The Enemy (28 page)

Petrenko laughed briefly. ‘I’m sure you do. Why don’t you meet me in the parking lot? We can go for a drive and talk in my car, about whatever you’d like.’

Victor reached the escalators. He gazed down at the concourse to where a number of cafés and eateries were clustered together. Dozens of people sat at tables drinking, dozens more walked past in an ever-moving mass. No sign of Petrenko.

Victor held the phone at arm’s length in the direction of the concourse for the count of five. At four, the announcement through the public address system stopped its broadcast. He heard Petrenko click his fingers again, this time faster, more urgently. Victor turned away from the escalators and followed the sign for the stairs.

‘I’d prefer somewhere a little further away,’ Victor said into the phone.

‘Why?’

Behind Petrenko’s voice Victor heard the dull clank of something metal. Then a few seconds later he heard the exact same sound again. Victor began descending the stairs. He wrapped his fingers around the phone’s microphone to muffle his voice and disguise the echo of the stairwell.

‘Because,’ he answered, ‘in the last ten minutes I’ve killed three of your men and it won’t be long before someone notices.’

Victor heard another clank.

‘Okay,’ Petrenko said, sounding more confident. ‘I understand what you’re saying. I don’t want the police involved either.’

Victor reached the bottom of the stairs and walked out on to the concourse, alert for signs of a shooter watching, but as expected there was no one there. He kept his fingers over the microphone. He looked
up to the various station signs jutting from the walls or hanging from the roof. He saw what he was looking for and changed direction.

‘What do you want from me?’ Petrenko asked.

‘I want to get to know you.’ Victor walked quickly through the crowd, passing a bank of ATMs and a winding queue of people eager for money.

Petrenko chuckled. ‘Anything else?’

‘And to convince you not to kill me.’

‘You’ll have to give me a very good reason not to.’

Victor pictured Petrenko smiling. He walked faster, avoiding a group of young guys standing in a small circle, eating burgers and slurping milkshakes.

‘I know just the thing to give you.’

Petrenko laughed. ‘And what would that be?’

‘Your life,’ Victor said, but not into the phone.

Petrenko stiffened. He didn’t speak or move. Victor stood behind him. To the left was a public toilet. An elderly man inserted coins and pushed through the metal stile. It clanked as he did so.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you not to turn around,’ Victor said.

Petrenko swallowed. ‘My men are close by.’

‘No they’re not,’ Victor said. ‘Three are in the mall and while you were talking to me you sent the fourth towards the escalators. He’ll realise in a moment I didn’t come down that way, but a moment is all I need.’

Petrenko took his phone away from his ear. ‘What do you want?’

‘Start walking,’ Victor dropped the phones into a trashcan. ‘Head towards the exit.’

Petrenko started walking. He didn’t hurry. Victor walked behind him, keeping Petrenko in his peripheral vision while he watched out for his other two guys.

‘Walk faster if you want to keep your knees.’

Petrenko increased his pace. ‘Don’t kill me. I’m begging.’

‘Whether I do or not depends on you.’

‘I’ll scream for help,’ he said, voice cracking.

‘Then I’ll shoot out your spine and be gone before anyone even thinks about coming to your aid.’

They left the train station. Now the rain had stopped it was marginally warmer outside than when Victor had arrived.

‘Which way?’ Petrenko asked.

‘Which way would you like to go?’

‘Left.’

‘Then we’ll go right.’

He kept close to Petrenko, but not too close. Friends or colleagues would keep a respectable distance. They walked for a few minutes, Victor telling Petrenko when to turn left or right and when to cross roads. They stopped in an alleyway.

Victor asked, ‘How did you know what I look like?’

‘I don’t suppose it’s worth lying,’ Petrenko said, looking over his shoulder.

‘Keep your gaze ahead,’ Victor ordered, ‘and lie if you think I’ll believe you. But I’ll take a finger for every time I don’t.’

‘One of my men saw you in the hotel suite beforehand.’ The breath caught in Petrenko’s throat. He swallowed, and continued. ‘I used my contacts with the cops to get a sketch artist’s drawing composed and circulated. I can give you money,’ Petrenko said, stalling, ‘drugs, women. Whatever you want.’

