The Enemy (27 page)

The train rolled away and the stewards walked off to do whatever they did in the time between departures. As the train left the platform Victor was able to see across to the platform on the other side of the tracks, and the bald train company employee standing among the crowd of waiting commuters, answering some enquiry as he performed his day job, stress free, even smiling.

The guy looked up and noticed Victor before he could make a move, and realisation immediately took over surprise. He tugged a cell phone from his trouser pocket and brought it to his ear. Tempting as
it was to just draw the .45 and put two into his chest cavity, there were more than a fifty people waiting for their train around him, all probably with phones. Fifteen seconds after killing him the call could be through to the police switchboard. Thirty seconds later every cop in the area would be after Victor.

Instead, he hurried towards the concourse. A fast walk, not running. At a train station, running would attract less attention than elsewhere, but once the bodies had been found and security footage reviewed he didn’t want witnesses adding his description to police reports. The bald guy understood what he was doing and did the same. Absolute physical fitness was part of Victor’s job description but he couldn’t make it pay off without getting noticed, and the bald guy had half the distance to cover. He reached the concourse first and disappeared into the sea of commuters.

Victor was five seconds behind, but having a few inches on the average height helped him out in situations like this. He spotted a flash of scalp moving away quickly and veered towards it, dodging around stationary men and women anxiously staring at the departure board. He turned side-on to squeeze through a group of tightly packed commuters and lost sight of his quarry.

Victor kept moving, heading in the same direction, alert, eyes sweeping back and forth in case Petrenko appeared, saw the bald guy emerging from the far side of the crowd, moving fast, stumbling. He looked back, made eye contact with Victor and powered on, heading for the main exit.

When Victor broke free of the crowd he sprinted after him, closing with every stride. He couldn’t grab him without being noticed, but there was little Victor could do about that. Emerging out on the small square in front of the station, he saw the bald guy gesture wildly in Victor’s direction as he approached a group of five men heading towards the station. One of whom Victor recognised from the elevator at the Europe: Petrenko.

Victor slowed but they’d already made him. Petrenko hesitated, terror spreading across his face, but the others hurried forward, hands going under jackets or into pockets. They didn’t draw any guns because Victor was reaching for the Smith & Wesson in his waistband
so they knew he was armed. They kept coming. They out-gunned him four to one, fifteen yards between them, clear lines of sight. No reason for them to be concerned. He’d bet he had the quicker reflexes but at best he’d get three shots off before two came back at him. Only one of them would need to hit. Victor wasn’t going to draw his gun because it was suicide. They knew that. But if any of them drew, so would he, and whoever tried to pull their gun first would be riddled with 9 mm holes before the others killed him. They knew that too.

The bald guy kept running, going straight past Petrenko and to the taxi rank. Victor continued to walk backwards, now inside the train station, trying to get into the safety of the crowds. They came forward faster than he could back off but he didn’t dare turn his back on them. Without any words spoken, two of the shooters broke off from the main group, going left and right respectively, moving to the flanks while Petrenko and the other two maintained their relentless approach. Within seconds, the two flankers were at the extremes, and then out of, Victor’s peripheral vision. He turned his head quickly, left then right, trying to keep track of them, but couldn’t do so and keep watch on the others.

A group of elderly men and women passed in front of him from right to left, moving slowly, checking brochures of some kind. A tour group, probably. They blocked the line of sight between Victor and his pursuers. Victor turned, ran.

He dodged through the crowd, seeing the two flankers doing the same, closing in from either side, limiting his options. All they had to do was to get close enough to slow him down and let the rest pile in. He headed for a set of escalators, leaping up two steps at a time, pushing past other travellers. The first of Petrenko’s men reached the escalators and Victor hit the emergency stop button when he was three steps from the top. The man at the bottom fell forward, momentum working against him. The other passengers groaned and cursed.

