“No. She wants to stop him from selling weapons to the IRGC, not line up a job as a go-go dancer in his club. She’ll try to make him a better offer than the Guards. And she’ll want to keep her links to us as a wild card, just in case she can’t influence him. Plus she has to know we’re tracking that mobile. I think she wanted us to know she was contacting him.”
“Possibly, but is it worth the risk?” Chua asked.
“Yeah, it is worth the fucking risk. That’s the point. We don’t know anything about this guy. At a minimum we need to get a close look at him.”
“We can just stick with our electronic and covert surveillance. Your team can still do the break-in and we’ll get photos eventually.”
“No! We don’t have enough time to stuff around on this one, Chua. This may be the only opportunity we have to meet face to face.”
Chua countered immediately. “Look, Aden, I know you want this guy dead – we all do – but you can’t make this personal yet. We need to focus on the mission.”
Bishop just glared at Chua through the screen, who kept talking. “There’s too much at stake here and Dostiger has to be on edge. Not only has he received a call from MOIS, he also took a call from a handset in Afghanistan updating him on the situation there.” Chua had already sent Bishop a short update on Ice’s battle in the Khod valley.
“I’m not making this personal,” Bishop replied coldly. “The fact is right now we’ve got nothing suggesting that Dostiger has linked Tim Fischer with any of this. I’ve no doubt that Dostiger’s run a background check and the fact he still wants to meet suggests he’s taken the bait. Now if I don’t go to the meeting, then he’ll start getting suspicious and that’ll pretty much shut us down.”
Vance’s booming voice interrupted the discussion. “OK, that’s enough. At the end of the day it’s your call, Bishop. You’re the man on the ground. If you wanna go ahead with the meet, then it’s up to you.”
“I think it’s worth the risk.” Bishop sounded confident. “We need to get all we can on this guy. Things haven’t gone well in the ‘ghan and you both know there’s a good chance we’ll have to make the snatch at this end. I, for one, would like to know who the hell I’m dealing with.”
Chua didn’t look happy with the call but he would back Bishop in any decision he made.
Vance was also a little apprehensive and his tone reflected his concern. “OK, but goddamn it, be careful. I don’t want this going sideways.”
Chua added, “Remember, if Dostiger speeds up his timeline he could have the weapon out of Afghanistan in a very short period of time. The next twenty-four hours are crucial and you’ll need to be prepared to adapt to any changes in the situation.”
Bishop nodded. “Don’t worry, my team’s good to go. Hey, one last thing. I was wondering, has there been anything out of any of the Government agencies? Anything to indicate that someone other than MOIS is tracking this?”
Vance shook his head. “Nothing, we haven’t picked up anything in reporting. Even after the intelligence we leaked, MI6, Mossad, CIA, none of them seem to be doing anything.”
“That’s good. Right now the last thing we need is extra heat on Dostiger. Alright, before I go I just want to say the support you guys are giving us is really appreciated. Pass on my thanks to the rest of the team.”
Vance smiled. “OK, stay safe, buddy. Check in as soon as you can.”
“No worries. Bishop out.”
The connection with Kiev terminated, Vance leant back in his chair and emitted a sigh. “I hope he’s right.”
Chua was already heading towards the door. He stopped and turned to face Vance. “When is he ever NOT right?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter 38
Club Kyiv, Kiev
“So to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, Agent Ebadi?” Dostiger smiled graciously, pouring Saneh a glass of champagne.
“I’m here on behalf of the Iranian Government, Mr Dostiger,” Saneh replied curtly. She was a little taken back by the lavish surroundings and the chivalrous behavior of her host. Dostiger was not at all what she expected. His file had disclosed an arms dealer notorious for his ruthlessness and abrasive personality.
“Ahhh, I thought as much. But I did not think that Iranian Intelligence employed movie stars.” The Ukrainian leant back in the antique armchair, running his eyes over the woman who sat opposite him.
Agent Ebadi blushed and Dostiger smiled, unabashed.
“So what does the Ministry of Intelligence and Security want with a simple businessman like me?” he asked.
“Well, you have served us well in the past and we think you are now in an even better position to provide what we need.”
Saneh watched the arms dealer’s face closely.
