by Angus McLean
‘I need some help,’ Archer said calmly. ‘I’ve been sent here by a friend.’
‘I don’t know you.’
‘And I don’t know you, but this is business.’ He glanced in both directions. ‘I’d rather not stand round here with my balls dangling in the wind, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Fuck your balls and fuck you, I don’t know you. Go do your business somewhere else, Mr Balls.’
The door started to close. Archer opened his jacket and heard the snick of a pistol hammer being drawn back.
‘Relax,’ he said, showing the wad of cash protruding from his shirt pocket. ‘It’s only money. Like I said, I need help and I’ve got the cash to pay for it. I’ve been referred here to get the best product. Yeah?’
There was a long pause and he wondered if he’d played this all wrong, but in the end the lure of cash sealed the deal. The door opened and he could see a man half behind it, standing in the shadows. The pistol in his hand was pointing at Archer’s gut. The man was tall and solid and dressed in a black Gore-Tex jacket. His hair and beard were both grey and clipped short.
‘Hurry up,’ he growled, gesturing with his head for Archer to enter. ‘Come inside, Mr Balls.’
Archer stepped over the threshold and took another step forward into a dark entranceway. The door shut behind him, reducing the room to almost complete darkness, and he was shoved hard face first against a wall. A hand braced him between the shoulder blades and the barrel of the gun ground into the back of his neck.
‘Now, Mr Balls, who the fuck are you? You come here say you need help, you got cash; I say bullshit. Who the fuck you think you are?’ The gun ground harder and he could feel the guy’s hot breath in his ear. ‘You a cop? Secret agent?’
‘I’m just a guy who needs help,’ Archer replied, trying to sound calm. It wasn’t easy with a gorilla breathing down his neck. ‘I’m not a fuckin’ cop.’
‘You tell me now or I blow your fuckin’ head off, Mr Balls.’
‘I got referred to you,’ Archer told him. He wondered if the guy was just going to rob him and leave him for dead. Probably happened all the time in this estate. ‘I need to get out of Europe and I need some papers to do it.’
The guy’s voice was so close now that Archer could feel the brush of his lips against his ear.
‘I don’t know what you talk about. You turn up here spouting all this shit and I think you a cop. Maybe I can just blow you away for the funs, huh?’
Archer could see this was going nowhere fast. It was time to change tack.
He turned his head as far as he could, managing to see the guy out the corner of his eye now.
‘If I was a cop,’ he said, ‘would I do this?’
Before he was finished speaking he dropped sharply, twisting hard at the same time, getting under the gun and freeing himself from the hand on his back. He raked the side of his boot down the guy’s closest shin, caught the gun hand in his own left and shoved it skyward, and slammed a hard right to the guy’s exposed ribs.
He wrenched the gun hand down now, twisting, got a knee into the guy’s thigh, twisting more, stamping against the inside of his other ankle, bending the guy double now. The gun came free, the guy was pushing up and back, kicking out at Archer’s legs and grunting with effort, and Archer rammed the gun against his ear, swiping for the safety with his thumb and finding it already off.
The gun felt like a locally-made CZ82, probably pilfered from military supplies.
‘I don’t think a cop would be allowed to do that,’ Archer panted, ‘do you?’
The guy growled something that Archer didn’t understand, and he realised he wasn’t Russian after all. It sounded maybe Polish.
‘Stop whining like a bitch,’ Archer said. ‘You can get up, but stop being an arsehole. I don’t have time to fuck around.’
With that he stepped back, dropped the magazine from the pistol and racked the slide to pop the round out. He couldn’t see it in the darkness, but heard it bounce off the wall.
The guy was getting up when an internal door opened and the entranceway was flooded with light. Another man stood there, an older man with a pot gut, wearing a floral Hawaiian shirt over beige slacks and fluffy slippers.
‘Come in,’ he said in almost flawless English. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
***
The radiators in the apartment were cranked up and Archer could feel sweat dribbling down his neck and back as he sat on Semenov’s lumpy, floral sofa. The lack of furniture and belongings indicated that this was a business place rather than a home.