The ruse bought Victor a thirty-second head start. Not enough time to outrun them, but maybe enough time to hide or pick his battlefield. At the top of the escalators was a small shopping mall, two levels of maybe a dozen outlets each. He glanced around, saw stores selling
clothes, sporting goods, lingerie, greetings cards, cosmetics. Nowhere that met his criteria.

He rushed on, rounding a corner, slowing down so people didn’t look at him and signpost his path. He passed kiosks selling freshly made fruit smoothies and remote-control toy helicopters. He entered the mall’s food corner. Around him were cafés, restaurants and bars. One bar looked good. Lots of people inside.

The bar was open-fronted and he entered briskly, the prosaic mall music replaced by the sound of dozens of conversations competing against each other and the eighties music blasting out of wall-mounted speakers. He acted casually, just a businessman after a drink while he waited for his train. No one paid him any attention. He straightened his appearance and approached the bar.

A young guy who looked too smart in both appearance and mind to be a bartender caught his eye and Victor asked for a vodka lemonade. While he waited for his drink, he stood behind some of the other patrons, positioned so he was mostly obscured from the view of anyone passing outside, but at the same time letting him to see out. No sign of Petrenko’s men so far.

Aside from the escalator he’d ascended, there must be another way back on to the concourse. Hopefully, his enemies knew the station better and had already rushed off in the wrong direction to block him off. Either that or they would have more than twenty stores to check. If they were smart, they’d block off the exits first to trap him. The mall wasn’t that big, so he doubted there was more than one other means of getting back to the concourse. If they had a man watching that and the escalator, that left two to search the mall if Petrenko wasn’t actively involved, and he’d looked too scared upon seeing Victor to start hunting him down now. If the two searching the mall split up they could cover the ground faster, but if they did encounter him it would be one on one, and as it wasn’t hard to work out what had happened to the tall man and his two helpers, Victor doubted any one of the new four wanted to tangle with him alone.

The bar was large, its many customers spread throughout the space, sitting in booths that lined the wall, tables, or at the bar itself. They were mostly travellers and business professionals, many on their own,
no one he guessed would constitute a regular. He blended in well, but Petrenko’s men were looking for him. Only him. A single man. No reason why Victor should make it easy for them.

He spotted a good mark straight away. She sat at the far end of the bar, perched elegantly on the high stool, alone, head tilted his way, eating green olives off a cocktail stick. Her glass was empty enough to warrant another drink. She didn’t look too much like the other business types and her manner was too relaxed for a traveller. He looked her way until she saw him and they made eye contact. She held it for a few seconds and he gave her a smile. Nothing too strong, but with unmistakable meaning attached. She looked away, then back for a second more.

The bartender returned with his drink and he took it over to the woman.

‘Buy you another?’ he asked in Russian, talking loudly over a blast of synthesiser.

He sat down on the stool next to her, sitting to her right so she shielded him from the opening to the mall.

Her eyes slowly examined him from heels to hair before she finally answered, ‘Sure.’

‘Walt Fisher,’ Victor said.

‘I’m Carolin.’ She pulled an olive off the cocktail stick with polished white teeth. ‘Nice to meet you, Walt. You’re American?’

Victor nodded.

‘Good,’ she said, switching to English. ‘I like Americans.’

She had a cultured Russian accent and a strong face that would have been striking in her youth. Up close, he could see she looked like she was pushing a decade older than he was, but probably thanks only to her surgeon. She was slim, long limbed, her straight auburn hair cut short. A hint of grey at the roots. She wore a pencil skirt, lots of jewellery and a white blouse complete with plunging neckline.

He motioned to the bartender. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Dry martini. And some more olives. Lots of olives.’

Victor reiterated to the bartender.

‘Plenty of women in here,’ Carolin said, ‘so why sit down next to me?’

‘Because you’re not here for the same reason as them.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Everyone here is passing through on the way to somewhere else. You’re not.’

‘That obvious?’

‘No, but being perceptive is nigh on ninety per cent of my work.’

She nodded, smiled. ‘I’m here because my husband is a fat workaholic who only gets hard for his assistant, I’m in Minsk so he doesn’t see what I get up to, and I’m in this bar because I like a certain kind of man. How’s that for a reason?’

