by Tom Wood
Krieger was stunned.
He knew the taste of blood well, but only that of his victims or enemies. He had never tasted his own before. Maybe once as a boy he might have fallen and cut himself, but any such incident was so far back in the swirling mists of time that he had no memory of the taste to draw upon.
He found he liked the taste of his blood. It was rich with platelets and strong with minerals.
Krieger prided himself in having no ego. That no one had ever hurt him like this was a statement of cold fact. Every violent encounter was met on his terms. People didn’t hurt him. He hurt them. That was how the world spun. It was an immutable law of the universe. That law had been broken. He was not happy to have his reality altered.
But as an enthusiast of mythology he reminded himself that Odin, king of the Norse gods, the All Father, had elected to give up his eye to acquire the most precious treasure of all: wisdom.
A little blood was a small price for Krieger to pay for his own.
SEVEN
‘I still don’t believe it,’ Banik said in a quiet voice. ‘Fletcher choked to death on a piece of sirloin in a dining car full of witnesses who all swear he was eating by himself. No man fitting your description was even in the same carriage. The CCTV is irrefutable. No hint of foul play. No one to blame.’ Banik was wide-eyed. ‘Coroner’s report: accidental death. How the devil did you manage to pull that off?’
Shadows danced and swayed on grass. The air was saturated with noise.
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘A magician never reveals his tricks.’
Banik shook his head as if there was no possible explanation and took a bite from his meat pie. It steamed in the cool air and Banik chewed with his mouth open in an effort to expel the excess heat.
‘I like that they call it a meat pie,’ he said between open-mouthed chews. ‘Not a pork pie or beef-and-onion or chicken-and-mushroom. Just meat. It’s comforting to know I could in fact be eating badger.’
He was a thirty-six-year-old case officer in the British Secret Intelligence Service who spoke with a cultured accent befitting his private education and Oxford credentials. Victor knew the man’s background and personal details in the same way he would know about a target, in part thanks to his own research, but the majority of information came from Banik himself in the form of his SIS files.
‘I want you to trust me,’ Banik had explained before their first face-to-face meeting. ‘Or this arrangement is never going to work.’
The file was an act of good faith. It said: I wouldn’t give you this if I meant you ill. Even so, Victor didn’t trust him, of course, because anyone he dealt with in a professional capacity was untrustworthy by association. But Banik had yet to show himself to be the kind of problem Victor couldn’t deal with.
He was the son of Indian immigrants and the eldest of seven siblings. He was also a diehard West Ham United fan. Which was why they were sitting amongst a crowd of over thirty thousand supporters who were enjoying the winter sunshine more than they were their team’s performance. It had been a limp, lacklustre game and was nil-nil with less than fifteen minutes to go. Banik, like a true fan, refused to give up hope.
‘They haven’t had a single decent shot on target against us,’ he said between open-mouthed chews. ‘All we have to do is commit to the attack.’
‘If you say so,’ Victor said.
‘You’re really not into soccer, are you?’
Victor raised an eyebrow at the American pronunciation and the bad accent that delivered it, playing along with a little ambiguity because he knew Banik was playing too. The SIS man was acting as if he had somehow deduced Victor’s true origins, pretending to be a little dumb, a little naive. It was all part of Banik’s effort to prove that he posed no threat. So Victor – never one to forget that loyalty was a closer cousin to convenience than it was to trust – allowed Banik to believe he’d succeeded in being underestimated.
With supporters singing and shouting all around them, there was no legitimate chance of being overheard, but after Banik had finished his pie, he leaned closer to further reduce the possibility. This required Victor to tolerate the intrusion into his personal space. Though he could control the instinct to cripple Banik, it was impossible to stop his mind rehearsing the moves to break and maim.
‘So,’ Banik said, oblivious, ‘how did you do it?’
Victor said nothing.
‘Oh, come on,’ Banik roared, but not to Victor.
A West Ham midfielder had volleyed the ball from eighteen yards out. It sailed so high over the crossbar the goalkeeper stood and watched it go. The opposing fans jeered.
