A Time to Die

by Tom Wood

  THIRTY-ONE

  Victor had been in the inner sanctum of many reprehensible individuals – politicians, warlords, crime bosses, arms dealers, dictators and royalty. He had found that where they spent most of their time revealed much about their personalities, the same as any civilian. Wealth and power were scalable and understandable because they were observable, but personality disorders and psychosis could be disguised and hidden. Rados’ office was lavish and spoke of extreme wealth from the crystal chandelier to the huge desk made of red oak with gilded carvings. The walls were panelled with wood and decorated with a range of contemporary artworks. A circular Persian rug occupied the floor before the desk.

  Rados took a seat behind the red oak desk. There was nowhere for Victor to sit even had he wanted to. Two of Rados’ men flanked Victor from opposite sides of the wall. Their usual spots, he saw from the scuffed areas on the dark-stained floorboards. Victor adjusted his own footing in response, taking a half-step back and angling his head so he could keep them both in his peripheral vision. There was no way he could get to Rados. The two heavies were alert and watching, if unconcerned. They were armed and Victor was not.

  Near to Rados’ desk, under a wall-mounted spotlight stood a magnificent suit of medieval plate armour. The gauntlets rested on the pommel of a sword from the same era. Victor recognised the Milanese detailing of the armour, judging it to be early fifteenth century. The armour would have cost a small fortune, affordable only to a landowner or minor noble. He found it interesting that Rados owned such a set, which though beautiful to Victor’s eye for the expertise of the workmanship and the superb protection it offered, was not an attractive set of armour by aesthetic standards, either today’s or those of the 1400s. The warrior who had commissioned the armour – for all such suits had to be made to order to fit their wearer like a glove – had ignored fashionable convention and used a close-faced helm instead of the sleeker, lighter basinet with visors that had superseded it. He hadn’t cared about fashion or convention and had wanted only the best protection. Understandable, of course, but curious that Rados was displaying an ugly set of armour when his obvious wealth would allow him to buy any he desired.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ Rados asked, seeing where Victor’s gaze lay.

  ‘Impressive,’ Victor said. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Do you happen to know anything about armour?’

  Victor shook his head. ‘Not really.’

  Rados looked disappointed, as if everyone he invited into his office gave the same answer and he longed to engage in conversation about one of his interests, but each disappointment made it harder to bear instead of more tolerable.

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s not my size,’ Rados said. ‘Else I’d never take it off. I don’t have the shoulders for it.’

  ‘Can’t it be adjusted?’

  Rados responded to Victor’s feigned ignorance with a smile that conveyed both sympathy and contempt. ‘That would defeat the point of a made-to-measure suit, even if the process would not ruin the antique.’

  Victor nodded as if he was learning a lesson. ‘Looks cumbersome,’ he said, because he knew it was a common misconception that such suits of armour were heavy and limited the wearer’s range of movement.

  ‘A knight wasn’t a tank. Whoever owned that would have been able to vault up on to his horse from behind the beast as well as perform handstands and cartwheels. The plates are thinner than you would think and the weight distribution is incredible.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Victor said, because he did.

  ‘That piece is from Milan, as all the best plate was in those days, but made for a Teutonic knight. He wore it at the Battle of Grunwald, where his order met defeat.’

  Victor didn’t ask for more information. He wasn’t here to discuss history even if he would have liked to know more about the knight. He stood silent as if he was not interested.

  Rados didn’t register the disinterest or didn’t care. ‘There was honour in war in those times. To kill a man you had to face him, sword to sword. You had to risk your life to take his.’

  ‘Unless you used a crossbow, of course.’

  ‘Once banned by the Pope,’ Rados said, telling Victor something else he already knew. ‘It was deemed unfair that a peasant with little training could kill a king.’

  For a moment, no one spoke. Victor noticed there was no clock on any of the walls. Rados wore no watch. Even in the case of a man who waited for no one and who in turn everyone waited for, the absence of both was telling. Rados had a phobia, else feared time itself.

