The Enemy (17 page)
‘But we need to exercise restraint,’ Burliuk said quickly. ‘Ariff’s network is as strong as us, his reach is perhaps longer. We don’t need a war with him while the North Koreans are watching us. Any hint of strife and they’ll buy elsewhere. And we badly need that deal. They’re already angry you couldn’t make the meeting with their broker in Bucharest. Vladimir, please, you must listen to me. You must—’
But Kasakov wasn’t listening. He handed back the file. ‘Find and kill Ariff,’ he said easily. ‘This is our number one priority. Nothing else matters. Hire the absolute best. I don’t care how much it costs. Torture and kill his family first. Make him watch.’
Minsk, Belarus
From where Victor stood, the Hotel Europe looked like it deserved its five stars. It was seven storeys of early twentieth-century Modern-style architecture and occupied the north-west corner of a city block where Lenina Street met Internatsionalnaya. Bright white stone walls rose to sloped roofs of grey tiles. Lush trees lined the sidewalk. A young doorman stood outside with a military-straight back and a welcoming smile. Victor first walked past east along Internatsionalnaya, before circling around the block to walk north on Lenina. He grabbed a coffee and waited half an hour before walking south on Lenina and then west on Internatsionalnaya. An hour later, he reversed the routine. He wanted to take in as much information about the building and its immediate environs as possible and explored the surrounding nine-block area in detail.
The hotel stood in the cultural heart of Minsk. Places of worship seemed to be everywhere. Two blocks west, spires of the eighteenth-century Russian Orthodox cathedral rose above the nearby buildings, and further north on Lenina, Victor could see the St Maria Cathedral. Diagonally north-east across the intersection was Minsk City Hall, across Lenina stood the huge department store. Just walking around the locale, Victor passed the National Academic Yanka Kupala Theatre, the National Art Museum, the Belarusian State Academy of Music, and the mighty Palace of the Republic. Predictably, the area was a tourist hotspot and the streets were crowded.
The Belarusians and foreign tourists wore a mix of styles and fashions. Suited men were common enough for him to blend in easily with his chosen urban attire. The temperature was a pleasant seventy-two
degrees and Victor kept his jacket open. The sun wasn’t bright enough to demand sunglasses, but he didn’t look out of place wearing them either.
The information supplied by his employer stated the meeting would take place in the hotel’s Presidential Suite on the seventh floor. The suite had been booked for a single night by Petrenko’s people, who were expected to number at least five, including Petrenko himself. Yamout was known to travel with up to five or six companions. So, maybe six or seven for Yamout’s party, and three to five for Petrenko. Nine in total at the lowest estimate. Twelve at worst.
In a situation such as this, Victor would have expected a window of at least two weeks in which to plan and survey properly. He would spend that time working through every conceivable scenario, analysing each potential opportunity, working through a dozen possible approaches. He would operate using the most feasible plan at the best possible time. But that wasn’t to be. He had just one night, just one opportunity to kill Yamout.
Doing it fast meant one of two options: from close quarters or from range. There were precious few potential sniping positions, and none that guaranteed a view of Yamout. Because the most up-to-date photo of Yamout the CIA had access to was a decade old, Victor was sure the Lebanese would employ preventative measures when travelling, such as entering the hotel through an entrance other than the main one and exiting via some other way. The hotel had several to choose from and Victor had no way of knowing which Yamout would use at a given time. Since sniping Yamout on his way in or out of the hotel wasn’t viable, the only other option for a ranged kill would be to shoot Yamout through a window of the Presidential Suite. There were several buildings that offered angles on the seventh-floor windows of the suite, but at the moment all its drapes were drawn. If they stayed that way, Victor wouldn’t get a shot. Even if Petrenko’s people opened them all, unlikely as that was, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t be closed again for the meeting, or that Yamout would helpfully stand in front of one.
