Some arms dealers were more brazen in their illicit trade, openly exploiting the cracks in national and international arms trading. There were certainly enough cracks for Ariff to conduct a lot more trade, and hence earn a lot more money, but he didn’t let greed pull him out of the shadows. No one who operated more openly than him had stayed alive and out of jail for as long as he.
When Ariff had dried and dressed himself, he entered the lounge to find the Spanish girl sitting awkwardly on a sofa. She was wearing a red silk dressing gown and nothing else. The way the fabric flowed over the curves of her body might have encouraged Ariff to stay longer, had he not seen the large Lebanese man sitting opposite her.
Gabir Yamout made the armchair look like it was made for a child. He wasn’t so much tall as he was wide. There was an uncomfortable look on his face, but not because of the size disparity between himself and his seating apparatus.
Ariff smiled and said, ‘Did you not enjoy the performance, Gabir?’
Yamout scowled but said nothing. Ariff walked to where an ornate mirror hung on one wall. He brushed the shoulders of his jacket with his palm and turned around. He reached into a pocket and drew out a folded handkerchief. He gave it to the Spanish girl and made a dismissing gesture. She promptly went into the bedroom and closed the door.
The pouch contained tiny diamonds — enough to make a fine ring or necklace. Sometimes African governments and warlords paid Ariff in precious stones, which in turn his jeweller sold on in Antwerp and Tel Aviv. The diamonds he gave to the girl were all flawed and not worth selling, but she would never know that.
‘One of our suppliers is dead,’ Yamout announced. ‘The Hungarian, Farkas, was assassinated last week.’
‘And why would I care?’
‘His mob associates think we killed him because Farkas was planning to bypass us and go direct to our customers. I hear they will retaliate.’
Ariff laughed. ‘Let them try. I’m more scared of my wife.’ He faced Yamout. ‘When are you getting my money?’
‘I’ll have the American bring it to Minsk,’ Yamout explained. ‘I can make the deal with the Belarusian and collect it afterwards.’
‘Very efficient.’ Ariff checked his reflection one last time and said, ‘Come on, or we’ll be late for Eshe’s party. I don’t want to keep my daughter waiting on her birthday. You did get her something nice, didn’t you?’
Yamout rose from his seat and nodded. ‘Of course, she’s my goddaughter. I picked it up last week. This beautiful dress from Jordan. It’s blue with gold, so pretty. I can’t wait to see her face.’
Ariff’s brow furrowed. ‘You do realise Eshe is only eight?’
‘Even eight-year-olds like pretty dresses.’
On the street outside Ariff climbed into the passenger seat of Yamout’s Mercedes. There were two men sitting on the back seat, both with compact Ingram sub-machine guns resting in their laps. Ariff ignored them.
‘What do we know about this Belarusian?’
‘Not much,’ Yamout said. ‘But I have a solid recommendation and his prices seem very reasonable.’
‘Take plenty of protection,’ Ariff said as he sat back and closed his eyes. ‘These former Soviets can never be trusted.’
Yamout put the Mercedes in gear and pulled away from the kerb.
Further down the road, a young man in a brown suede jacket started up his motorbike’s engine and whispered something to someone who wasn’t there.
CHAPTER 15
Linz, Austria
The target’s dossier was waiting for Victor when he used an internet cafe to access his email account. As well as providing computer terminals, the store also rented out music and films. There were stacks of old DVD cases and video cassettes by the window, sleeves discoloured from too much sunlight exposure. The clientele were young — lots of teenagers and twenty-somethings. No one older than him. Multiple music tracks emanated from several different sets of headphones and mixed together to provide a disjointed soundtrack over the clatter of keyboards.
Sitting in a secluded corner, no one observed Victor opening the dossier and reading. Like the file on Farkas, it was an extensive piece of literature. Gabir Yamout was a forty-four-year-old Lebanese arms trafficker and a former officer in the Beirut police force. He was a Christian who had fought for the militias during the eighties civil war before going to work for an Egyptian named Baraa Ariff. Yamout lived in Beirut with his large family. He was Ariff’s business partner, bodyguard and friend.
Victor examined the first photograph that accompanied the dossier. A covert head-and-shoulders shot of Yamout. He looked in his early thirties, at least ten years younger than the age listed in the dossier, which told Victor his target was good enough to keep himself off anyone’s radar for a long time. Yamout was dressed in a casual shirt, wearing sunglasses. He had a neat moustache and beard. Short hair. He looked like an intelligent man, friendly. Nothing in his appearance gave away the dark way in which he made his money. In Victor’s experience, it rarely did. Certainly not in his own case.
Back in Victor’s hotel room, he connected to the VoIP call. His employer said, ‘I’ve got some more work for you.’
‘Gabir Yamout.’
‘But there’s a complication.’
‘Isn’t there always?’
‘Yamout is hittable for one night only, two days from now. I know this is the second time I’ve asked you to do a rush job, but I can’t help that. Time is of the essence here.’
‘Of course it is,’ Victor said. ‘You’re asking me to kill a major arms dealer with less than sixty hours’ lead time.’
‘I said I can’t help that. It’ll be different next time.’
‘Like the Farkas contract?’
‘Yeah,’ the voice agreed.
‘Like the Farkas contract that I had to rush because the rushed Bucharest job cut into my preparations?’
The voice didn’t answer.
‘This will be the third time in three contracts I’ve had to operate with a limited time frame,’ Victor said. ‘Three for three is not a reassuring pattern.’
‘I never claimed the work I needed doing was going to be easy. If it was, I wouldn’t need you now, would I?’
This time Victor remained silent.
‘As you can see from the dossier, Yamout is a pretty big fish,’ the voice said, moving on. ‘He’s the business partner of Baraa Ariff and together they run an extensive organisation that ferries mainly small arms from source to smaller, localised buyers. Who in turn sell them on to the end users. Their client list is huge and predominantly based in the Middle East and Africa, and over three decades of trafficking we believe they’ve shipped close to a billion dollars’ worth of guns to warlords, militias and terrorists.’
‘They sound like a delightful pair.’
‘Don’t they just? So stubbing Yamout out under our heel is going to make the world a far nicer place. You should feel good about that.’
‘I’m overjoyed.’
‘You sound it.’ His employer paused. ‘Yamout is going to be in Minsk to meet a Belarusian gangster by the name of Danil Petrenko. Petrenko is a typical Eastern European crime boss, but he’s happened upon a few crates of AKs he wants to unload. They’re meeting at the Hotel Europe, where Petrenko has a suite booked for the occasion. We don’t know how Yamout is getting to Minsk, or when he’s leaving again afterwards, but according to my intel Yamout isn’t likely to stay too long, either at the hotel or in Minsk, so you’ll have to hit him as soon as the first chance presents itself.’
‘Which means the hotel will be the only viable strike point.’
