The Hunter v-1

by Tom Wood

  Sharing a common language with the UK made things much easier than compiling dossiers on citizens of other European countries. She logged onto the UK electoral-register database to find Seif’s home address. He had homes in both Surrey and London, and a second voter was registered at the Surrey address by the name of Samantha Seif, who Rebecca assumed was Seif’s wife.

  After a few minutes of clicking and typing, she had phone numbers and a credit history. Seif’s resume was next. A while later, she had surrounding area maps of the two addresses and a growing list of biographical information.

  By the time her companion returned, Rebecca wanted to know everything about Elliot Seif there was to know. She glanced towards the other computer.

  The software had stopped counting.

  CHAPTER 45

  St Petersburg, Russia

  Monday

  17:25 MSK

  The amber-coloured liquid sloshed into the glass, and Aleksandr Norimov threw the Scotch down his throat. He clenched his teeth and poured himself another drink. The heat from the whisky felt good spreading through his insides. He was surprised and glad to be alive. When the shooting started, he felt sure that he wasn’t going to make it out of there. He put a hand to his chest. His heart was still thundering. He was too old, too out of practice for such excitement.

  Norimov sat behind his desk, wondering what the hell was going to happen next, when he heard the cars pull up outside and poured himself a third drink. He’d finished his fourth by the time the office door was thrown open and the man walked in. There was an arrogance and casual menace in the way he carried himself, even with the fresh wound dressing that covered his left cheek from nose to ear and eye socket to jawbone.

  ‘He killed five of our people this afternoon,’ Aniskovach spat. ‘Tell me where he is.’

  Norimov gestured to the dressing. ‘Bet that’s going to leave a nice scar.’

  Aniskovach was still for a second before swiping his arm across the desk’s surface, knocking the bottle of whisky, glasses, and a stack of papers to the floor.

  ‘WHERE IS HE? ’

  Norimov pushed his chair back and bent over to pick the bottle and two cracked tumblers off the floor. He set them back on the table and sucked the Scotch from his fingers.

  ‘How the fuck would I know?’ Norimov reached for the bottle. ‘You’re the SVR, not me.’

  ‘If I thought for one moment you told him we were there…’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid.’ Norimov shook his head. ‘And don’t assume that I am either. It was you who screwed it up by having men in the parking lot. I told you he’d spot them.’

  Aniskovach looked around, as if trying to formulate an appropriate rebuttal. After a moment he took the seat opposite Norimov, and placed his gloved hands on the table. He spread his fingers. ‘Yes, yes you did.’ He gave a crooked smile then grimaced and put a hand to his face.

  Norimov hid his amusement perfectly. ‘Smiling stings, eh?’

  Aniskovach frowned. ‘I guess I should have listened to your advice. You’re not as over the hill as you look.’

  Norimov ignored the comment. He took hold of the whisky bottle. ‘Drink?’

  Aniskovach regarded him for a minute. ‘Thanks,’ he said eventually.

  Norimov took a new glass and poured Aniskovach a Scotch. He took a sip. ‘He didn’t try leaving via the airport,’ Aniskovach said.

  ‘Did you think he would?’

  Aniskovach didn’t say anything.

  Norimov smirked. ‘Getting the first plane out of the country is exactly what you’d expect. So that would be exactly the last thing he’d actually do. He’s good, or did you not pay attention to that lesson earlier?’

  Aniskovach frowned. ‘So where is he?’

  Norimov shook his head. ‘You’re persistent if nothing else. Why would you think he would ever tell me where he was staying or where he was going? He never did in the past either.’

  ‘Would you tell me if you knew?’

  ‘If there was enough money involved.’ Norimov sat back. ‘Speaking of which.’

  Aniskovach gestured to an SVR guy standing in the doorway. He walked over to the table and placed a briefcase in front of Norimov and opened it. Inside it was full of American dollars.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d actually pay,’ Norimov said as he examined the money. ‘When you came in here I thought you might kill me.’

  Aniskovach smiled as much as his injuries would allow. Norimov, who was studying his face intently, didn’t join in.

  ‘If I ever learn you have double-crossed me in any way, I won’t hesitate to order your execution,’ Aniskovach stated evenly. ‘But I’m a man of my word. We had an arrangement and I will honour it.’

  Norimov brought the glass to his lips. ‘I didn’t know you people had honour.’

  ‘Let’s call it professional courtesy then. The end result is still the same.’ He paused for a moment, his finger gently touching his wound. ‘Did he have any idea you were working for us?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then maybe in the future he will again need to contact you.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Norimov said. ‘But I thought that the previous time. So what do I know?’

  Aniskovach tilted his head to one side. ‘And you would have no problem letting us know again if he does? Even though he used to be your friend?’

  Norimov thought for a moment. ‘He is my friend still. But business is business.’ He paused. ‘He would understand that.’

  ‘I would never betray a friend.’

  ‘Then you won’t get far in your chosen profession.’

  Aniskovach pulled the copied flash drive from his pocket and studied it in his hand. ‘Did he give you any indication what information is contained on this?’