That left close quarters. Which meant Victor would have to fight his way through the bodyguards to get to Yamout. If they had any tactical
sense, there would be guys outside the door creating a first layer of defence and combined advance warning, probably two men, one of Yamout’s and one of Petrenko’s. Then more guys forming a second layer, maybe five guys strong, probably occupying the main lounge area, with the last layer – comprising Yamout, Petrenko and their most trusted guys – wherever the deal was to be negotiated, in the dining room or one of the bedrooms.
It was a tactical nightmare whichever way he looked at it. To get to Yamout required going through close to a dozen enemies, all carrying guns, all no doubt willing to use them. Petrenko’s men were unlikely to throw themselves to Yamout’s defence, but in the chaos of battle they would assume the threat was to them as well and fight back accordingly.
Even if Yamout and Petrenko stayed out of proceedings, Victor could be up against ten gunmen. Close quarters as well. The dossier stated that Yamout employed only top-class bodyguards, ex-military, probably guys that cost a small fortune to hire but kept their cool in a firefight. The intelligence on Petrenko suggested his men would be of a lesser calibre, but as members of the Belarusian mob, they would know how to un-safety a pistol. And it didn’t require much skill to hit a man-sized target in an enclosed environment where the average range would probably be no greater than seven or eight feet. All anyone would need to do was point and squeeze.
The only way he was going to pull it off was to do it fast, with maximum surprise. Hit them hard when they weren’t expecting it.
And not miss.
Victor had been supplied with blueprints of the hotel, but a two-dimensional representation of three-dimensional space was only so much good. The suite was occupied until check-out time and then the maid would take over and clean before Petrenko’s arrival. Victor didn’t know what time that would be, but there was a chance he would be able to do a walk-around of the strike point beforehand. But if Petrenko arrived too early, then Victor wouldn’t get that opportunity. Presidential Suite aside, he still wanted some first-hand experience of the hotel before the time to attack came around.
The doorman gave Victor a big smile and opened the door for him.
Victor nodded and walked into the lobby. It was a vast and impressive atrium, illuminated by natural light that shone through the hotel’s elegant glass cupola over one hundred feet above. Internal ringed balconies for each floor overlooked the central open space and two glass-fronted elevators that stood in the middle of the lobby. Luxurious sofas and chairs were clustered in various locations. A lobby bar occupied the wall to Victor’s left, the long reception desk directly opposite. Perpendicular to the elevators, a gigantic Florentine mosaic panel-painting rose almost to the ceiling high above Victor’s head.
He didn’t slow down as he entered to avoid risking being mistaken for a new arrival and catching the eye of one of the two receptionists. He walked at a casual pace, his eyes moving constantly, matching what he was seeing to what the blueprints had showed or hadn’t showed. The lobby was busy but not crowded. A steady flow of people moved about, entering or exiting the restaurant or bars, walking towards or away from the elevators. Others waited, sitting at the lobby bar or on one of the tastefully upholstered sofas. The high price of the rooms ensured the hotel had a wealthy patronage. The less-obviously affluent, Victor took to be tourists whose currency went further in Belarus than at home.
Killing Yamout in the lobby had seemed a possible option before, but it was too big, too open, and as Victor didn’t know how Yamout would enter, it would be impossible to set up properly. Yamout and his people were likely to use the elevators, but it wasn’t guaranteed. Besides, there was another problem.
There were several blips on his threat radar caused by patrolling security. They had the competent look of well-trained rent-a-cops who wouldn’t necessarily go out of their way to enter a gun battle, but probably wouldn’t flee from one either.
In addition to the security, Victor noticed a single man sitting on an armchair near the elevators, holding a folded newspaper but not reading it. He seemed uncommonly interested in who walked in and out of the elevators. He wore a brown suede jacket and dark trousers. His complexion and hair were both too dark for a Belarusian. A tourist then, except a tourist wouldn’t have been pretending to read a
Belarusian newspaper. Interesting. One of Yamout’s men, Victor presumed. Maybe he was here to scout the hotel before Yamout arrived.
The watcher paid Victor no attention as he walked past but Victor would have to be careful. Even though the watcher probably had orders to observe only what Petrenko’s people were doing, if he saw Victor enough times he might realise he was someone to watch.
