ENEMY -THE-

by WOOD TOM

  ‘Of course,’ Zahm said without hesitation.

  ‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but don’t be so hasty to commit yourself and your people to this mission. Who knows how many others were involved in this, or how long it could take to find them all. And don’t forget, the assassin himself is a dangerous target. Like yourself, he is an exceptional killer.’

  Zahm gave a placatory nod. ‘Regardless, I still accept. My team is the best I’ve ever worked with. One man, however dangerous, is still one man. Our people deserve vengeance, and I can promise you my team will share these sentiments. We will be honoured to kill this killer and those who sent him.’

  Father took Zahm’s hands in his own. ‘I knew I could count on you, my son.’

  ‘Do we know who this assassin is, or where he is?’

  ‘No to both,’ Father answered. He reached into his canvas shopping bag again and handed Zahm a file containing another series of photographs. ‘But these were taken at Minsk Central train station the day after the attack. As you can see, there are two men walking together, one a little way behind the first. We do not see the face of the second man, but I believe him to be the assassin we seek. The first man has been identified as Danil Petrenko, the Belarusian crime boss Yamout went to Minsk to meet with.’

  Zahm examined the photographs. ‘He looks like a captive to me.’

  Father nodded. ‘Yet he flew out of Belarus later that day with his girlfriend on a flight to Barcelona. I think it might be worth you having a quiet word with Mr Petrenko.’

  CHAPTER 42

  Bologna, Italy

  Victor had a room at the Villa Relais Valfiore, a charming hotel about six miles south-east of Bologna. While he waited for Giordano to complete his work Victor had explored the acres of vineyards near the hotel and the rolling countryside beyond. He walked and lay in the sun, giving his wound as much time to heal as possible and the sun a chance to stain his skin. It had been a week since the bullet had grazed his arm and the thick scab was coming away at the edges and the muscle only hurt if he pushed against it. Yesterday, he had begun running to maintain his fitness, though he avoided his usual bodyweight exercises so as not to hinder his arm’s recovery.

  His room offered a view of the hotel’s large swimming pool, but he resisted its pull. The weather had been hot and dry and perfect for swimming but he couldn’t risk the stares his wound and collection of scars would draw. In clothes, he was forgettable. Out of them, no one forgot. The evening was no good either. The pool was well lit and even if onlookers didn’t notice his scars his musculature would draw its own looks. Surviving meant going unnoticed at all times.

  The contessa who ran the hotel was especially friendly and Victor was forced to engage in small talk like all the other guests did, else stand out and be memorable. The guests were mostly older Italian tourists and foreign couples. Everyone was frustratingly sociable and he found himself drawn into frequent conversations. He was the only single male, as far as he could tell, and made sure to be personable but boring, claiming to be an accountant who had recently divorced. No one tried to chat with him twice.

  *

  The bus to Bologna arrived on time and he disembarked with a ‘Grazie mille’, to the driver.

  At Le Stanze del Tennete he had a lunch of garbanzo soup followed by prosciutto-filled tortellini with a glass of crisp local Pinot Grigio. The restaurant was located inside the sixteenth-century Palazzo Bentivoglio Pepoli and he took his time over his meal, enjoying the five-hundred-year-old frescoes on the wall as much as the food itself. After lunch, Victor strolled through the russet arcades and porticoes, passing students and rollerblading teenagers, pausing to watch a heated game of dominoes between two elderly Bolognese gentlemen with too much red wine inside them. He applauded the winner as did the rest of the small crowd that had gathered around them, and departed as the dominoes were mixed up ready for the rematch that was sure to be just as heated.

  He saw no sign of surveillance, but performed his usual counter-measures during the walk to the Orto Botanico in the north-east corner of Bologna’s centre. The botanical garden was one of the oldest in the world, dating back to 1568, and framed on two sides by the medieval walls that surrounded central Bologna. Victor was an hour early, and he spent the time walking through the grounds like any other visitor, examining the huge array of trees, plants and flowers on display, and the various habitats created within the gardens.

