by Tom Wood
I’ll get you out of here. You have my word.
‘I appreciate the offer of protection,’ Victor said, ‘but I’ll leave alone and to my own timeframe.’
She nodded. ‘I thought you would say that, but you can change your mind at any time. All you have to do is let me know.’
‘The first time I met you,’ Victor said, ‘you told me you would do anything to help me, provide any assistance I needed.’
‘I did.’
‘Does that still stand, given the job is over?’
She took a moment to think about the answer. ‘While you’re still in Belgrade, that offer stands. Once you’ve left, my ability to assist will be severely limited.’
‘But while I’m here I’m still considered here on SIS’s behalf?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Then there are two things I need: transportation out of the city, and then out of the country – but not for me, for a civilian, a woman. Armenian national, and here without documentation. You’re going to take her somewhere secure and then send her abroad, to the UK if that suits, or anywhere in the EU where you can guarantee her safety.’
‘Why? Who is she?’
He said, ‘The second thing is for you not to ask questions. From the moment I leave here you need to be ready for my call and be ready to move out at a moment’s notice. Bring back-up. Put together an extraction team. Bring your guy standing at the bar, and whoever else you have who can help. Make sure you’re all armed and do not under any circumstances let the Belgrade police catch wind of your actions. I can’t tell you any more than that because I don’t yet know any more. But I need you on side and ready.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I think I can do what you’re asking me to, but I don’t understand why. I only say that because it will help your cause if you tell me what’s going on. I’m going to need authorisation for this.’
‘London doesn’t want me to feel aggrieved for Fletcher putting me in danger, right?’
She nodded. ‘That’s correct. We really are very sorry.’
Victor stood. ‘This is the price of my forgiveness.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
Krieger liked Belgrade. In some ways it was as inconsequential as any other city – the young played with their phones; couples smiled and chatted over coffee; old men sat alone with their beers – but he liked the cold and the architecture, and more than either he liked the wind. The wind in Belgrade whistled more than blew; it slipped and slithered between the buildings; a high pitch along the narrow avenues and alleyways, lower down the boulevards and through the parks. It was a mournful sound, tinged with introspection and regret.
Had he been an emotional man he might have wept.
He was a little behind his target, he knew. The information, detailed and thorough, had been of considerable use, but Krieger was not going to rush a second time. He had learned that lesson on the train to St Petersburg. No one was infallible, but mistakes had to be acknowledged and absorbed with a conscious self-examination if they were to become useful experience and not remain as failure.
Life was but one lesson after another. Test followed by test. Krieger enjoyed climbing the learning curve.
Did his target?
He was a tough man to corner, and tougher still to execute. Krieger shook his head. He was wrong to downplay. This target was not tough. Tough was landing a long-range headshot in high wind. Krieger had bled. He reprimanded himself. It was foolish to underestimate. He had learned from that first mistake. He would not repeat it.
Krieger did not know exactly where to find his target, but he did not need to. As on the train to St Petersburg, all Krieger had to do was find his target’s target. Krieger had the same dossier to work from, and he had come to inarguable conclusions about his target’s preparations.
Krieger had spent his time in the city learning about Milan Rados as he imagined his target had done beforehand. Krieger spoke to drug dealers and prostitutes, the homeless and corrupt cops, each time adding to his store of knowledge, drawing closer.
He found that many knew Rados’ name, but few had come in contact with him beyond brushes with those associated with his chief lieutenant, Zoca. Krieger investigated the warehouse at the docks and the scrap yard near the river. He read about reports of gunfire in the vicinity of the latter, and could almost smell his target’s scent, still fresh on the air. Krieger was near.
The most useful piece of information Krieger acquired came from a kind old man with one leg he met inside a veterans’ club in a bad part of town. A club near to a location where three local addicts had been hospitalised in a savage beating rumoured to have been the work of a single man. Krieger discovered from the drunk amputee inside the club that Rados was generous to those who had served in Serbia’s military. He helped them, sometimes with food or money, and sometimes in other, no less essential, ways.
Krieger pushed open a door, acting shy with lowered eyes and hunched shoulders, and approached the woman behind the counter who asked him how she could be of help. His response made it seem he was unsure, nervous.
But he wanted everything that could be provided. Money was no object. He fumbled open a wallet full of crisp banknotes.
This led him upstairs to pink-painted corridors and red doors. A youth with acne directed him to a couch. While Krieger waited, a man with white hair and a black eye entered. The man gave him a look of suspicion.
‘It’s my first time,’ Krieger said with his most innocent of smiles.
FIFTY-NINE
Victor headed straight for the massage parlour. He didn’t conduct counter surveillance because time was short. If he was still being followed by the cops then they already knew where he would likely be heading. If the German assassin – Krieger – had somehow tracked him down, then getting the Armenian woman and getting out of Belgrade as fast as possible was the priority.
He parked nearby, and walked fast along the back alley to the courtyard outside the parlour’s rear entrance, trusting to speed instead of stealth in case there was a rifle aimed at him from an overlooking window.
