The Enemy (44 page)

‘Okay,’ the guy said after a pause, ‘okay.’

‘You ran things, on and off the op. How did you do it? Dead drops, phone calls, online?’

‘Did everything on computer. Safest that way. Different email
account for each job. Half the money up front, other half after the job was done. How I always do it. Less chance of clients fucking with you like that.’

Victor nodded. ‘Which is why I do it the same way.’

He took a smartphone from his tactical harness and powered it on. He opened up a browser. The reception was perfect. Sochi’s elite demanded it.

‘Give me the details for the operational email account.’

‘Won’t work,’ the American said. ‘Can only access the job spec from my computer back home.’

‘How would your buddies get paid the second half of the fee if you got killed?’

The American hesitated. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes you do. You guys served and killed together in the military. You saved each other’s lives. Nothing else creates a bond of friendship that strong. They were your buddies, like you said. And friends who watch each other’s backs in combat never stop looking out for each other. You wouldn’t leave them dangling if you took a bullet. If you used a safe, they’d know the combination; if you kept everything in a deposit box, they would have keys. A computer that only you could access would be no good to them. So, I’m asking you for the last time, before I start carving the truth from you: what are the details?’

The American looked away, finally defeated. ‘Before we’d go on an op I’d give everyone the login info for the account I used. Just in case.’

‘Like a good buddy.’

The American gave Victor the details and he logged into the account. There were five emails in the inbox from the anonymous client or broker. Victor read them in order. The first email was the offer of the job with the fee and window of opportunity. The next email included Victor’s dossier. The following three were clarifications. He opened the attachment and read through the file.

Seven months back he’d read a similar document, but that had only contained a single sheet of paper – an estimation of his physical attributes and a photofit of his face. This dossier was considerably more extensive. It included accurate details on his height, weight, hair and eye colour. There was a list, though far from all-inclusive, of languages
he spoke. A page described his combat capabilities and skills. Some of his identities were listed. The most telling inclusion was the photographs of his face, close-ups from the front and each profile. His hair was a clipped quarter-inch. There was dried blood on his forehead and other evidence of injuries. The photographs had been taken without his knowledge while he lay injured in hospital prior to his recruitment by the CIA. A substantial insurance policy for his employer. It was bad enough knowing his employer had betrayed him, without discovering that betrayal had been planned well in advance.

There was only one course of action to take in response.

The dossier went on to explain Victor’s own contract for Kasakov and the requirements for Victor’s demise. He was to be killed only after he had murdered the arms dealer. His body was then to be disposed of somewhere it would never be found.
Provide immediate confirmation upon elimination of target
.

The muscles in Victor’s jaw flexed. ‘How many other contracts have you performed for this client?’

The American shrugged as much as his position would allow. ‘Just one.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Couple of weeks ago. In Beirut. Had to kidnap some Egyptian arms dealer and his wife and kids.’

A groove appeared between Victor’s eyebrows. ‘Egyptian arms dealer?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Name?’

‘I don’t know, man. Some rag name. You know how it is.’

‘Baraa Ariff,’ Victor said.

The American nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s it. How did you know?’

‘Who did you deliver Ariff and his family to?’

‘We didn’t.’

‘Then what did you do with them?’

The American looked awkward. ‘What do you think? We killed ’em.’

‘Why kidnap them if you were just going to kill them?’

‘Client wanted them tortured and the whole thing filmed.’

Victor frowned. He tried not to imagine what that consisted of. ‘What are the account details for the email address used for that job?’

‘The account’s been deactivated. After each job I—’

‘I believe you,’ Victor said with a nod. ‘I do the same.’

He read through the emails again to get a feel for the American’s word choice and tone before composing a confirmation of the kill. There was no point getting the American to choose the wording himself – either he would deliberately try and sabotage the message or his current stress level would unintentionally show through. Victor sent the confirmation.

His things were already packed and he had sterilised the area as much as he could. He powered off the phone, hoisted his rucksack on to his shoulders, and drew the MK23 from his thigh holster.