‘That’s a pretty good reason.’ He leaned closer. ‘And if I may be so bold as to say so, your husband clearly doesn’t know what he’s missing.’

Not the smoothest of lines, but he needed a quick result or to move on.

She regarded him with an amused smile. ‘Not very subtle, are you, Walt?’

‘Not very,’ he replied and he shuffled his stool closer.

‘Good,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘I like honesty.’

‘Here you go.’

The bartender placed the martini before Carolin. Victor paid.

‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked, raising his drink.

Carolin touched her glass to his. ‘To honesty.’ She took a long sip and her eyes widened in approval. ‘Delicious.’

Over her shoulder, Victor saw three men outside the bar. Petrenko’s freelancers. The two flankers plus one other. They wouldn’t have had time to search through the other stores that fast, so they’d figured out he wouldn’t hide somewhere like that. They entered the bar and looked around. Carolin noticed his distraction but didn’t acknowledge it. The single remaining freelancer was elsewhere, guarding an exit or at Petrenko’s side.

‘So what brings you to Minsk?’ she asked.

Victor took a sip of his vodka lemonade. ‘Work.’

‘Closing a deal?’

‘Something like that.’

He lost sight of them for a moment. He didn’t want to adjust his position for a better view in case his movements caught their eyes.

‘Are you okay?’ Carolin asked.

‘I’m a little tired. Long journey.’

The men reappeared in his view. They were straining their necks, looking around the bar, but looking for a single man, not one half of a couple.

Carolin looked at him meaningfully. ‘You should try and unwind then.’

He nodded. One of Petrenko’s men gestured in the direction of the men’s room, but the other shook his head, not believing Victor would trap himself there. Which was true.

‘My hotel’s across the street,’ Carolin said. ‘There’s a mini bar in my room. We can empty it and my husband will pick up the tab.’

The two flankers gave up and moved on to search elsewhere.

Carolin said, ‘Don’t be scared. I’m only inviting you for a drink.’

Victor stood. ‘Another time perhaps.’

‘You don’t have to run off,’ Carolin said.

Victor didn’t respond. He felt bad for the rejection she must be feeling, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. He checked his watch. Nine minutes before the kid with the tool belt raised the alarm. Not long, but Petrenko was still nearby.

Victor checked the kill team leader’s cell phone as he walked among the consumers and travellers. It had the marks of a well-used personal phone, not a sterile item purchased for a specific job. That confirmed what he already knew – these guys weren’t elite operators. But there were still four of them and a bullet that found its mark still killed regardless of the shooter’s qualifications. Victor opened up the call history on the tall man’s cell and dialled the most recent number.

A man he took to be Petrenko answered in Russian after the second ring. In a cautious tone he said, ‘Yes?’

Victor didn’t speak. He listened to the background noise. He could hear Petrenko’s breathing, the echoing sound of a public address system, the hustle of commuters. There was no public address system currently sounding in the mall area but he could just about make one out as it drifted through the air from the main concourse. Victor headed towards the escalators. He kept his eyes moving, checking ahead, his flanks, reflections, anyone looking his way.

‘It’s you,’ Petrenko said.

He sounded surprised but controlled. Intrigued and scared at the same time. His voice carried the accent of a well-spoken Minsk resident, an educated man, wealthy. Victor heard the click of fingers close to Petrenko’s phone. He pictured the Belarusian gesturing and mouthing to the freelancer not in the mall. In the background the public address system continued to broadcast its message. Someone had parked their car in the wrong place and it needed moving. Victor heard the clatter of cutlery or coffee cups – he guessed from someone clearing a table near to Petrenko.

‘That’s right,’ Victor said back.

He walked briskly, always looking for signs of his enemies but seeing no one.

‘How did you get this number?’ Petrenko asked.

‘How do you think?’

A pause, then, ‘What do you want?’

‘To ask you some questions.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Face to face.’