The tea was black and scalding hot, which wasn’t helping matters. Semenov himself was quietly spoken and studious; he reminded Archer of his high school geography teacher. The heavy hung around the door, constantly looking away from the CCTV monitor to glower at Archer. He hadn’t said a word since Archer had been invited in.
‘So,’ Semenov said, pausing to take a sip from his tea cup. The cup was delicate bone china. He set it down carefully on the matching saucer on his coffee table, and settled back into his armchair. ‘You are here because you need help. You say you are referred to me by a friend. You need to get out of Europe and you need papers to do this. Yes?’
‘Yes.’ Archer put his own tea cup aside. He was gagging for a glass of cold water, but didn’t want to offend his host.
‘You are in a spot of bother then.’ Semenov watched him carefully, not a trace of humour in his eyes.
‘Yes.’ Archer nodded.
‘Such things are costly, Mr…?’
‘Smith.’ Archer didn’t smile. ‘Let’s go with that for now.’ At least it was better than Balls.
‘Very good, Mr Smith.’ Semenov nodded sagely. ‘So you will need a passport, at the least.’
Archer nodded again. ‘That should be enough.’
‘A driver license?’
Archer shook his head. It was a fair attempt at an upsell, he had to give him that. ‘No, I just need to get through Immigration.’
Semenov nodded again.
‘I see. When do you need it by? Tomorrow, I expect?’
‘As soon as I can get it.’ He spread his hands deferentially to the older man. ‘I’m in your hands.’
Semenov nodded again. His eyes had barely left Archer’s face through the whole discussion. He had a very controlled, unhurried air about him.
‘Nationality?’
Archer wasn’t sure whether the man was asking for his own, or what type of passport he wanted. He went with the latter.
‘Canadian or Australian,’ he said. He knew that, along with NZ papers, these two were among the most sought after by Western intelligence agencies due to their wide acceptability. They were also among the easiest for him to handle with his accent.
‘Canadian,’ Semenov confirmed. ‘Eight thousand US. Cash.’
It was above market price, but urgency brought with it a premium tag.
‘No problem.’
‘You will pay in full in advance.’ It wasn’t open for discussion.
Archer nodded and opened his jacket. He held the wad of cash out to Semenov. The heavy moved off the wall and took it instead, snatching it from his fingers with a glare. He thumbed through it.
‘Short,’ he scowled, glancing at his boss for direction. ‘Six thousand.’
Semenov raised an eyebrow, his eyes on Archer.
‘I may be in a bind,’ Archer said evenly, ‘but I’m no fool. I give you everything now and what happens? I turn up with a bullet in my head.’
‘Who’s to say it won’t happen anyway?’ the heavy growled.
Archer ignored him. ‘I’ll pay the rest when I get the passport. Fair enough?’
Semenov frowned but gave the smallest of nods.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You will meet my friend and make the exchange. Yes?’
‘No problem.’
Semenov gave him the name and address of a café in the city centre. ‘You will do a brush pass with a copy of tomor
row’s newspaper,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean?’
Archer nodded. It made sense, and was another indication of Semenov’s background. They refined the details and Archer stood, ready to go.
‘Of course, Mr Smith,’ Semenov said, picking up his cup. He took a slow sip before replacing it on the table. ‘This arrangement is confidential. If you should discuss it, or me, with anyone, I will of course find out.’ His gaze was steady and cold. ‘I would not advise this.’
Archer nodded his acceptance. He noted that Semenov had been careful not to make any explicit threat. ‘The same applies to me, I have to say. I don’t have any interest in a holiday at the Czech government’s expense, you know what I mean?’
Semenov nodded his acceptance. They took another few minutes to get a decent digital head shot and confirm the personal details, then shook hands. Semenov’s grip was moist and strong. He pumped Archer’s hand once and looked him in the eye.
‘Remember, Mr Smith,’ he said quietly. ‘Discretion is protection.’