“And what is it that Iran needs, Miss Ebadi?” Dostiger’s face remained impassive. “Surface to Air Missiles, Anti-Tank Rockets, Sniper Rifles? I know, you want anti-shipping missiles for the Hormuz Strait.”
“ Actually, we are thinking of something a little more strategic.”
“Hmmm, maybe a long-range ballistic missile such as the SS-4.” Dostiger took a sip from his glass of Scotch. “I happen to know a Russian General who owes me a favor.”
Saneh sipped from her glass of champagne, watching Dostiger intently. The Ukrainian was not displaying the slightest sign of discomfort. “Mr Dostiger, I’m not talking about missiles or rockets. I think we both know what Iran really needs.”
“Yes, Miss Ebadi, and I have made it perfectly clear in the past that I am not in a position to provide that type of weapon.”
Saneh placed her glass on the table. “That’s not what my sources are telling me.”
Dostiger placed his own glass down and looked at her icily. “Then they are either misinformed or lying,” he snarled.
Saneh met the man’s eyes and they sent a chill down her spine. Before she could respond, Dostiger rose from his chair, clutching his cane for support. “Now if you don’t mind, Miss Ebadi, I have another appointment that I need to prepare for. If there is anything else that I can help you with, you know how to contact me.”
“We’ll match any offer that the IRGC has made,” Saneh said abruptly. She thought she saw the faintest gleam of greed in the man’s eyes, but then it was gone.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss Ebadi. Our business here is done.” The arms dealer gestured for the door.
“They can’t be trusted, Dostiger. This will end badly for all of us,” Saneh said as a burly security guard shepherded her through the doors of the office and back out into the club.
A waiter greeted her at the bottom of the stairs. “Mr Dostiger wanted you to know that the drinks are on the house, Miss Ebadi.”
“Thank you. Tell Mr Dostiger he is most gracious.” She took up a position at the bar and ordered a non-alcoholic cocktail, wondering if Fischer would show up.
Chapter 39
Club Kyiv
According to Bishop’s Internet research, Club Kyiv was one of the Ukrainian capital’s most exclusive nightspots. The club’s vibrant web page boasted that it played host to an elite clientele from all over Europe, with the hottest international DJs and capacity for over a thousand patrons.
Bishop wasn’t big on nightclubs; jumping around on a dance floor with 400 people off their heads on drugs hardly seemed like fun. He preferred the intimacy of a cocktail bar or a good old-fashioned pub.
The club was certainly well located, built in the middle of Kiev’s business district in what looked to be an old warehouse. Aleks and Bishop had already conducted a slow drive past, scoping the venue through the tinted windows of the BMW. In the early evening it hadn’t looked that exciting; just a pair of sturdy doors halfway down a narrow street. Hemmed in by tall buildings, only a small neon sign identified the entrance.
Now it was late in the evening and Bishop knew the club would be getting busy. He glanced at the digital clock on the BMW’s dashboard; it
was almost time for his meeting with Dostiger. Aleks stopped the car short of the venue, pulling into a parking space two hundred meters up the road.
Leaning forward in the passenger seat, Bishop removed the compact Beretta pistol and holster from the back of his pants, placing them in the glove compartment. Dostiger’s security would be tight and he knew if he were to be found with a weapon there would be hell to pay.
“Aleks, keep the car here. If I get into trouble, I’ll call.”
“Da, boss, I am ready if you need me.” Aleks grinned. He had an MP7 submachine-gun slung across his chest and was wearing his body armor under a heavy leather jacket.
“If it all goes to shit, you’ll need to hit the front of the club hard. We’re not going to want to hang around.” They knew the narrow street in front of the building would be tight for a hot extraction and Dostiger’s men would all be armed.
“I know. ‘Stick to the plan’. No problems.” Aleks smiled.
“Yeah, no problems, Aleks.” Bishop opened the door and stepped out into the crisp night air. He had thrown a long black cashmere coat over his pinstriped suit and was wearing a pair of Kevlar-lined leather gloves. His PRIMAL phone was back at the safe house and nothing he carried could be traced back to his parent organization. All he had was his local mobile phone, a money clip of crisp US hundred dollar bills and a fake passport. He wasn’t particularly happy about going in unarmed but there really wasn’t a need. As he had pointed out to Chua, Dostiger had no reason to suspect him.
