The Enemy (9 page)

He found the realtor pacing outside the apartment building. She stood around five-seven, late twenties, smartly dressed in a navy trouser suit that gave her an air of pure business without hiding the very obvious facts she was an attractive and shapely woman. Her blonde hair was shoulder length and swept back from her face by the breeze. Predictably, her expression was one of annoyance and impatience. She checked her watch.

He was four feet away before she realised who he was. He gave her a polite smile. She didn’t smile back.

‘Miss Friedman, I take it,’ Victor said in a Hamburg accent. ‘I’m Mr Krausse. I’m sorry I’m late.’ He offered no explanation.

Without sincerity she said, ‘That’s okay.’

He acted as though he didn’t notice her tone.

‘Thank you for taking the time to show me around.’

He offered his hand and she took it. There was hardly any grip.

She motioned towards the front door. ‘Shall we?’

Friedman led him to the penthouse and unlocked and opened the door and stepped inside. Victor made sure to follow closely. The alarm system emitted a dull warning. There was a small box positioned in the far corner of the hallway where the walls met the ceiling. He couldn’t tell just by looking at it what kind of alarm system it was, but given the exclusivity of the apartments, the security system would be more sophisticated than a standard photo-sensor alarm. Probably a radar-based or more likely a passive infrared motion detector.

Radar-based motion detectors worked by emitting bursts of microwave radio energy, or ultrasonic sound waves, and reading the
reflected pattern as those waves bounced back to the device. When an intruder entered the area and altered the pattern, the alarm sounded. With a passive infrared motion system, the device detected the increase in infrared energy caused by an intruder’s body heat. It wouldn’t be much fun trying to defeat either, but if human nature had its way, Victor wouldn’t have to.

He positioned himself to watch as Friedman pressed buttons on the keypad. It would have been impossible to get close enough to see which numbers she pressed without alerting her, but he could see the movements of her hand and elbow as her finger hovered over the keypad. She pressed the first button, then he watched her elbow drop, then pause, then drop again; another pause, and then it moved back up to the top for the final number. Victor repeated the pattern in his head until he had it memorised.
Press, down, press, down, press, up, up, press
.

The realtor guided him through the apartment’s lounge, kitchen, bathroom, and three bedrooms, the master of which had its own bathroom. Each room was lavishly decorated, leather sofas in the lounge, marble in the bathroom, stainless steel and granite in the kitchen. It had all the essentials of modern upscale living – dishwasher, huge wide-screen television, surround sound, latest games consoles and espresso machine. Everything a travelling mob boss could need.

He took his time walking around each room, examining every fixture and piece of furniture. He saw the realtor in his peripheral vision checking her watch with increasing frequency. He pretended not to notice.

Eventually he dragged it out long enough that her phone rang and he wasn’t surprised to see that she answered it without excusing herself. He nodded politely – a silent take-your-time signal – and she stepped into the kitchen to talk in private.

Victor hurried into the hallway. He removed the make-up brush from his pocket, unfolded it, and very gently swept the tips of the bristles against the alarm keypad. The fine graphite powder stuck to the oil left by Friedman’s finger on four of the ten numbered buttons. One, two, five and eight.

He heard her call finish and he lightly wiped clean the keypad with
his jacket sleeve. He dropped the make-up brush into his pocket a second before she appeared.

‘Ready to go?’

As he walked towards the underground station, he put the one, two, five and eight together with the sequence he’d memorised – press, down, press, down, press, up, up, press. The code was therefore one or two, followed by five, eight and then either one or two again. There was no way of knowing which of the first and fifth numbers were one or two but it was a fifty-fifty chance. Alarms were constructed with mistakes in mind so he would be able to retype the code should he get it incorrect the first time.

Victor found that people whose jobs involved no danger were never as security conscious as they should be. For an apartment building with around a dozen properties, each with its own alarm system, to be completely secure each property would have its own code and that code should change for every new tenant. That was a lot for anyone to keep track of.

Maybe she would come back later to input a new code ready for Farkas’s arrival. It would be the secure thing to do. But in the fight between security and laziness Victor would put his money on laziness every time.

