The Enemy (35 page)

The apartment was owned by Ariff and located on Al Hamra Street, in one of Beirut’s most cosmopolitan districts. The Egyptian arms dealer had lived in many cities across the Middle East but he was particularly fond of Beirut for the unique warmth and almost coziness of its tree-lined streets and distinct neighbourhoods. There was so much concrete in the city that on an overcast day Beirut could look dull and lifeless, but when the sun was out, which was thankfully more often than not, the city was bright and vibrant.

Ariff ignored two of his people standing as sentries on the street outside and climbed into the passenger seat of the waiting BMW. Yamout was in the driver’s seat, two more bodyguards in the back. Ever safety-conscious, Ariff had increased his security considerably after Kasakov’s attempt on Yamout’s life and the subsequent attacks across the network over the two weeks since.

The two sentries climbed into a black Range Rover parked in front of the BMW. The driver signalled to Yamout and then pulled away from the kerb. Yamout followed. Ariff closed his eyes. It was a long drive through Beirut from the Spanish girl’s apartment to his villa on Mount Lebanon.

‘Baraa,’ Yamout said.

‘I don’t want to talk, my friend,’ Ariff replied, ‘until we get back to my villa.’

Ariff could tell that Yamout wasn’t going to be satisfied with that, but the Lebanese waited a few seconds before speaking again. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but—’

‘If you’re sorry, why disturb?’

‘I have news.’

Ariff sighed. ‘That cannot wait an hour?’

When Yamout didn’t answer, Ariff opened his eyes. Yamout was sitting very still, face pensive.

‘I thought you’d want to know straight away,’ Yamout explained. ‘The shipment of weapons for the Sudanese has been ambushed by rebels. The president is furious that his five thousand rifles are now in the hands of his enemies.’

Ariff sighed and said nothing.

‘He’ll never buy from us again now. Not ever. Kasakov must have tipped off the rebels. Baraa, we can’t go on like this.’

‘Wars are always costly.’

‘Is that all you are going to say? First Farkas is blown up and the blame is cast on us, then they come after me in Minsk, and now we lose our biggest customer in the whole of Africa. Not to mention the people who’ve disappeared, been openly butchered, or who’ve fled for their own safety. This war will cripple us before long. We must seek peace with Kasakov.’

Ariff laughed. ‘If we go begging for mercy from that Ukrainian devil, do you think he’ll call off his dogs? Don’t be stupid. He’ll smell our weakness and crush us. And I would sooner put a gun in my mouth than parley like a woman.’

‘News of our war with Kasakov has spread like a plague. No one is going to be crazy enough to deal with us and put themselves in that maniac’s crosshairs. Every day we bleed from his strikes.’

‘We will outlast him. We have numbers he does not. We have loyalty he cannot match.’

‘Yet he has wealth we can’t compete with. Wealth that can buy numbers and loyalty.’

‘But Kasakov rots as a prisoner in Russia while the whole world
wants to see him in chains. I can walk where he can only dream of. I can whisper in ears that cannot hear his loudest screams. Have faith, my friend. As the sands trickle through the hourglass his resolve will surely crack. So let us maintain our own. He with the strongest will shall emerge victorious from this.’

‘What good is victory if we have no customers left? Even the ones we can safely supply are deserting us.’

‘Kasakov, using his influence,’ Ariff explained. ‘It was to be expected, my friend. He will try to weaken us in any way he can.’

‘It’s working.’

‘But not for ever,’ Ariff assured. ‘Our clients won’t stop wanting guns just because of Kasakov’s bribes or his threats not to sell them heavy armaments. In this century, wars will be fought with guerrillas, not battalions. Kasakov has more to lose than us. Our customers need rifles and bullets more than they need tanks. They will come back to us.’ Ariff looked at Yamout. ‘Be patient.’

They drove for a while. Ariff enjoyed the warm sun on his face but he couldn’t relax enough to sleep. Whatever the calm he expressed to Yamout, the conflict with Kasakov was a real concern. Yamout was stiff in his seat as he drove, his hands clamped on to the steering wheel.

Ariff yawned. ‘Since you’ve done such a superb job of destroying any chance I might have of sleeping, you may as well tell me what our people have achieved recently. Tell me of our victories against Kasakov.’

‘The plane our friends shot down in Afghanistan turned out to be an Antonov An-22. We don’t know what it was carrying, but the plane alone was highly valuable. Kasakov has only three of them.’