It was his own fault they cornered him. He was too focused on his objective and the threat posed by Krieger to notice their intentions until it was too late.
They were waiting for him outside the massage parlour – Zoca and four of his guys – seemingly hanging around outside the rear entrance, smoking and passing the time. Zoca had a casual air about him, but his men were different. They were hyped up. They couldn’t hide their anticipation.
Victor was amongst them before he realised.
Zoca said, ‘In a hurry to see your wife?’
‘What’s this about?’ Victor asked.
Zoca shrugged. ‘What do you mean? We’re just standing here.’
‘Waiting for me,’ Victor finished.
‘What makes you think you’re so special? Who the hell are you anyway?’
‘I’m the only reason you didn’t die in the forest.’
Hate dripped from Zoca’s smile as he said, ‘You have my eternal thanks. Let me buy you a beer.’
‘I’ll pass.’
‘I insist,’ Zoca said. ‘Let’s be friends. You can see your lady afterwards. She will wait for you. It’s not like she’s going anywhere, is it?’
‘I have too many friends as it is. And I know how you treat your friends.’
Zoca’s smile faded. ‘You’ve told him, haven’t you?’
‘About the deal you had with the Slovakians? No. As I said before, he wouldn’t take my word over yours. We both know that.’
‘And thanks to your actions in the woods he will never know, will he? I really should buy you two beers.’
‘I’m not thirsty.’
‘Come on,’ Zoca pleaded. ‘You’ll be guest of honour.’
‘Then why don’t I feel welcome?’
Zoca motioned with his chin. ‘Please, let’s go for a drive.’
‘I prefer to walk.’
‘You don’t have a choice
.’
Victor said, ‘I thought we were dancing around that issue.’
‘I’m bored of playing,’ Zoca said. ‘Get in the car or we’ll shoot you right here.’
They showed their guns.
‘Does Rados know about this?’
Zoca smiled. ‘You think he’ll save you? You’re nothing to him. Do you know what you are? You’re his new puppy. You’re cute and adorable and make him smile, but you’re a pet. You’re an animal. He will grow bored of you soon enough.’
‘That’s a no then,’ Victor said.
‘He’ll know,’ Zoca replied. ‘When the time is right, when you’ve told me who you really are, then he’ll know. Then he’ll want to know. Then he’ll be ever so grateful to me.’
Zoca’s guys moved closer. One in front withdrew a hand from under his long sports coat. He was holding the stock of a sawn-off shotgun. The others had handguns. Including Zoca, there were five armed men surrounding him. No way to kill them all without at least one gunman getting shots off. At this range, even amateurs wouldn’t miss.
Victor had a fully loaded magazine in his pocket, but no gun. That was upstairs with the Armenian woman.
‘Take him,’ Zoca said.
Two of the four approached. Victor glanced at both, deciding to attack the one to his left, who was smaller and weaker; dropping him fast and stepping behind the man to the right, preventing the other two from having a clear shot. Then, as the larger man was disabled and turned into a human shield, he would seize his gun and take out the other two.
But he let the approaching two men grab his arms because as they neared they put away their weapons. His plan was no longer viable. He couldn’t waste time drawing a weapon from someone else and get it into a firing position fast enough to catch the others by surprise.
He would have to wait for another opportunity.
Zoca said, ‘Let’s go.’
He gestured with the muzzle of his gun and the two holding Victor led him away. They held him with tight grips, one clasping his forearm, the second controlling him by the triceps.
Zoca and the other two walked behind, which was the worst position they could be from Victor’s perspective. Had they walked in front he could gain a second or so before they reacted to the noise behind them and turned to respond. Behind, they could see all. But there was no tactical consideration to this.
There was no tactical consideration to anything they did. This was not a tactical course of action. Their excitement told Victor they planned to do more than just shoot him. Something more crowd-pleasing was on the cards. Which was a mistake. There wasn’t much he could do against five weapons pointed at him, so any other situation would be a huge improvement on those odds.
He let them march him over to Zoca’s Land Rover and shove him on to the back seat. Two of Zoca’s men joined him in the back, one on either side. Zoca drove with a third man in the passenger seat. The fourth man stayed at the massage parlour. He waved them goodbye with a mocking grin.
As the Land Rover turned out of the courtyard Victor glimpsed a silhouette at one of the parlour windows. A man.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked.
Zoca grinned, showing almost every yellow tooth. ‘Where fun happens.’
‘Why do I get the impression I won’t be the one having fun?’
They drove to the scrap yard. Victor knew within a few minutes where they were heading. He sat in silence, feigning ignorance as well as passivity. Had they positioned him behind the driver he would have made a move, but with two strong guys boxing him in, anything he did would be immediately compromised.
He pictured sending elbows and sideways head-butts into the two in the back, but in the time it took to incapacitate the first, the second would be attacking. Without room to manoeuvre, Victor would inevitably become entangled. The Varangians were not professionals, but they were tough.
