by Chris Ryan
Malenkov looked towards Orlena. She was sitting across the table, a slim leather computer case on her lap. Slowly, she pushed it across the table. Malenkov hesitated, then unzipped the case, slipping his fist inside. He pulled out a bundle of notes, holding them crumpled in his hand.
'Twenty thousand,' said Orlena crisply. 'Ten thousand dollars, ten thousand euros.'
Malenkov laughed. 'I've lost one son already,' he said, the laughter ebbing away on his lips. 'For that amount of money, you want me to lose some more?'
Orlena tapped her fingers on the notes, her nails making a small thud against the thick wads of paper. 'There's more,' she said softly. 'As much as you need.'
Malenkov stood up, his expression suddenly angry. 'And how many men will die for that kind of money?' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'And how many will be betrayed?'
'One man will die,' snapped Orlena. 'Leshko. Serik Leshko.'
Malenkov gave them a hard, penetrating stare. 'You're crazy.'
'I wish,' said Matt. 'But those are the orders.'
'Leshko is one of the richest men in Minsk,' said Malenkov. 'He's the biggest gangster this side of the Don. Everyone is afraid of him, even the government. Knocking off Vladimir Putin, that would be an easier hit.'
'We want to take him, and we want you to help us,' said Matt.
Malenkov patted the case on his lap. 'Then this is just a down payment,' he said. 'Leshko is an evil bastard, so I'd be doing the country a favour. If a man is going to throw away his life, he doesn't want to do it cheaply or pointlessly.'
The office was fiercely lit, with a view that stretched down across the centre of Minsk. It was painted pale blue, and along the back wall there was a series of televisions, all tuned to different sports channels around the world. In front of the screens was a black Labrador tethered to the leg of a desk. On the wall next to them was mounted a series of machine guns: just about every important model ever manufactured in the Soviet Union, reckoned Matt. And from their gleaming, polished appearance, all of them were in perfect working order.
Serik Leshko leant forward. 'What did you say your name was?'
'Perkins,' replied Matt calmly. 'Brian Perkins.'
'Mr Perkins is from England,' explained Malenkov, sitting at his side. 'He is looking for someone to do some manufacturing for him.'
Matt could feel his muscles drawing tighter. They had spent a day travelling by train up from Kiev to Minsk, checking into one of the few smart hotels in the city: the Best Eastern, just off Independence Square. Orlena had stayed back in Kiev: they figured she might be recognised by Leshko's men, and that would blow their cover immediately.
They had been strip-searched by two security guards on their way into the building, and neither of them was carrying a weapon of any sort. The story had, of course, already been worked out in advance. Malenkov was to arrange an introduction to Leshko, with Matt posing as an English businessman who needed some manufacturing work done. It had taken three days just to get this far. Two meetings with Leshko's henchmen to establish their credentials, and a big sum paid into an offshore bank account to make them look like serious businessmen. Leshko didn't meet just anyone: you had to prove yourself before you got in.
Matt felt certain he had his lines memorised. Yet one slip, and this man would kill them. And there won't be a damned thing I can do about it, except to take my death with dignity.
'And what is it you want made?' said Leshko.
'David Beckham shirts, in Real Madrid colours, both home and away,' said Matt. 'I'm told you manufacture just about everything. Gucci shirts, Louis Vuitton handbags, Chanel perfumes, Moschino belts, the lot. A shirt shouldn't be a problem.'
Leshko shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his lips. Behind him sat two striking blondes, who appeared to be there just for ornamentation. 'It's no problem,' he replied. 'You give me the sizes, the design, the colours, and I can get them made for you.'
Matt nodded. 'I'd be looking for about ten thousand a month. I could pay you one pound sterling a shirt. That's ten thousand a month, for as long as I can keep selling them.'
'I can add up for myself,' said Leshko curtly.
'It would be cash on delivery,' said Matt quickly.
Leshko nodded. 'Then it can be done. Delivery to the Belorussian–Polish border. How you get them across Europe is your problem.'
'Agreed,' said Matt. 'I look forward to doing business with you.'
'I would need a deposit,' said Leshko. 'Thirty thousand dollars, in cash. Until I have that, I can't do anything.'
Haggle, thought Matt. If I agree too quickly, it looks suspicious. 'Twenty thousand.'
Leshko stood up. He was wearing a black suit, with a dark blue shirt open at the collar. A silver cross was glittering on his smooth chest. 'I'm not a haggling man, Mr Perkins,' he said. 'I'm not a trader in a street market. I state my price, and I expect to have it paid. In full, and on time.'
'Twenty-five thousand,' said Matt.
