ENEMY -THE-

by WOOD TOM

  ‘Who did you deliver Ariff and his family to?’

  ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘Then what did you do with them?’

  The American looked awkward. ‘What do you think? We killed ’em.’

  ‘Why kidnap them if you were just going to kill them?’

  ‘Client wanted them tortured and the whole thing filmed.’

  Victor frowned. He tried not to imagine what that consisted of. ‘What are the account details for the email address used for that job?’

  ‘The account’s been deactivated. After each job I—’

  ‘I believe you,’ Victor said with a nod. ‘I do the same.’

  He read through the emails again to get a feel for the American’s word choice and tone before composing a confirmation of the kill. There was no point getting the American to choose the wording himself – either he would deliberately try and sabotage the message or his current stress level would unintentionally show through. Victor sent the confirmation.

  His things were already packed and he had sterilised the area as much as he could. He powered off the phone, hoisted his rucksack on to his shoulders, and drew the MK23 from his thigh holster.

  ‘Whoa,’ the American said with wide eyes. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘I wasn’t lying when I said there was nothing personal between us. But that was before I knew you’d killed children.’ Victor released the safety catch and aimed the handgun between the American’s eyes. ‘Even people like us need limits.’

  Clack. Clack.

  CHAPTER 55

  Bologna, Italy

  Alberto Giordano sat outside one of his favourite little cafés in the heart of the old city, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back, sipping his espresso and enjoying the spectacle whenever pretty Bolognese women passed by. Giordano may have been a native of Rome, but he’d fallen in love with Bologna many years ago. It was a great city – vibrant, welcoming, entertaining, unspoiled and beautiful – and Giordano felt lucky his trade had brought him within its medieval walls. In his youth, he’d dreamed of being an artist, aspiring to create modern masterpieces to one day be as revered as those of the Renaissance masters he so admired. But it was hard to pay the bills as a struggling painter, and through a friend of a friend Giordano’s dexterous skills had eventually found a more profitable use.

  Another man might have been sad to think that all his boyhood ambitions had been drowned in the harshness of reality, but it was hard for Giordano to be sad when life was so good.

  A pair of shapely young women walked by, their heels clattering on the cobbled surface of the side street, and Giordano politely clapped their passing. For some reason he had yet to work out, foreign women found such a compliment embarrassing or even rude, but Italians were rightfully pleased to have their efforts appreciated. These two were no exception and glanced and smiled Giordano’s way as they whispered between themselves. Another time, and Giordano would have caught them up, but he had a client to meet after he’d finished his coffee. Instead, he made a flirty wave, and was happy to see it returned.

  He had been the café’s only outside patron until a man sat down at the table in front. A waiter appeared to take the man’s order and Giordano gestured for the bill. He finished the last of his espresso and noticed the sun was no longer warming his back. He turned in his seat to find a woman sitting at the table directly behind him. He hadn’t noticed her arrival and now saw why. She was plain of face and figure, with short, boyish hair. Her clothes were drab and hid anything about her that said she was a woman. Giordano turned back, irritated by the intrusion to his pleasant afternoon, and shuffled his chair so he was out of the new arrival’s shade.

  Giordano used his fingers to collect some crumbs of ciabatta from his plate to eat while he waited for the waiter to appear. A vehicle pulled up to the nearby kerb. He thought nothing of it, until he heard a sliding door open and noticed a shadow fall across his table. As he turned to investigate, he saw the man from the table in front leap from his seat. Giordano started and went to rise, but powerful hands grabbed his shoulders. He heard a fizz of electricity and felt a jarring pain originate in his lower back and wrack his entire body.

  Giordano spasmed and toppled from his seat, but the powerful hands kept him from falling.

  More hands grabbed his legs and he felt his paralysed body lifted up. He couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out, as he was slid into the back of a van. The door slammed shut behind him and he lay on the cold metal floor, aware of figures around him that he couldn’t make out, and words in a language he did not understand.

