Carl’s thoughts drifted to the task in hand. Here he was now helped and directed by people he didn’t know and therefore couldn’t fully trust. Then again, he hadn’t trusted anyone since leaving the military. He looked at Connor perusing a magazine. The good-looking Englishman with a confident demeanour. He had relatively short, blond to brown hair and was just over average height. Nothing too physically out of the ordinary. There was just something about him; a certainty that whatever life happened to throw at him that he would deal with it. It was to Carl’s annoyance that Connor seemed remarkably calm—alert but still at peace.
As much as Carl hated the lack of control, he was looking forward to this. The more he found out about the target, the less he liked. He knew to feel this way about the arms dealer was ironic; he himself was a man who ended lives for money. He had already decided to leave this life if he succeeded, but that was a big if.
He leaned forward.
“You know, it’s either he dies, or we do.”
Connor looked up from the magazine at him.
“What made you think I thought there was another way?”
Two carriages down, Damian Adamik was attempting not to draw attention to himself. Remaining inconspicuous took an effort as his height and build frequently resulted in a second look. He deliberately slouched and avoided people’s gaze as not to intimidate them. A face that caused a strong emotion in someone was more readily remembered.
He was to visit the French arms dealer to empathise the importance of finding out what had happened to the British mole. He was ordered to ensure that progress was to be made. Damian would have much rather been in the thick of it in London. At this stage of his life, he should be running his own team, not taking orders. He had been a member of Poland’s most elite military force. He should not be taking orders from a Russian either. Their inbuilt superiority baffled and irked him. That nation had become a super power due to the country’s vastness, and little more.
Makar paid him well, but Damian was worth the money. There’d be a time though when he would rise.
As he picked a discarded magazine and began to scan it, he shook his head. Ravil, who he’d met once, had been right. The United Kingdom was a nation brainwashed into being absorbed in fake breasts, stupid diets, fake romances, and stupidity.
It was a country ripe for the taking and deserved it. There were some people of character in it, thought Damian. The one Makar had in the farmhouse cellar being one. The man had remained resolute despite the hopelessness of his situation. He was an exception.
The majority were hardly the calibre of people who had helped to win World War Two. He doubted they as a nation would be able to stand together like that again. He was sure his native Poland could.
Connor and Carl disembarked at the Brussels-South railway station after an hour and forty-five minutes of travelling.
The American—a frequent visitor of Brussels—engaged a nearby taxi driver in French and they were on their way to the centre of the city. Less than five minutes into the journey, Connor could piece together that the cab driver was spouting off about the Moroccan and Turkish populations in Brussels and how they were taking jobs.
Connor smiled.
He bet he could find a similar version of this story all around the world, even in an economy as robust as Brussels. He didn’t doubt the man believed what he was saying, yet he also understood the man, who was in his early thirties, would reach sixty and still be complaining about life.
Connor had read it referred to as ‘The Snow White Syndrome’, these kinds of people always expected someone else to save them. He thought of the quote put on his old boxing club’s wall:‘If you are good at making excuses, it’s hard to be good at anything else’.
Knowing the driver couldn’t speak English very well, Connor roared, “If you spent more time improving yourself and less time complaining like an old woman you’d get on more in life, you fat fuck.”
He kept a smile painted on his face.
“Yes my friend, yes,” the driver simply replied. Carl remained impassive in the front passenger seat.
As they hit the greater ring road of Brussels, the sun pierced through the old and new architecture. They stopped off in the centre of Brussels, and Connor just stared at the old, grand buildings lit gold against the dark blue sky. Carl paid the taxi driver and indicated for Connor to follow him.
As they walked along the sparsely populated street, Carl said. “Maybe it’s not a good idea to insult the local people who may be potential witnesses in the future,” in his American drawl.
“I am a Brit aboard, though. It would be suspicious if I didn’t,” said Connor.
After ten minutes of walking, they checked into The Crowne Hotel. Connor expected something less lavish, especially since he wasn’t paying. Jamie had given them both a bank card and the hotel details.
Carl looked at him, said, “I am not complaining, I could be dead tomorrow.”
Connor looked at him in pleasant surprise and said, “My sentiments exactly, still, can’t get drunk can we?”
“Hell no.”
“I’m still going out though.”
“No you’re not!”
“Yes, actually I am. What’s your problem anyway?”
“Because you’ll risk exposing yourself. We’re picking up the vehicle at one in the morning.”
“Who am I exposing myself to? They have never seen me. It’s more suspicious us leaving past midnight like we’re off to a gay swingers’ party to get covered in goose fat. You should come out too.”
“What the fuck, goose fat? And why does leaving at midnight make us gay?”
“Never mind. I am going out, you coming?”
“They have seen me before.”
“I know, but Jamie is adamant that this character doesn’t get to Brussels until well after noon tomorrow. If we don’t trust him then we’re sat here like pricks waiting to be ambushed. We can’t physically rehearse anything now. Besides, there are over a million people in Brussels, the chances of anyone seeing you in the few hours we’re out is minimal.”