  Norimov shook his head. ‘He didn’t know. That’s why he needed my help. You haven’t decoded it yet then.’

  Aniskovach stood. ‘Of course we have.’ He headed for the door, but stopped. ‘And, just so there is no confusion, you’re quite sure you have no idea where he might be?’

  Norimov, who was counting his money, didn’t look up. ‘He’ll be out of the country by now, of that you can be certain.’

  CHAPTER 46

  East of Kohtla-J ar ve, Estonia

  Monday

  16:45 CET

  The service station was little more than a large cafe/bar with a surrounding area of uneven asphalt that served as a car and truck stop. On one side of the parking lot was a row of fuel pumps under a crumbling shelter. It was snowing, and the windshield wipers swept back and forth in front of Yukov sitting high in his truck’s cab. The suspension was shot, and he bounced around in his seat as he manoeuvred the big vehicle across the parking lot. The tyres churned up brown slush.

  Yukov stifled a yawn and pulled the truck to a stop. It had been a long drive from Russia, and he was desperate for a piss and a thick sandwich. He might allow himself a drink or two. Maybe even a nap if he thought he would have time.

  There had been a delay at the border that had put him almost an hour behind schedule. He had no idea what was going on, but guards had been checking the identification of every vehicle heading out of Russia. They hadn’t even had the courtesy to let him know why.

  Perhaps the nap wasn’t a good idea. He had to be in Tallinn in a few hours, and if he overslept, he would be in for it. He pulled his coat from across the seat and put it on. It was blissfully warm inside his cab, but it would be far below zero outside. He grabbed his wool hat as well and pulled it down over his ears before slipping on his gloves. Kohtla-Jarve was right on the northern coast of Estonia, and the wind blowing in from the Baltic could be murderous at the best of times. It was worse than normal tonight though — far worse.

  When the door was open he shuddered instantly. The windchill turned his face bright red. He locked his truck as fast as he could and hurried across the parking lot towards the service station.

  He had no reason to check his trailer before he left, and ev
en if he had it was unlikely he would have noticed the split in the tarpaulin on the left side. It was a vertical cut about three feet in height held together on the inside by heavy-duty tape.

  Slowly, one by one, the pieces of tape were removed, and the tarpaulin was pulled open by hands trembling in the cold. A shaking figure emerged through the gap and dropped to the ground, where he collapsed onto the asphalt, his half-frozen legs failing to keep him upright.

  With enormous difficulty Victor pushed himself to his knees and, using the truck for support, pulled himself onto his feet. He was wet from the ground and knew if he didn’t get inside soon the water would freeze on him.

  His whole body shook uncontrollably. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet any more. The sound of teeth chattering stung his ears. The service station was maybe fifty yards away. He pushed himself from the truck and stumbled forward, walking fast to keep his balance. The wind, coming at his right, forced him to the left, and he leaned against it, jaw against his shoulder, hands pushed down the front of his pants because that was the warmest part of his body. He bounced back and forth off parked vehicles as he moved around them, unable to walk steadily.

  He had spent several hours in the back of the truck with only his clothes to keep him warm. Victor wore a thick overcoat, hat, and gloves, but they hadn’t been enough to keep the cold at bay. They should have been, but the weather conditions had been extreme, an unpredicted Baltic storm. Taking a flight or a train out of the country would have avoided the weather but also would have delivered him straight into the hands of his enemies. He couldn’t risk driving himself, in case he was stopped by the authorities. Hiding in the back of the truck had seemed a good idea before the weather had turned. The trailer was transporting vegetables, and he had squatted down between crates to try and escape the wind that found its way under the tarpaulin. The cut he had made to gain access only exacerbated the windy conditions.

  By the time the truck had reached the border, he had been in no state to defend himself had the guards been diligent enough to check the trailer. Knowing how cold the weather had been, he’d considered paying the driver to take him across so that he could sit in the cab, climbing into the trailer only as they neared the border. It would have kept him warm, but there was the risk that the driver would either give him up to the authorities or would give himself away by acting suspiciously.

  Victor reached the entrance and pushed open the door. He received several glances from the Estonian and Russian patrons. His appearance and demeanour couldn’t help attract everyone’s attention, but there was nothing he could do about that. His priority was to get warm. There was no point dying of exposure just to stay unnoticed.

  He made his way to the counter and said, ‘Coffee, please.’

  He didn’t speak Estonian so he spoke in Russian instead. About a quarter of the population were ethnic Russians, and the city was so close to the border it was likely Russian would be understood. With his teeth chattering and his voice hoarse he had to repeat himself twice more before the woman behind the counter could understand him.

  Victor downed the coffee in one gulp, not caring that he burnt his mouth in the process. He needed to raise his body temperature — and fast. He asked for another coffee and drank it as quickly before ordering sweetbread soup and some pelmeenid, steamed dumplings stuffed with beef and served with sour cream.

  He ate the food quickly and didn’t care about the mess he made. It took a while, but finally he started to regain feeling in his fingers. As the temperature of his torso increased, blood returned to the extremities. He had never forgotten the words of his drill sergeant. Warm your insides, and your insides will take care of your outsides.