  ‘I have several suits of armour. One in each of my offices.’

  ‘You have several offices?’

  He nodded. ‘Scattered around the city and beyond. For security purposes.’

  Victor nodded too because the precaution was going to work. He couldn’t use this office as a strike point, not knowing when Rados might return.

  Rados reached into a desk drawer, took out a small plastic bottle and squeezed antibacterial gel into his palms. He rubbed it in. ‘I don’t shake hands,’ Rados said. ‘I touch my wife. I touch my mistresses. I refuse to touch anyone else.’

  ‘Frightened you’ll catch something?’

  ‘Not at all, but I’m scared they’ll realise I’m just like them; nothing more than human.’

  ‘Then why tell me?’

  ‘Because I see through your disguise of humanity because I wear one too.’

  Victor didn’t respond.

  ‘I know all about you,’ Rados said after a moment. ‘Not from what you say – or don’t say – but the way you stand and the set of your shoulders and how you hold your chin and where your hands hang and how you keep your fingers open.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Let me explain,’ Rados began. ‘Once, at the height of the war, I was with a small group of my most loyal warriors. We engaged in a firefight with a contingent of Croat irregulars. We were lightly armed – assault rifles only – but the Croats had a couple of machine guns. They had us pinned down in a forest outside Sarajevo. Machine gun rounds were taking great chunks out of the trees. The forest was raining branches and splinters and shredded leaves down upon us. The Croats were well-practised and knew how to fire in controlled bursts, staggering their volleys so only one machine gun was firing at a time, allowing one to reload while the other was firing. It was relentless. We thought we would never get out of there.’

  Victor asked, ‘How did you?’ because that’s what Rados expected of him.

  ‘We tried to fight our way out, of course. A few of us were cut down as a result. The machine guns were .50 calibre. Have you ever seen what a bullet the size of your finger can do to a man?’

  Victor had seen, of course, but he shook his head.

  Rados didn’t elaborate. ‘When it became obvious we were outgunned and outnumbered, we did the only thing we could do: we surrendered. The Croats, for all their faults, had humanity, and did not fire on us when we threw down our arms. They even gave us water and food and some expensive brandy they had looted from a mayor’s cabinet. They were just like us, fighting for their nation in a war they didn’t really understand. We were all humans, all scared. One of the machine gunners even cried when he saw what was left of the men he had shot. He begged us for forgiveness.’

  ‘You spent the rest of the war as a POW?’

  Rados shook his head. ‘I didn’t even spend one whole night as a POW. A unit of Serbian commandos happened upon us and surprised the Croats. After a brief firefight we were free. We repaid the kindness of our captors by splitting them into pairs. We told them that only one of each two would be spared.’

  ‘You made them fight one another.’

  Rados nodded. ‘They were reluctant, of course, so we executed one pair to show the others they had no choice. We used their own machine guns. We drank their brandy and cheered as they fought with their bare hands and teeth until half of them were dead and the others were half-dead with exha
ustion and injury and wailing because they had killed their brothers. Then we made those who had survived split into pairs to fight again. But they refused. They knew then we would not let them go. So we locked them in a house and set it alight.’

  ‘What’s the point of this story?’

  ‘Because maybe, just maybe, we might have let those who survived the second fight go. Instead, we killed every single one of them.’

  ‘I don’t think you would have, whatever you say now. You were never going to let them go. Maybe you look back in those rare moments when your conscience speaks out and think you might have done.’

  Rados laughed. ‘Are you talking about me or yourself?’

  ‘I’m not conflicted. I don’t have nightmares. I’m just not a very nice person.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Rados said. ‘Look at my eyes. Do you see but one hint of shadow beneath them? I sleep like a baby. I never wake up in the night in a cold sweat. Do you know why?’

  ‘I think it doesn’t matter what I believe because you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘It matters because I’m going to tell you. Because everything I have ever done, regardless how foul and inhuman another might think it, has been entirely justified.’

