The Enemy (31 page)

‘No attempt at small talk today then?’

‘No, not today, my man. Not when last week you failed. Not when you got four civilians killed in the process.’

‘When you give me such a limited time frame in which to kill an arms dealer shielded by ten armed men, in a restricted location, you should recognise such a contract has a limited chance of success.’

‘Don’t expect the second half of your fee,’ his employer countered, ‘and don’t think you only have the one job left for me after this debacle. I thought you were better than that, I really did.’

‘Given the unforeseen circumstances I encountered, if you had anyone else capable of pulling off that job, you really should have used them instead.’

A pause, before, ‘What circumstances?’

‘I don’t know where you’re getting your information from,’ Victor said, ‘but it couldn’t be less accurate. Those four civilians I killed were not civilians.’

‘So who were they?’

‘I don’t know,’ Victor answered. ‘I spotted one of them when I first arrived. At the time I thought he was one of Yamout’s people. But they weren’t allied with either Yamout or Petrenko. They were a surveillance team, though I use that term lightly. They didn’t shoot or fight like your typical pavement artists. They had Petrenko’s suite rigged with cameras linked to a computer in the suite next door. When I went after Yamout, they intervened, which is the only reason they died and Yamout lived.’

His employer processed the revelation for a long moment before saying, ‘If they intervened, then they—’

‘No,’ Victor interrupted, ‘when Yamout called for help they did nothing. If they had any association, they would at least have answered. They ignored Petrenko’s call for help too.’

‘Did you speak to any of them?’

‘Briefly. They told me nothing useful, but they spoke in Russian, though I don’t believe they’re Russians. Or Belarusians. The only one I saw in the daylight had tanned skin and dark hair. I guessed he was Middle Eastern, working on the assumption he was with Yamout, but he could have easily been South American or Mediterranean. Or just had some of that heritage.’

‘That’s pretty broad.’

‘Did I say it wasn’t?’

‘I don’t suppose they had ID on them, did they?’

‘Belarusian driving licences.’

‘Genuine?’

‘Expert fakes.’

‘So they’ve got resources.’

‘Plus training, experience, financing, and accurate intel – unless Yamout and Petrenko advertised their meeting in
Arms Dealers Weekly
.’

‘So you’re saying some intelligence agency was running an op on Yamout or Petrenko and we’ve stepped right in the middle of it?’

‘Is the most likely case,’ Victor agreed. ‘Or they’re private operatives working for some other organisation or individual.’

‘You said they had rigged Petrenko’s suite up with cameras, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So logic would dictate they were watching Petrenko, else they would have spied on Yamout back in his own country, wouldn’t they? Could have been cops or domestic agents looking to bust Petrenko for one of his many crimes.’

‘None of them tried to arrest or apprehend me,’ Victor explained, ‘which they would have done had they been from the Belarusian security services. My guess is they were interested in what Yamout and Petrenko were discussing, as opposed to them as individuals.’

‘Either way, we’ve been compromised. How exposed are you?’

Victor had been waiting for that question. He knew his employer would be paying very careful attention to his answer.

‘Minimally,’ Victor said. ‘I’m a careful kind of guy, and the four team members are all dead. I put a magazine full of nine mils through their computer’s hard drive. No one’s going to be able to recover the recordings.’

‘Good,’ his control replied through a sigh of relief that should have been better disguised, considering the implications had Victor’s answer been different. ‘And what about the next day? I heard there was a significant number of deaths at some train station. That wouldn’t be your doing, would it?’

‘I extracted by car,’ Victor answered. ‘Anything that happened the day after is likely to be Petrenko striking out against enemies he suspects came after him.’

‘I suppose so.’

From the tone, Victor couldn’t be sure whether he’d been believed, but there was nothing his employer could do to prove the incident at Minsk Central had been Victor’s doing. Any security-camera footage would be inconclusive at best.

‘Right,’ the voice said after a moment, ‘if there’s no exposure there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll let you know if that changes, but until then we carry on as normal. I won’t need you right away, but stay in Europe. You’ll be back to work soon enough.’