Archer nodded and smiled. Maybe that was his business slogan. He released the grip and turned to go, finding his way blocked by the heavy, up so close that their chests bumped.
‘We will meet again,’ the heavy rasped, giving a shit-eating grin, ‘Mr Balls.’
Archer sniffed and gave a frown. ‘Can’t wait,’ he said. ‘Before we do, perhaps you could invest in a tooth brush.’ He moved around the heavy towards the door. ‘There’s a good lad.’
Clicking the door shut behind him, he took a breath and moved quickly away. The heat in the apartment had been stifling and his shirt and jeans felt damp. He needed hydration and he needed to get away from the heavy at the door. Gun-toting idiots with the mentality of a twelve-year-old gave him the shits.
He had the feeling that tomorrow would be very interesting indeed.
Chapter 22
Archer knew he was playing a dangerous game.
He felt the pressure of the assignment weighing on him; the need to catch this mysterious player and prevent a major tragedy was immense. Even though he knew there were other people working hard in the background, each contributing their own small piece to the bigger picture, he was alone.
Nobody else was out at the coalface, striving to get their hands on the bad guy. Nobody else was putting their neck on the block and waiting for the axe to fall. It was a cold and lonely place to be, but Archer was comfortable with it. There was nobody else he had to rely on, nobody else to consult. Nobody else to fuck it up. His decisions were his and his alone, and likewise, if he fucked it up it was on him.
From his position at a table inside the café, he had good eyeball on the entrance. His long black was half gone and he had a ball of anxiety in his gut. It was time for the exchange and he had a nagging doubt that it was going to happen. He’d been back over his interactions with Semenov a million times, turning over and analysing every little step.
Had he given the man any reason to doubt him? Had he somehow smelt a rat? Had he been tipped off? They had his six grand already – maybe they’d just fuck him off and take the chance that he wouldn’t come back.
Cold-calling a bad man like Semenov carried inherent risk, but it also wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t like these guys advertised on Facebook or Craig’s List. A pop-up window for Get your forged passports here probably wasn’t a great business strategy.
He took a small mouthful of coffee, letting it slide down slowly. He knew his coffee intake had been excessive lately, but the caffeine hit was welcome nonetheless. His eyes felt tired and scratchy and his body ached. What he needed, he thought to himself with an internal smile, was a little Thai to walk up and down his back. That’d soon sort things out.
He glanced to the door again as he put the cup down on the scarred table top. No sign of Semenov or his sidekick. They were now officially late and he forced himself to take a breath and calm his anxiety. They were criminals after all; hardly the most reliable section of society.
Normally he wouldn’t have worried too much about time-keeping with such people, but Semenov had worked for the Kremlin, and presumably was actually ex-KGB. They weren’t an organisation known for their tolerance of failure or sloppy practices, so Archer had put some stock in his likely reliability.
A middle-aged couple entered the café, huffing and talking loudly as they surveyed the blackboard menu above the counter. Even before they opened their mouths he pegged them as American. The comfortable beige slacks and sneakers on the man, ruddy cheeks and a Dodgers cap. The woman had bright red lipstick badly applied, a peach-coloured cashmere sweater and Levis struggling to contain a substantial diff above glaringly white Reeboks.
Chad and Minnie from Iowa, he guessed, on the Prague leg of their European coach tour.
He looked past them to the door, using them as cover from anyone who wondered why he was still there, lingering alone over an average coffee in an average café.
The door opened, the bell above it tinkling again, and a man in a bulky puffer jacket entered. It was Semenov’s side kick.
He queued behind Chad and Minnie, waiting patiently while they faffed about with their order. Minnie wanted cream and an extra shot. Chad took his straight black, same as he liked his women. He looked to Minnie for approval as he guffawed. She ignored him and gave the girl behind the counter an apologetic look. The girl looked blankly at both of them and pushed the EFTPOS terminal across the counter.
