‘I guess. But you know more about it than me, so I’ll defer to your judgement.’
Victor said, ‘I hope you understand how that will complicate matters.’
‘How so?’
‘Yamout is a career arms trafficker, a man who has survived and thrived in a ruthless, dangerous profession; a man smart enough to keep his face away from a camera for the last decade. He won’t be meeting a foreign gangster on his own turf without substantial backup. And Petrenko won’t be meeting a foreign arms dealer in his city without a show of strength. That’s potentially a lot of guns pointing my way.’
‘Are you saying you’re scared?’
‘I’m saying that without proper time for planning and surveillance I’m going to have to do this strong. I won’t be able to stealth it.’
‘Kill him in an elevator with an axe for all I care.’
‘The chances of this going loud are extremely high.’
‘I can live with that.’
‘And a hotel is a very public space.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do everything in your power to keep civilians out of any crossfire.’
‘Fine,’ Victor said. ‘I’m going to need some guns, and I’m going to need to pick them up in Minsk no later than tomorrow afternoon.’
‘I can do that,’ the voice said. ‘What kind of guns are we talking about?’
‘A lot of them.’
After finishing the call, Victor slept, setting the alarm in his head to wake him at eight p.m. He exercised and bathed, thinking about the upcoming Yamout contract the whole time, wondering what he hadn’t been told, and whether that lack of information would get him killed. Accepting the position of an expendable asset came as part of an assassin’s job description, but that didn’t mean Victor had to like it.
Another arms dealer. A telling fact, and one his employer hadn’t elaborated on. Like his current target, his previous had been part of that industry, and though his first kill had been a contract killer, he had died to save the life of yet another trafficker, Vladimir Kasakov. Three members of the arms trade in three contracts. Two to die; one to live. For what goal?
Victor pushed the speculation from his mind. It wasn’t his place to know. He was just a triggerman. For years he had done everything in his power to not understand why the men he killed needed to die. But it was different this time. This time he wanted to know. He wanted to understand. He told himself it was for protection, because ignorance had almost cost him his life the previous year.
That justification didn’t sit right, however. There was more to it than that, whatever it may be. The distrust he had for his employer was palpable. He knew any job could be a set-up in the making, or this theme of rushed contracts could result in him walking into a situation he couldn’t walk back out of. If he had been working for some private client he wouldn’t go through with the latest job. He would cease communication and never contact them again. But resigning wasn’t an option. Private clients didn’t have the power to give him up to police forces and intelligence agencies the world over, or have access to satellite imagining, facial-recognition software, or the ability to call on thousands of spies and assets.
And when it was finally over, would his employer honour their arrangement? Would Victor be allowed to walk away from the CIA’s employ when he’d completed the last kill? Maybe the final job would come with a severance package of the two-in-the-head variety. But he had no choice but to see it through. If he ran, they would chase him, and they knew enough about him to succeed where others had previously failed.
Victor sighed. He wasn’t in a position to walk away from his CIA employer, but it was time to start thinking about the steps he would need to implement if he was to do so and remain breathing. A new identity was the first and most important thing. A clean identity, one he hadn’t used before. He didn’t know how many of his old aliases had been compromised. He couldn’t procure that now, however. But he would as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
He sat forward and typed another address into the browser window, bringing up a different email account he kept active as part of plying his trade. Among the hundreds of emails offering him cheap erectile dysfunction medication, the chance to make a fortune by simply handing over all his personal information to a friendly gentleman from Nigeria, and pills to increase the size of his penis, there was one of interest. He opened it up. It was a short message addressed to my friend, from a man named Alonso saying what a great time he’d had in Hong Kong but that he’d spent a lot of money there. He was on his way to Europe, only wasn’t staying long. The email ended with, how are you?
Victor considered. The Hong Kong contract with its high purse and the European one that needed to be done fast would have come to him for first refusal, but if he didn’t respond they would go to someone else. There were dozens, if not hundreds, of men around the world just like him. Victor had encountered enough of them to know he was far from unique, but that he had survived those encounters told him he was towards the top of the bell curve in his rarefied profession.
A month ago, he would have deleted the message without responding as per the terms of his employment. In light of the latest conversation with his control, things had changed. He needed to keep his options open. Victor composed a reply to Alonso, writing that it was good to have heard from him and that he would like to know more about his travels. He sent the message.
He logged off the terminal and sat for a moment, feeling calm but not wholly relaxed. If his employers wanted to play games, so be it. He could play games of his own.
Only Victor wouldn’t be playing fair.
CHAPTER 16
Sixty miles south-west of Minsk, Belarus
It was cold in the back of the car. Xavier Callo sat with his shoulders hunched up and his arms tightly folded across his chest, hands buried beneath his armpits. It was Blout’s fault; he smoked roll-ups as he drove, keeping his window down so the smoke drifted outside. The incoming draught flowed straight over Callo. His captors had supplied him with a coat, which he wore now, but it only did so much. Abbot and Blout were both built like they could play pro football and seemed content enough with the window open and the cold air blowing in.
A flat green land rushed by Callo’s window. It was all empty fields, barely any signs of habitation, somehow dead. For a long time he didn’t even know which country he was in, only realising he was heading towards Minsk when he started to see signs for the city. They were in both Belarusian and Russian, and Callo knew a little Russian thanks to his business. He was hungry but didn’t say anything for fear of going back in the trunk.
When they had first started their journey Callo had spent a few hours in the back seat before Abbot had ordered him inside the trunk. Blout then held him down while Abbot taped his hands, feet and finally his mouth. He didn’t say why, but stressed if Callo didn’t keep quiet Abbot would rig up his own bollock-fryer and leave Callo to cook. He choked on gasoline fumes for about twenty minutes before he was let out, freed from his bonds and allowed on the back seat. No explanation was given, but Callo didn’t need one.
It was clear he had been stuck in the trunk while they crossed a border. After being kidnapped in Athens, Callo didn’t know where he had been taken. He had been on at least two planes and spent countless hours in car trunks. Based on the weather, he guessed he had been interrogated somewhere in Eastern Europe. Since he was now heading to Minsk, he must have been in one of Belarus’s neighbouring countries, most likely Poland.
His body clock was completely skewed and he had no idea how long it had been since he had been kidnapped. He managed to get a look at the clock on the car’s console, so he knew the time at least.
‘Why are we going to Minsk?’ he asked Abbot when he could no longer bear the silence or the not knowing.
Abbot had his arm resting on the window sill while he stared at the Belarus countryside. ‘Yamout texted your mobile. He wants you to meet him there.’
‘But I don’t have the money.’
‘You won’t need it, mate,’ Abbot assured him.
Callo tried to continue the conversation but Abbot didn’t speak back. Blout had said nothing at all to Callo.