  The van pulled away and his hands were yanked together and plasticuffs wrapped around his wrists. He felt pain as they were pulled tight. Tape found its way over his mouth, and a sack covered his head.

  ‘Struggle,’ a female voice said in strangely accented Italian, ‘and you’ll be shocked again. Nod if you understand.’ Giordano did. ‘We’re going somewhere to talk,’ the voice continued. ‘When we’re there, if you answer our questions completely and truthfully, nothing bad will happen to you. Again, nod if you understand.’

  He did, but Giordano knew a lie when he heard one.

  Underneath the sack, he began to sob.

  Giordano grimaced on the hard uneven metal of the van as it drove through the streets of Bologna. His lower back was sore – as if burned. His captors didn’t speak again, either to him or to each other. He knew there were at least four of them: one to drive the van, the man who had sat in front of him at the café, the woman who had sat behind, and the strong one who had grabbed his shoulders. He didn’t know who they were. He didn’t know what they wanted.

  There was no point struggling. At best they would just electrocute him again. He didn’t want to think what might be at the other end of the scale of punishments.

  He figured it had been fifteen minutes before the van stopped. He tensed, terrified at what might happen next. Light filtered through the sack over his head as the van’s sliding door was opened. Hands grabbed his limbs and pulled him out of the van. Giordano’s feet found the floor and the hands kept him upright.

  The woman’s voice said, ‘Remember, answer our questions in full and nothing bad will happen.’

  He was led through what he guessed was some kind of deserted factory or warehouse. Their footsteps echoed. They walked quickly and Giordano struggled to keep up. The hands holding on to him made sure he didn’t fall.

  The woman said, ‘Stop,’ and Giordano did, and heard the sound of chains rattling.

  They were wrapped around his wrists and a force above Giordano pulled his arms up until they were vertical, either side of his head, and only the balls of his feet touched the floor. The strain on his shoulders made him wince. He couldn’t see anything. Tape was wrapped around his ankles, binding his feet together.

  Wheels squeaked and something rattled across a bumpy floor. It stopped in front of Giordano and his pulse quickened and his breaths shortened in fear of what it might be.

  The sack was pulled from his head and, despite the dim light, he squinted. It took a moment for his eyes to focus and he saw he was indeed inside a warehouse or factory. There was wide open space all around him, the extremes of the room lost in shadows and darkness.

  In front of him stood a woman and a man. He recognised the woman’s plain face and boyish hair from outside the café. In the dim light her features seemed even harsher. Giordano hadn’t seen the man before. He was muscular and very tall, with a buzz cut and thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle. He stood without pose or expression, but violence seemed to radiate from him. Next to the woman was a rusty trolley, like a mechanic might use.

  Resting on the trolley was a pair of pliers, bolt cutters, a variety of bladed instruments, a belt sander, a circular saw, and a blow torch.

  Giordano let out a muffled cry.

  The woman said, ‘If you are honest with us, then we won’t need to use of any of that.’

  Giordano barely heard. His eyes were locke
d on the trolley. He pulled and yanked at his chains, achieving nothing more than lifting his feet from the floor and swinging gently.

  The large man stepped forward and punched Giordano in the stomach. Pain flooded through his abdomen and he coughed and spluttered behind the tape sealing his mouth as he convulsed.

  ‘We only require information,’ the woman said, ‘information that you have, Alberto. Give us that information and this can be over. Deny us, and this is only the beginning.’

  When he had recovered, the large man ripped the tape away.

  She ran her fingertips over the collection of blades and selected a box-cutting knife.

  ‘No, please,’ Giordano begged.

  The woman raised the box cutter and stepped closer. Giordano screamed and tried to get further away from the blade. The large man grabbed his legs to hold him steady. Giordano continued screaming as the woman used the knife to cut through his T-shirt from waist to neck. She pulled it open to reveal his bare flesh beneath and pressed the blade to the skin of his stomach. The skin indented but the pressure wasn’t enough to split it. Yet.