“That’s the thing you see. Why risk it?”
“Because there’s a difference between living and existing and I know which I am going to choose. I haven’t been to Brussels before. I want to get a few drinks, get turned down by some birds, and come back.” He turned to Carl. “Now are you coming or not?”
You feel like you’re spinning in the darkness. Each shock is agonising. You’re trying to disassociate your body from your mind. It’s just a body—a vessel. Let them shock it, cut it, tear it to pieces for all you care, just don’t let them have your mind. Any voice that even hints at capitulation, fuck it off again. They just need a foothold on a ledge of weakness, then you’re on your way to spilling and your death. Just hold out, for as long as you can. You’ll laugh about this when it’s all over. It’s character building. That’s if you don’t die firs. Stop. You’re not going to die. You’re going to live. And you’re going to kill everyone who has had a hand in this. You scream as another shock hits you.
23
Ravil sat behind a massive oak desk in a study overlooking the Thames. This study was one of the three rooms where he sat to conduct business meetings. The outside walls were panes of reinforced glass, and a few old paintings of English and Russian ships hung around the inner edge. Sat across from him was a suited gentleman looking cantankerous but trying to hide it. Unfortunately for him, Ravil had developed a keen eye for human body language a long time ago—How had this man gained such great responsibility?
“I take it you have had a hand in these clashes between the Turks and Albanians in London?” asked the man in the suit.
Ravil smiled inside. This gentleman had come to him to talk after Ravil had rejected the request for neutral ground. He’d already displayed his weaker hand.
“Presumption is a dangerous thing. Besides, our arrangement was that we would handle it from here on in.”
“The arrange
ment was to keep one another involved so we could mutually support each other.”
“You know to do that would be to unnecessarily expose our operation. There are powerful people not yet under our control who could try to usurp us.”
“Exactly, that’s why you need to tell me, so I can run interference.”
“Your interests lie with yourself, your retirement and your money. Mine concern the expansion of my organisation. You let me deal with interference, and if I need your assistance, I will tell you.”
“I see. You want me to retire in disgrace. You want that to be my escape.”
“On the contrary. It would not benefit our cause you retiring anytime soon.”
The suit looked aghast. “Excuse me? I’ll be retiring shortly. That was always the plan.”
Ravil’s voice took on an edge. “You will retire when I say you can retire. No negotiation.”
The man glared at him. “I think you’re getting above yourself. You’re known to us now, and I can shut your organisation down whenever I want to.”
“An empty threat,” Ravil replied. “Then you must explain how seventy-five million pounds made it into your accounts. And the secretly recorded discussions between you, myself and certain other men. Take the one you had last Wednesday, beginning at 08:12, detailing how you would spend your millions. Try explaining Maisie, your illegitimate fourteen-year-old daughter in Australia of which your wife does not know. She, of course, would have to hear about it. The media may ambush her at Derrydale High School, yes? You don’t want that sir, almost as much as I do not want you to retire in this moment. Understand?”
The gentleman sat there, and murmured, “One is not punished because of his sins but by them.”
Ravil said nothing.
He considered the emotionless eyes of the Russian, and mumbled, “I understand.”
Connor and Carl sat in a bar they’d found hidden away at the end of a narrow passageway in the city centre.
The room was laid out with three rows of tables all pushed together. The patterned wood walls came halfway up, while the various artworks which hung above the panels glimmered in the soft lighting. The former Royal Marine had convinced the former Ranger that ‘one won’t hurt. It’ll be spacers after that’. They were sampling refreshing white beer in a stone jug and munching Ardennes ham sandwiches. The bar began to fill with the hum of soft, French chatter.
Connor had noticed Europeans tended to eat as they drank, thus slowing the inebriation process. It seemed a bit more refined than the behaviour of Brits, except for the ‘Hoorah Henry’ areas of the UK and sections of the larger cities. That was one of the reasons why he wouldn’t emigrate from Britain—he’d miss it too much. There was all the action, all the excitement.
He knew people thought the British were reserved. He noticed how Americans, and to a lesser extent Europeans, could curse and get in one another’s face. They could take a verbal slanging match much further than the British would. Connor knew two Brits would start punching one another as it reached those sorts of verbal crescendos.
Still, there were things he liked about Europe. People seemed more chilled out. The food was excellent, and the women had an exotic quality to them—like the two he was looking at now. The women were both fairly tall. One had free flowing brown hair with a hint of red in it. She was pretty, wearing a cashmere top with trousers that Connor thought looked a bit like horse-riding jodhpurs. He could hardly take his eyes off her companion. He thought she was gorgeous, with her black hair cut into a bob bringing out her alluring cat-like brown eyes. She wore a white casual suit jacket with black embroidery, black jeans, and zebra print high heels that took her only a couple of inches off Connor’s height.
“How many times have you been to Brussels?” Connor asked Carl. He sensed the hitman was still pissed off at him.
“A few times, just passing through. Never stayed for any length of time.”
