That he failed to kill you, which of course I am glad of, is proof enough that his intelligence is second to his ambition. He will suffer for his lack of foresight.’ Ariff stopped to face Yamout. ‘We are now at war, Gabir.’
Yamout exhaled and squinted against the sun. ‘Yet how are we going to strike back? Russia is a long way for us to reach.’
Ariff nodded. ‘Do not forget that Kasakov’s empire overlaps with our own. We deal with many of the same parts of the world, with the same clients. Our paths cross frequently. If he thought he could sweep us away without leaving himself exposed he is very much mistaken. We need not stretch our arm all the way to Russia when Kasakov is already so close. We will attack his network. We will destroy his shipments. We will kill his traffickers. We will slice off his fingers one by one and leave his empire crippled.’
Ariff smiled and set his hands on Yamout’s shoulders. ‘Then, when he has no strength left to resist us, we will deliver the killing blow.’
CHAPTER 31
Minsk, Belarus
Victor climbed out of the taxi and into the cold, wind and rain immediately darkening his overcoat. His gaze swept over the small group of taxi drivers standing together under a bus shelter, laughing and joking, smoking cigarettes. No one else nearby was stationary. Pedestrians hurried on their way, faces down, shoulders up. The weather was too bad to be outside without the strongest of need. Even watchers would want to stay warm and dry. If the train station was under surveillance it would be from inside not out. That suited Victor just fine.
Minsk Central was a huge station built in the Stalinist style that managed to remain grand and imposing despite the freezing downpour. Crossing the road, Victor could see a couple of armed police officers patrolling the square. Both looked alert. Not unusual. He showed nothing on his face, displayed nothing in his actions — just another anonymous businessman on his way home.
There was a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it. He moved around a Belarusian family who seemed happy enough to wait in a position where they blocked the better part of the main entrance.
Air travel was the quickest way of creating distance, but also the most watched, the most regulated, the most restricting, and by far the best way of getting apprehended. A car offered the most freedom, but, whether he stole one and gambled with the watchfulness of the police, or hired one and added exposure to one of his aliases, was not without its negatives. A train, though not perfect, was usually the best option. He could pay cash without being noted, needed no identification, and created no paper trail outside of a ticket that would be destroyed once its use was spent.
As a boy he’d loved trains, and had spent endless hours watching them from his dorm window that overlooked a station. Back then he’d longed to drive them. Instead he killed people, and now his fondness for trains extended only to their benefits in extraction.
Inside the station the concourse was noisy and crowded with commuters. Victor glided among them. His eyes, partially shielded behind a pair of non-prescription glasses, flicked back and forth between the faces of those standing along the walls or sitting down, where he would position himself if he were watching people enter. He was searching for recognition, some action or movement that would give away surveillance, but he saw no indication that he was being observed. He didn’t relax. Just because he saw no one watching him, it didn’t mean that no one was. If Petrenko’s network was large enough and they were smart enough, his description, maybe even a picture, could have been passed around. Train stations and airports could be watched.
He circled the concourse several times. He bought a cup of coffee, a newspaper, browsed books, acting casually, trying to cut down as many lines of sight as possible in the hope of drawing out watchers. Professional shadows could be working in multi-sex couples or disguised as station employees. He doubted Petrenko’s network would be that proficient, but he had no doubts that whoever the surveillance team worked for were. He noticed an athletic and alert young woman with a buggy but no child in his peripheral vision twice. The child might be with the father or there might be no child at all. Passing windows, he watched her reflection to see if she was watching him, but at no time did she look his way.
Victor headed to the men’s room and spent five minutes waiting in a stall before coming out to find the woman was nowhere to be seen. He checked the departure boards, found an appropriate train, and joined the queue for the ticket counters. He behaved like any other Belarusian, not worthy of attention, but he caught a short man look his way. It was only one time and maybe it meant nothing but maybe it meant everything. The man had a round face, bald, about twenty pounds overweight, wearing a train company uniform. Victor looked at his watch for a few seconds and stepped out of line. He entered a pharmacist and perused the shampoos before looking up in the direction of the bald guy. He wasn’t there.
‘Hrodna,’ Victor said in Russian when he reached the ticket counter. ‘The next available train.’
‘Seats are only available in first class.’
‘That’s fine.’
He waited until three minutes before the train to Hrodna was due to depart before walking to the platform. He watched every man or woman that came on to the platform after him. If he had a shadow, they would be forced to wait too so as not to risk getting on the train to find he wasn’t following. No one hung around, or otherwise made him suspicious. Victor waited until just one minute before the departure time before boarding. No one followed.
He found his seat in the first class carriage at the front of the train. It was on the aisle, set facing forward, with a table. Victor sat down. A man was sitting opposite.
‘Boy do I hate trains,’ the man said in American-accented English, talking loudly. ‘All the waiting around. I mean, let’s go already. Know what I’m saying?’
Victor looked at him, but didn’t answer.
‘Walt Fisher,’ the man said, offering his hand across the table. ‘I figure you’re not a Ruskie.’
Fisher looked mid-forties, dressed in a striped shirt, top button undone, tie loose, suit jacket draped over the seat next to him. His cheeks were flushed and fine droplets of sweat lined his hairline.
‘You mean Belarusian,’ Victor said, deciding it wasn’t worth pretending not to speak English. He shook the hand. It was warm and moist.
‘Whatever. Belarusian, Russian, is there a difference?’
Victor shrugged.
Fisher nodded. ‘ Exactly.’
‘How did you know I’m neither?’ Victor asked, genuinely intrigued.
‘They don’t travel first.’
‘Ah,’ Victor said, not commenting on the various Russian-language conversations going on nearby.
Fisher allowed himself a smug grin. ‘You have a name, son?’
‘Peter.’
‘You’re a lime- you’re a Brit, ain’t you?’
‘Very perceptive,’ Victor said, adding a more stereotypical British emphasis on the mid-Atlantic accent he’d been using.
‘I hope so, friend. That’s nigh on ninety per cent of my job.’
Fisher stank of bourbon and, aside from the volume of his voice, seemed harmless enough. Some people just liked to talk.
‘Just been brokering a big-ass deal with the Reds,’ he explained, before adding, ‘Is it still okay to say that?’
‘No more or less so than “limey”.’
He let out a booming laugh. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Habit.’
‘No offence taken.’
‘In mergers and acquisitions,’ Fisher announced. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m a consultant.’
‘What field?’ Fisher clicked his fingers before Victor could respond. ‘No, don’t tell me.’ He bit his lip and pointed. ‘Human resources.’
