then grabbed his left hand with his right, gripped hard with both, lurched to the right, rolling off the watcher, landing with his back on the floor, side by side with his opponent, Victor’s arms following the movements so that the edge of his right forearm ended up over the watcher’s throat.
Victor squeezed.
The pressure immediately closed off both of the watcher’s carotid arteries, stopping blood reaching his brain and depriving it of oxygen. He thrashed wildly in response, throwing elbows into Victor’s tensed stomach, tried to claw at his eyes, but didn’t go for Victor’s arm because the watcher knew he couldn’t escape it in the ten seconds he had before he lost consciousness. His only chance was to force Victor to let go.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Victor maintained the choke for sixty seconds after the watcher went limp to ensure he passed from unconsciousness into brain death.
He climbed to his feet and stepped away from the corpse, toeing the dropped gun where it lay on the floor. Had he known it was that close, he might have gone for it and saved himself some hassle. Still, good to get a workout. His abdomen and lower back stung from the repeated elbows but there was no real damage. He might have some bruises in the morning but that would be the most of it. His head hurt worse. His wounded arm continued to throb. The fight hadn’t done it any favours, but it hadn’t been significantly worsened.
He pulled open a curtain so he could see more clearly. There wasn’t time to search the room, but he checked the watcher’s pockets, and took his wallet, the suite keycard, and a spare magazine for the watcher’s gun. The weapon was a SIG Sauer P226. The watcher had fired eleven rounds so Victor knew the magazine had four left. Victor released it and loaded the fresh one.
For a second he thought about taking the computer with him but it was too big to conceal and would tie him directly to the crime. He put fifteen 9 mms through it to make sure the recordings on its hard drive could never be recovered, and threw the SIG down next to the dead watcher.
Victor exited the suite, figuring he had two minutes to get out before the first police responders arrived, and hurried back into the Presidential. He tore down a drape for light and saw a slim figure writhing on the floor, a bullet hole beneath his right collarbone. It was bleeding profusely. Blood soaked his clothes. His handgun was on the ground, only a few feet away, but out of the wounded man’s reach. Victor took it. Another SIG.
He grabbed the man by his shirt, looked him in the eye and asked in Russian, ‘Who are you?’
No answer, but Victor saw he’d been understood.
He pressed his free palm over the man’s mouth and hooked his thumb under the man’s jaw to clamp it shut. With his right hand still gripping the SIG, Victor pushed his spare thumb into the bullet hole.
His left hand stifled the screaming enough for Victor to twist his thumb around inside the wound. The man beneath him thrashed as agony wracked his body. Victor stopped in time to avoid the man fainting and wiped the bloody thumb on the guy’s jacket, keeping the palm pressed hard over the man’s mouth until he’d taken control of himself.
‘Who are you?’ Victor said again.
The man spoke, each word punctuated by heavy breaths. ‘Just. Kill. Me.’
‘Who do you work for?’
He didn’t answer, but managed to form a something resembling a smile.
Victor held the guy’s mouth shut and pushed his thumb back into the bullet hole. He twisted and jerked it around.
Muffled screams followed, louder. The man bucked, eyes wide, veins prominent under the skin of his forehead and temples. Victor counted to seven before removing his thumb. It was another five seconds before the man had calmed down enough for Victor to take away his hand.
‘Who?
‘ Kill… me.’
The guy was deteriorating fast, his breathing shallow, voice even quieter, the time between words longer.
Victor leaned closer. ‘Who sent you?’
The man’s head lolled back, eyes closing. Victor checked the pulse. It was barely there, the heart on its last few hundred beats. He rifled through the dying man’s pockets. A wallet with fake ID inside, but maybe it would still help, some cash, and a set of car keys but no key fob. It had been four minutes since it went loud. If Minsk PD weren’t here already, they would be by the time Victor left. He stripped off the tactical harness, Kevlar vest and holster straps. He hid the gun in the back of his waistband and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and headed for the stairwell.
He didn’t know who the four guys with SIGs were, but he knew he had inadvertently stepped into someone’s operation and killed the surveillance team. But these guys were more than just watchers. They knew how to shoot, and how to fight. Someone had sent them. Someone would want to know who had killed them.
Victor put his shoes back on and descended hurriedly, the pain in his arm worsening as the adrenalin in his system faded. He joined a group of frightened guests on the fourth floor and acted similarly distressed as they rushed down to the lobby. It was packed with people, all scared by the gunshots from high above, security trying to keep control but smart enough not to risk their lives for the company if they didn’t have to. Hotel staff had lit candles to provide some illumination and the light helped Victor quickly find his way out through one of the side entrances.
Police cars were pulling up outside as he walked away.
CHAPTER 25
‘Not long now,’ Abbot said.
Xavier Callo was in a small apartment in a tower block somewhere in Minsk. He’d arrived with Abbot and Blout several hours before and had spent most of the following time lounging on the sofa watching US sitcoms dubbed into Russian. He had plenty to eat and drink, mostly junk food and soda, but Blout had fetched the groceries and good eating obviously wasn’t something the inexpressive ape understood. Still, food was food and despite being thin Callo had a big appetite. Empty bags of potato chips and candy bar wrappers lay on the floor around his bare feet. He wasn’t allowed to wear shoes.
Abbot stood by the window and Blout was elsewhere in the apartment. At least one of the two was with Callo at all times. They’d only let him use the john with the door open and Blout standing just outside. Callo had given the prick something to listen to.
They were waiting for something to happen, that much was as clear as polished diamond. Callo had no idea what his captors were waiting for. He hadn’t been told or given any indication and he wasn’t about to ask.
He was tired. There were no clocks in the apartment but Callo knew the time and the date by checking the news channel on the TV when no one was looking. He did so several times and felt very proud of his cunning. The apartment consisted of two bedrooms, one bathroom, lounge and dining area, kitchen and hallway. It was neat and clean but the whole thing, furnishings included, probably cost less than Callo’s last trip to Athens. Whoever was running this operation, CIA or otherwise, was obviously a cheapskate. If the powers that be had splashed out for a nicer pad maybe the two ogres guarding him would be able to relax a little. Callo’s eyelids were heavy.
‘Can I go to bed?’ he asked, when he could no longer fight the tiredness.
‘You’re having a giraffe,’ Abbot said without looking at him.
‘Then I’m just going to fall asleep right here.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Abbot said. ‘I’ll wake you when we need you.’
Immediately Callo felt less tired. What did they need him for? Blout entered the lounge and gestured for Abbot, who followed Blout back into a bedroom, leaving Callo alone for the first time. He contemplated dashing for the door, but the idea was short-lived. He’d be caught before he had it open, and would no doubt get a serious beat down for his actions. Better to just sit tight. They couldn’t keep him indefinitely, after all.
Callo muted the TV and edged along the sofa so he was closer to where Abbot had disappeared and heard voices speaking Russian, maybe from a radio. They were too quiet for Callo to understand what was being said.