‘I don’t want money. Or drugs or women. You must have worked out by now that my target was Gabir Yamout, not yourself, but you came after me anyway. I killed your people, I attacked you in your own city, you couldn’t let that go unpunished and expect to keep your reputation. I understand that. But like you, I can’t ignore such actions.’

‘Well, get on with it,’ Petrenko spat. ‘You found me, big fucking deal. Just kill me and be done. You won’t get any sport from me.’

‘I’m not here for sport.’

‘Then what?’ If you were going to kill me you would have done so already.’

‘Very good,’ Victor said. ‘I don’t want you dead. I want you alive.’

‘Why?’

‘My target was Yamout, not you. That you found yourself in the crossfire was an unavoidable coincidence. For which I’m sorry.’

‘Apology accepted,’ Petrenko said flatly.

Victor said, ‘Forget about me.’

‘What?’

‘Withdraw the picture. Tell your people I’m dead, if it helps you save face. Tell them I was killed in a gun battle with your hired thugs.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m telling you to,’ Victor answered without emotion. ‘Because I’ll kill you if you don’t. Go back to your life and I’ll go back to mine.’

‘It would never work. No one will believe it without your body.’

‘There are three bodies in a back room at the station. So make it work. And if it doesn’t work, I will come back. If I could get to you now, I can get to you again.’

Petrenko stiffened. ‘I believe you,’ he said, swallowing, ‘I do. You win. I’ll do what you want.’

‘We have a deal then?’

‘Yes,’ Petrenko agreed. ‘We have a deal. But answer me this: why are you letting me live? Why not just kill me?’

‘I only kill if it serves a purpose,’ Victor explained. ‘And killing you would not stop my picture being out there. That’s all I care about. If I killed you now, to ensure it never surfaces, I would need to wipe out your entire organisation. And I just don’t have the time.’

‘Just who the hell are you?’

‘Who I am is not important. What is important is I’m letting you live, and if you want to stay alive you’ll never ask that question again.’ Victor circled around Petrenko to face him and said, ‘Hold very still if you like your life.’

Petrenko, his face glimmering in sweat, watched with horror as Victor reached into the breast pocket of Petrenko’s shirt. When Victor withdrew his fingers something was left behind.

He took a step backwards. ‘In your pocket I’ve placed a little parting gift. It’s a container of trinitrooxypropane. You’ll know it better by its more common name: nitroglycerin. It’s only a small amount, but if you make any sudden movements, or even breathe too heavily, it will blow a hole the size of a fist through your chest.’

‘
Oh my God
.’

‘Careful,’ Victor said and brought a finger to his lips. ‘I wouldn’t speak louder than a whisper, if I were you.’ He stepped away, walking
around Petrenko until he was out of the Belarusian’s line of sight. ‘If I ever hear that someone from Belarus is asking about me I’ll come back, but you won’t know that until I’m standing over your bed.’ He stepped away. ‘And remember, whatever you do now, make sure you move very, very slowly.’

It took an agonising six minutes for the team hired by Burliuk to find Petrenko. He hadn’t dared move so he had phoned, and was drenched in sweat by the time he heard his name being shouted. Two idiots appeared, red-faced and out of breath. They were as unfit as they were dumb.

Very slowly and quietly, he explained the situation. The two men looked at him blankly.

‘One of you,’ Petrenko said through gritted teeth. ‘Take it out.’

Neither said anything.

‘Someone had better do it right now.’

The bigger of the two nudged the smaller and he meekly stepped forward.

‘Just hold still,’ he said as he approached.

‘Shut up and get on with it.’

When the man was close enough for Petrenko to smell the tobacco smoke on his clothes, he reached towards the shirt pocket.

‘Do it slower than that, you imbecile,’ Petrenko whispered. ‘It’s nitroglycerin. Highly unstable. If you don’t do it slowly you’ll kill us both.’

The man’s hand was shaking. He was more terrified than Petrenko. The guy extended his index and middle finger and lowered them slowly into the shirt pocket. He gasped as his fingers touched the bomb.

‘Careful,’ Petrenko whispered.

After a deep breath to compose himself, the man withdrew his fingers. Petrenko couldn’t see what they held.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Nice and slow.’

‘It looks like a cigarette lighter.’

‘And it’s full of nitroglycerin,’ Petrenko whispered. ‘So be careful with it.’

Petrenko took a step away. His underling held it at arm’s length.