‘Now two,’ Ariff said with a laugh. ‘You see, Gabir, Kasakov bleeds more than us. He uses those Antonovs to transport tanks and other planes. Whatever the cargo was, it will have been worth tens and tens of millions. And do you think he will risk sending another of his cargos over Afghanistan? I think not.’

Blocky seven-storey buildings overshadowed the road, which was jammed with slow-moving one-way traffic. Brightly coloured signs promoted stores lining the sidewalks. A brave guy on a scooter was
defying the system by driving the wrong way between the two lanes of cars and received a chorus of horns in response.

Yamout said, ‘I’ve told you about all the attacks in Syria and Tripoli, haven’t I?’ Ariff nodded. ‘Since then we’ve managed to sabotage a deal and kill some more of his traffickers. In Tunisia this time. From what they admitted before they died, they were important members of Kasakov’s organisation.’

Ariff grinned. ‘Excellent, Gabir. Truly excellent. That Ukrainian bastard will be enraged at himself for ever believing he could move against us. Regardless of how or why this war began, it is us, not him, who are winning. Take comfort in our victories.’

Yamout nodded, sufficiently convinced by Ariff’s assurances to relax for the moment. He turned on the radio, and Arabic pop music thumped through the BMW’s speakers. Yamout tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Ariff smiled to himself. The big man had absolutely no rhythm.

The highway took them across the city. The traffic was fast moving; experience and quick reflexes were required to keep up with the flow safely. Palm trees lined the central reservation. Ahead was a giant billboard advertising McDonald’s, complete with a huge yellow arrow pointing out which turning to take. With the world’s finest cuisine available in Lebanon, Ariff couldn’t understand why anyone would ever opt for a simple burger, but sheep always followed the shepherd.

The BMW drove Ariff through one of Beirut’s older districts and down a narrow street overlooked by grand sandstone buildings. Shining SUVs and sedans were parked along both kerbs. The space between was barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other.

The traffic stalled at the intersection some ten cars ahead. Horns were sounded. The BMW stopped behind the bodyguards’ Range Rover. Neither Ariff nor Yamout could see the cause of the hold-up, but Yamout added his own horn to the chorus.

Pedestrians used the pause in the flow of traffic to dash across the street. A small old man squeezed between Ariff’s BMW and a Toyota SUV behind while two big women covered in burkhas and veils stepped off the far kerb two cars ahead and made their way over the
road. They walked slowly, awkwardly, and disappeared out of sight. Ariff shook his head. No matter how many times he witnessed such oppression, he knew he would never get used to it.

‘What a religion,’ he said to Yamout, who nodded.

The explosion was deafening.

The concussion shook Ariff’s whole body and he let out a cry of pure surprise. Yamout was just as shocked. Smoke rose from the bodyguard’s Range Rover directly in front. Ariff and Yamout looked at each other, disbelieving, confused. Scared. People on the sidewalk near the Range Rover were writhing on the ground. A woman screamed.

Gunshots.

Both men flinched at the sound. Automatic fire roaring, high cyclic rate, close by. Ariff was frozen in his seat. He didn’t know what to do. He glimpsed muzzle flashes coming from the far side of the Range Rover and realised someone was shooting at his men. He heard dull
thunks
as bullets slammed into the Range Rover’s armoured bodywork. Sparks flew from its sides. Stray rounds cracked the bulletproof windshield in front of Ariff’s face.

Yamout already had the transmission in reverse before Ariff could yell, ‘
Get us out of here
.’

The two bodyguards behind Ariff had their Ingrams cocked and ready. The BMW travelled just a couple of feet before it struck the Toyota behind. Yamout repeatedly punched the horn but the SUV didn’t offer any more room. The thunder of automatic weapons didn’t relent. Blood splashed against the inside of the lead Range Rover’s rear window.

Ariff’s eyes went wide. ‘
Yamout …
’

A gunman appeared, moving along the centre of the road. A balaclava covered his head. In both hands he clutched an Armalite assault rifle with under-slung grenade launcher. A black burkha was draped over his shoulder like a cape. He gestured at Yamout with his weapon before firing off a burst into the air. People on the street outside were screaming and running away. Drivers and passengers fled their cars.

Yamout tried to execute a turn to get out of the line of traffic and
on to the sidewalk but there was no room. The front bumper crumpled against the Range Rover. Bullets smashed against the windshield before Yamout’s head, but didn’t penetrate. He shouted an order to the two bodyguards in the back of the BMW.