‘Why do they bother? When does that kind of shot ever go in?’
Victor sat without expression.
Banik looked at him. ‘Are you a fan of any sport?’
‘Do you mean: do I enjoy observing organised physical activity that serves no purpose but to perpetuate itself indefinitely for profit?’
‘And they say we Brits are stuck up.’
Banik hunkered forward to watch the game, elbows on his knees and chin in his palms. ‘Three points at home should have been a breeze. We’ll have to settle for one.’
Victor didn’t respond because, although he knew the rules and how the league worked, he didn’t care. He let Banik do the watching while he waited. They were here to debrief the last contract and brief the next one. Though all the details would be sent through electronic channels, Banik liked to meet in person as often as it could be arranged. He liked face time, as he called it. Victor never met contacts if it could be helped, but it was unavoidable when working for SIS.
‘If this arrangement is going to work then it can’t be done properly online,’ Banik had explained. ‘We do things old school at MI6.’
‘In other words,’ Victor replied, ‘you can’t keep the NSA from reading your emails.’
When he grew bored of watching the ball being kicked back and forth to no avail, Banik said, ‘You know, I was never really sure this would go as smoothly as it has.’
‘I’m good at my job,’ Victor said.
‘Such a modest man. Well, three contracts in and I can’t disagree. But that’s not what I meant. After all that drama in London last year, I didn’t think you would stick to your side of the deal.’
‘I don’t blame your whole organisation for the actions of one individual.’
Banik nodded. ‘That’s very gracious of you.’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Modesty is not my only virtue.’
Banik smirked, then said, ‘How’s your Serbian?’
‘Nije loše, ali moglo biti bolje,’ Victor replied.
‘You could have said the monkey is up the tree for all I know.’
Victor shook his head. ‘Ja ne znam srpsku reč za monkey.’
‘Well, if your language skills are up to scratch I need you in Belgrade. There’s an odious individual named Milan Rados we would really rather appreciate you removing from this fair Earth of ours. Rados is wanted for war crimes committed during that little tête-à-tête that we call the break-up of Yugoslavia. He was a top boy in a Serb paramilitary outfit that liked to burn civilians to death in their own homes.’
‘Then why is he still walking free?’
‘He has been in hiding for the last six years since an SAS rendition team tried to take him into custody.’
Victor thought about this and said, ‘It’s not like the Regiment to fail. What happened?’
‘Well, that depends whether you’re a glass-half-full or a glass-half-empty kind of chap.’
‘I would say the glass’s capacity is at fifty per cent. What are you trying to say?’
Banik said, ‘I mean: if you’re a cynical person you might say that Rados was tipped off by sympathetic nationalists in the Serb security services, or, alternatively, if you are a trusting soul, he merely happened to flee his stronghold an hour before sixteen double-hard bastards from Her Majesty’s 22nd Special Air Service came a-knocking.’
‘I see,’ Victor said.
‘He’s been in hiding ever since. Which, as you might imagine, surprises no one. Most of the high-profile warlords wanted for war crimes have been sent to The Hague and sentenced to not-enough-time in not-harsh-enough-conditions, but for every one of those scumbags there are twelve of their subordinates who actually conducted those atrocities and have escaped prosecution. Rados is one – and one of the very worst – but like the rest of his ilk he’s a hero to some powerful Serb ultranationalists who still believe their very existence as a people was at stake back then. Also, let’s not forget that NATO would go on to bomb the holy hell out of Serbia and the locals are still pretty sore about high explosives being dropped on their country, which doesn’t help when it comes to convincing certain Serbs that their own people were ever war criminals. Now that the headline-grabbing warlords have been rounded up, Serbia as a whole would rather forget about the rest of its dirty linen. Of course, there are thousands of corpses who aren’t able to do that.’
‘If Rados has disappeared, what can I do?’
