The Enemy (37 page)

‘Do you want me to disappear?’

‘No, no, you absolutely can’t do that,’ the control quickly answered. ‘I still need you to be available. I’ve got another job for you, which we’ll come to in a minute. We’re going to need to work together to ensure the Israelis don’t catch up with you, okay? Neither of us want them to find you. I’m going to do everything possible to help you out, but that’s going to be limited to intelligence updates only. I need to keep a low profile and maintain my distance from this as much as I can. If I draw suspicion my way, it’s only making it easier for them to get to us both. You’re going to be on your own for the most part.’

Victor had expected as much, and he was used to surviving and operating alone with enemies after him. At least this time he had the advantage of being aware of the situation beforehand as well as knowing who he was up against. And if his employer kept his word and gave him updates it would make staying out of Israeli crosshairs somewhat easier.

‘They’ve already dispatched the Kidon team,’ the voice said, ‘who
I believe are currently in Minsk scouring for clues. I take it you don’t need me to tell you about Kidons?’

‘They’re assassination and kidnapping teams. Operate with a large degree of independence from Mossad, conducting their own research and surveillance. A fully operational unit consists of at least four men and women to perform the kill itself, with more providing surveillance, backup, clean-up and logistical support.’

‘And they’re good,’ the control added, needlessly. ‘They’re really good.’

‘I’m well aware of their capabilities.’

‘Then let’s hope you don’t get a first-hand demonstration.’

‘I’ll keep my eyes open for guys wearing tennis gear in my hotel elevator.’

‘Cute, but don’t forget Kidon are the reason why every bad guy in the Middle East checks under his bed before he goes to sleep.’

‘I won’t forget.’

‘Good man. Eventually, regardless of the CIA’s desire to help our Jewish cousins, resources will be diverted elsewhere. No offence, my man, but there are bigger fish to fry than you. And when we turn our focus elsewhere the Israelis will be stumped. On their own, Mossad don’t have the manpower or the technology to find you unless you do something stupid and help them out. Which I know you won’t be doing. Call me if you notice anything suspicious and I’ll pass on all information about the Kidon’s progress that comes my way.’

‘Of course,’ Victor said. ‘Because if they do find me they’re going to take me somewhere for a private chat. And we both know the result of those kinds of conversations. They’ll extract everything I know about you, which isn’t a lot, but it will be enough to point them in the right direction. You’ll help me as much as you can because you don’t want to be next.’

‘No I most certainly do not. You’re very right about that. All of our necks are on the line.’

‘
All
of our necks?’

‘The two of us are not the only ones involved in this operation.’

‘So it’s an operation now? Not simply unconnected targets?’

‘I never said they were unconnected.’

‘You never said they were connected either.’

‘You didn’t need to know,’ the control said. ‘Just keep your head down and this will blow over before you know it.’

Victor wasn’t sure if he believed that, but certainly the first month would be the most dangerous. If the Kidon team hadn’t found him by then, Victor would be able to relax a little, though never fully. Israelis had long memories.

He hadn’t shaved in the three weeks since Minsk and now had a short beard to help disguise him. His hair hadn’t been cut since Romania, but it hadn’t grown long enough to change his look significantly. He could cut it shorter than it had been in Minsk, but with more length he had more options to change style. He would need to buy himself some non-prescription eyeglasses and coloured contacts. The tan he’d gained recently would also help. The disguise wouldn’t get him past facial recognition software but might help him avoid being ID’d by a watcher.

‘Now we’re on the same page with the Israelis,’ the control said, ‘we can move on to your next assignment. I’m sending you through the dossier.’

When the new email arrived in his operational inbox, Victor opened the message and downloaded the attached document. It opened to show a square-faced man with Slavic features and short black hair, somewhere in his late forties. Victor would have recognised the face even without the distinctive scarred ear. It was the face that had looked at him with such intensity in the Grand Plaza Hotel in Bucharest over a month before, the face of the man who had offered to buy Victor a new suit, the face of the man whose life Victor had saved. The man he now had to kill.