'Not a haggling man,' repeated Leshko. Now, you can give me thirty thousand in cash tomorrow, or you can find someone else to make your shirts.'
'Agreed,' said Matt. 'But I need a safe meeting place. Just you and me.'
'Alone.' Leshko laughed. He picked up a dog biscuit from a small case on the desk, and tossed it in the direction of the Labrador. 'I never go anywhere without my guards.'
'How many?'
Malenkov leant forward. 'We just want to make sure that we can hand over the money safely,' he said.
'And if we are to do business together, we're going to have to learn to trust each other,' said Leshko. 'Don't you agree, Brian?'
Matt smiled. 'Agreed. So let's start with you telling me how many guards.'
'Two,' said Leshko. 'And we'll meet by the side of the road. That way you can be sure it will be safe.'
'Which road?' asked Matt.
'Ten miles from here,' said Leshko. 'One of my men will give you a map on the way out. At three o'clock. You bring me the money, I'll get the factories working.'
Matt stood up, and stretched out his hand. 'Good doing business with you.'
Behind him, he could hear the Labrador barking viciously.
The lay-by was hot and desolate, the cracked tarmac of the road surface dried out by the sunshine. Matt stood by the side of the road, looking out across the flat, empty farmland. It was two forty-five. The wheat fields were just approaching harvest, sending ripples of gold stretching out towards the horizon. The air was completely still, with not even a trace of cloud visible in the sky, and the sun was approaching its midday peak.
'Make sure Leshko is standing closer to the road than you are, with his back towards it,' said Malenkov, pointing out the precise spot. 'That way I have a better chance of hitting him not you.'
They were standing on the edge of the A236, one of the main roads heading out of Minsk towards the Polish border. In most countries it might be heaving with traffic, but Belarus was so poor there was only a car or a truck every hour or so. More than enough time to kill a man.
'You think you can get Leshko and the guards at the same time?'
Malenkov shrugged. 'If you can distract them, I can kill them,' he replied.
The plan had been worked out in detail. Matt would meet Leshko at the place he had demanded: this lay-by, ten miles along the A236. Matt would be standing there by himself, while Leshko drew up in a car. Of his two guards, one would certainly stay in the car, the other would get out and stand with Leshko. Malenkov would approach them slowly in his Land Rover, raising little suspicion. At the last moment, he would accelerate, smashing the vehicle into Leshko and his guard. Matt would jump out of the way, take an AN-49 from the back of the Land Rover, turning it on the remaining guard.
'Just here,' said Matt, walking two yards to the side of the lay-by. 'This is where I will try to stand.'
Malenkov nodded. 'That should give me a straight run at them from the road.'
Matt paced the length of the lay-by, his heart thumpi
ng against his chest, and his blood rattling through his veins. It was the waiting that always got him. It was two minutes to three, and Leshko, he suspected, would be punctual: men were always on time when they were collecting money.
The moments leading up to a hit were full of silent, suffocated anxieties: a dozen different scenarios played themselves out in your mind, and at least half of them wound up with you lying dead on the floor.
Leshko is a professional. No kill is ever easy. But this one could be harder than most.
Malenkov was parked five hundred yards away, in a lay-by obscured by trees. After he saw Leshko drive past, he would wait five minutes before hitting the road. Matt was holding on to a plain black case, with thirty thousand in crisp notes stacked inside.
Suddenly, a car appeared on the horizon. It disappeared for a few minutes in a dip in the road, then there it was, some fifty yards away.
The Mercedes was black, with shaded windows. It pulled slowly into the lay-by, and from the way it braked, Matt judged the skin of the car was reinforced with armour: it juddered to a halt in a way a Merc never would unless it was carrying a lot of extra weight.
Armour, bullet-proof glass, and armed bodyguards. These guys take their security seriously.
Matt stepped forward. The window of the car slid down, and Leshko looked out, his eyes darting around the lay-by. 'You alone?' he snapped.
Matt spread out his arms. 'Completely.'
The door opened. The guard stepped out first. A tall man, more than six foot, with broad shoulders and light sandy hair, he walked slowly up to Matt with an arrogant dismissive swagger. He was wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt and boots; from the shape of his trousers, Matt reckoned there was one pistol in his pocket, and another tucked into his shoes.
'Search,' he barked towards Matt. 'Search.'
Matt stood with his hands and legs apart. The guard frisked him roughly, thumping his skin with the back of his palm. He pulled up Matt's shirt, checking the belt of his trousers, then feeling around the edge of his shoes.
Be as rough as you like, pal. You'll be dead in a few minutes.
'Clean,' shouted the guard over his shoulder.