  Giordano was paralysed with terror. Tears streamed from his eyes.

  The woman produced a grainy picture and said, ‘Where is this man?’

  ‘I don’t know, I swear.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ she said, and Giordano felt the blade press harder against his flesh. ‘He was here in Bologna with you four weeks ago. You met with him twice. Your people have already confirmed it.’

  ‘But I don’t know where he’s gone,’ Giordano shouted, trying to get away from the knife. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Why did he visit you? What did he want?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘He had a camera. He wanted me to track its origin.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I gave him the name of a company – Lancet Incorporated – that’s all I found.’

  The woman exchanged words with the large man, speaking in the language Giordano didn’t understand.

  ‘What else did you give him?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Nothing. I swear.’

  The woman’s eyes examined Giordano. ‘I know you’re loyal to him, but I see you are also afraid of him. Aren’t you, Alberto?’

  Giordano didn’t answer.

  ‘You don’t have to confirm it,’ she said. ‘I find that amusing. I find it amusing that you would dare lie to me when I have the power to inflict upon you the most horrific pain imaginable.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ Giordano dared to say.

  ‘Of course you aren’t.’

  In one quick action, the woman dragged the blade of the box cutter down the Italian’s abdomen. The skin bloomed open. Blood poured out of the wound.

  Giordano wailed.

  He thrashed and bucked against his chains and the large man holding his legs.

  ‘You are a master forger,’ the woman said, talking loudly to be heard over Giordano’s screams. ‘What did you make for him? Identification? A passport?’

  ‘YES,’ Giordano managed to yell through his cries of pain. ‘A passport. I made him a passport.’

  ‘That’s better,’ the woman said in a pleased tone. She placed the box-cutting knife down on the trolley, and turned away from Giordano. ‘That’s much better. What is the name on the passport you constructed for this man?’

  ‘Tolento Lombardi,’ he said to her back.

  ‘Remember when I told you if you were truthful, I wouldn’t hurt you?’ she asked without turning back around. Before Giordano could answer, she added, ‘Unfortunately, you chose to lie to me. And now I can’t believe anything you say.’

  Giordano grimaced from the agony in his stomach. He could feel rivulets of warm blood trickling down his stomach. Sweat covered his whole body. ‘I’m sorry. Please, I won’t lie again. Please.’

  ‘Some people believe torture to be ineffective,’ the woman explained, her back still to Giordano. ‘But it is only ineffective if the person administrating it is unlearned. I have studied the art for more than a decade, all over the world, learning every technique imaginable, both modern and ancient. But, alas, I rarely get to use my talents.’ The woman finally turned around, the blow torch in hand. ‘So, Alberto, I’m particularly glad that you chose to lie to me. Thank you for that.’

  There was a whoosh as she sparked the flame.

  CHAPTER 56

  Moscow, Russia

  Yuliya Eltsina stood inside one of the many warehouses owned by the organisation. Even though the arms-trafficking company was huge in size, there was no office building or central hub. The business employed a structure not dissimilar to a terrorist network with cells operating largely independently from one another. Each cell received its orders from a member higher up the chain, who in turn answered to an executive governed by the board, of which Burliuk and Eltsina were the equivalent of VPs. Kasakov, of course, sat at the top of the table as CEO. Until now.

  Of the seven members of the board, only five could make it to her meeting. The others were stationed too far away to arrive in time, but would be contacted afterwards to be informed of the new changes. The power rush Eltsina was feeling made her hands shake. She had never felt so alive.

  The warehouse was empty and was nothing more than part of the organisation’s façade of legitimacy. The floor was clean and shiny, reflecting the glow of fluorescent tube lights hanging overhead as white lines that ran from wall to wall. Metal pillars supported the ceiling. Air-conditioning units hung unused. At one end, the huge roll-up door was open to allow the various cars of the board members to enter. In a loose semicircle were two Bentleys, a Rolls-Royce, a Zil limousine and three BMWs.