  Giordano was waiting for him at the pond wetland habitat, watching dragonflies buzz around water lilies and aquatic beetles swimming across the glassy surface of the water. Today he was on time. He smiled as he saw Victor approach. No one else was nearby.

  ‘Vernon, you do look better with a little colour in your face.’

  Victor returned the smile. ‘How’s your new waitress friend?’

  Giordano blew out some air and said, ‘Exhausting.’

  ‘I trust the last two days haven’t been all pleasure.’

  ‘Of course not. I have been hard at work when I haven’t been hard at work.’ He winked and reached into an outside pocket of his jacket. He produced a padded envelope. ‘My best, as promised.’

  He handed it to Victor, who opened the envelope and removed the Italian passport it contained. Victor thumbed through it, unsurprised to find it every bit as genuine as Giordano promised, except that it now had Victor’s photograph instead of the original owner’s.

  ‘Tolento Lombardi,’ Victor read aloud.

  ‘He’s a construction worker,’ Giordano explained. ‘A construction worker who borrowed money off the wrong people. He sold them his passport to help clear his debt, and they were then kind enough to sell it on to me. Mr Lombardi is a most clean citizen. Not even a parking ticket, and he’s never been out of the country. He’s painfully boring, and therefore perfect for your purposes.’

  Victor nodded and ran a fingertip over the image of his face. ‘This is even better than the last one I bought from you. How do you switch the photograph without leaving marks?’

  Giordano grinned. ‘Well, that’s my secret, is it not? Else everyone could do what I do. But, as I like you, Vernon, I will tell you I have refined my techniques, so I’m glad you noticed the improvement. Passports are getting harder to modify all the time. It’s almost as if they want to stop people like me. Fascists. But my method of using solvent fumes to strip wafer-thin layers of laminate away, one at a time, is quite ingenious.’

  ‘Modest to a fault.’

  Giordano bowed his head briefly. ‘Once the laminate has been stripped it’s child’s play to insert your photo and re-laminate. Result: no trace of modification. Sounds simple, does it not? Yet no one else can do it like I can.’

  Victor pocketed the passport. ‘Which is why you charge such a competitive rate.’

  Giordano laughed. ‘And I’m worth every cent, as I’ve no doubt you too are value for money. When you use this passport, I’d like you to carry your new self in the appropriate manner. Remember, Vernon, people are going to think you are Italian. I don’t want you letting the side down.’

  Victor would have smiled, only he knew Giordano wasn’t joking.

  A family of four were drawing near so Victor and Giordano walked to the tropical hothouses. Inside was an expansive collection of orchids and bromeliads. The air was very hot and very humid.

  Victor asked, ‘Did you find anything out about the camera?’

  ‘I did what I could, which wasn’t as much as I would have liked, but I only know so much. That kind of tech is closely watched, as I told you before, but anything sold is traceable. In this instance there isn’t much to tell, but maybe it will help you anyway. I managed to track the serial number from source in America to the United Kingdom, but that’s where the trail stops. Officially, at least.’

  ‘Who bought it?’

  ‘A company called Lancet Incorporated purchased that camera and twenty-nine like it about eight months ago. They were one of the very first to.’

  ‘Who are they?’


  Giordano’s face shone with perspiration from the heat and humidity. ‘I figured you’d say that so I asked some associates to check them out. They’re registered in Switzerland, own some property in a few different countries, some stock in other companies. Seems like they aren’t being run too well as they’ve been making a loss for the last few years.’

  ‘So they’re a front.’

  Giordano shrugged. ‘I’m just passing on what I was told. It’s up to you what you make of it.’

  Victor nodded and handed the Italian a padded envelope. Giordano thumbed through the cash inside.

  He said, ‘Overpaid again, I see. Generous to a fault.’

  They exited the hothouse and left the botanical gardens.

  On the street outside, Victor said, ‘Thank you for your work and your assistance, Alberto.’ He held out his hand. ‘Much appreciated.’

  Giordano shook it. ‘A pleasure, as always. Don’t leave it so long next time.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  They walked their separate ways. After a moment Victor heard Giordano call him and he turned in response.

