local, and cops or domestic spies would have identified themselves as such, and tried to arrest Victor instead of shooting at him.
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind for the time being. He wasn’t going to work anything out lying in the tub, and it was all moot if he didn’t get out of Minsk.
The taps pressed uncomfortably into his shoulders but it was necessary to face the bathroom door. He had it open so he could see into the bedroom and the small mirror positioned on the floor and angled so he could watch in it the reflection of the hotel room door. He didn’t expect anyone would be coming through it, but precautions only paid off if they were taken every time.
He spent twenty minutes in the bath enjoying the heat and the alcohol in his bloodstream. His tolerance was high enough that the intoxicating effect was minimal. A jolt of adrenalin would easily override it if it came to it, but the effect was just enough to help him unwind. He kept the watcher’s SIG in his left hand at all times.
When he was dry, Victor tidied and cleaned the bedroom and bathroom. Where blood had been, he wiped with a strip of T-shirt dampened with more vodka from the mini bar. The bloody towel and evidence of his ad-hoc first aid went into his attache case. He set out a clean set of clothes and ordered room service, then got dressed while he waited for his food to arrive. After he’d refuelled and ensured all of his effects were packed and he was ready to flee at a second’s notice, he tucked the SIG into the front of his waistband and lay down atop the bedclothes.
If his employer at the CIA hadn’t already found out what had happened, he would soon. Maybe the voice would be more forgiving if he knew that only the intervention of a third party had prevented the contract’s fulfilment. Or maybe killing those men would prove to be costly and put his paymaster under too much pressure.
And make Victor a liability he could do without.
CHAPTER 27
Danil Petrenko was as angry as he was scared. It enraged him that someone would dare try to take him out in the middle of his own city, and it terrified him that they had very nearly succeeded. As a precaution Petrenko clutched a. 50 calibre Desert Eagle as he paced about his apartment, barking orders or just venting his frustration and anxiety. His lieutenants had called every man under his control and had them rush to his residence to provide protection. If whoever had attacked before tried again, they’d have a small army to get through.
He had men outside the building, in the lobby, and guarding the elevators and his front door. Six of Petrenko’s biggest, meanest gangsters were with him in the apartment itself. All were armed. Every window was locked closed, all blinds or drapes shut, every light was switched on and candles had been set and lit in every room in case the power was cut like last time. Like Petrenko himself, his men were on edge, aware that mere hours before three of their own had been killed in a merciless assault.
Aside from his men now acting as guards, there were more out on the streets banging on doors and snapping fingers, all trying to find out who was behind the attack and why. Every other criminal he knew or cop he paid off was doing their part, some out of fear, others because they were scared of losing income if Petrenko was killed. Motives were irrelevant to Petrenko. All he cared about were results.
The Lebanese bastard hadn’t been behind it. That was pretty obvious to Petrenko. He had seen the look in Yamout’s eyes as they had climbed through the bathroom window and on to the precarious ledge. No one could fake that kind of terror.
It had been about three hours since he’d fled the Europe with his only surviving man. His apartment was the penthouse of a ten-storey block in one of Minsk’s most expensive and desirable neighbourhoods. He lived with his glamour-model girlfriend, who had locked herself in the guest bedroom to keep out of the way of Petrenko and his men.
One of his men came out of another room. He had a shotgun in one hand and a cell phone in the other, held with the speaker against his chest.
‘I’ve just had a call from downstairs,’ the man said. ‘He’s here.’
‘Okay,’ Petrenko said, nodding. ‘Send him up. But make sure him and his men have no weapons. And don’t take your eyes off them for a second. Got it? Not for a second.’
While his man gave the go-ahead to the guards in the lobby, Petrenko splashed some water on his face, swiped his sweaty hair back from his forehead, had another fat line of Bolivia’s finest. He wiped the white residue from his nostrils, took a deep breath and waited in the lounge for his guest’s arrival.
A minute later, there was a knock on the door and Petrenko heard his men taking guns and ushering the guest through to where he sat. He stood up the moment Tomasz Burliuk entered. The tall, handsome, immaculately groomed Ukrainian, Vladimir Kasakov’s closest advisor, was followed by two bodyguards.
‘Danil,’ Burliuk began and took out his asthma inhaler. ‘What’s with the lack of manners?’
‘I’m sorry, Tomasz, but I can’t be too careful. You don’t know what it’s been like for me. I almost died tonight. I almost died.’
Burliuk put the inhaler to his lips and breathed in as he depressed the mechanism. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Petrenko flopped back on to a chair. He shrugged and gestured as he assembled his thoughts. ‘We were just beginning negotiations when all the damn lights went out. I thought it was nothing. A fuse maybe. But no more than thirty seconds later my men started dying. Damn it, Tomasz, someone tried to kill me. In my own city. I had to climb through a window just to get away. Look — ’ he gestured to his wrists, which were lightly scabbed where the broken glass had grazed him ‘- I almost killed myself in the process.’
Burliuk slipped the inhaler back into a pocket and took a seat in an armchair opposite Petrenko. ‘What about Yamout?’
‘What about him?’
Burliuk stroked his beard. ‘Did he escape as well?’
‘He got away. None of his bodyguards did. He brought six men with him. Can you believe that? At the time I was enraged by such disrespect, but now I should thank him. Maybe if he hadn’t brought so much muscle, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Where is Yamout now?’
Petrenko scoffed. ‘How would I know, and why would I care? The second we left the elevator we went our separate ways. We didn’t hang around to discuss travel arrangements. He’s probably back in the desert by now.’
‘Was he injured?’
Petrenko frowned. ‘Who gives a fuck? For all I know, it’s his fault I nearly died… Wait a second. Maybe they weren’t after me, but Yamout.’
‘You can’t know that for sure,’ Burliuk said. ‘You have enemies, don’t you?’
Petrenko nodded, but his thoughts were becoming clearer. He sat forward and said, ‘I have more enemies than God. Every criminal in this city wants my blood. But they are all rightly afraid of Danil Petrenko and what I can do to them and their families.’ He stabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. ‘I am the king of Minsk. Any attack against my throne is akin to treason. And anyone crazy enough to attempt to usurp me would at least have the sanity to strike when I’m at my most vulnerable, not when I’m surrounded by guards and with Yamout and all his men present.’
‘If you say so, King Danil.’ Burliuk gave a little bow of his head.
‘I’m glad you agree, Tomasz, because I hold you responsible.’
‘What?’
‘You brokered the introduction between Yamout and myself. I would never have dealt with the man had you not first vouched for him.’
Burliuk said nothing.
Petrenko said, ‘I’m glad I sent for you, because now you need to make amends.’
Burliuk laughed briefly. ‘You don’t send for me, little king. You request my presence, and by my grace I decide whether to grant you that favour.’