Bishop strode down the road, his face smarting in the nighttime chill. As he strolled towards the club, the thumping bass vibrating from the large building hit him. He could feel it in his chest a good fifty meters from the entrance. Clearly there were no sound restrictions in this part of the city; Dostiger would have enough council members in his pocket to do whatever he wanted. One of his black Range Rovers was parked on the footpath just next to the entrance, the lack of number plates more evidence of Dostiger’s influence.
A twenty-meter line of patrons queued along the sidewalk to the entrance. Club Kyiv’s ‘exclusive’ clientele seemed to consist of young rich kids intermingled with overweight businessmen in suits and gold-digging prostitutes. Bishop couldn’t tell the difference between the working girls and the women there simply for a good time. To him they all looked the same, and he had never seen so many fake breasts, collagen-enhanced lips, hair extensions and spray tans in one spot before.
These girls wore the shortest skirts he had ever seen. How the hell do they stay warm showing that much skin, he wondered. They looked ridiculous in their winter coats with skinny bare legs protruding beneath them. Like ostriches, he realized with a smile.
As Bishop walked past the line a number of the women were already eyeballing him. He walked straight to the front of the queue where, controlling the throng of scantily clad women, testosterone-fuelled punters and fat, balding suits, were two of the biggest bouncers he had ever seen. These guys made Ice look small. Bishop wondered if they were grown in a lab. and how the hell they found clothes to fit them. Their long black jackets were huge, easily covering their radios and whatever weapons they were carrying.
Perched between them was a petite hostess. Bishop instantly forgot the two bouncers. She was a stunning blonde with high cheekbones, pale gray eyes and full red lips. A typical Russian beauty, she too appeared to have the ability to stay warm wearing just a short dress with only a tiny fur coat covering her shoulders. Bishop found himself smiling at her, not noticing that the two bouncers looked annoyed at the fact that she was smiling back.
“I’m here to see Mr Dostiger.” He passed the hostess his card.
One of the two bouncers glared at him like an angry, steroid-abusing Doberman and plucked the card from the blonde’s delicate hand.
“Wait here,” he muttered, turning his back, speaking Ukrainian into his radio.
The hostess returned her attention to the waiting line while the other security guard continued to eye Bishop warily. The doormen took great pleasure in wielding power over the club’s clientele, in particular the rich tourists with their expensive clothes and arrogant attitudes. They thought Bishop was just another soft western businessman here to ask favors from their boss.
They kept Bishop waiting for a full two minutes before the first bouncer addressed him.
“Mr Fischer, it seems you’re expected.” The scowl on the huge man’s face told a different story.
The surly guard escorted Bishop through the heavy front doors into a dimly lit foyer. Another gorgeous hostess took his coat while the huge bouncer ran a metal-detector wand over him. He raised his arms and smiled charmingly until the guard ran the wand up the inside of his leg, smacking it into his groin. Bishop flinched in pain. He knew Dostiger’s men were just trying to intimidate him. The arms dealer wanted to set the rules before negotiations had even started.
The bouncer gave him a rough shove past the cloakroom towards the next short corridor leading to the main room. As Bishop turned the corner, a wall of sound hit him and he was confronted with a seething mass of people on an enormous dance floor. The music was hard-core electronic, high tempo with a powerful bass, and the DJ occupying the central booth worked it like the leader of a strange cult. He manipulated the pulsing laser lights and smoke machines in concert with the crescendo of the bass line, playing the crowd into a drug-and-dance-induced trance.
Bishop noticed the dance floor was packed with youths, no doubt the children of Kiev’s elite. Dostiger must make a fortune selling drugs to these kids, he thought, noting the designer clothing and handbags. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the arms dealer had ties into both Afghanistan and South America.
The older clientele, the fat businessmen with their escorts, lounged in private booths to the sides of the main stage. Sprawled on the low-lying leather lounges, they watched the podiums where lithe bodies twisted seductively around brass poles. More scantily clad women served the drinks, premium vodka purchased by the bottle and French champagne flowing freely. The less wealthy men bought their drinks from the busy bars off to the side, mingling with less exclusive ladies or just ogling the multitude of gyrating bodies.