  Giordano looked serious for once. ‘Vernon, don’t stop swimming.’

  Later, Victor sipped brandy in his hotel room while the voice on the other side of the world said, ‘The suite next to the Presidential was rented out by a couple of men with Belarusian IDs, but unsurprisingly those identities have turned out to be bogus. As for who they are, I haven’t got enough intel to even hazard a guess. What I can tell you is they are not Belarusians and aren’t from this side of the Atlantic. When I know more, you will. What about you, my man?’

  ‘What about me?’ Victor asked, as if he didn’t understand.

  ‘That’s a nice try, pal, but do you expect me to believe you’ve been sitting on your behind this last week? Because if you do, then you’re either seriously underestimating me or seriously overestimating your ability for BS. You kill a four-man surveillance team, you’re going to want to know who they work for. Or have you survived this long by burying your head in the sand?’

  ‘I’ve followed some leads,’ Victor admitted.

  ‘There we go,’ the control replied in a pleased tone, ‘honesty and trust and all that. So, why don’t you share those leads with me and we’ll see if we can’t get an answer to this?’ The sound of air and saliva being sucked through teeth followed.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the voice said, ‘steak sandwich for lunch. Happens every day.’

  Victor took a breath. He wasn’t used to sharing intelligence. He wasn’t used to sharing full stop. Especially with an employer that could prove to be his worst enemy. But all he had was the name of a front company and he wasn’t going to find out more without a large investment in time. And the longer he was in the dark about who sent the surveillance team, the longer he was exposed. If they were who Victor thought they were he couldn’t afford to waste time on ignorance.

  He said, ‘I’ve got a name.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Lancet Incorporated. They’re based in Switzerland, and shipped some of the surveillance equipment from the US to the UK. They’re a front for someone. That’s all I know.’

  ‘That’s all? There’s no need for false modesty.’

  Victor sipped some brandy.

  ‘I’ve never heard of them,’ the control said, ‘but pretty soon I’ll know how they take their coffee.’

  CHAPTER 43

  Beirut, Lebanon

  Ariff sighed as he left the Spanish girl’s apartment, unsatisfied and frustrated. Her Arabic vocabulary was expanding and with it she had become increasingly vocal during his recent visits. Today had reached new heights of annoyance. He would give her one last try before seeking out a new creature to take his pleasure from. If only he knew a mute.

  The apartment was owned by Ariff and located on Al Hamra Street, in one of Beirut’s most cosmopolitan districts. The Egyptian arms dealer had lived in many cities across the Middle East but he was particularly fond of Beirut for the unique warmth and almost coziness of its tree-lined streets and distinct neighbourhoods. There was so much concrete in the city that on an overcast day Beirut could look dull and lifeless, but when the sun was out, which was thankfully more often than not, the city was bright and vibrant.

  Ariff ignored two of his people standing as sentries on the street outside and climbed into the passenger seat of the waiting BMW. Yamout was in the driver’s seat, two more bodyguards in the back. Ever safety-conscious, Ariff had increased his security considerably after Kasakov’s attempt on Yamout’s life and the subsequent attacks across the network over the two weeks since.

  The two sentries climbed into a black Range Rover parked in front of the BMW. The driver signalled to Yamout and then pulled away from the kerb. Yamout followed. Ariff closed his eyes. It was a long drive through Beirut from the Spanish girl’s apartment to his villa on Mount Lebanon.

  ‘Baraa,’ Yamout said.

  ‘I don’t want to talk, my friend,’ Ariff replied, ‘until we get back to my villa.’

  Ariff could tell that Yamout wasn’t going to be satisfied with that, but the Lebanese waited a few seconds before speaking again. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but—’

  ‘If you’re sorry, why disturb?’

  ‘I have news.’

  Ariff sighed. ‘That cannot wait an hour?’

  When Yamout didn’t answer, Ariff opened his eyes. Yamout was sitting very still, face pensive.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know straight away,’ Yamout explained. ‘The shipment of weapons for the Sudanese has been ambushed by rebels. The president is furious that his five thousand rifles are now in the hands of his enemies.’

