by Tom Wood
Krieger maintained his trembling aim, grimacing as his pain worsened. ‘Do you believe in fate?’
Victor shook his head. ‘We make our own fate.’
‘I disagree. I think our lives are mapped out for us. They are too complex, too perfect to be an accident of randomness. They have an inescapable narrative – a beginning, middle and end – unnecessary except by design. Birth, life and death, neatly separated and sequenced. Authored, if you will, by the universe’s own hand. We are gifted existence in three acts, but we can only ever understand our middle third. We cannot control our birth, yet though we have no power over this first act of ours we believe we can manipulate our second act, our life, to control our death. We cannot choose either, and it is right that we cannot. We think we are the lightning or the thunder, but we’re merely raindrops in a storm. We forget that we are ordained a time to live and a time to die. They are chosen for us, only when that time is right.’ The German paused. ‘Now, for you and I, it is not our time to die.’
He maintained his aim for a moment more, but only because that moment meant something – the surprise humanity found between mortal enemies who had minutes before been trying to kill the other.
He lowered the Armalite to his side, as Victor had with the pistol, but then Krieger dropped it by his feet as a sign of faith, of commonality. He smiled despite his pain – no longer enemy to enemy, or even professional to professional, but brother to brother.
Victor shot him twice in the chest.
He snapped his hand up, firing once on the move before his arm had risen and again a split-second later when it was at full extension. Bam. Bam.
He didn’t attempt the headshot for the reasons they had discussed. The first bullet hit Krieger in the sternum, the second striking a few inches higher and to the left. Neither struck the spine and severed the spinal cord. Had the gun still been in Krieger’s hand he could have shot in return. But he had no gun.
The German’s face contorted in both pain and surprise. He staggered backwards a step, but remained standing, somehow, through some last defiant force of will, forged in outrage, tempered by betrayal.
‘You were half right,’ Victor agreed, walking forward.
He shot Krieger a third time – a well-aimed shot to the head, and the German’s corpse fell face-down into the mud.
SIXTY-FIVE
She was a survivor, the man in the suit had said. She would do anything to survive. That’s what she had done. He was helping her so he could kill Rados, no more. She had done what she had to, telling the German about the scrap yard. The German hadn’t hurt her, hadn’t threatened her, so why did she feel guilt?
She knew. They’d had a deal and she had broken it. A moment of weakness, maybe, or was it strength? Because now there were two people who had said they would help her. She didn’t know what would happen at the scrap yard – she didn’t want to know – but it didn’t matter who returned to get her out of this hell.
No one cared about her, so she cared about no one in return.
She had to prepare for either eventuality, so she kept looking at the gun. It was futuristic to her eye, lighter than she had believed, and no use to her.
A part of her regretted what she had done, but she had no choice. She couldn’t rely on anyone. He had made it clear he was only helping her to help himself in return. She owed him nothing.
A polite knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
She barely had time to hide the gun under her bed before the politician, Dilas, entered, smiling because he was in a happy mood. She returned the smile because that’s what she had learned to do. He always seemed pleased to see her, always acted friendly, but he was the same as all the others and she hated him as much as anyone could hate.
‘How are you?’ he asked, and the imitation of caring made her hate him even more.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I need to get ready for the party.’
‘All for the Hungarian’s benefit. I wonder why that is.’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He likes me, I guess.’
‘And why would he like you?’
She didn’t know how to answer. Her indecision seemed to displease him.
He sat on the bed. ‘What do you do for him that you don’t do for me?’
‘Nothing,’ she was quick to answer.
He nodded as if he accepted this, but his tapping fingers revealed his displeasure. ‘He’s taller than me. And stronger. Is that it? Is that why?’
She sat next to him and rested a hand on his thigh. She despised touching him, but she knew she needed to. She could see that his ego was fragile, but his anger was strong. A volcano was just a hill until it erupted.
‘Rados will kill him,’ Dilas said.
She stiffened and he felt it. Liked it.
‘Rados doesn’t trust him. He’s curious about him, that’s all. He wants to know who he really is and what he really wants. Has he told you anything about himself?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘he doesn’t tell me anything.’
Dilas regarded her, eyes searching hers for any hint of untruth. It took every iota of will not to blink. At last, he looked away and she could succumb.
‘If you had a choice,’ Dilas began, ‘would you rather go to the party as his date or mine?’
‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘Of course you do,’ he insisted, ignorant or oblivious to her true situation or unable to escape his own fantasy.
She didn’t want to answer. If she said Dilas then she was afraid he would use his influence with Rados to make it happen. Then, she might never get out of here. But if she didn’t give him the answer he wanted she was afraid of what he might do now.
‘You,’ she had to say.
‘I don’t believe you. You’re telling me what I want to hear.’
He seemed more sad than angry. Despite herself, she felt sympathy for him because he felt worthless, and that’s how she felt.
‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ he said, seeing her expression. The volume of his voice rose, startling her. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
He stood and approached the window. He yanked back a curtain and put his forehead to the pane. His fists bunched at his sides. His breath misted on the glass.