‘Put it on the floor,’ Petrenko said, stepping further away.

The man’s face was flushed and sweaty. He squatted down an inch at a time until he could lower the lighter until it touched the concrete. He gently laid it flat. He released a huge breath when his fingers were free of it.

Petrenko stepped around the lighter and backed off. His man followed.

‘What now?’ he asked.

‘Detonate it,’ Petrenko said.

‘With what?’

‘You’re armed, aren’t you?’

The hireling sighed and drew his silenced pistol. ‘Are we out of range?’

‘Of course we are,’ Petrenko spat. ‘Now shoot it.’

The aimed, took a breath, and fired. The lighter disintegrated, spraying out liquid, but there was no explosion.

Petrenko waited expectantly. Still no explosion. ‘What the hell?’

He pushed past the shooter, knelt down, and tentatively touched a finger to the small puddle of liquid. He smelled it. Just lighter fluid.

‘
Bastard
,’ Petrenko yelled, then laughed.

Moscow, Russia

Tomasz Burliuk disconnected the call from Petrenko and slipped his cell phone away. The Belarusian gangster had informed him that the freelancers Burliuk had hired were successful in giving Petrenko his show of strength, though three had died in the process. Burliuk cared nothing for dead hitmen. All he cared about was that Petrenko would keep the arrangement with Yamout a secret, and Kasakov would never find out Burliuk had made a deal with his best friend’s mortal enemies.

Burliuk took a composing breath and checked his reflection in the closest wall mirror for signs of stress and seeing none used his palm to brush the shoulders of his suit jacket. He flattened a wayward strand of hair, turned and returned to the far side of the dining room where Kasakov sat with Eltsina and two prospective clients. They were North Koreans, both serious men in their fifties, representatives of Pyongyang.

The club was one of Moscow’s finest and Kasakov’s personal favourite, which meant it was Burliuk’s favourite too. Burliuk frequently accompanied his friend when dining, but it was rare to see Eltsina at the same table. Whereas Kasakov and Burliuk were friends as well as colleagues, neither had any affection for the Russian. She was a humourless woman who rarely smiled and never seemed to have any fun. Jokes that had Kasakov crying with laughter would often garner no reaction from Eltsina. For this particular meal, however, her expertise was needed.

Doing business with North Korea was practically guaranteed to raise Kasakov’s profile if any aspect was not conducted with the utmost discretion and careful strategy to limit exposure. Despite the
huge sums of money to be made selling arms to the communist regime, as well as selling on weapons of their own manufacture, traditionally Kasakov only brokered with Pyongyang when the timing was just right, and the risks minimal. Now, however, times had changed and the need for a large deal with the communists was imperative to the organisation.

‘Gentlemen,’ Kasakov was saying, ‘I trust you enjoyed your meal and are ready to talk merchandise. As you’re aware, I’m offering you the unique opportunity of adding the Mikoyan MiG-31 to your nation’s air force. This is the very rare and extremely sophisticated BM multirole version of the interceptor model, which has significant upgrades to the original design. These include, but are not limited to, the ability to carry air-to-ground missiles, HOTAS controls, advanced avionics, digital data-link capability and Zalson-M passive electronically scanned phased array radar. That PESA has a detection range of four hundred kilometres and enables your pilots to simultaneously attack both ground and air targets. Your catalogue has the full list of the extensive improvements.’

Kasakov smiled before continuing. ‘Now, NATO has seen fit to designate this aircraft the Foxhound, which I think you will agree is a very apt name. The planes of Seoul and Washington will be like foxes to these merciless dogs.’

The North Koreans sat without expression.

Burliuk took his seat next to Kasakov and whispered, ‘I’m very sorry about that.’

Kasakov nodded, but Burliuk knew him well enough to feel his displeasure. No one else at the table acknowledged him.

‘The MiG-31BM is a very rare fighter,’ Kasakov added. ‘With these mighty jets in your air force you will join a powerful and elite cadre of nations. Aggressors to your country’s sovereignty, America included, will be terrified to send their planes into your airspace or their ships into your waters. Your strength will be unmatched, and your ambition realised. I have twenty for sale for the very reasonable sum of seventy million dollars each. This price is non-negotiable and includes delivery of the planes to the location of your choice at the time of your choosing.’