‘
Whoa
,’ the American said with wide eyes. ‘What’s that for?’

‘I wasn’t lying when I said there was nothing personal between us. But that was before I knew you’d killed children.’ Victor released the safety catch and aimed the handgun between the American’s eyes. ‘Even people like us need limits.’

Clack. Clack
.

Bologna, Italy

Alberto Giordano sat outside one of his favourite little cafés in the heart of the old city, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back, sipping his espresso and enjoying the spectacle whenever pretty Bolognese women passed by. Giordano may have been a native of Rome, but he’d fallen in love with Bologna many years ago. It was a great city – vibrant, welcoming, entertaining, unspoiled and beautiful – and Giordano felt lucky his trade had brought him within its medieval walls. In his youth, he’d dreamed of being an artist, aspiring to create modern masterpieces to one day be as revered as those of the Renaissance masters he so admired. But it was hard to pay the bills as a struggling painter, and through a friend of a friend Giordano’s dexterous skills had eventually found a more profitable use.

Another man might have been sad to think that all his boyhood ambitions had been drowned in the harshness of reality, but it was hard for Giordano to be sad when life was so good.

A pair of shapely young women walked by, their heels clattering on the cobbled surface of the side street, and Giordano politely clapped their passing. For some reason he had yet to work out, foreign women found such a compliment embarrassing or even rude, but Italians were rightfully pleased to have their efforts appreciated. These two were no exception and glanced and smiled Giordano’s way as they whispered between themselves. Another time, and Giordano would have caught them up, but he had a client to meet after he’d finished his coffee. Instead, he made a flirty wave, and was happy to see it returned.

He had been the café’s only outside patron until a man sat down at the table in front. A waiter appeared to take the man’s order and
Giordano gestured for the bill. He finished the last of his espresso and noticed the sun was no longer warming his back. He turned in his seat to find a woman sitting at the table directly behind him. He hadn’t noticed her arrival and now saw why. She was plain of face and figure, with short, boyish hair. Her clothes were drab and hid anything about her that said she was a woman. Giordano turned back, irritated by the intrusion to his pleasant afternoon, and shuffled his chair so he was out of the new arrival’s shade.

Giordano used his fingers to collect some crumbs of ciabatta from his plate to eat while he waited for the waiter to appear. A vehicle pulled up to the nearby kerb. He thought nothing of it, until he heard a sliding door open and noticed a shadow fall across his table. As he turned to investigate, he saw the man from the table in front leap from his seat. Giordano started and went to rise, but powerful hands grabbed his shoulders. He heard a fizz of electricity and felt a jarring pain originate in his lower back and wrack his entire body.

Giordano spasmed and toppled from his seat, but the powerful hands kept him from falling.

More hands grabbed his legs and he felt his paralysed body lifted up. He couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out, as he was slid into the back of a van. The door slammed shut behind him and he lay on the cold metal floor, aware of figures around him that he couldn’t make out, and words in a language he did not understand.

The van pulled away and his hands were yanked together and plasticuffs wrapped around his wrists. He felt pain as they were pulled tight. Tape found its way over his mouth, and a sack covered his head.

‘Struggle,’ a female voice said in strangely accented Italian, ‘and you’ll be shocked again. Nod if you understand.’ Giordano did. ‘We’re going somewhere to talk,’ the voice continued. ‘When we’re there, if you answer our questions completely and truthfully, nothing bad will happen to you. Again, nod if you understand.’

He did, but Giordano knew a lie when he heard one.

Underneath the sack, he began to sob.

Giordano grimaced on the hard uneven metal of the van as it drove through the streets of Bologna. His lower back was sore – as if burned.
His captors didn’t speak again, either to him or to each other. He knew there were at least four of them: one to drive the van, the man who had sat in front of him at the café, the woman who had sat behind, and the strong one who had grabbed his shoulders. He didn’t know who they were. He didn’t know what they wanted.