After the call had disconnected, Victor sat still in the darkness with only his thoughts for company. He examined one of the wallets he’d taken from the surveillance team, as he had done several times already.
Aside from the Belarusian driver’s licence and some cash, it was empty. There would be fingerprints, of course, and if those they belonged to were on anyone’s database no doubt the CIA could identify that person, but Victor didn’t want his employer to know anything about his attackers before he himself did. If Victor’s suspicions proved to be correct, then it could put him in a very precarious position with the CIA.

He thought about the events at the Hotel Europe. There were some grey areas where he couldn’t recall every detail, but that was always the same after combat. Certain events remained vivid for years, whereas others – not necessarily of less significance – disappeared from memory within minutes. Victor didn’t understand the physiological or psychological reasons behind it, and he didn’t want to either.

Checking his other email accounts, he found a reply from Alonso, dated last week. The email explained that Alonso was in Europe for just one more day and if they were going to meet up it had to be very soon. That had been several days ago, so Alonso’s European contract would have gone to an alternate professional. The email also went on to say that, in retrospect, Hong Kong hadn’t been that much fun and Alonso wouldn’t recommend going. Victor deleted the message. He could have used the money the Hong Kong job would have given him, but it had been withdrawn for some reason. Maybe the client had got cold feet or the target had been hit by a train.

Victor found he’d missed out on another job from a different broker too. A Kazak working out of Moscow, who Victor hadn’t done a job for in years, had an unspecified but very dangerous contract worth a potentially huge fee. He wanted to pitch Victor for it. When Victor replied to the email asking for more information, the message was bounced back. The recipient account was no longer active, so like the Hong Kong job it might have been withdrawn, or perhaps it had already gone to another killer or killers. His other accounts were full of spam and nothing else. No one was offering work. He had been out of the market for over six months, so it was hardly surprising brokers were going elsewhere.

He didn’t believe his employer was going to be a problem, at least not yet. But the voice on the other side of the world would want to
know whose surveillance team Victor had killed just as much as Victor did, and Victor wanted to find out first. It would have helped his cause to have kept his findings to himself, but it wouldn’t have been long before his employer had discovered that those additional bodies hadn’t belonged to civilians. Being found to have withheld information wouldn’t improve his precarious position with the CIA.

Another day of healing and he would move south to Bologna. If Victor was going to identify the men he had killed in Minsk before his employer did, he was going to need some help.

Moscow, Russia

Despite the smiles, anecdotes, kind words and handshakes, Vladimir Kasakov was bored, frustrated and wishing he was anywhere else. The party was typical fare for the Moscow elite. There were politicians and oligarchs and celebrities all rubbing shoulders, acting friendly and laughing while secretly hating each other. The oligarchs hated the power the politicians wielded, while in turn the politicians hated the wealth of the oligarchs, and both hated the popularity of the celebrities, who hated the politicians and oligarchs simply for not being celebrities too. Kasakov was unique in that he hated them all.

He threw some champagne down his throat. He stood alone, only caring about when the next tray of canapés would pass his way. Despite doing his best to give off leave-me-alone signals, plenty of people wanted a piece of him, and it took an enormous act of self-restraint not to start throwing hooks and uppercuts. Normally he was able to mingle deftly, converse affably, and tell a mean joke. For all that he loathed such parties and their odious partakers, it was essential that he attend to maintain the acquaintances, contacts and friendships necessary to remain a free man. Even though Russia never extradited nationals, there was always the chance some politician might turn against him, whether to take over his business, gain favour with the international community, or perhaps, unlikeliest of all, out of moral decency. So long as the Ukrainian had the backing of the rest of Moscow’s aristocracy, he could sleep easily. Tonight, however, Kasakov couldn’t put on his party face. All his thoughts were consumed with Illarion, Ariff and the vengeance he so urgently needed.