Banik said, ‘Rados has only disappeared if you believe the Serb party line. Me, I’m not so trusting. Even without hard intel we know that, like a lot of his kin from that era, he’s moved into organised crime and heads up a sizeable network in Belgrade. He stays off the grid himself, but we know he’s still in country and probably still in Belgrade itself, or in a big old mansion on the outskirts. He’s probably not even trying very hard to hide, given we believe he’s being protected by his powerful friends.’
A fan in the seat behind Banik knocked into him as he got up from his seat. ‘Sorry, mate.’
Banik raised a hand to show it was okay and the man shuffled away. He had had enough of the Hammers’ display.
‘So,’ Banik said to Victor when the man had gone. ‘You’ll take the contract?’
‘I’ll wait for the particulars before making my decision.’
‘Which is why they’re waiting in your inbox right now.’
Victor didn’t comment on Banik’s presumption. He thought of Fletcher’s words: You’re nothing but a yes-man.
‘Why do you want Rados dead? Why not send people to track him down and bring him to the ICC?’
Banik shrugged. ‘What’s the point of trying? The Serbs won’t cooperate, so any raid is doomed to fail. Or they will cooperate officially, but someone involved will tip Rados off again. And if we don’t tell them it will be seen as an act of war. So, old boy, we need a man such as yourself.’
Victor nodded, accepting the explanation. ‘But what’s in it for British Intelligence? The war was over a long time ago. There are no political points to score assassinating Rados, are there? So why bother?’
Banik looked offended. ‘Why bother? This is an evil man, plain and simple. That’s not to mention we have obligations to NATO and the International Criminal Court as well as the Society of the Fucking Civilised. Excuse my language.’
‘Excused. This time.’
‘If we can’t bring Rados to justice then we’re going to send justice to him courtesy of a lovely shiny gift-wrapped 9 mm hollow point. Or feel free to use an FMJ, if that’s your preference.’
‘Somewhat ruthless for a nation without the death penalty, don’t you think?’
‘We didn’t rule the world by being nice.’
‘You haven’t ruled the world in a long time.’
Banik sighed. ‘And look at the mess it’s been in ever since.’
They sat in silence for a moment.
‘There is another reason why I wanted to see you,’ Banik said. ‘Since Fletcher’s unfortunate accident we’ve found out he wasn’t just whispering secret nothings into his mistress’s ear to keep her affections. He had recently started trading intel with other parties. This time for cold hard cash.’
‘Why do I have the feeling some of that intel was about me?’
‘Because you’re a perceptive soul.’
‘Go on,’ Victor said.
‘Apparently, there is an open contract on your head. Fletcher learned of this – I’m not sure exactly when. Instead of passing his discovery on to me, he decided to pass on information about you.’
‘To whom?’
‘An independent broker. As yet unidentified, but known by the handle Phoenix. He’s been brokering a long time, and while he is a dab hand at hiring the right killer for the job, he’s even better at staying off the grid. No one knows who he is, where he is, or who his clients are.’
Victor thought of his most recent contract before his work for Banik began. It, like many others before, had done nothing for Victor’s popularity amongst the powerful and vengeful. Maybe this bounty on his head was fallout from that, or it could be from any one of the many enemies he had acquired over the past decade-plus as a professional killer.
‘I’ve heard of Phoenix,’ Victor said.
‘Have you ever done any jobs for him? Actually, I don’t know why I’m asking. You wouldn’t tell me if you had, would you?’
‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘But I also wouldn’t confirm it if I hadn’t. What has Fletcher passed on?’
‘That, I don’t know. Could be nothing, could be everything.’
‘Such a range of possibility isn’t particularly useful to me.’
‘If I learn more I’ll let you know,’ Banik said, ‘but for now I’m just giving you a heads-up.’
‘You mean you’re concerned I might get killed before I can kill Rados for you.’
Banik laughed; it would have been ridiculous to pretend otherwise. ‘I do also think of you as a friend.’
‘Of course you do.’
Ignoring the challenge, Banik said, ‘You don’t seem very concerned to learn that someone wants you dead.’