  Fifteen minutes later he could flex his hands; after thirty minutes he could feel each of his toes again. Forty-five minutes after entering, he was ready to leave. He would have liked to have stayed longer, to have taken a room and rested, but he was still too close to Russia to relax. But he couldn’t go anywhere dressed as he was.

  He purchased a bottle of vodka and sat with it while he waited for the right moment. He didn’t have to wait long until a man of similar height got up from his seat and headed toward the toilet. The man had no companions at the table he had vacated. Perfect. Victor waited a few seconds and stood up. He entered the toilet thirty seconds after the man.

  It was a stinking, filthy room, but Victor was unconcerned about the lack of hygiene. The man moved up to the urinals and began to relieve himself. There was another man alongside him and Victor waited by the sink, pretending to wash his hands, until the second man had left.

  He didn’t have much time. Someone could come in at any moment. He moved up behind the man at the urinal. He was fast, the man noticing him too late. Victor grabbed his hair with his right hand and slammed his head off the tiles above the urinals. The man grunted, dazed.

  Victor hoisted him backwards, swung him around, and threw the man into a cubicle. He rushed in after him, flung the door closed, and locked it.

  The man was on his knees, groaning, trying to push himself to his feet. Victor positioned himself behind him, feet on either side of the man’s own. He wedged his left arm under the man’s jaw, and pushed into his throat with the edge of his forearm. With his right hand, Victor grabbed the back of the man’s head and kept him steady.

  The man struggled desperately, but he was on his knees, Victor over him, and the concussion made him weak. He lost consciousness and Victor released him. Another minute and he would be dead, but since Victor was going to take his clothes, it was the least he could do to pay him back with his life.

  When he was changed Victor dressed the unconscious man in his old clothes as best as he could before emptying the bottle of vodka over him. When he came round and started babbling about being attacked he would be ignored as a drunk. At least long enough for Victor to get a head start.

  He exited the restroom. He kept his head down, but not too low, as he left the service station. The man’s clothes gave him good protection from the weather, but the wind was still painful on his exposed face. He hurried across the parking lot towards the highway, where a group of people waited in a bus shelter.

  ‘Excuse me, when is the next bus to town?’

  The old woman he asked thought for a moment. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  He was exhausted, in desperate need of rest, but he couldn’t stop yet. From Kohtla-Jarve he could get transportation to Estonia’s capital, Tallinn. Then the first flight out of the country.

  To the broker.

  Victor hoped she had been more successful.

  CHAPTER 47

  Paris, France

  Monday

  19:54 CET

  Rain splashed against the phone booth and ran down the glass in front of Victor. Headlights glimmered in the raindrops. He lifted the receiver and punched in the number with the knuckle of his index finger. He was glad when the line connected after three rings, glad when he heard her voice.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said.

  The broker replied, ‘I know it is.’

  He was glad again at hearing those four words, the code for everything being fine. Just a single word difference and he’d have known she’d been compromised. There was no stress in her voice to indicate she was speaking under coercion.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Back in Paris. I’ll see you in one hour.’

  He replaced the payphone receiver and exited the booth. Twenty minutes later he rang the broker’s buzzer.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said when she answered.

  He didn’t respond. Of course he would arrive before he’d said. He climbed the stairs to her apartment and knocked on the door. He saw the spy-hole glass darken a second before the door unlocked and she took the chain off. Neither of which would stop a kill team, but maybe it helped her sleep better.

  When the door was open she stepped aside to let Victor in, and he walked through the doorway, body half
-turned so he didn’t give her his back. She closed the door behind him, locked it and put the chain back in place.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked.

  She was dressed in black jeans and a burgundy sweater that clung to the contours of her stomach and breasts. Her dark hair was loose and long, framing her face, making her seem softer, more vulnerable than when they had first met, even if her eyes were harder. Victor pulled his gaze from her and checked the apartment.

  Aside from the new computer and printer and a few extra items in the cupboards and fridge, it was no different than how he’d left it two days ago. He touched the screw heads on the electrical sockets and air vents. None were rough. In the lounge the lamp shade was still angled as he’d left it, and he was pleased she hadn’t corrected it.

  He found her in the kitchen fixing herself a cup of coffee. There was a second tall cup on the work surface that she filled.

  ‘You didn’t answer,’ she said. ‘But I made you one anyway.’

  Victor said nothing.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You should rest.’

  ‘Later.’

  He picked up the cup and walked back into the lounge. He placed it down near her computers with no intention of even tasting it. He didn’t seriously believe she would poison him, but as he hadn’t seen her fix it, some habits just couldn’t be broken so easily. She followed him, sipping at her cup.

  ‘How was your trip?’ she asked.

  ‘Unsuccessful.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve had some luck.’

  ‘With the bank or the encrypted file?’

  ‘Both.’

  Victor moved over to the window, stood with his shoulder to the wall, adjusted the drapes an inch to the side, and peered out. The street outside was empty. On the other side of the window he did the same to check farther down the street, where he hadn’t been able to see. He looked back to see the broker standing expectantly.

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’