The Enemy (34 page)

Zahm nodded, understanding the strategy and feeling annoyed with himself for being so quick to anger before he knew the facts.

Father said, ‘There’s that poker face again.’

‘What happened to the surveillance team?’ Zahm asked.

Father waited while two male students walked nearby, talking loudly and gesticulating in the way only those under twenty found acceptable. When they were out of earshot he continued. ‘Yamout was in Minsk to buy weapons, not to sell them, though we did not know that in advance. While he was meeting his supplier, an assassin attempted to kill him. My boys, passionate and selfless as they were, did not hesitate in intervening to preserve our link to Ariff’s network. We’ve protected both Yamout and Ariff in times past, always without their understanding, and in this instance my boys acted most courageously, but four out of the five were viciously murdered by the assassin.’

Father took a moment to compose himself and wipe his eyes with a patterned handkerchief. He said, ‘Yamout survived the attack, so my brave boys succeeded in protecting one of our most valuable sources. But their sacrifice is no less tragic for that.’

‘Who were the shooters?’

Father shook his head. ‘Singular. We have him on film. He worked alone. I’ve never seen so much death so quickly.’

He reached into his shopping bag and produced a file folder. He handed it to Zahm, who looked through stills of the incident.

‘At this time we don’t know who the assassin represents, but as he went after Yamout once, he could again. Or others might in his place. Perhaps Ariff will be targeted too. If they die, one of their many lieutenants would likely take over, and it might take us months to adapt to the new leadership, all the while losing opportunities to track our enemies. An even worse outcome would be that some unaffiliated arms dealer or dealers steps into the void left behind and we would know nothing of them. We can’t allow that to happen.’

Zahm nodded.

Father said, ‘But there is more for us to consider than the need to protect the operation. I have lost four of my heroic children. And in dying they saved a life of the very worst kind.’ He paused, revulsion and anger taking the place of grief in his sagging face. ‘That fact sickens me to my stomach. What would their families think if they knew who their loved ones had died to protect?’ He paused again to compose himself. ‘My son, I want your unit to avenge them.’

‘Of course,’ Zahm said without hesitation.

‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but don’t be so hasty to commit yourself and your people to this mission. Who knows how many others were involved in this, or how long it could take to find them all. And don’t forget, the assassin himself is a dangerous target. Like yourself, he is an exceptional killer.’

Zahm gave a placatory nod. ‘Regardless, I still accept. My team is the best I’ve ever worked with. One man, however dangerous, is still one man. Our people deserve vengeance, and I can promise you my team will share these sentiments. We will be honoured to kill this killer and those who sent him.’

Father took Zahm’s hands in his own. ‘I knew I could count on you, my son.’

‘Do we know who this assassin is, or where he is?’

‘No to both,’ Father answered. He reached into his canvas shopping bag again and handed Zahm a file containing another series of photographs. ‘But these were taken at Minsk Central train station the day after the attack. As you can see, there are two men walking together, one a little way behind the first. We do not see the face of the second man, but I believe him to be the assassin we seek. The first man has been identified as Danil Petrenko, the Belarusian crime boss Yamout went to Minsk to meet with.’

Zahm examined the photographs. ‘He looks like a captive to me.’

Father nodded. ‘Yet he flew out of Belarus later that day with his girlfriend on a flight to Barcelona. I think it might be worth you having a quiet word with Mr Petrenko.’

Bologna, Italy

Victor had a room at the Villa Relais Valfiore, a charming hotel about six miles south-east of Bologna. While he waited for Giordano to complete his work Victor had explored the acres of vineyards near the hotel and the rolling countryside beyond. He walked and lay in the sun, giving his wound as much time to heal as possible and the sun a chance to stain his skin. It had been a week since the bullet had grazed his arm and the thick scab was coming away at the edges and the muscle only hurt if he pushed against it. Yesterday, he had begun running to maintain his fitness, though he avoided his usual bodyweight exercises so as not to hinder his arm’s recovery.

