through every window to see which buildings overlooked the master bedroom. There was one potential viewpoint, but if the bedroom drapes were closed it would render that position useless.
He toyed with the idea of placing the bomb on the underside of the mattress with a pressure sensor that would trigger the blast when Farkas lay down. The trouble was the bed was king-size and Victor had no way of knowing which side Farkas would sleep on. The sensor could only be set to trigger the bomb under considerable weight in case luggage or other items were placed on the bed. Someone else could trigger the bomb just by sitting or lying on that side of the bed; equally, if Farkas decided to sleep on the other side then the bomb would never go off.
The noise of the key in the lock registered instantly. Victor turned towards the bedroom door and gently pushed it closed. He listened as the front door opened and someone stepped inside; a lone man by the sound of the footsteps. One of Farkas’s entourage. If it was Farkas himself returning, all of his men would likely accompany him.
Had the guy noticed that the alarm had been switched off? If so, Victor couldn’t tell by his movements. He heard the man in the lounge, the sound of his shoes on the floorboards growing louder as he headed for the bedrooms. Maybe he was back because he’d forgotten something. Or maybe he was back because Farkas had forgotten something. Victor’s gaze found the slim leather-bound notebook sitting on the bedside table. A schedule, maybe.
He squatted down to look under the bed. Finding it only a few inches in height, he stood back up, glanced at the wardrobe. It was full of hanging suits and suitcases. No room for him as well. The en suite bathroom was the best place to hide, except for the chance that the guy would decide to check his reflection before he left. If that happened there was only one way for Victor to deal with him and the job would fall apart.
The footsteps grew louder, closer.
The Hungarian with the long dark hair opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. The room was larger and nicer than the one he was sharing with two of the others. It smelled better too. He saw the black notebook and scooped it up into a hand. He slipped it into his inside jacket pocket for safekeeping.
He turned to leave, but on a whim of boredom opened the door to the adjoining bathroom.
Again, it was much nicer than the main bathr
oom that was quickly becoming a mess with the toiletries of four men competing for space. The shared toilet was already filthy with the bowl ringed by piss puddles. The Hungarian examined the expensive bottles that Farkas had lined the sink with and selected an intriguing tube of cream. He opened it, sniffed it, squeezed out a drop, and rubbed it into his hands. They felt soft afterwards. He replaced the tube exactly as he had found it. Farkas was a good boss most of the time but he was careful to maintain the hierarchy.
The Hungarian left the bathroom, reset the alarm and left the apartment. He didn’t remember disabling it but he didn’t think twice about it.
Victor heard the front door shut and remained as still as he could for exactly sixty seconds just to be sure before moving from his position. He pulled the curtain to one side and dropped down from the window sill where he’d been balancing with his legs contorted, his back pressed flat against the glass, arms stretched out for support. The sill hadn’t been as deep as he would have liked, but the guy hadn’t noticed the hang of the drapes wasn’t quite as straight as they should have been.
The moment his shoes touched the carpet the alarm started to beep. Victor hurried to the panel and typed in the code.
Back in the bedroom, he took his bag from the wardrobe where he’d placed it with Farkas’s luggage, set it on the bed, and took out the bomb. Confident in his decision, it took him less than four minutes to place the bomb and he was outside the building shortly after resetting the alarm. For Victor the job was effectively over.
Now it was all down to Farkas.
CHAPTER 12
Adorjan Farkas was drunk. A couple of beers had preceded his steak and more beers and a few cocktails had followed the meal. His men had convinced him to make a night of it, and when five Hungarians did that the results were often messy. While in a country where no one knew Farkas, or how he made his money, he felt more relaxed than he often did at home, but he was in Germany on business and as such had to keep some level of control.