  Burliuk and the five members of the board were standing in a loose group. Their drivers and bodyguards waited at the far end of the warehouse, out of earshot. The board members were all smartly dressed, as Kasakov always demanded. Most had grey hair. Most were overweight. They were a bland group of men who were as ruthless as they were greedy. All were chauvinists and it had taken Eltsina years to garner enough respect from them for this moment to be possible. She knew that so long as they were convinced she could make them even wealthier, she would have their support.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she began, ‘I’m sorry to call everyone here like this, but I have some very bad news for you all.’ She looked at the floor and then around the warehouse as if she was struggling with what to say next. Her voice broke as she said, ‘Vladimir is dead.’

  Silence. Disbelief passed over their faces, then shock.

  ‘What do you mean?’ one asked.

  ‘How? When?’ Burliuk demanded, and fumbled for his asthma inhaler.

  Eltsina tried her best to look pained, but not too pained, else they would see her as a weak-willed woman. ‘I understand it happened earlier today. While on vacation with Izolda, he was shot and killed.’

  A particularly fat board member scoffed. ‘Impossible. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Eltsina assured.

  ‘What about Izolda?’ Burliuk asked, desperation in his voice. ‘Is she safe?’

  ‘As I understand it.’

  Mumbles of astonishment and outrage passed around the group. Burliuk looked more shocked than distraught, just as she had expected. He was probably already rehearsing what he was going to say as he stepped forward to take over from Kasakov.

  ‘As you all know,’ Eltsina added, ‘Baraa Ariff has been at war with Vladimir for some weeks now. We have lost hundreds of millions of dollars and many employees due to his unprecedented attacks. But by murdering Vladimir, he has cost us even more.’

  She averted her eyes and swallowed heavily. Don’t overdo it, she told herself.

  ‘But how could he? Ariff’s dead,’ a board member shouted.

  There were mutterings of agreement.

  ‘I’m afraid Ariff must have sent his assassins before he was himself killed,’ Eltsina explained. ‘Else his lieutenants did it for revenge.’
r />   There were nods and curses. Burliuk was looking at her, but his expression was unreadable.

  ‘We will have time to grieve for Vladimir,’ she said, ‘but he built this empire with his own hands and it would enrage him to see it crumble in his absence. We must rebuild and become stronger than ever before.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hear, hear.’

  ‘To that aim,’ Eltsina continued, ‘we must act decisively and with speed, lest others step into the vacuum left by Vladimir.’

  ‘Agreed,’ a board member said. ‘Any delay only weakens us.’

  The fat board member added, ‘We need to show the world we are still number one, with or without Vladimir.’

  ‘Then we must have a new leader.’

  ‘But who?’

  Eltsina let the silence build for a moment before she said, ‘Of course Tomasz is the natural heir to Vladimir’s throne.’ She cast a glance at Burliuk. ‘He was closer to Vladimir than all of us combined, and had been at his side the longest.’

  Nods of agreement.

  ‘But,’ Eltsina added with a careful look to each of the board members she had lied to or manipulated over the past month, ‘he thirsted for Ariff’s blood as much as Vladimir, and together they brought Ariff’s assassins to our doors.’

  The faces of the board members told Eltsina everything she needed to know. None would have dared say what she had just said, but they all agreed with it, or at least had been convinced by Eltsina’s lies and exaggerations. Burliuk stared hard at Eltsina, but still didn’t speak. He was too smart to rush blindly into a retort until he knew exactly what was happening.

  ‘We cannot have the same recklessness take us forward,’ she said. ‘So I propose that, in the absence of a more suitable candidate, I be the one to take over from Vladimir. If the honourable board agrees, naturally.’

  The board members looked at each other. The braver ones looked at Burliuk too. They may have been rich, powerful men, but at heart each one was a coward.

  Eventually one nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yuliya should take over.’