His room offered a view of the hotel’s large swimming pool, but he resisted its pull. The weather had been hot and dry and perfect for swimming but he couldn’t risk the stares his wound and collection of scars would draw. In clothes, he was forgettable. Out of them, no one forgot. The evening was no good either. The pool was well lit and even if onlookers didn’t notice his scars his musculature would draw its own looks. Surviving meant going unnoticed at all times.

The
contessa
who ran the hotel was especially friendly and Victor was forced to engage in small talk like all the other guests did, else stand out and be memorable. The guests were mostly older Italian tourists and foreign couples. Everyone was frustratingly sociable and he found himself drawn into frequent conversations. He was the only single male, as far as he could tell, and made sure to be personable but boring, claiming to be an accountant who had recently divorced. No one tried to chat with him twice.

*

The bus to Bologna arrived on time and he disembarked with a ‘
Grazie mille
’, to the driver.

At Le Stanze del Tennete he had a lunch of garbanzo soup followed by prosciutto-filled tortellini with a glass of crisp local Pinot Grigio. The restaurant was located inside the sixteenth-century Palazzo Bentivoglio Pepoli and he took his time over his meal, enjoying the five-hundred-year-old frescoes on the wall as much as the food itself. After lunch, Victor strolled through the russet arcades and porticoes, passing students and rollerblading teenagers, pausing to watch a heated game of dominoes between two elderly Bolognese gentlemen with too much red wine inside them. He applauded the winner as did the rest of the small crowd that had gathered around them, and departed as the dominoes were mixed up ready for the rematch that was sure to be just as heated.

He saw no sign of surveillance, but performed his usual counter-measures during the walk to the Orto Botanico in the north-east corner of Bologna’s centre. The botanical garden was one of the oldest in the world, dating back to 1568, and framed on two sides by the medieval walls that surrounded central Bologna. Victor was an hour early, and he spent the time walking through the grounds like any other visitor, examining the huge array of trees, plants and flowers on display, and the various habitats created within the gardens.

Giordano was waiting for him at the pond wetland habitat, watching dragonflies buzz around water lilies and aquatic beetles swimming across the glassy surface of the water. Today he was on time. He smiled as he saw Victor approach. No one else was nearby.

‘Vernon, you do look better with a little colour in your face.’

Victor returned the smile. ‘How’s your new waitress friend?’

Giordano blew out some air and said, ‘Exhausting.’

‘I trust the last two days haven’t been all pleasure.’

‘Of course not. I have been hard at work when I haven’t been hard at work.’ He winked and reached into an outside pocket of his jacket. He produced a padded envelope. ‘My best, as promised.’

He handed it to Victor, who opened the envelope and removed the Italian passport it contained. Victor thumbed through it, unsurprised to find it every bit as genuine as Giordano promised, except that it now had Victor’s photograph instead of the original owner’s.

‘Tolento Lombardi,’ Victor read aloud.

‘He’s a construction worker,’ Giordano explained. ‘A construction worker who borrowed money off the wrong people. He sold them his passport to help clear his debt, and they were then kind enough to sell it on to me. Mr Lombardi is a most clean citizen. Not even a parking ticket, and he’s never been out of the country. He’s painfully boring, and therefore perfect for your purposes.’

Victor nodded and ran a fingertip over the image of his face. ‘This is even better than the last one I bought from you. How do you switch the photograph without leaving marks?’

Giordano grinned. ‘Well, that’s my secret, is it not? Else everyone could do what I do. But, as I like you, Vernon, I will tell you I have refined my techniques, so I’m glad you noticed the improvement. Passports are getting harder to modify all the time. It’s almost as if they want to stop people like me. Fascists. But my method of using solvent fumes to strip wafer-thin layers of laminate away, one at a time, is quite ingenious.’

‘Modest to a fault.’

Giordano bowed his head briefly. ‘Once the laminate has been stripped it’s child’s play to insert your photo and re-laminate. Result: no trace of modification. Sounds simple, does it not? Yet no one else can do it like I can.’

Victor pocketed the passport. ‘Which is why you charge such a competitive rate.’

Giordano laughed. ‘And I’m worth every cent, as I’ve no doubt you too are value for money. When you use this passport, I’d like you to carry your new self in the appropriate manner. Remember, Vernon, people are going to think you are Italian. I don’t want you letting the side down.’