Leshko stepped out of the car. A thin smile was playing on his face. He took two steps towards Matt, looking greedily towards the black plastic case on the ground next to his feet. 'I apologise for the inconvenience,' he said slowly.
'T-shirts are a dangerous business,' said Matt. He allowed himself one glance up the road. Nothing. But the dip in the road meant he would only see the Land Rover as it arrived within fifty yards of the lay-by. Matt judged that Malenkov should be here within one minute.
Just time for some small talk.
He looked back towards Leshko. 'As we get to know each other, I'm sure we'll trust each other more.'
'I hope so,' said Leshko. 'You have my money?'
In his head, Matt was counting down the seconds: thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .
'Of course,' he replied calmly. 'As you requested. And when will the shirts be delivered?'
'Within one week,' said Leshko quickly. 'My factories are fast. We can make whatever you want, whenever you want it. So long as we get paid.'
Steady yourself, Matt told himself: twelve, eleven, ten . . .
He picked up the case, and started to pass it across to Leshko. 'Here, you count it.'
Matt took two steps backwards: five, four, three . . .
He didn't want to look up, but he could hear the Land Rover coming over the ridge, and the hum of its engine as it started to accelerate. It was three hundred yards away now. Leshko was opening the case, his attention momentarily captured by the notes inside. Matt could see his eyes sparkling as he feasted on the thick wedges of notes. He turned, the case in his hand, as if he were about to put it in the car. If he does, Matt realised, he'll see Malenkov.
'Why don't you count the money?' said Matt quickly. 'Then we've wrapped up the deal.'
Leshko grinned. 'Shouldn't I trust you?'
'Just count it.'
The guard was standing next to him, his back to the road too, looking edgily towards Matt. The Land Rover was just a hundred yards behind them now, its speed picking up.
Keep looking the wrong way, mate. Then you won't know what's hitting you.
The tyres on the Land Rover screeched as it pulled hard off the road. It swerved, smashing into the back of the guard with a brutal blow. It impacted just above the waist, crushing hard into his spine, instantly paralysing him. He fell to the ground, the wheel of the vehicle crashing into his head.
In front of them, the guard in the Merc fired off a warning shot in the direction of Malenkov, then slammed the car door shut, and Leshko spun round, a look of terror on his face. The Land Rover had slowed after hitting the guard, but it had not stalled. In the split second available, Leshko tried desperately to save himself, throwing himself to the right, but the vehicle crushed into his left thigh, spinning his body sideways, and sending it high into the air. Matt could hear the snap of bones, where he had been hit: his left leg had definitely gone, maybe his hip and pelvis as well.
Matt jumped forwards. A fraction of a second. That's all I have to save myself.
He moved swiftly sideways, running around to the back of the Land Rover and grabbing the AN-49 stored in the open boot. The gun felt solid in his hands as he flicked its safety catch. Kneeling, he raised the gun to his eye, then fired a swift round of bullets into the guard on the floor. The body twitched as the metal tore into his flesh, then it fell still.
Matt moved around to the front of the Land Rover and turned his fire on to the Mercedes. The bullets ripped into the tyres, turning them into loose shreds, but the bullets just bounced off the skin of the car. Matt moved closer, peppering the windows with bullets, but they ricocheted up into the air. With the butt of the rifle, he tried to smash open the window, but the strength of the glass deflected his hardest blows.
'Fuck it,' shouted Matt. 'He's getting away.'
He could hear the engine on the Mercedes roaring into life, as the driver attempted to reverse. In that car, Matt realised, even with the tyres shot to pieces, he stood a good chance.
'Ram him,' shouted Matt towards Malenkov. 'Ram the bastard.'
The Mercedes had roared into action, its engine revving furiously as the driver spun it into gear. It screeched on to the road, sparks flying off the tarmac where the bare metal of its wheels hit the road. It turned, then accelerated towards where Matt was standing. He jumped, then flung himself sideways, a bolt of pain juddering up through his shoulder as he crashed against the tarmac.
But, in trying to hit Matt, the driver had lost the split seconds in which he could have made his own escape.
No moment for loyalty mate, thought Matt. You're wasting your own life.
Ahead, Matt could see the Land Rover ramming into the Mercedes, the two vehicles colliding in an inferno of twisting, burning metal. Malenkov had thrown himself from the cabin of his car, landing hard on the concrete surface of the lay-by. Flames were starting to lick through the underside of both machines, as petrol spilt out across the road. The driver's side window slid down, and a shot rang out through the air. The man was unable to aim, Matt realised: he knew that if he stuck his head out of the car, he'd get killed. His bullets were whizzing harmlessly through the air.
Poor, miserable bastard, thought Matt. He's trying to decide whether to get burnt alive or come out and get shot.