Victor hadn’t done a job for in years, had an unspecified but very dangerous contract worth a potentially huge fee. He wanted to pitch Victor for it. When Victor replied to the email asking for more information, the message was bounced back. The recipient account was no longer active, so like the Hong Kong job it might have been withdrawn, or perhaps it had already gone to another killer or killers. His other accounts were full of spam and nothing else. No one was offering work. He had been out of the market for over six months, so it was hardly surprising brokers were going elsewhere.
He didn’t believe his employer was going to be a problem, at least not yet. But the voice on the other side of the world would want to know whose surveillance team Victor had killed just as much as Victor did, and Victor wanted to find out first. It would have helped his cause to have kept his findings to himself, but it wouldn’t have been long before his employer had discovered that those additional bodies hadn’t belonged to civilians. Being found to have withheld information wouldn’t improve his precarious position with the CIA.
Another day of healing and he would move south to Bologna. If Victor was going to identify the men he had killed in Minsk before his employer did, he was going to need some help.
CHAPTER 39
Moscow, Russia
Despite the smiles, anecdotes, kind words and handshakes, Vladimir Kasakov was bored, frustrated and wishing he was anywhere else. The party was typical fare for the Moscow elite. There were politicians and oligarchs and celebrities all rubbing shoulders, acting friendly and laughing while secretly hating each other. The oligarchs hated the power the politicians wielded, while in turn the politicians hated the wealth of the oligarchs, and both hated the popularity of the celebrities, who hated the politicians and oligarchs simply for not being celebrities too. Kasakov was unique in that he hated them all.
He threw some champagne down his throat. He stood alone, only caring about when the next tray of canapes would pass his way. Despite doing his best to give off leave-me-alone signals, plenty of people wanted a piece of him, and it took an enormous act of self-restraint not to start throwing hooks and uppercuts. Normally he was able to mingle deftly, converse affably, and tell a mean joke. For all that he loathed such parties and their odious partakers, it was essential that he attend to maintain the acquaintances, contacts and friendships necessary to remain a free man. Even though Russia never extradited nationals, there was always the chance some politician might turn against him, whether to take over his business, gain favour with the international community, or perhaps, unlikeliest of all, out of moral decency. So long as the Ukrainian had the backing of the rest of Moscow’s aristocracy, he could sleep easily. Tonight, however, Kasakov couldn’t put on his party face. All his thoughts were consumed with Illarion, Ariff and the vengeance he so urgently needed.
*
The only person at the party he had any time for was on the opposite side of the room, hanging on the words of some handsome Russian actor. Izolda wasn’t alone. There had to be a dozen wives similarly enraptured, and a dozen husbands jealously trying not to let it show. The difference between Izolda and the other wives was that the handsome actor was obviously as taken with her as she was with him. It wasn’t surprising. Kasakov’s wife looked simply gorgeous, as always. Tall, slim and graceful, she outshone every woman in the room. Her backless evening gown managed to be both unashamedly sexy yet undeniably elegant. Some of the less classy wives showed off their inflated chests with necklines that almost reached their navels, and could neither frown nor smile thanks to their stretched and frozen faces. Izolda’s black hair was tied up — how Kasakov preferred it — and the style elongated her already enviable neck. The diamond earrings that had been a birthday gift from her husband danced and glittered as she laughed.
The actor made another joke, and by the strength of the mirth it generated from the coven of wives he had to be something of a comedian. Kasakov had watched him in a couple of Russian films and knew the man had to be a better comic than actor. The man leaned close to Izolda and whispered into her ear, at which she smiled, wide and carefree. For once Kasakov could not detect the pain she hid so well from others, if not from him. They had been married for a little over fifteen years, and though Izolda was in her late thirties now, she was still without a child. It killed Kasakov to know her unhappiness was his fault.
Izolda laughed again and her hand moved to the actor’s arm. He was no more than thirty and no doubt as fertile as he was handsome. Kasakov imagined Izolda was fantasising about sleeping with the actor at this very moment. From the way he looked at her, the actor’s own thoughts were certainly no different. If she succumbed to his charms, Kasakov couldn’t blame her. It was his infertility that caused her to cry into her pillow in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. He pictured the scene, a month from now, when she came to him to announce the miracle they’d been waiting for. He would hold her, and they would both cry and he would never comment that their child looked nothing like him, else kill her for the betrayal.
Izolda glanced his way and saw him watching. Guilt and fear began stripping the smile from her face, but Kasakov hid his thoughts, smiled and waved back as if he was ignorant of the scene unfolding before him. She was convinced by him, or convinced enough, to regain her own smile. Maybe it wouldn’t be the actor now, but if not it would be someone else eventually. Kasakov could feel it in the pit of his stomach.
‘Have another drink,’ a familiar voice said. ‘You look like you could use it.’
Kasakov turned to see another annoyingly good-looking face. Tomasz Burliuk was holding two champagne flutes. He handed one to Kasakov.
‘I didn’t think you were coming.’
Burliuk sipped some champagne. ‘I thought you could use the company.’
Kasakov gestured. ‘I take it you’ve seen my wife.’
Burliuk stared at Izolda for a long time before saying, ‘It’s hard not to.’
‘Every woman hates her,’ Kasakov remarked. ‘Every man desires her.’
Burliuk took a big swallow of champagne. ‘And yet she’s yours and yours alone.’
Kasakov nodded and pretended he didn’t notice how his best friend gazed upon his wife.
‘So,’ Burliuk said, finally tearing his eyes away. ‘Who is our gracious host tonight?’
‘Some oligarch who bribed and threatened his way into buying up formerly state-owned gas reserves,’ Kasakov explained. ‘He now controls most of the supply piped to Europe. He’s a complete prick.’
‘You say that about everyone.’
‘With this guy, it’s an understatement. He spends money like it’s meaningless. I heard he has fifty cars. Fifty. Can you believe that? And three private jets. He makes me look like a peasant.’
‘We were peasants once.’
‘Which is why we appreciate what we have.’ Kasakov lightly backhanded Burliuk on the chest for emphasis. Then he sighed and said, ‘And tell me, my oldest friend, what is the point of any of it?’
Burliuk looked confused. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m tired, Tomasz. I’m tired of living like this, only sneaking out of the country for business, not able to risk going back to my homeland. I’m tired of carrying the weight of an empire on my shoulders. Some days I honestly do think that-’ Kasakov’s phone vibrated and interrupted him. He checked it. ‘Eltsina,’ he explained. ‘She’s outside. She says it’s important, so I’d better go and find out what the bitch wants.’
‘Shall I come too?’
Kasakov shook his head. ‘Stay here and keep an eye on Izolda.’
Burliuk looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know… just keep an eye on her.’
Kasakov found Eltsina standing on the oligarch’s driveway. The petite Russian was not on the guest list and so security hadn’t let her inside the dacha. Kasakov could have got his charmless advisor an invite, but he would sooner give up boxing for embroidery. Eltsina was clearly troubled. The breeze played with the strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail.
‘What?’ Kasakov asked.
It took Eltsina a few seconds to find her words. ‘Vladimir, I’m sorry. We’ve lost the North Korean shipment.’
‘What are you talking about? How could we have lost it?’