  ‘Even what you did to those Croats?’

  ‘Especially those Croats. Each one of my men lost friends and loved ones in that war and watched our comrades shot and blown to pieces. In taking our revenge on our captives we could forget that hell and salvage our broken… not humanity, but our sanity. The Croats tried to hold on to their humanity by showing us mercy and kindness, but there is no humanity in war. Once you take a life, you are a warrior. From that point you either toss your humanity aside or you are killed by it, as those Croats were. We, however, found peace through cruelty.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  Rados said, ‘I think you do understand, though you pretend not to. Once you have been cruel, you are forever cruel. There is no going back. Once you have taken one life, all life becomes worthless. I told you that story precisely because you do understand. You’re not conflicted. You don’t have nightmares.’

  Victor was silent.

  Rados regarded him with a measured smile. ‘More than anything else, evil recognises its own reflection.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Rados’ Range Rover was a new model. The interior was cream leather and smelled of tobacco. Neither the bodywork nor windows were armoured, Victor had noted. Still, Rados was protected by the three heavies, including the driver, who travelled with him. Victor rode in the passenger seat, as instructed by Rados, who was squeezed into the back between two of his men. He didn’t seem to mind. The Range Rover had plenty of space and the two bodyguards flanking him did their best to give him as much room as possible.

  He hadn’t told Victor where they were going and Victor didn’t ask. He knew what was expected of him. Rados was not a man to tolerate unnecessary questions, and anyone who asked them could not hope to gain his confidence.

  It was the middle of the afternoon. The drive was short. No one chatted. There was no music or radio playing. Rados’ men were neither alert nor unaware. This was not a professional security detail. They were not actively looking for threats from either outside or inside. They didn’t toy with phones, but they were bored.

  It was only Rados’ eyes that never stopped moving.

  The Range Rover parked against the kerb on a side street in one of Belgrade’s poorer neighbourhoods. They were far outside of the city centre. There were lots of bars and kafanas and stores selling cheap clothes and domestic products.

  Rados leaned forward between the seats to point through the windscreen. ‘The frontier of my empire.’

  A sign advertised massages.

  Inside, the massage parlour was warm and humid and looked almost respectable. A woman in white clinical attire sat behind a counter. She was middle-aged and straight-backed, with an air of authority. Leather sofas were arranged into a waiting area with a coffee table laden with magazines and newspapers. A water-cooler stood nearby. There was nothing to suggest anything went on here beyond innocent relaxation.

  Rados didn’t acknowledge the woman behind the counter and she didn’t acknowledge him. He walked past her, towards a door marked ‘staff only’. Victor followed, as did two of Rados’ men. The driver had stayed with the Range Rover.

  Through the door, a set of stairs led up to the first floor. Here, it didn’t look as respectable. The walls were painted pale pink. Doors were red, and numbered. Rados led Victor down a corridor and into a lobby. Victor heard grunts and squeaking mattress springs.

  Zoca was there, lounging on an Ottoman couch.

  He scrambled to his feet when he saw Rados. The rapid movement caused him pain, judging by the pinched expression, though he tried his best to mask it. If Rados noticed, he neither cared nor reacted.

  Rados said, ‘Where’s the latest stock?’

  Zoca clapped his hands, summoning assistance in the form of a youth with a shaved head and cystic acne all over his face. He moved awkwardly and with a pronounced shyness that made him seem more juvenile than he was.

  Zoca said, ‘Fetch them. Be quick.’

  The youth was as scared of Zoca as Zoca was of Rados, and he hurried away, meek and subservient. Zoca avoided eye contact with his boss, but Victor caught a few glances thrown his way. They were not friendly.

  Rados said to Victor, ‘I have a shipment to move in a few days’ time. I would like you to help secure it.’

  ‘What kind of shipment?’ Victor said, noting Zoca’s shocked and displeased body language.

  ‘The highly profitable kind.’