‘I missed you when you left before,’ he began, almost tender, but with something in his voice. ‘I’m glad you came back to me.’
She stood too. ‘I need to finish getting ready for the party.’
He sighed, eyes closed, and nodded. ‘Okay, get your things together.’
‘We’re going now? I thought it wasn’t until later.’
‘You can get ready there. It’ll be beneficial to be early. I can show you around the estate. It’s very beautiful.’
He stood now, back to the window, waiting. Watching.
The gun was under the bed, wedged between mattress and wooden slat. There was no way to retrieve it with him standing there. She needed it. If the man in the suit was the one to return from the scrap yard, she had to have it for him to help her escape. Assuming he honoured his word.
She thought fast and walked towards the door.
Dilas said, ‘Didn’t you hear me? We’re going now, so grab your things.’
‘I heard you. I need my hairbrush from the bathroom. Unless you want me to look a mess.’
‘I’ll fetch it. You get your things together.’
She shrugged. ‘If you want.’
She waited until Dilas had gone and padded to the door to listen, to make sure his footsteps were growing quieter, then retrieved the gun from under the bed. She wrapped it in a pair of tights and packed it in her bag.
When Dilas returned, he said, ‘There’s no hairbrush in the bathroom.’
‘It was here after all.’ She held up an overnight bag. ‘All set.’
He sighed as though it was all a huge inconvenience for him, and gestured for her to go ahead. She did, clutching the bag in a tight grip, knowing th
at if anyone looked inside they would find the gun without any trouble and she would be dead soon afterwards.
She was the only woman from the massage parlour going to the party. She was led to a vehicle parked outside and told to get into the passenger seat.
‘Hand me your bag,’ Dilas said.
She hesitated, afraid; caught between the instinct to hang on to it for dear life and the knowledge that to do so would only draw suspicion. Her heart pounding, she handed it over and Dilas slung it in the boot.
‘Put your seat belt on,’ he told her.
She did as instructed, playing the part of the passive prisoner and not someone determined to escape, whatever it took, whatever the cost.
SIXTY-SIX
Victor took Zoca’s Land Rover back to his apartment, where he grabbed his go-bag from the basement. Back in the vehicle, he bound his reopened thigh wound with the first aid kit, cleaned himself as much as he could, and changed his clothes. Within fifteen minutes he was almost presentable enough to move out.
He would have liked to have questioned Krieger, to learn more about Phoenix and the contract on his head, but the German had been too dangerous to keep alive any longer than necessary. Krieger had paid the price for not removing the threat posed by Victor when he had the chance. Now, Victor had only one thing left to do in Belgrade.
Zoca wasn’t at the massage parlour because he was dead at the scrap yard, along with several of his men, but the awkward young guy with the cystic acne was upstairs, holding the fort alone. He shot to his feet when he saw Victor. He hadn’t expected to see him again.
‘Stand there,’ Victor said, ‘and don’t even breathe until I’m back.’
The kid said nothing in return.
Victor left him and headed into the pink-painted corridor. He worked the catch and opened the door, saying, ‘Time to go.’
She wasn’t there.
When Victor returned, the young guy’s lips were locked and his face was almost purple. He literally hadn’t been breathing.
‘Where is she?’
He released a lungful of carbon dioxide and gasped and spluttered. Victor strode towards him.
‘The party,’ the young guy said, stumbling backwards as fast as Victor was approaching. ‘She’s already… left.’
‘Okay,’ Victor said with a nod. ‘Relax.’
The kid’s face was slick with sweat.
‘Who do you work for?’ Victor asked. ‘Zoca or Rados?’
‘Rados, of course.’
‘Then take a seat.’
The young guy couldn’t fall on to the sofa fast enough.
‘This party,’ Victor began, ‘tell me everything you know about it.’
Rados’ house was practically a castle. It stood in a huge estate, surrounded by woodland, accessible via a private road almost a mile long. Perfectly maintained lawns and flower gardens bright with winter flowers and illuminated by ground lights flanked the driveway. More ground lights lit up the neoclassical façade and glowed off the polished bodywork of limousines and sports cars parked out front. There were no Range Rovers in sight. No Varangians in evidence, apart from two heavies standing outside in tuxedos.
They were young but had the hard faces of ex-military men. Private security, presentable and professional.
One held out a palm as Victor approached. ‘Name?’
‘The Hungarian,’ Victor said. ‘Bartha.’
The palm lowered and he nodded in recognition. The other stepped forward to pat Victor down. He raised his arms. The man was checking for guns, so didn’t frisk along Victor’s lower arms. He didn’t find the Five-seveN’s magazine taped under his left wrist nor the suppressor taped under the right.
‘Clear,’ the man said.
The other one said, ‘Have a pleasant evening, sir.’
‘That’s what I came here for.’
Inside, Rados’ house was as impressive as it appeared on the outside. The entrance hall was huge and grand, with marble floor and statues. A chandelier the size of a small car glimmered from a ceiling decorated with elaborate frescoes.
Soft piano music played and Victor headed towards its sound until he entered a music room where eight men in fine suits were entertained by young women who moved with the grace of catwalk models. They wore designer dresses and were groomed to sultry perfection. Each one was as beautiful as she was elegant. The Armenian woman was not among them.