Victor shrugged. ‘It’s nothing new. Acquiring enemies is part of the job description. If nothing else, it means I’m doing something right.’
‘Funny, because the way I see it the more friends I have, the better I’m doing at life.’
‘Ah,’ Victor said, ‘but friends can be bought. Enemies are always earned.’
EIGHT
As promised by Banik, the dossier on Rados was waiting for Victor when he logged into the email account he used only for communications with his SIS handler. Whatever he had joked, Victor knew British Intelligence were more than capable of maintaining secure electronic communications. He wouldn’t risk dealing with them if they were not. His own security precautions were extensive and required constant changing and updating that was both time-consuming and expensive. They helped guard against his employers as much as his enemies, because one could become the other.
He had a room in the Covent Garden Hotel, where he studied the literature on his target. It was an extensive electronic document summarising everything that SIS knew about Rados and contained photographs and video files, lists of known associates, family information, war history, suspected criminal activities, rumours and hearsay. There was no such thing as too much intel, but as Rados had been in hiding for six years, almost all of the dossier could be dismissed as out of date and of that which remained Victor could take little as provable fact.
Rados was now fifty years old and listed as five foot ten inches tall and one hundred and sixty pounds in weight. His eyes were dark, as was his short curly hair. But aside from his age – accurate due to a copy of his birth certificate – the description offered nothing that could be relied upon. Victor knew as well as anyone how a skilled cosmetic surgeon could alter a person’s appearance because his own had changed so many times he no longer had an accurate mental picture of his original face. If he closed his eyes and tried to imagine what he looked like he would see a blurring shift of features, indistinct and ever-changing. The face in the mirror was a mask he could never remove.
Six years ago Rados had been strong but lean. Now, age and inactivity could have stripped away that strength. He could be thin and weak with the stress of living in hiding and under the constant threat of his past
or current crimes catching up to him. Or he could be a bloated mass of soft indulgences, having lived the good life for over half a decade as one of Belgrade’s organised crime kingpins. Even his height could have changed. Ill health might have shrunk the cartilage in his vertebrae or bowed his legs to make him shorter, or the five foot ten inches might be inaccurate in the first place. His dark hair, short and curly, could now be grey or bleached or shaved or receded or long or straight. His dark eyes could be disguised with contact lenses.
He had been married and was the father of four children when the SAS had stormed his stronghold estate. The family had gone into hiding with him and, impossible as it seemed, had not been seen since.
Rados’ alleged criminal activities were in the staples of narcotics and extortion. He had been no mafia boss six years ago, but according to SIS he had spent the last half decade or so expanding his business to become one of the most feared players in Belgrade. Which was a tall order for a man supposed to be in hiding, but Rados’ empire was run by his chief lieutenant, free to roam the streets in his stead, and in command of a sizeable crew of criminals who had fierce, unflinching loyalty to their boss. The intel on these was sketchy, since they were considered supplementary figures, but as they were solid links to Rados, Victor wanted to know more.
When Victor had finished with the dossier he headed to the hotel’s wood-panelled drawing room, where antique armchairs and sofas were arranged for use by the guests. He nodded a hello to a suited man of about sixty and his twenty-something female companion, and poured himself a bourbon in the drawing room’s honesty bar. He noted the drink and his room number in a handwriting that was not his own and sat down in the seat that enabled him to see the entrance in his peripheral vision. He selected a newspaper from a coffee table and opened it up while he considered the contract offered by Banik.
Rados was a hard target, because executing the boss of an extensive criminal network would be dangerous on many levels, and a difficult contract because so little about Rados could be verified, including where or how to find him. Victor would have to track him down, while trying to learn enough about Rados and his movements to be able to orchestrate a successful assassination. But nothing Victor wasn’t used to. Anyone capable of squeezing a trigger could be a professional killer, but Victor’s contracts were never that simple. If they were he wouldn’t be able to charge an exorbitant fee for his services.