*

The only person at the party he had any time for was on the opposite side of the room, hanging on the words of some handsome Russian actor. Izolda wasn’t alone. There had to be a dozen wives similarly enraptured, and a dozen husbands jealously trying not to let it show. The difference between Izolda and the other wives was that the handsome actor was obviously as taken with her as she was with him. It wasn’t surprising. Kasakov’s wife looked simply gorgeous, as always. Tall, slim and graceful, she outshone every woman in the room. Her backless evening gown managed to be both unashamedly sexy yet undeniably elegant. Some of the less classy wives showed off their inflated chests with necklines that almost reached their navels, and could neither frown nor smile thanks to their stretched and frozen faces. Izolda’s black hair was tied up – how Kasakov preferred it – and the style elongated her already enviable neck. The diamond earrings that had been a birthday gift from her husband danced and glittered as she laughed.

The actor made another joke, and by the strength of the mirth it generated from the coven of wives he had to be something of a comedian. Kasakov had watched him in a couple of Russian films and knew the man had to be a better comic than actor. The man leaned close to Izolda and whispered into her ear, at which she smiled, wide and carefree. For once Kasakov could not detect the pain she hid so well from others, if not from him. They had been married for a little over fifteen years, and though Izolda was in her late thirties now, she was still without a child. It killed Kasakov to know her unhappiness was his fault.

Izolda laughed again and her hand moved to the actor’s arm. He was no more than thirty and no doubt as fertile as he was handsome. Kasakov imagined Izolda was fantasising about sleeping with the actor at this very moment. From the way he looked at her, the actor’s own thoughts were certainly no different. If she succumbed to his charms, Kasakov couldn’t blame her. It was his infertility that caused her to cry into her pillow in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. He pictured the scene, a month from now, when she came to him to announce the miracle they’d been waiting for. He would hold her, and they would both cry and he would never comment that their child looked nothing like him, else kill her for the betrayal.

Izolda glanced his way and saw him watching. Guilt and fear began stripping the smile from her face, but Kasakov hid his thoughts, smiled and waved back as if he was ignorant of the scene unfolding before him. She was convinced by him, or convinced enough, to regain her own smile. Maybe it wouldn’t be the actor now, but if not it would be someone else eventually. Kasakov could feel it in the pit of his stomach.

‘Have another drink,’ a familiar voice said. ‘You look like you could use it.’

Kasakov turned to see another annoyingly good-looking face. Tomasz Burliuk was holding two champagne flutes. He handed one to Kasakov.

‘I didn’t think you were coming.’

Burliuk sipped some champagne. ‘I thought you could use the company.’

Kasakov gestured. ‘I take it you’ve seen my wife.’

Burliuk stared at Izolda for a long time before saying, ‘It’s hard not to.’

‘Every woman hates her,’ Kasakov remarked. ‘Every man desires her.’

Burliuk took a big swallow of champagne. ‘And yet she’s yours and yours alone.’

Kasakov nodded and pretended he didn’t notice how his best friend gazed upon his wife.

‘So,’ Burliuk said, finally tearing his eyes away. ‘Who is our gracious host tonight?’

‘Some oligarch who bribed and threatened his way into buying up formerly state-owned gas reserves,’ Kasakov explained. ‘He now controls most of the supply piped to Europe. He’s a complete prick.’

‘You say that about everyone.’

‘With this guy, it’s an understatement. He spends money like it’s meaningless. I heard he has fifty cars.
Fifty
. Can you believe that? And three private jets. He makes me look like a peasant.’

‘We were peasants once.’

‘Which is why we appreciate what we have.’ Kasakov lightly backhanded Burliuk on the chest for emphasis. Then he sighed and said, ‘And tell me, my oldest friend, what is the point of any of it?’

Burliuk looked confused. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m tired, Tomasz. I’m tired of living like this, only sneaking out of the country for business, not able to risk going back to my homeland. I’m tired of carrying the weight of an empire on my shoulders. Some days I honestly do think that—’ Kasakov’s phone vibrated and interrupted him. He checked it. ‘Eltsina,’ he explained. ‘She’s outside. She says it’s important, so I’d better go and find out what the bitch wants.’

‘Shall I come too?’

Kasakov shook his head. ‘Stay here and keep an eye on Izolda.’