Warsaw Chopin Airport, Warsaw, Poland

Kevin Sykes stifled a jet-lag-induced yawn as he watched the blinking red and green wing lights of the incoming plane. The body of the descending Lear jet slowly appeared out of the night sky, the airport fog lights illuminating its underbelly. Unlike commercial planes, the Lear approached one of the airport’s smaller and less used runways.

The noise of the approach was deafening, and Sykes pressed his palms over his ears. The plane’s tyres screeched for an instant when they connected with the asphalt and gave off a grey puff of burnt rubber. The smoke dissipated in the cold air.

The white Lear taxied down the narrow runway and came to a stop fifty yards before two maintenance hangars. There were no airport workers in sight, as instructed. The plane’s single door opened outward and the short staircase was lowered to the ground. It locked into position.

A man appeared in the doorway and descended the steps. He was strongly built, early fifties, wearing jeans and a thick sweater. He had thinning grey hair and a tanned, hard face. Behind him followed a similarly hard-faced man in his thirties. The wind whipped up the corners of his denim jacket and Sykes saw the handgun holstered to his belt.

He greeted the new arrivals at the bottom of the steps.

‘Max Abbot,’ the first man said in a working-class London accent, his voice deep and coarse.

Sykes tried not to wince as his hand was shaken. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Max.’

Abbot gestured to his companion. ‘That bastard is my associate, Mr Blout.’

Blout’s face remained impassive. ‘Hello.’

Sykes nodded in return, a little warily. His most recent experience of independent contractors hadn’t been a good one, so he wasn’t sure what he was going to make of these two Brits. He knew nothing about their backgrounds but assumed they were ex-military or intelligence, and were used to this kind of thing to have landed the gig.

‘So,’ Abbot said, rotating his head from side to side. ‘This is Poland, is it? Looks no better on the ground than when you fly over it.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s make this quick, shall we? The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back to a country with some warmth. It’s cold enough to turn a polar bear’s dick into a facking icicle.’

‘Agreed.’

Abbot turned in Blout’s direction ‘Bring him out.’

Blout ascended to the top of the steps and disappeared for a minute inside the Lear. When he appeared again, he pulled out another man. With his hands cuffed together and his ankles shackled, Xavier Callo stepped out of the doorway.

He was shorter than Sykes expected and looked like he weighed no more than a hundred and thirty pounds. Callo wore the kind of orange jumpsuit usually reserved for inmates and terrorists, which wasn’t very subtle considering this rendition was as unauthorised as it got, but Sykes kept quiet. Callo wouldn’t be out in the open long enough for it to matter. The jumpsuit was about three sizes too big as well, which only exaggerated his slightness. His head hung down so Sykes couldn’t see his eyes. Each movement was slow, awkward. A chain linked his handcuffs to his ankle shackles. It all seemed a little over the top considering either Blout or Abbot could probably have carried Callo with one hand, but they obviously had their own way of doing things. Blout shoved Callo in the back and he began a careful descent of the steps.

Abbot noticed Sykes staring. ‘He may look like something you’d scrape off your heel but he’s as bad a mofo as I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing. When the stuff we jabbed him with wore off he went ballistic, I mean like a crazy arsehole. Sunk his teeth in my thigh. Hurt like shit. That’s why we’ve got him hog-tied.’

‘How’d you get him?’ Sykes asked.

Abbot smiled, full of pride. ‘We were supposed to nab him at his villa. Had blueprints, a nice little plan we’d been dry running, but didn’t need it. We watched him for three days, and all he did was chase snatch like some horny dog. And not just any birds either. Only went for tall ’uns. Taller they were, the harder Callo tried. So, we improvised. I got a working girl, the most stunning blonde you have ever seen, and tall as me to boot. Told her a pack of bollocks about Callo being a fugitive and us being bounty hunters. Said he was a real bad lad, like a paedo or some shit. Anyway, we paid her to work her magic on him while he was drunk in a bar. Took her all of twenty-eight minutes to get him into a taxi. She even stuck him with the needle and blew me when I dropped her off, no extra charge.’

‘Good work.’

‘Cheers,’ Abbot said, still smiling.

When Callo reached the ground, Abbot took him by the collar and pulled him forward. ‘Come on, you slag, let the man take a look at ya.’