“What do you tell people?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you tell people you do for a living?”
“I say I am a salesman. I specialise in metals.”
“Couldn’t be more imaginative than that?”
“If it was good enough for Robert DeNiro, it’s good enough for me. Why? What do you say you do?” Carl asked.
It was then Connor realised Carl didn’t know just how inexperienced he was at this type of work.
“Dolphin shaver, biscuit designer, penguin picker-upper is a good one. You need to be more creative.”
“You’re telling me you convince people you shave dolphins for a living?”
“Well, most people. I am alright at convincing people.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, convinced you to come out didn’t I.”
“Any other tricks then?”
“I reckon I can convince those two chicks over there I am wildly charismatic.”
“I would like to see that,” sniggered Carl.
“Fine.”
Connor drained off the last of his pint, stood and made his way to the two women. Carl stared after him.
The two women looked at him as he stood in front and between them. He gave the redhead a nod and smile and turned to the black-haired beauty.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude, but my friend over there bet me a hundred euros that I couldn’t get one of the two prettiest women in the bar to accept a drink off me. How about we just spend his money?” Connor said with a wry smile.
She broke into a huge smile and said, in a light French accent, “One of the two? Very smooth.”
“Well, do you think you could convince your friend here? Because the other woman is the other side of the room and it’s less convenient for me to get over there,” he said.
She looked at him for a few moments taken back, before hiding a smirk and extending her hand in a ladylike manner.
“My name is Helene.”
“Nice to meet you, Helene,” said Connor shaking her hand and turning to her friend. “Yours?”
She took his hand. “Zoë, and I will have a vodka and orange blossom if you—” she said before Connor interrupted her.
“—whoa, I just made up the line about the bet and drinks to get talking to you. I can’t spend money on women I barely know. It would cheapen it for if I did buy you one,” he said with a wink.
“Aha, who’s to say you’ll get a chance?” mused Helene.
“Well, if you dismiss me simply for not immediately buying you a drink, then I know you’re not the woman for me,” he said, as he made full eye contact with Helene. She laughed.
Connor continued. “Forgive me for being rude, but can I introduce my friend? He’s over there on his own.”
“Of course, but you better hope you don’t go into battle with him. Shame on him for letting you talk to two maybe crazy French women on your own. You are very brave,” Helene said.
“I know.”
Connor beckoned Carl over, who stood with a slight shake of his head. Connor knew this was not what the assassin was expecting to happen. He would be uncomfortable, possibly even nervous. It wasn’t talking to women per se that was the problem. It was because this was so far removed from what he’d usually be doing the night before a job. Fair play to him, he’s not letting it show.
“Ladies, how do you do?” Carl said.
“Ah, an American,” enthused Zoë, as she touched her hair. “I’ve always wanted to live there.”
“We’ll switch passports,” he said. “My name is Robert, by the way.”
He shook hands with the two girls.
“So, I suppose we’ll get, let’s say, the formalities out of the way. What do you do for a living?” asked Helene, directing the question at Connor.
“I work predominantly in Arctic conservation.”
“Arctic conservation? How do you mean?” Her eyes were enquiring.
“Well, for example, I was in the Arctic for six weeks there picking up Penguins that have fallen to one side. D
uring the coldest months, they go into a cryogenic sleep and remain stuck until they thaw out. That’s fine if they stay standing. However, if they fall on their side due to Arctic winds, during the couple of months they are in this sleep, their internal organs can become compressed, and they die. So we go around standing them up, packing their feet and keeping them alive,” said Connor.
Zoë looked a bit bemused but impressed. Carl gritted his teeth and rubbed his mouth. Helene had a smile dancing on her lips. She tilted her head back to look at Connor with her eyebrows raised slightly.
“It’s a fantastic story, and you tell it with such verve and conviction, but surely, as a conservationist and lover of penguins, you would know that they come from Antarctica, not the Arctic.”
Connor didn’t know what to say for a moment but already decided that he liked her more than just physically.
“You got me, I’m a salesman. I specialise in metals,” he answered, as Carl shot him a look before relenting into a grin.
“I would just prefer it if you broke off any unnecessary engagements, Ravil,” said Makar.
They were both sat in the back of a customised luxury sedan overlooking the Aquadrome lake. Ravil leaned back involuntarily at the intensity of Makar’s gaze.
“I understand your concerns Makar, but this ‘cleansing’ process will take many months. I am not going to hide for that amount of time. Besides, it will look suspicious if I do.”
“And I understand, but you have had that golf game booked for two weeks in advance. I am just advocating more short term and random bookings for appointments of that nature.”
“I am not pulling out of this game Makar, it’s with one of my most important contacts. Besides, as you say, the Albanians and Turks still don’t suspect our hand in it. When they do I will run my engagements past you prior to making them.”
Makar was unhappy but knew this was a compromise Ravil would not move from. You didn’t become the most powerful Pakhan of the Bratva by being indecisive.
The Bootneck Page 22
