but that problem only exists if you ever leave this place. Get the subtext? So make right now your priority and start answering my questions faster.’ Sykes’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now, we’ve established that you fence Ariff’s diamonds for him, so you profit from the illegal arms trade.’
‘But I didn’t know.’
‘I don’t give a shit whether you knew or not. I don’t give a shit about who you are. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re not a very important individual. Does anyone even know you’re gone? Would they care if they knew?’
Callo averted his eyes.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Sykes said. ‘Back to Ariff. What else do you know about him?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Abbot gestured angrily. ‘You’re not sure what you know? What kind of bullshit answer is that?’ His face was red. He looked at Sykes. ‘We should cook his testicles right now. That will make him sure what he knows.’
‘ No, no,’ Callo pleaded. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’
‘Where is Ariff?’ Sykes asked.
‘I don’t know. Why would I know?’
Abbot slapped Callo across the face. ‘Because you were seen in Antwerp a week ago selling a large amount of uncut ice.’
‘Which you got from Ariff,’ Sykes added. ‘So we know you’ve seen him recently. Are you really so dumb you do not get that some of the questions we ask you we already have the answers to? You tell me one more lie or try to be even the slightest bit evasive when answering and we’re going to turn on the lie detector and go get your water. That’s a two-minute round trip. Think what your nuts are going to look like after one hundred and twenty long seconds.’
Tears streamed down Callo’s cheeks and he blinked to clear his eyes. ‘Ariff’s living in Lebanon now. He has a house in Beirut.’
‘Where in Beirut?’ Sykes asked.
‘I don’t know where exactly, I’ve never been. I last saw him in Cairo. It must be in the hills above Beirut because he said he had a great view of the city below and the sea. On the slopes of Mount Lebanon, because he said he had to get some cedar trees cut. They grow up there.’
Sykes turned down the corners of his mouth and nodded. ‘That’s pretty damn good deduction there. I’m impressed. Genuinely. Now, you sold his diamonds and you’ve got his cash and we know Ariff doesn’t like to use banks. So how were you going to give it to him?’
When Callo hesitated, Sykes gestured to Blout. ‘Flick the switch.’
Callo screamed, ‘ NO.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘It’ll be somewhere in Europe or the Middle East. It always is. But I won’t know until I get word. Then I’ll go and hand over the cash. It’s how it always works.’
‘Will you meet Ariff himself?’
‘Or his business partner,’ Callo said. ‘Gabir Yamout.’
‘When will you get that message?’
‘It’ll be soon. Maybe this week.’
‘Good boy,’ Sykes said with a smile. ‘You’re doing great. Keep this up and you’ll even get to see the sun again. Now, tell me how you’ll receive the message.’
Sykes questioned Callo for a further hour before getting him his water as promised. It couldn’t have gone better. Procter was going to be thrilled with the information Sykes had collected. It had been clear to Sykes just from reading about him that Callo would talk without the need for too much encouragement, or coercion as the CIA liked to call it. Sykes had read the torture bible of permissible interrogation techniques in the run-up to Callo’s arrival, and knew what was allowed and what wasn’t. Ball frying definitely fell into the latter category, but then this wasn’t as it seemed.
The set-up Sykes had fixed for Callo had been perfect. They were in an abandoned Cold War bunker that served admirably as a CIA black site. Some rented locals had played the parts of prisoner and interrogators for the little vignette Callo had just happened to witness, with pork chops over a camping stove providing the smell of burnt testicles. The generator was real, though, the exploding oranges were real, but Sykes wasn’t going to flick the switch. He just wanted Callo to believe he would.
Sykes’s orders had been explicit. Callo was not to be harmed in any way, which was better than he deserved, but good because Sykes had some experience of violence and he knew he didn’t have the stomach for real torture. Scaring Callo shitless was necessary, however, and a bit of roughing up was allowed so long as it left no marks. Callo was a career criminal and a fence with fingers in lots of illegal pies, so hurt or not, today’s unpleasantness was a bit of karma for his long list of sins.
And, Sykes was surprised to admit to himself, it had been a lot of fun watching Callo squirm and beg.
CHAPTER 11
Berlin, Germany
The first of Farkas’s entourage arrived alone. Victor spotted him easily enough, walking with a certain level of arrogance, expecting others to move out of his way, giving hard stares to anyone who didn’t. The man looked about thirty with pale skin and dark hair that reached below his ears. He wore a poorly fitting suit and talked into a cell phone, shouting in Hungarian to someone Victor guessed was a wife or girlfriend.
Victor’s grasp of the language was passable at best. He’d been refreshing his understanding of Hungarian since he’d first received the assignment, but there was still a long way to go. The Hungarian kept the phone wedged between his head and shoulder as he fumbled for his key to open the door. Sipping his orange juice outside the cocktail bar, Victor couldn’t see whether the man was armed. He wrote a number one on a fresh page in his notebook and next to it listed the man’s physical attributes and tactical awareness — None.
It was an hour before he made any more notes. The man left the building and returned thirty minutes later, this time laden with shopping bags and carrying a tray of five coffees. A supply run then, getting essentials in for the boss’s arrival. Victor added the time the trip took and the brand of coffee purchased to his notes as well as writing Unarmed.
Farkas must be arriving soon, otherwise his coffee would get cold, so Victor finished his drink, gathered his things, and walked slowly along the street, a casual pace, just a local in no hurry to get to where he was going. He took out his phone, pretended to answer it, and engaged in small talk with the fictional person of reasonable wit.
The phone gave him a reason to loiter on the sidewalk outside the apartment building. He stayed a few yards away from the front steps. He wanted to be close when Farkas arrived but not close enough to smell his cologne, or lack thereof.
It didn’t take long. A black Mercedes sedan pulled up outside the building and Farkas climbed out after one of his underlings held open the door for him. Farkas appeared fit and healthy, just shy of six feet and around one hundred and seventy-five pounds. The dossier listed him as both a couple of inches taller and some ten pounds heavier. Not too important intelligence to get wrong, but it didn’t say much for Victor’s sources. Unlike the other men who arrived with him, Farkas had a tan, probably fake. Too dark and too even. He wore an expensive-looking black suit with a red shirt and red tie. It was a stylish combination, or would have been without the chunky gold chain hanging above the shirt.
Victor continued his fake conversation and drew only a passing glance from one of Farkas’s men. Three arrived with Farkas, one in his forties and the other two in their thirties, un-athletic physiques, all in suits, each with a suitcase, one with two, all armed. Handguns in underarm holsters by the way their jackets hung. They were relaxed but watchful. Victor detected no special training, military or otherwise.
The guy who’d arrived earlier appeared, looking flushed and apologetic. He hurried down the steps, pushing his hair back behind his ears. Victor figured the man was saying sorry for being late and that the penthouse was ready for Farkas’s stay. Farkas looked at him with disdain but didn’t say anything.