Victor would have smiled, only he knew Giordano wasn’t joking.

A family of four were drawing near so Victor and Giordano walked to the tropical hothouses. Inside was an expansive collection of orchids and bromeliads. The air was very hot and very humid.

Victor asked, ‘Did you find anything out about the camera?’

‘I did what I could, which wasn’t as much as I would have liked, but I only know so much. That kind of tech is closely watched, as I
told you before, but anything sold is traceable. In this instance there isn’t much to tell, but maybe it will help you anyway. I managed to track the serial number from source in America to the United Kingdom, but that’s where the trail stops. Officially, at least.’

‘Who bought it?’

‘A company called Lancet Incorporated purchased that camera and twenty-nine like it about eight months ago. They were one of the very first to.’

‘Who are they?’

Giordano’s face shone with perspiration from the heat and humidity. ‘I figured you’d say that so I asked some associates to check them out. They’re registered in Switzerland, own some property in a few different countries, some stock in other companies. Seems like they aren’t being run too well as they’ve been making a loss for the last few years.’

‘So they’re a front.’

Giordano shrugged. ‘I’m just passing on what I was told. It’s up to you what you make of it.’

Victor nodded and handed the Italian a padded envelope. Giordano thumbed through the cash inside.

He said, ‘Overpaid again, I see. Generous to a fault.’

They exited the hothouse and left the botanical gardens.

On the street outside, Victor said, ‘Thank you for your work and your assistance, Alberto.’ He held out his hand. ‘Much appreciated.’

Giordano shook it. ‘A pleasure, as always. Don’t leave it so long next time.’

‘I won’t.’

They walked their separate ways. After a moment Victor heard Giordano call him and he turned in response.

Giordano looked serious for once. ‘Vernon, don’t stop swimming.’

Later, Victor sipped brandy in his hotel room while the voice on the other side of the world said, ‘The suite next to the Presidential was rented out by a couple of men with Belarusian IDs, but unsurprisingly those identities have turned out to be bogus. As for who they are, I haven’t got enough intel to even hazard a guess. What I can tell you is
they are not Belarusians and aren’t from this side of the Atlantic. When I know more, you will. What about you, my man?’

‘What about me?’ Victor asked, as if he didn’t understand.

‘That’s a nice try, pal, but do you expect me to believe you’ve been sitting on your behind this last week? Because if you do, then you’re either seriously underestimating me or seriously overestimating your ability for BS. You kill a four-man surveillance team, you’re going to want to know who they work for. Or have you survived this long by burying your head in the sand?’

‘I’ve followed some leads,’ Victor admitted.

‘There we go,’ the control replied in a pleased tone, ‘honesty and trust and all that. So, why don’t you share those leads with me and we’ll see if we can’t get an answer to this?’ The sound of air and saliva being sucked through teeth followed.

‘Excuse me,’ the voice said, ‘steak sandwich for lunch. Happens every day.’

Victor took a breath. He wasn’t used to sharing intelligence. He wasn’t used to sharing full stop. Especially with an employer that could prove to be his worst enemy. But all he had was the name of a front company and he wasn’t going to find out more without a large investment in time. And the longer he was in the dark about who sent the surveillance team, the longer he was exposed. If they were who Victor thought they were he couldn’t afford to waste time on ignorance.

He said, ‘I’ve got a name.’

‘Which is?’

‘Lancet Incorporated. They’re based in Switzerland, and shipped some of the surveillance equipment from the US to the UK. They’re a front for someone. That’s all I know.’

‘
That’s all
? There’s no need for false modesty.’

Victor sipped some brandy.

‘I’ve never heard of them,’ the control said, ‘but pretty soon I’ll know how they take their coffee.’

Beirut, Lebanon

Ariff sighed as he left the Spanish girl’s apartment, unsatisfied and frustrated. Her Arabic vocabulary was expanding and with it she had become increasingly vocal during his recent visits. Today had reached new heights of annoyance. He would give her one last try before seeking out a new creature to take his pleasure from. If only he knew a mute.