He recognised none of the women, but the young politician, Dilas, was there and waved him over.
‘You’re rather under-dressed,’ Dilas said, looking him over.
‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Well, this is the perfect place to relax and unwind.’
Victor nodded. ‘Where’s Zoca and the rest of the Varangians?’
Dilas laughed. ‘Are you serious? You think Rados would bring his barbarians here? Oh, no. These gatherings are for friends. Belgrade’s fat and finest only.’
So that meant it really was just the two private security guys. Armed and competent, but avoidable. ‘Where’s the man himself?’
Dilas sipped some champagne. ‘Rados? He slipped away to pop some painkillers. He’s putting a brave face on, but he’s suffering. I can’t imagine what being shot feels like.’
‘It’s not pleasant,’ Victor assured.
‘I think I’ll go have a cigarette,’ Dilas said. ‘Would you like to join me?’
‘Later,’ Victor said. ‘Excuse me, please.’
Dilas’ gaze was on one of the women. ‘No problem.’
Victor left the ballroom to find Rados.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Victor found Rados in the drawing room. As with the rest of the house it was a tasteful and elegant space, opulent but at the same time understated, with hardwood flooring and subtle wallpaper. The light fixtures were brass and turned to a low glow. Rados sat in an armchair by an open fire. He was swilling a glass of brandy around in his hand and putting his nose to the glass. A crystal decanter sat on a silver tray on top of a small table nearby. Next to the tray sat a fruit bowl of bright apples and a hardback book, resting open.
‘The hero returns,’ Rados said with a smile.
He stood to greet Victor. Like his guests, Rados was in evening wear. He wore a black suit, with a white shirt and white tie. His left arm was still in a sling, but this sling was black silk.
‘Shame you couldn’t make an effort,’ he said.
‘My apologies,’ Victor said. ‘I almost didn’t make it at all.’
‘Sounds like there’s a story in that statement, but let’s keep things on the right side of levity. Tales of woe are best reserved for when the embers are fading. Anyway, I’m glad you came. I wouldn’t have taken it well had you been absent, but more than that it would have been a terrible shame to miss this, now you have earned your place in my inner circle. It is here that you will come to understand why it’s so very good to be alive.’
Victor thought of the women he had seen and Rados’ guests, all of whom would be powerful or influential, the wealthy or the well-connected. Rados had invited him to be part of this gathering and Victor had to continue to play the man Rados had invited. He didn’t yet know where to find the Armenian woman or the best way to leave with her. He had to be patient. He had to stay in character.
‘How’s the shoulder?’ he said.
Rados pointed to the brandy. ‘I’m keeping it well medicated.’
‘What are you reading?’ Victor asked.
Rados set down his brandy to lift up the book. ‘Marcus Aurelius.’
‘Didn’t you say you had no desire to rule the world?’
‘If we can’t learn about the perils of weakness from an emperor of Rome, who can we learn from?’
‘Weakness?’
Rados said, ‘Rome fell not because of barbarians at the gates but weakness within. They conquered and they enslaved and as a result they ruled. They should have gone on ruling, but instead they began to govern and in doing so they sowed the seeds of t
heir own annihilation. The whole world suffered as a result and human progress did worse than stand still, it regressed. It took Europe a thousand years to regain what had been forgotten. A whole millennia lost because Rome became… nice. Where might we be now had the Romans built upon the walls of their fathers instead of tearing them down? It’s a lesson for us all.’
‘No empire has ever endured,’ Victor said. ‘People will not submit to foreign rulers. After a while, they fight back. Whether with war or diplomacy, they resist. They do not give up. History has taught us that, countless times. Rome would have fallen, weakness or not.’
‘But not then,’ Rados insisted. ‘Civilisation would have sustained.’
‘Maybe for a while longer.’
‘Civilisation,’ Rados said again, but this time as if testing the word to see how it tasted. Having rolled it around his mouth, he pulled a face, finding it unpleasant. ‘Has there ever been such a thing? Will there ever be such a thing?’
‘That sounds like a rhetorical question.’
Rados shook his head. ‘No, it is a genuine question, because I really don’t know the answer, and I would like to.’
‘I’m not qualified to answer.’
‘Of course you’re not,’ Rados agreed. ‘No one is. But the asking is perhaps more important than the answer. The pursuit of knowledge can only be undertaken if one first understands that the goal is in fact unobtainable.’
‘We continue to build the sandcastle our ancestors began, one grain at a time.’
Rados smiled, but frowned at the same time. ‘I like that. I really do. The acceptance that we cannot truly comprehend what we are accomplishing, but at the same time we can take comfort in knowing that, even if the bricks are beyond our understanding, we can begin to lay the mortar.’
Victor shrugged. ‘I prefer the way I said it.’
Rados smiled. ‘I don’t find humour often, but your tightrope-walk of arrogance is quite amusing to witness.’
‘I don’t even have a net.’
Rados chuckled and returned to his seat. He gestured for Victor to take a chair near the fire.