In his pocket Victor carried the hotel master keycard, which gave him easy access throughout the hotel. Though watchful of security cameras, he had been in enough hotels throughout the world to know their most likely positions, and therefore kept his face angled away from them as best he could. It didn’t always work perfectly, but better they recorded him now if it meant he could avoid them when it mattered most.
There were no guest rooms on the ground level. Instead, the floor was occupied by the hotel’s many facilities. The sixty-seven-room Europe offered all the normal services of a high-end hotel, plus a hairdresser’s, beauty parlour, five bars, a night club and Turkish bath. The amenities were of little interest to Victor, and he planned to kill Yamout in the Presidential Suite, but he had been in the assassination business long enough to know that even the most thoroughly planned job could go awry. The ability to improvise was an important attribute in the contract killer’s skill set. And if he did have to improvise, he wanted to have a good understanding of his surroundings. Victor took his time here, checking where all the exits were and how usable they would be in a range of circumstances pertaining to his escape. He didn’t see the job going down any other way except one that would require him to leave in an extreme hurry. Even with suppressed weapons he couldn’t kill twelve men silently.
Eventually things were going to get noisy and once that happened he would have only minutes before the police arrived. The nearest metro station was a ten-minute stroll, a five-minute hustle or a two-minute run. The closest bus stop was far nearer but he would need to get off the streets as quickly as possible and waiting for a bus wouldn’t help him do that. His best bet was to grab a taxi and get out of the city centre before the police presence escalated and blocked him in. But he
had to rely on a taxi passing by, and he hated leaving something so necessary to his escape to chance.
He could steal a car, but if the police were on the lookout for it he could inadvertently bring them to him even sooner. Until he had a clean identity sorted, he didn’t want to create the paper trail by using a rental. Plus, he didn’t know Minsk’s streets well enough to escape easily by car and there was no time to learn them before tonight. Better to start on foot and have the option to use either metro, bus or taxi as required.
Victor took the elevator to the seventh floor. He strolled around the corridor, pausing to peer over the railing to his right and down to the lobby below. He looked up at the glass cupola ceiling. The sky beyond it was a deep blue. Enough natural light spilled down that few other light fixtures were needed. He pictured the cupola’s effect at night and then counted the steps to the Presidential door and from the door to the stairwell.
It was a little after ten-thirty a.m. There was a maid’s cart near the Presidential. He could hear a vacuum cleaner. Victor didn’t know how long the maid would have left to clean the room, but he planned to wait nearby until she had finished. It took ten minutes before she left the suite and pushed her cart away. He waited until she had gone before using the internet option on his phone to log into the hotel’s network with a password provided by his employer. He checked the booking register. He didn’t want to take a tour of the Presidential only to be joined by Petrenko and his men two minutes later. Unlikely, given that official check-in wasn’t for another hour and a half, but he didn’t know if Petrenko had preferential treatment being a frequent guest and local crime lord. The register showed nothing, but Victor didn’t move.
An elevator reached the seventh floor and its doors opened. A man stepped out. He was around six feet tall, mid twenties, with closely cropped red hair, dressed in jeans, sneakers and sports jacket. He had a lean but hard fighter’s physique and gave Victor the universal tough guy stare as he sauntered in the direction of the Presidential. He definitely wasn’t a hotel employee and though Victor had nothing to tell him what Petrenko looked like, this guy was unlikely to be him. Too young and too obviously stupid.
Victor didn’t wait to confirm the tough guy was going to enter the suite; he took the stairs down to the floor below and moved along the balcony corridor until he was in a position to turn around and look upwards. The second glass-fronted elevator was ascending. The glare on the glass stopped him from initially making out any details but he could see two or three figures. As the elevator rose past him, the glare disappeared to reveal three men – two more tough guys in jeans and sportswear and one older, better dressed man who held himself with the unmistakable air of a natural leader. They exited the elevator and headed to the Presidential.
So Petrenko was allowed to check-in early, whether by having an arrangement with the hotel or from just slipping the receptionist some cash for the privilege. Victor used the stairs to reach the lobby and took a seat in the bar while he waited.