  Ariff sighed and said nothing.

  ‘He’ll never buy from us again now. Not ever. Kasakov must have tipped off the rebels. Baraa, we can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Wars are always costly.’

  ‘Is that all you are going to say? First Farkas is blown up and the blame is cast on us, then they come after me in Minsk, and now we lose our biggest customer in the whole of Africa. Not to mention the people who’ve disappeared, been openly butchered, or who’ve fled for their own safety. This war will cripple us before long. We must seek peace with Kasakov.’

  Ariff laughed. ‘If we go begging for mercy from that Ukrainian devil, do you think he’ll call off his dogs? Don’t be stupid. He’ll smell our weakness and crush us. And I would sooner put a gun in my mouth than parley like a woman.’

  ‘News of our war with Kasakov has spread like a plague. No one is going to be crazy enough to deal with us and put themselves in that maniac’s crosshairs. Every day we bleed from his strikes.’

  ‘We will outlast him. We have numbers he does not. We have loyalty he cannot match.’

  ‘Yet he has wealth we can’t compete with. Wealth that can buy numbers and loyalty.’

  ‘But Kasakov rots as a prisoner in Russia while the whole world wants to see him in chains. I can walk where he can only dream of. I can whisper in ears that cannot hear his loudest screams. Have faith, my friend. As the sands trickle through the hourglass his resolve will surely crack. So let us maintain our own. He with the strongest will shall emerge victorious from this.’

  ‘What good is victory if we have no customers left? Even the ones we can safely supply are deserting us.’

  ‘Kasakov, using his influence,’ Ariff explained. ‘It was to be expected, my friend. He will try to weaken us in any way he can.’

  ‘It’s working.’

  ‘But not for ever,’ Ariff assured. ‘Our clients won’t stop wanting guns just because of Kasakov’s bribes or his threats not to sell them heavy armaments. In this century, wars will be fought with guerrillas, not battalions. Kasakov has more to lose than us. Our customers need rifles and bullets more than they need tanks. They will come back to us.’ Ariff looked at Yamout. ‘Be patient.’

  They drove for a while. Ariff enjoyed the warm sun on his face but he couldn’t relax enough to sl
eep. Whatever the calm he expressed to Yamout, the conflict with Kasakov was a real concern. Yamout was stiff in his seat as he drove, his hands clamped on to the steering wheel.

  Ariff yawned. ‘Since you’ve done such a superb job of destroying any chance I might have of sleeping, you may as well tell me what our people have achieved recently. Tell me of our victories against Kasakov.’

  ‘The plane our friends shot down in Afghanistan turned out to be an Antonov An-22. We don’t know what it was carrying, but the plane alone was highly valuable. Kasakov has only three of them.’

  ‘Now two,’ Ariff said with a laugh. ‘You see, Gabir, Kasakov bleeds more than us. He uses those Antonovs to transport tanks and other planes. Whatever the cargo was, it will have been worth tens and tens of millions. And do you think he will risk sending another of his cargos over Afghanistan? I think not.’

  Blocky seven-storey buildings overshadowed the road, which was jammed with slow-moving one-way traffic. Brightly coloured signs promoted stores lining the sidewalks. A brave guy on a scooter was defying the system by driving the wrong way between the two lanes of cars and received a chorus of horns in response.

  Yamout said, ‘I’ve told you about all the attacks in Syria and Tripoli, haven’t I?’ Ariff nodded. ‘Since then we’ve managed to sabotage a deal and kill some more of his traffickers. In Tunisia this time. From what they admitted before they died, they were important members of Kasakov’s organisation.’

  Ariff grinned. ‘Excellent, Gabir. Truly excellent. That Ukrainian bastard will be enraged at himself for ever believing he could move against us. Regardless of how or why this war began, it is us, not him, who are winning. Take comfort in our victories.’

  Yamout nodded, sufficiently convinced by Ariff’s assurances to relax for the moment. He turned on the radio, and Arabic pop music thumped through the BMW’s speakers. Yamout tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Ariff smiled to himself. The big man had absolutely no rhythm.