The whole place was a spectacle of hedonistic sex and escapism played to a pounding bass in an expensive, flashy, over-designed cavern. It was no wonder the club was popular with Kiev’s social elite.
Bishop’s minder, the massive security guard, guided him firmly to one of the two sweeping staircases that buttressed either side of the dance floor. Lounging on the stairs were more stunning women looking for prospective clients. He was impressed. Looks like a Victoria’s Secret runway show, he thought. Any of them could have been models for the lingerie brand.
As he padded up the marble staircase, he glanced down at the crowded space below, trying to identify Dostiger’s guards, planning an escape route he hoped he wouldn’t need.
His eyes lingered on the bare back of a dark-haired woman facing the bar; her long, black hair was exotic in comparison to the blondes that filled the club. As she turned from the bar, he caught her eye. Bishop’s chest tightened as Saneh flashed him an ever so slight smile. He continued up the stairs, following the menacing security guard onto the exclusive second level, and noted that it was far more relaxed than the narcotics-fuelled main room below. They walked along the balcony that overlooked the dance floor and he could hear laughter from the private booths, curtained off from view. The bouncer led him to the end of the walkway where another ape-like security guard was standing in front of a heavy door.
“Mr Fischer to see the Boss,” the man escorting him said in broken English, more for Bishop’s benefit than for the other Ukranian. The guard looked their guest up and down before he opened the door, gesturing for him to enter.
“I hope we meet again soon, Mr Fischer.” The original bouncer gave a sadistic grin.
Bishop met the guard’s icy stare. For all his bravado, the muscle-bound thug wouldn’t last two seconds against the highly
trained members of Bishop’s team.
Dostiger’s waiting room smelt like cigars. The furnishings around the small room were more evidence of expensive taste with heavy, gilded, velvet-upholstered chairs and Impressionist paintings on the windowless walls. An antique silver drink stand in the corner of the room sported a number of bottles of very expensive liqueur beside an assortment of glasses. Bishop picked up a bottle of thirty-year-old Talisker.
Holding the bottle, he looked across at the double doors that no doubt led to the arms dealer’s office. He had no idea how long he would be waiting. He shrugged, uncorked the Scotch, and poured some into a weighty glass tumbler. There were so many things that could go wrong with the meet. Saneh might have already sold him out, Kurtz and the rest of the team could stuff up the break-in, or Dostiger may even take a dislike to him. His Neanderthal bouncers certainly had.
Bishop sat down in an antique chair and savored the fine whisky. Just like Aleks said, he thought, everything’s going to be fine. He pulled his mobile from his pocket, expecting Kurtz to report in shortly. There were no new messages.
Chapter 40
Dostiger’s Residence
Even from a distance you could tell the man was drunk, the reek of alcohol overwhelming the foul smell of homelessness. He lurched down the dimly lit street, occasionally tripping and collapsing onto the sidewalk before hauling himself to his feet and continuing his stumbling journey. Once he stopped to vomit, steam rising from the bile as it made contact with the frozen concrete.
The drunkard was dressed in a heavy overcoat, patched in half a dozen places, with a thick woolen beanie pulled down low over his eyes. A piece of hemp rope was tied loosely around his waist and battered boots protected his feet from the cold. For a homeless man he was well dressed, and although he stank, he would probably survive the cold spring nights.
Less than a hundred meters down the road, inside his heated guard box, a burly security guard watched the bum’s progress through a thermal camera, laughing as the drunkard toppled over. Using the high-resolution lens he zoomed in as the disheveled man wrestled with a trashcan in an attempt to get back on his feet. As humorous as the situation was, he hoped the bum wouldn’t continue his journey past the gates of the residence. His boss was completely unforgiving when it came to the aesthetics of his suburb and it would be the guard’s task to remove the man if Dostiger returned while the drunk was still around. He glanced at the time displayed on the video screen; the boss wasn’t expected to return for at least another hour or two. If required he would hurry the nuisance along with his boot.
PRIMAL Unleashed (2) Page 17