Slowly Callo raised his head. He was a mess, disorientated and completely exhausted. For the first time Sykes looked into his pale blue eyes and was pleased to see the fear they held.

‘Good evening, Xavier,’ Sykes said warmly. ‘Welcome to hell.’

The room was simple, a cube, ten by ten by ten. The walls were unfinished concrete, as was the ceiling and floor. A single bare bulb hung in the ceiling but provided no illumination. A filthy mattress lay against one wall, but no bed. Callo sat in the middle of the mattress, hugging his knees against his chest and shivering. He was dressed in just his underpants and socks. The right sock had holes in the toes.

‘I want to ask you some questions,’ Sykes said from the open doorway, ‘about Baraa Ariff.’

‘I’m not saying anything,’ Callo said defiantly, his breath condensing in the air. ‘You can’t do this to me. I’m an American. I have rights. I want my lawyer.’

Callo had been left on his own in the cold and dark for a little over
three hours and looked suitably softened by the experience, if not completely broken. Sykes would have liked to have kept him holed up for at least a day, but he didn’t have the luxury of time.

Folding his arms across his stomach, Sykes said, ‘I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you’re in what you might call a lawyer-free zone. Any rights you think you have do not apply here. You are in no country. You are in no time zone. No laws protect you here. This place quite simply does not exist. Now, tell me about Ariff and you can have your clothes back. Maybe some hot food. How does that sound? I know it’s freezing in here. I know you’re hungry.’

‘No,’ Callo said again, hugging his knees tighter. ‘Fuck you.’

His voice was still defiant but tears glistened on his cheeks.

‘Okay,’ Sykes said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I did try being polite, but you’re not leaving me any choice, are you?’ He leaned back out of the doorway. ‘Some help in here, please.’

Abbot and Blout charged into the cell and went straight for Callo. They dwarfed him. Their faces were full of aggression. Callo screamed the moment he saw them. Abbot grabbed his arms, Blout the legs. Callo thrashed, but didn’t have close to the strength needed to match one, let alone two.

Sykes exited the room. Blout followed, one of Callo’s ankles in each hand. Abbot did the same with his wrists. He fought all the way, crying and yelling, struggling as much as he could. They walked down a long, dark corridor. It was cold and damp, with the smell of faeces in the air. Their footsteps were loud. Other cries could be heard from elsewhere in the compound and Sykes noticed Callo ceased his own to listen.

‘
No, please
,’ Callo pleaded. ‘You’ve made a mistake.’

Abbot looked down at him. ‘Oh no, mate. You’re the one who made the mistake. And this is where you pay for it.’

Blue light flashed up ahead and a piercing scream echoed down the corridor. Callo strained his neck to look as they passed an open doorway. A naked man was strapped to a chair in the centre of the room. His hair was soaking wet and his skin slick with water. Wires were attached to his genitals. Another man stood over him, and slapped
him around the face. Then the door slammed shut and blue light flashed through the gap beneath. The screaming started yet again, and the aroma of roasted flesh filled the air. Callo gagged and pulled and kicked harder. The screams from behind the closed door drowned out Callo’s own.

‘Don’t worry,’ Abbot said, ‘it’s your turn now.’

Their destination had the same unfinished concrete walls as Callo’s cell. There was a sink against one wall with a hose fixed to one tap. Against the opposite wall was a simple table with a portable electricity generator next to it. Two long cables were attached to the generator and resting in a pile on the table. The generator rumbled noisily. Exhaust fumes hung in the air. Abbot and Blout released Callo, who landed hard on his back, but quickly turned himself over and scrambled, on his hands and knees, for the door. Sykes stood in his way, and laughed as he easily blocked Callo’s path.

Then Sykes shouted, ‘
Asshole just bit me
.’

‘I warned ya,’ Abbot said as he wrapped a thick arm around Callo’s throat. ‘This one’s a facking lunatic.’

Sykes rubbed at his forearm and closed the heavy steel door as Blout and Abbot dragged Callo backwards and forced him to sit on a cold metal chair. His arms were pulled behind his back and handcuffs locked his wrists in place. More handcuffs locked his ankles to the chair legs.