‘You’ll recognise him from Bucharest, of course,’ the voice said through the speakers. ‘His name is Vladimir Kasakov, a Ukrainian arms dealer. If there really is an antichrist, this guy could be him.’

‘I know who he is,’ Victor said through a tight mouth.

‘Then you know you’ll be doing the world a huge favour by putting Kasakov in the ground.’

Surprises were high on Victor’s list of personal and professional dislikes, but that the man he’d recently saved from assassination was the
man he now had to assassinate was perhaps the height of both. Such a job felt somehow wrong to his doctrine as a professional. In the many years he’d been a hired killer he’d never once been tasked with a similar contract.

‘Are you there?’ the control asked.

Victor remained silent.

‘You want to know why we had you save Kasakov five weeks ago only to have you kill him now,’ the control said, as if reading Victor’s thoughts. When Victor didn’t respond, he continued: ‘I can understand that. I’d want to know if I were you. Circumstances have changed. It’s complicated, not something you need to know inside out, but in short we needed Kasakov alive then but now we need him dead. I trust you don’t have a problem with that.’

Victor shouldn’t. It was a job like any other of the many he had performed, too numerous to count – though he knew if he tried he would be able to remember every name, every face. And it wasn’t as if this target was some heroic individual whose death would be objectionable. Vladimir Kasakov helped make war and genocide possible. There should be no issue with killing such a man.

But Victor had talked to him, shared a personal connection with his target, however brief that connection had been. He had looked Kasakov in the eye long before he had been told to kill him. More than that, he had saved the man’s life. It shouldn’t matter. But it did.

‘Well,’ the control said. ‘Do you have a problem with this?’

‘No,’ Victor said carefully.

‘Good.’

‘What I do have a problem with is that Kasakov and his bodyguards have seen my face. I walked straight past them and they noticed me. They knew a shot had been fired so they were checking out everyone. Had I known that Kasakov would be – or even just might be – a target, I would have made sure that didn’t happen. Now I won’t be able to risk getting close to Kasakov in case I’m recognised. That limits my options. And less options makes the job considerably more difficult and more dangerous.’

‘Ah, I see,’ the control said. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’

‘Listen, my man, this is not a partnership. I’m your boss. You’re an employee. If I say sorry you should feel immensely fucking privileged.’

‘I told you before not to curse in my presence.’

‘My mistake. But you’re making a mistake if you think I care about your prudishness for bad language. I’ve apologised for the Kasakov situation, so you had better accept it, and move on. You’ve got a target to familiarise yourself with, so do it.’

‘This time the dossier had better contain everything I need to know, not just what you think I need to know. If I find out that this isn’t the case, or if there are any more of these kind of surprises, then I will not be happy.’

The control’s voice dropped a few decibels. ‘I don’t take too kindly to threats.’

‘I don’t make threats. It’s a statement of fact. Whether you take kindly to it is not my concern.’

The sound of heavy breathing lasted for some seconds. Victor waited for the control to say something.

‘Let’s both of us just calm down,’ the voice eventually said. ‘Okay?’

‘I’m always calm.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ the control added. ‘But I’m big enough and ugly enough to admit when I get it wrong. I’ve said I’m sorry already. I should have told you before Bucharest that Kasakov could be a target further down the line.’

Victor said, ‘I’ve done three contracts so far for you: in Bucharest, Berlin and Minsk, and each one has been rushed, or I’ve gone in without the full facts. Now I have Mossad after me, and you’re asking me to kill a man who knows my face. And once this job is out of the way you expect me to fulfil yet another contract for you, one that is in addition to our original agreement.’

‘Are you refusing to do this?’ his control asked. ‘Because for a man who has so many enemies that probably isn’t the smartest move.’

‘I’m not refusing the contract, I’m telling you that once Kasakov is dead our arrangement is over. This is my final job.’

Silence. Victor stared out of the hotel-room window. The rising sun cleared the mountains.