  Victor said, ‘I understand.’

  A corner of Rados’ mouth turned up in a precursor to a smile, as though Victor couldn’t possibly understand. Which was intriguing.

  ‘Why do you think I want you there?’

  ‘To test me.’

  Rados shrugged. ‘In part, but also because I have reliability issues amongst my men.’

  Zoca looked away.

  Victor said, ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’

  The Serbian considered him for a long moment. ‘Such an assurance is meaningless. I place little value on words alone. It is what we do, not what we say, that defines who we are.’

  Victor didn’t know how to respond, but he didn’t need to, because Dilas entered the room. He was as well-dressed as the last time Victor had seen him, but he looked fatigued and his cheeks were flushed.

  Rados grinned. ‘Shouldn’t you be out there running this fair city of ours?’

  Dilas returned the grin. ‘One cannot rule if one is distracted by base urges.’

  ‘I trust they were well taken care of?’ Rados asked.

  ‘Always.’

  Dilas turned to Victor. ‘Well played last night with the Beast. I made a small fortune betting on you against the odds.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Victor said.

  ‘Quite the tactician, isn’t he?’ Rados said to Dilas, who nodded.

  The awkward youth returned, ushering four women into the room. They had all been at the scrap yard before, but now they were clean and wore new clothes.

  ‘Take a look at my merchandise,’ Rados said to Victor. ‘These women are worth more than any powder or resin. These are gold.’

  Victor did as instructed, his gaze taking in the women, who all had heads bowed to avoid eye contact.

  ‘Merchandise is seasonal,’ Rados explained. ‘It arrives in batches, like crops gathered during the harvest. When the season is over, things are quieter. If it is a healthy season then we have a good year, everyone is happy. If it is a bad season then it is not such a good year. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What I’m saying is, timing is everything. I told you I had a setback. A second, especially so soon after the last, would prove catastrophic.’

  It made more sense to Victor now. Rados couldn’t afford to recruit new guys the convention
al way. This was harvest season. There was no time. He needed numbers and he needed them fast.

  ‘Why seasonal?’ Victor asked. ‘Women grow all year round.’

  ‘Supply and demand, as with all commodities. But these kind of crops can only be moved in batches of opportunity. The more shipments, the more distribution, the more bribes, the more expense, the more risks.’

  ‘And the heavier the loss if something goes wrong.’

  ‘Like I said: one setback is plenty.’

  ‘I see,’ Victor said again. ‘What happened?’

  ‘That is a most interesting question,’ Rados said, eyes unblinking. ‘It has been a very long time since I had a problem with a shipment. Why now?’

  Victor shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  Rados tilted his head to one side. ‘I don’t expect you to.’ He approached the women. ‘They call it the bloom of youth; that special period where life has granted us beauty we don’t deserve; that we will waste and squander and then lament its passing.’

  ‘I’ve improved with age,’ Victor said.

  Rados smirked, then continued: ‘They call it the bloom of youth because even tired and scared you can still see that bloom. Because beneath the fear and the passivity, her genes are still strong; her ability to bear children is unaffected. We alphas of the pack, we warriors, are finely tuned to that bloom. Our own genes hunger for it. We will kill for it.’ Rados turned to face him. ‘Don’t you agree?’

  ‘That’s nature,’ Victor said by way of answer.

  Rados stroked a girl’s cheek with the back of his hand. ‘This is more precious than gold. This is more valuable than any drug. Gold is a commodity. Cocaine is a commodity. The more there is, the less valuable it is. Cocaine is temporary, it is consumable, whereas gold endures. This will hold its price long after its weight in cocaine is pissed away. Gold does nothing. It is valuable because we say it is. There is no need for it and no benefit from it if we do not decide to want it. This girl has benefit whether we want it or not, because we need it. We must have it. We are driven from the very depths of our soul for it. If a man is given the choice between this or gold, if he can only have one, he will choose this every single time. That is why this is what I trade in.’