There was no point struggling. At best they would just electrocute him again. He didn’t want to think what might be at the other end of the scale of punishments.

He figured it had been fifteen minutes before the van stopped. He tensed, terrified at what might happen next. Light filtered through the sack over his head as the van’s sliding door was opened. Hands grabbed his limbs and pulled him out of the van. Giordano’s feet found the floor and the hands kept him upright.

The woman’s voice said, ‘Remember, answer our questions in full and nothing bad will happen.’

He was led through what he guessed was some kind of deserted factory or warehouse. Their footsteps echoed. They walked quickly and Giordano struggled to keep up. The hands holding on to him made sure he didn’t fall.

The woman said, ‘Stop,’ and Giordano did, and heard the sound of chains rattling.

They were wrapped around his wrists and a force above Giordano pulled his arms up until they were vertical, either side of his head, and only the balls of his feet touched the floor. The strain on his shoulders made him wince. He couldn’t see anything. Tape was wrapped around his ankles, binding his feet together.

Wheels squeaked and something rattled across a bumpy floor. It stopped in front of Giordano and his pulse quickened and his breaths shortened in fear of what it might be.

The sack was pulled from his head and, despite the dim light, he squinted. It took a moment for his eyes to focus and he saw he was indeed inside a warehouse or factory. There was wide open space all around him, the extremes of the room lost in shadows and darkness.

In front of him stood a woman and a man. He recognised the woman’s plain face and boyish hair from outside the café. In the dim
light her features seemed even harsher. Giordano hadn’t seen the man before. He was muscular and very tall, with a buzz cut and thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle. He stood without pose or expression, but violence seemed to radiate from him. Next to the woman was a rusty trolley, like a mechanic might use.

Resting on the trolley was a pair of pliers, bolt cutters, a variety of bladed instruments, a belt sander, a circular saw, and a blow torch.

Giordano let out a muffled cry.

The woman said, ‘If you are honest with us, then we won’t need to use of any of that.’

Giordano barely heard. His eyes were locked on the trolley. He pulled and yanked at his chains, achieving nothing more than lifting his feet from the floor and swinging gently.

The large man stepped forward and punched Giordano in the stomach. Pain flooded through his abdomen and he coughed and spluttered behind the tape sealing his mouth as he convulsed.

‘We only require information,’ the woman said, ‘information that you have, Alberto. Give us that information and this can be over. Deny us, and this is only the beginning.’

When he had recovered, the large man ripped the tape away.

She ran her fingertips over the collection of blades and selected a box-cutting knife.

‘No, please,’ Giordano begged.

The woman raised the box cutter and stepped closer. Giordano screamed and tried to get further away from the blade. The large man grabbed his legs to hold him steady. Giordano continued screaming as the woman used the knife to cut through his T-shirt from waist to neck. She pulled it open to reveal his bare flesh beneath and pressed the blade to the skin of his stomach. The skin indented but the pressure wasn’t enough to split it. Yet.

Giordano was paralysed with terror. Tears streamed from his eyes.

The woman produced a grainy picture and said, ‘Where is this man?’

‘I don’t know, I swear.’

‘You’re lying,’ she said, and Giordano felt the blade press harder against his flesh. ‘He was here in Bologna with you four weeks ago. You met with him twice. Your people have already confirmed it.’

‘But I don’t know where he’s gone,’ Giordano shouted, trying to get away from the knife. ‘I don’t.’

‘Why did he visit you? What did he want?’

‘Information.’

‘On what?’

‘He had a camera. He wanted me to track its origin.’

‘Did you?’

‘I gave him the name of a company – Lancet Incorporated – that’s all I found.’

The woman exchanged words with the large man, speaking in the language Giordano didn’t understand.

‘What else did you give him?’ the woman asked.

‘Nothing. I swear.’

The woman’s eyes examined Giordano. ‘I know you’re loyal to him, but I see you are also afraid of him. Aren’t you, Alberto?’