Eventually, the voice said, ‘Fine, you win. Kasakov is your last hit.
After that, you’re a free man. You can go sell flower baskets on the streets of Bangkok for all I care. But you don’t go back to being a freelance shooter. No way. You take contracts from me or you retire and stay retired. If there is so much as a hint that you’re involved in a kill then I’ll do everything I can to bring you down. Do we understand each other?’

‘I understand you. I hope you understand me.’

‘So,’ his control said, ‘can we get back to the Kasakov assignment?’

‘That depends,’ Victor answered, ‘on one final condition. If I’m going to kill him, it has to be how I choose.’

‘You can do it any way you like. In a couple of weeks’ time he’s taking a vacation at his dacha on the Black Sea coast. He’ll be guarded, but he should be easier to get to than when he’s at home in Moscow. I’ll have more details on the location soon, but you have enough to be going on with for now. He’ll be there for two weeks, so you’ve got all the lead time you could want.’

‘Good,’ Victor said, and finished his lemonade.

‘And this time,’ the voice assured, ‘I guarantee there won’t be any surprises.’

Heathrow Airport, United Kingdom

The flight from Dulles had been long. Clarke had spent the first four hours working – reading reports, signing documents, compiling his own reports – and the rest of the time sleeping. He woke up to the gentle tones of a stewardess telling him they were approaching Heathrow and he needed to fasten his safety belt. The sky outside the plane’s window was blue and mostly clear. There wasn’t a rain cloud in sight. So much for the stereotype.

As soon as the plane had touched down, Clarke was switching on his phone and checking his messages and emails. He had a couple of dozen – which was about average for the time period – but he paid attention to only one. It told him he wasn’t wasting his time crossing the Atlantic. Which was good because Clarke didn’t much like the English or British or whatever the hell the correct term for the self-righteous population was. The Scots weren’t too bad if they could be understood, and Clarke had never met anyone from Wales, but the rest of the UK he didn’t have a whole lot of time for.

The official reasons for his visit encompassed a trip to the Ministry of Defence, SIS headquarters and GCHQ. He was representing the Pentagon, at his own request, and if anyone ever decided to look particularly closely they might conclude that Clarke never really had to go to Britain himself. Intelligence could be shared through other means and there was no need to put a friendly smile on anything. There was never any need to encourage or coerce cooperation. Whatever his personal dislikes, Clarke respected Britain’s loyalty to her allies.

Heathrow was predictably horribly busy. Clarke walked through the terminal at a relaxed yet focused pace. He had an overnight bag
but no other luggage to collect, as he would only be staying the night if absolutely necessary.

Clarke passed a store that sold soft drinks, confectionary, newspapers and books. He made for the books and spent a few minutes perusing the covers of the bestsellers. In the hardcovers were lots of biographies of British celebrities, most of whom looked too young to have a life story worth telling. He sidestepped to the paperbacks, which were mostly fiction. Clarke was an avid reader but he rarely had time for novels. History and politics were his subjects. He saw a few books he recognised from the shelves in the States and selected a paperback with a cover he liked the look of. He noted that novels in the UK tended to have much more arty jackets than their US counterparts. He skimmed the book’s blurb. Something about terrorists and a plot to destroy America.

A woman to the right of Clarke said, ‘I’ve heard that one is very good.’

‘I’m going to take a wild guess and say the good guys manage to stop the terrorists at the end and save the day,’ Clarke replied without looking at her.

The woman chuckled. ‘Not your genre?’

Clarke shook his head and put the book back on the shelf. ‘I prefer fact over fiction.’

‘A cerebral man then.’

‘I have my moments,’ Clarke said.

He turned and faced the speaker, who smiled and inclined her head in a brief nod. She was smartly dressed in a business suit, somewhere in her forties and attractive. She was short and slender but held herself with an obvious inner strength. Her eyes were small and intelligent and cold. She took another book from the shelf and handed it to Clarke.

‘Maybe this would be more to your liking.’

Clarke accepted the book without looking at it. ‘Thanks, I’ll give it a try.’

The woman seemed pleased. ‘I think you will not guess how it ends quite so easily.’

Clarke spent a minute reading the back and flicking through pages
without interest, before saying, ‘I’m not sure meeting here was such a good idea.’