‘I don’t know why you always ask that. We both know I don’t need to.’
‘You’re too trusting.’
She smiled a little. ‘Why don’t you ever ask me out? I mean on a proper date. Not like this.’
‘You’d say no, and we have a good arrangement. Why complicate it?’ He reached for his wallet. ‘Let me give you something so you can get a couple of new blouses.’
‘That’s okay,’ she sighed. ‘It wasn’t as expensive as it looks. And besides,’ she took hold of her blouse’s collar in both hands and opened it up, exposing her elbow-enhanced cleavage visible now there weren’t enough buttons to cover it, ‘I think it looks better like this anyway.’
After bathing and dressing in clean clothes Victor sat on the end of the bed, powered on his new laptop, checked his email to get the latest number, and used VoIP to call his nameless employer.
‘Excellent work in Berlin,’ were the first words Victor heard.
He didn’t respond.
His employer said, ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d manage to pull it off without anyone else getting caught in the net, so to speak.’
‘My instructions were to avoid collateral damage.’
‘Don’t think I don’t get that it was a tall ask when using a bomb. So thank you.’
Victor remained silent. He stood and moved to the window. He used a finger to edge open the drapes a crack. He looked down on the street outside.
‘Next dossier isn’t ready for you just yet,’ his employer explained. ‘Details are still being verified, you know the sort of thing. Don’t want to send you in without the full facts.’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘Exactly. So stand down while we’re waiting. Unwind and have a little fun.’
‘That’s what I’m doing.’
‘Good for you,’ the voice responded, ‘but don’t go too wild. I need you ready to go at the drop of a hat.’
‘I’m always ready.’
‘Which is exactly what I want to hear. And anyway, you should be happy.’
‘Why’s that?’ Victor asked.
‘Because we’re halfway there, my man. Two down, and only two to go. Then you’re a free man again.’
After a pause, Victor asked, ‘How long before you’ll have the third contract ready?’
‘Soon,’ the voice replied. ‘Very soon.’
CHAPTER 14
Beirut, Lebanon
The girl beneath Baraa Ariff was nineteen. Spanish. She had long wavy black hair that cascaded to her shoulders, flawless golden brown skin over a body that was slim yet curvaceous and just the way Ariff liked it. She also didn’t talk too much, which was another attractive quality the Egyptian arms dealer was particularly fond of.
He couldn’t stand women who tried to engage him in conversation or had the arrogance to dare ask him questions. If it wasn’t so offensive, it would be almost laughable. Ariff considered few men his equal and no woman alive had yet earned his respect. They were either toys for his amusement or to carry and raise his children. Never both. A mother should be too busy looking after the offspring to have time to waste speaking to him and a vagina had no need of vocal cords.
Fortunately, he was wealthy enough not to have to deal with the opposite sex unless he wanted to. Since he lived with his family he had to spend more time in the company of his wife than he would have liked, but she had learned not to speak to him unless absolutely necessary. His daughters were different though; they were three heavenly creations not yet tainted by womanhood. If it were possible, Ariff would keep them that way forever.
The girl grunted. She couldn’t speak Arabic and he didn’t know a word of Spanish, so that all but eliminated the talking problem. A few cries when he used her body were thankfully as much communication as he had to endure on a typical visit. Today was even better than normal — the girl barely moaned as he moved himself on top of her.
As a result he was finished much sooner than usual and this pleased him immensely. For Ariff, the quicker any kind of gratification could be obtained, the better. He climbed off the girl, gave her a little slap on the thigh to show his appreciation of her body, and walked to the bathroom for a quick shower.
He let the warm water strike the top of his head and flow down over his body. He felt tired from the sex. He may have kept himself in shape but his days as a young man were long over. Ariff knew from his regular check-ups that he was fit and healthy for a sixty-eight-year-old. His blood pressure was considerably below the average even with the inherent stresses and dangers associated with his profession. He accepted that his business came with unavoidable risks and as such didn’t spend too much time worrying about them. He paid other people to do that for him, and he paid them very well.
Five decades in the illicit arms trade had amassed Ariff a huge fortune, as it had his father before him. Ariff’s father had smuggled weapons into Gaza from Egypt for almost thirty years until Israeli commandos killed him. Ariff had been little more than a boy then, but he had learned a lot from his father’s death and always steered clear of moving merchandise himself, personally brokering only the most important deals.
The death of his father also taught him to be careful of those he dealt with. People who wanted weapons had enemies and by supplying those people, he would count their enemies as his own. This philosophy kept him away from dealing with anything chemical, biological or nuclear. The second he bought or sold such materials he would become the target of the West, particularly the United States. While he kept comparatively inconspicuous, he knew he was safe.
Ariff’s main business was almost exclusively in the small arms trade. He bought handguns, sub-machine guns, assault rifles, man-portable machine guns, grenade launchers and missile launchers then sold them on. In addition to helping maintain a relatively low profile, he preferred to trade in small arms for a variety of reasons. They were easy to source, cheap to buy, and straightforward to conceal and transport across borders. Demand was also high. Because they were cheap, everyone wanted them.
Ariff had stopped trading in anything larger over twenty years ago, after he’d bought half a dozen T-72 tanks in Estonia that had been left behind by the Red Army. Despite the fact the tanks were perfectly maintained and in full working order, he could find no one who wanted to buy them. Governments didn’t like to deal in such small numbers, and for the price of one tank a warlord could equip every man under his command with an assault rifle and ammunition. In the end, the Estonians had bought back the tanks for sixty per cent of what Ariff had paid for them. It had been a tough but important lesson for the arms dealer.
Despite primarily trading in illegal arms, Ariff conducted much of his business through legal channels. Weapons could be bought legally from supplier states, transported legally, but diverted for illicit use when they were thousands of miles from source. Half the time supplier states never realised their weapons hadn’t ended up where they were supposed to, and the rest of the time they didn’t even care. When big money was at stake, many suppliers would knowingly violate sanctions or embargoes so Ariff could ship their weapons straight to war zones to maximise their profits.
When business wasn’t conducted legally, Ariff preferred to conduct it with as much legality as could be illegally purchased. He bribed officials to issue certified bills of lading and end-use certificates. When he couldn’t bribe, he used expertly produced counterfeits. To keep on good terms with the border guards, airport officials and government cronies essential to his trafficking, Ariff made regular donations whether he was making a shipment or not. The more people were accustomed to bribery, the harder they found it to refuse. When making such bribes, it always helped if the receivers earned less in a month than Ariff would spend on a pair of shoes.
Those times when he wasn’t operating under the flag of a particular state, Ariff smuggled weapons in every conceivable way, whether over land, sea or air. One of his favoured methods was to conceal weapons in humanitarian-aid cargoes. The Red Cross might be sending a plane full of grain to the Democratic Republic of Congo, but while the plane was being refuelled in Egypt, a third of the sacks of grain would be emptied and refilled with guns.