By the time they’d finished their order and shuffled off to find a table, Semenov’s side kick had called out his order to the girl and slapped a note down on the counter, jabbering something in Czech and pointing towards a table outside. She nodded and he went back out the door, the bell tinkling again.
Chad was getting a real earful in hushed tones from Minnie over at the window. Archer almost felt sorry for him. Prague was probably a far more exciting place than Bumfuck, Iowa, and he was just getting carried away. Or maybe he was just a dickhead.
Either way, Archer had things to do. He picked up his copy of the Prague Post from the table, folded it in half, and threw down the last of his coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter enough to make him blink. He put the cup down, stood, and made his way towards the door.
The next few seconds would be the making or breaking of this phase. Semenov’s side kick was to stand up as Archer came out, drop his copy of the Post, and Archer would pick it up for him. He would give the man his own copy, retain the other and they would go their separate ways.
Archer’s copy had two grand in cash in an envelope taped inside, and the other copy would have instructions on where to pick up his passport. He would follow the direction to a dead drop somewhere nearby, pick it up and that would be the end of the transaction. If there wasn’t two thousand bucks in the envelope, the side kick would soon know and Archer could expect to be ambushed before he got his hands on the passport.
Fair enough, but a bloke in his assumed position was unlikely to try and rip off the supplier. Or, at least, extremely foolish.
The bell tinkled, Archer felt the warm afternoon sun on his face as he stepped outside, and he saw the heavy start to move. He stood, turned, and dropped his paper as he bumped into Archer.
There was a brief exchange of muttered apologies and Archer bent, scooping up the fallen newspaper in his left hand and straightening up. He passed the paper from his right hand to the heavy, nodded and smiled and stepped past him, moving onto the pavement and turning left.
He tucked the folded paper under his arm, strolling purposefully as if he had somewhere to be, until he got to a side street and waited for the traffic, glancing left and right. As he did so, he opened up the first fold of the newspaper, as if checking the headlines.
Instead of a discreet note with directions to the DLB, there was a square of white A4 with a hand-drawn sketch in pencil and a single line of text beneath it.
The sketch showed a man – presumably Archer – about to devour a penis that was almost as big as his head. It was the sort
of drawing boys had put in each other’s schoolbooks when Archer was a kid. The text beneath it read, in child-like lettering, Fuk U.
It was crude, but effective.
Archer folded the paper and turned back towards the café. The heavy was standing on the footpath, watching him with a huge grin. The man gave him the universal wanker gesture, turned, and walked off in the opposite direction.
Sighing, Archer started after him. The guy’s intentions were obvious, but right now he couldn’t see a way around it. He still wanted the passport and needed the in with Semenov, and if that meant he first had to deal with this idiot, then so be it.
The heavy was wearing the standard uniform of a European gangster – black leather jacket, jeans, boots and mirrored shades. He wasn’t hard to track. He walked half a block before stopping and looking back directly at Archer. He gave that shit-eating grin again, flipped him the bird, and crossed the street.
Archer knew he was being drawn in, but the available options were pretty limited right now. Ignore this clown and go back to Semenov’s pad? Could do, but if this interaction with the heavy was authorised by the boss man himself, then chances were the fucker had bugged out. If not, if this was just the heavy having his own little play at Archer, then Semenov would be none the wiser and he could be reached later.
And he had to admit to himself, a part of him wanted to settle things with this guy. He didn’t even know anything about him, let alone his name, but he couldn’t afford to have a loose cannon running around behind him when he was trying to get the job done.
Fuck it. Just get on with it.
He crossed the road, dodging round a pair of students on bikes, and reached the opposite pavement in time to see the heavy enter an alleyway a few doors down. Archer went after him, moving with purpose but not rushing. Rushing led to mistakes; mistakes were fatal. He paused at the top of the alley, seeing the heavy reach another alleyway half way down. He watched the heavy turn and look at him before disappearing from sight.
Archer sighed again, knowing he was walking into a trap. They were still in the central city, so he was reasonably confident that gunplay was unlikely.
