‘We are playing him.’
Clarke sat forward. ‘He won’t like it.’
‘If he stamps his feet, we’ll remind him who his daddy really is.’
‘And he’ll like that even less.’
Procter frowned, leaned forward. ‘Do you seriously think I’m not already aware of everything you’ve just said?’
Clarke leaned forward too. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve thought it through, Roland, but we’re coming to polar opposite conclusions.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, my friend. We’re coming to the same conclusions. But while they concern you, I’m happy with them.’
‘You’re happy with an angry assassin running around out there who may or may not do as he’s told?’
Procter selected his words carefully. ‘I’m content with it.’
‘So tell me, what do we do if he’s angrier than we thought?’
‘Then we activate the contingency I’ve prepared.’
Clarke sighed. ‘I think it’s about time you revealed what that actually is.’
‘I can’t do that.’
Clarke’s face flushed red. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘We may be in this together, but some things are best not shared, for mutual safety. As you are well aware.’
‘I’m not sure this counts, Roland.’
‘Okay, if we’re going to put all our cards on the table, I want to know who is bankrolling this operation of ours.’
Clarke was silent for a moment. ‘You know I can’t say. We agreed on anonymity to protect all parties if something went wrong. I’ve told you all I’m at liberty to.’
‘Spare me the speeches. Who are they?’
‘I won’t answer that,’ Clarke said. ‘So quit asking. And may I remind you that our sponsor doesn’t know who you are.’
‘Okay, don’t tell me,’ Procter said. ‘But it works both ways.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Clarke protested. ‘Knowing what you plan to do with Tesseract, should he become a problem, is not going to compromise me.’
‘Maybe not,’ Procter admitted. ‘But I don’t want to ruin the surprise.’
Clarke was quiet for a moment. ‘Why do I get the impression you’re playing me as much as you are Tesseract?’
‘Because you’ve been in this business too long, Peter. Like me. But we’re on the same side here. We both want to take down these gun-running scumbags, and this is the way — the only way — to make that happen.’
Clarke seemed placated, at least for the time being.
Procter said, ‘You haven’t updated me on Kasakov yet. Is he still in the dark about Farkas?’
‘So I’m led to believe,’ Clarke began as he leaned back in his chair, ‘but I expect he’ll be emerging into the light any time now.’
CHAPTER 19
Moscow, Russia
The punch was a straight right that followed a stiff jab and caught Vladimir Kasakov a half-inch above his left temple. It wasn’t a flush blow, but Kasakov didn’t see it coming, and the ones that weren’t seen always hurt the most. The Russian boxer who threw the punch was a solid two hundred and fifty pounds, a professional heavyweight, and known for his one-punch knockout power. The sixteen-ounce glove did little to cushion the blow that jolted the Ukrainian arms dealer’s senses. He kept his guard high and tight as his opponent unleashed a flurry of hard left hooks and overhand rights.
Kasakov backed off and used his jab to keep the Russian at range. Kasakov’s opponent was three inches taller — six-six — but they had the same armpit-to-fist reach, which meant Kasakov could employ his jab frequently and effectively. The Ukrainian’s jab was his favourite punch; it was hard and accurate, and, though not a knockout shot, it set up other punches, and ten in the face each round took its toll on anyone and stopped them throwing back at the same time.
The Russian followed Kasakov as he backed off, flicking some jabs of his own but without the same conviction. He was just looking to throw the big punches, but Kasakov was using his better footwork and jab to stop the Russian setting his feet for power shots. The big man was good at cutting off the ring though, using lateral movement to slowly force Kasakov towards the ropes. That was where he definitely didn’t want to end up. He stopped backing off and threw some straight right hands and hooks after jabbing, but had difficulty getting them through the Russian’s textbook guard.
Kasakov wasn’t used to backing down in the ring or outside of it and he stayed toe-to-toe, throwing punches and taking them. The adrenalin surge was huge. Some of his ringside underlings were shouting instructions, but the arms dealer ignored them. When it came to boxing, Kasakov ignored everyone.
He’d listened to his old amateur coach, but he was long dead and Kasakov had never felt the need to seek another. He had been boxing since he was six years old, and after forty years’ worth of experience in the ring there was little anyone could tell him that he didn’t already know. He’d had an extensive and successful amateur career, winning regional and national titles but missing out on the Olympics due to an elbow injury during trials.
That amateur career had been cut short when he was drafted into the Soviet army and sent to fight in Afghanistan. He was assigned to logistics, and by the time of the withdrawal had made the rank of major. When the empire fell apart Kasakov was in a perfect position to acquire and sell the redundant munitions he had helped transport and manage. The market in small arms was already too strong to compete with but Kasakov saw an opening for heavier armaments. His first customers were his old enemies in the Islamic State of Afghanistan. He made a killing selling off Red Army T-55 and T-62 tanks, and when the Taliban took over the country he continued delivering weapons to his old customers in what became the Northern Alliance. But recognising a good opportunity when he saw it, Kasakov began trading with the Taliban at the same time, selling them rockets to defeat the tanks, and then mortars to the Northern Alliance to defeat the antitank teams. When one faction was gaining the upper hand, he held off on resupplies, and cut his prices to the other to prolong the conflict and keep his business thriving.
He soon expanded into Africa, and using aircraft from the grounded Soviet Air Force flew in arms to nations under UN embargoes. Before long he had customers in south-east Asia and South America too and was coming to the attention of the international community. To stay operating he reduced his hands-on involvement in the trafficking business, employing others to take the biggest risks for him. He made sure his name was never on anyone’s paperwork nor on any computer file. He wasn’t sure how many companies he had, but it had to be close to a hundred registered in a dozen different countries. By the time any agency started to get a handle on what one was up to, Kasakov closed it down and moved its operations to one of his other companies in another nation. The web of ownership was so complicated even Kasakov had difficulty keeping track.
The day the Twin Towers fell he was smart enough to cut all ties with the Taliban and anyone connected to Islamic terrorists, but the damage had already been done and international pressure for his arrest was escalating, regardless of his preventative measures. Acutely aware of the growing momentum against him, Kasakov moved from his native Ukraine to Russia. Having made the Russian government billions by brokering arms sales he had no trouble gaining Russian citizen ship. As Moscow never extradited nationals, he was safe.
That safety didn’t extend into the ring, where the Russian giant found an opening in Kasakov’s defences through which to send another hammer right hand. Kasakov saw it coming, but it still snapped his head back and momentarily buckled his knees. He’d never sparred the Russian giant before and now knew why his people had tried to keep them apart. The fight was tougher than expected. Much tougher. Kasakov wished he’d put in more time training in the preceding weeks, but with the assassination attempt in Bucharest and the slowdown in the business requiring his complete attention, he had drastically reduced his hours in the gym. He shook off the thought. So it