The bodyguard behind Yamout flung open his door and jumped out into the road. Immediately the masked gunman opened fire. Bullets pinged off the metal and were stopped by the armoured glass.

The bodyguard fired the Ingram from the gap between the door and car. The sub-machine gun was small and boxy, seemingly unsophisticated, but its cyclic rate was twelve hundred rounds per minute. The bodyguard let off a panicked burst that emptied the magazine in a matter of seconds. Thirty bullets hit the road, Range Rover, neighbouring cars but not the gunman, who dropped to a crouch and reloaded his assault rifle.

‘
NOW, NOW
,’ Yamout screamed. ‘
GET HIM NOW
.’

The second bodyguard was out of his own door fast. He rushed past Ariff’s window, jumped up on to the hood of the BMW to drill the gunman before he could finish reloading. Instead the bodyguard contorted and flailed, his bullet-riddled body striking the hood and bouncing off on to the sidewalk. Blood sluiced down the BMW’s windshield.

‘
There’s another one
.’

Ariff saw a second burkha-draped gunman on the other side of the Range Rover. He was kneeling down on the sidewalk, also armed with an assault rifle. The only bodyguard left alive hurriedly reloaded his Ingram. Yamout reached past Ariff and opened the glove box. He grabbed a handgun from inside.

‘
Get in the back
,
Baraa
,’ he yelled. ‘
Close the door
.’

Ariff struggled to get from the passenger seat and into the back. His heart beat frantically inside his chest. He flopped down on the back seat and stretched to grab and close the door. The bodyguard to his side squeezed off some controlled bursts. Return fire struck the BMW around him.

Ariff kept low on the back seat, breathing heavily, not daring to stick his head up too far. His ears stung from the gunfire.

‘We can’t stay here,’ Yamout said. He was crouched down in his seat, gun in one hand, the other fumbling for his cell phone.

Ariff didn’t respond. They couldn’t stay but they couldn’t leave either.

The bodyguard fired another burst before the Ingram was empty. He quickly released the spent magazine and slammed in another. No one shot at him. Ariff couldn’t see why. Maybe he had killed them both.
Please, make it be true
.

The bodyguard cocked the weapon, but before he could fire again, a man appeared behind him – suddenly, terrifyingly. Another masked gunman. He stabbed a knife into the bodyguard’s throat and disarmed him of the Ingram in one fluid move. A geyser of blood sprayed from the huge hole in the bodyguard’s neck and he fell gurgling to the ground.

Yamout tried to turn but flames spat from the Ingram’s muzzle and holes exploded through the back of the driver’s seat. Yamout contorted and flailed.

The shooting stopped and Yamout’s head hung limply forward. Bloody bullet wounds were spread across his back and arms.

Ariff screamed. He screamed louder when a grenade sailed through the open doorway. He watched it fall out of sight, landing somewhere in the foot well on the passenger’s side.

It exploded with a monstrous bang and blinding flash of light. Ariff saw nothing but white, heard nothing except a piercing whine. He was too disorientated to move or even cry out. Hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him over the back seat. He fell into a crumpled heap on the road, on top of his blood-drenched and dying bodyguard.

More hands grabbed Ariff and pulled him upright. He had no strength to fight. The toes of his shoes scraped along the ground. His hearing began to return first. He heard screaming and yelling but it was quiet and muted. Ariff’s vision came back slower, but a still image of the car interior – the last thing he’d seen before the explosion – overlaid everything else. He could just make out one of his attackers rushing ahead, yelling and shoving scared pedestrians out of the way. The other two had Ariff between them, holding him up with their arms under his.

They rounded a corner. He saw a van parked up ahead. The lead captor opened the vehicle’s back doors, and Ariff was shoved inside, the gunmen either side of him following.

Ariff shouted for help but a rifle butt slamming into his face broke his nose and he lost consciousness.

Colonial Beach, Virginia, USA

Seagulls squawked overhead. Procter stood on the end of the narrow pier, wearing sunglasses, gazing eastward across the Potomac. The temperature was mild, the sky blue and cloudy. Windy. Procter’s kind of day. The beach wasn’t busy – an old guy threw sticks for his Labrador, a couple of people jogged, but the river had its fair share of water sports enthusiasts. There were fleets of sailboats and paddle-boats as far as Procter could see. Procter didn’t much like being out on the water, but he liked looking at it.