The Land Rover would screech to a stop and Zoca and the third Serb would become involved. By then maybe Victor would have choked out the remaining man in the back seat but he would be defenceless when Zoca opened fire.
He had to wait. The longer he did nothing in their presence, the less of a threat they would perceive him to be.
Then, when the time was right, he would kill them all.
‘Don’t be scared,’ Zoca said as they arrived at the scrap yard. ‘All I want to do is get to know the real you.’
‘You will,’ Victor assured.
SIXTY
She knew next-to-nothing about weapons, but she knew the gun was useless to her without bullets. Which was why he had not given them to her. He feared she wouldn’t wait until the party. He feared she would turn it on her captors the first chance she had, get herself killed and ruin his chance to kill Rados.
He was right.
The desperate part of her wanted to try anyway, to point it at the arseholes keeping her here, to enjoy watching them cower from her while she marched out. The calculating part of her knew they wouldn’t be fooled for long. Her best chance was to wait, to trust he would stick to his side of the deal and get her out of here once Rados was dead.
She didn’t trust him though. She didn’t trust anyone. Not any more.
There was no reason why a man like him, like her captors, would honour his word. Once he had the gun, once he had killed Rados, there was no need for him to help her. He would have no more use for her. He could make good his own escape and leave her behind.
She had an idea.
He needed the gun. She needed the bullets.
At the party, he had to retrieve the gun from her to do his job and kill Rados. She didn’t have to give it to him.
Give me the gun, he would say.
No, she would say in return. Give me the bullets and get me out of here, then you can have both to go kill Rados.
The man at the window had his back to her. He was a man of few words. He hadn’t even tried to touch her yet. He had left her alone with her thoughts.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, because she knew how to appear caring and had learned that in doing so she would be treated better.
She had been doing her best to smile and be polite and attentive. Don’t cause any trouble, he had told her. She only had to wait until the evening, until the party. A few hours, that was all. She could do that.
The man said, ‘May I ask you a question, please?’
‘Of course,’ she replied, always glad to talk in preference to anything else.
‘Who is the man with white hair?’
‘His name is Zoca. He’s in charge here. Like a manager, I suppose.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Do you know who the man in the suit is? The outsider. He has dark hair and eyes. He’s a bit taller than me. A bit slimmer.’
She tensed at the question. He sensed it, else saw it in her reflection on the windowpane. He turned. He had a kind face and greying hair. A German, she deduced, from his accent.
‘You’ve met him then,’ the German said.
Not a question. A statement. He knew. There seemed no reason to lie but at the same time she felt she should.
‘Ah,’ the German said, reading her expression. ‘You’ve done more than meet him. Do you happen to know his name?’
She shook her head. ‘I only know he works for the man who owns this place. Zoca’s boss.’
The German seemed surprised, but also impressed. ‘How very interesting. Unexpected, yet on reflection an entirely logical course of action. For how long has he worked for Rados?’
How did he know about Rados? Who was this German? Her unease grew by the second.
‘Not long,’ she said. ‘A week, maybe.’
‘But Zoca and he do not get along from what I witnessed.’
She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that. I only work here.’
They were instructed to call it work. Clients were put off by the truth, she had been told.
‘I can see that,’ the
German said. ‘But I also see that you are surprisingly well informed.’
She said nothing, afraid to confirm as much as she was to deny.
‘Don’t be scared,’ the German said, soft and reassuring. ‘I’m not going to cause you any trouble. I’m an old friend of the man in the suit.’
She didn’t believe him, but she tried to hide that fact.
He saw, and corrected himself. ‘Well, I say old friends, but perhaps it’s more accurate to say we’re business acquaintances. Colleagues, of sorts. It would be nice to catch up. Where would he be going with Zoca?’
‘How would I know?’
‘A better question is how do you know anything at all?’
She didn’t answer.
‘If it matters, I think Zoca is going to hurt your friend.’
Her eyes widened before she could stop them. She tried to compose herself, but her freedom – her life – was slipping away. The German’s gaze drank in her fear and seemed satisfied by it.
‘I don’t care what your relationship with him is. I don’t care what you’ve had to do to survive here, and no one will know anything about what you tell me. Perhaps I can even help you, if you help me in return.’
‘What kind of help do you mean? What do you want with me?’
‘I want information. Information that I already possess, but you can help expedite my processing of it.’ He read her confusion, and added, ‘You can save me some time.’
‘How? What kind of information?’
He tilted his head to one side. ‘You’re a smart woman. I think you know exactly what I require.’
She did. ‘What do I get in return?’
‘That depends on the value of the information you provide,’ the German answered. ‘But if it helps me catch up with my acquaintance, then I will be generous in providing compensation.’
‘How generous?’
The German held out his hand, palm upturned. ‘Do you know what I’m holding here?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing there.’
The German shook his head too. ‘No, you’re mistaken. In my hand is anything you desire. Look at how effortlessly I hold it. Look at how easy it is for you to take.’
