‘If he came after me,’ Yamout said. ‘He’ll come after you too.’
He walked the thirty feet to where a large pergola stood near to the swimming pool. Beneath its tiled roof were couches and chairs. Ariff took a bottle of Sabil mineral water from a freestanding refrigerator. He offered one to Yamout, who shook his head. Both men sat down in the cool of the shade.
‘And we will be ready for his assassins when he does,’ Ariff said.
‘You don’t seem particularly concerned.’
‘Don’t think that means I am naive. Remember, they could not get to you when you were so far away from home.’ He gestured at the guard. ‘Do you think they will be more successful where we are strongest?’ Ariff relaxed in his chair. ‘Ever since I was a boy my life has been in danger. Now my hair is grey and my face is lined yet I still breathe. Will Kasakov survive as long as I?’ He shook his head again. ‘But for caution’s sake move yourself and your family here with me until this thing is over. I have six bedrooms standing idle. It will be good to finally make use of them.’ He smiled. ‘You will not be in the way and your own men can be added to those already here. We will be invincible.’
‘Thank you, I would feel better with my family behind your walls.’
‘Don’t mention it. Your family is my family.’ Ariff held his arms out. ‘This will be our castle. I welcome his killers to try and strike at us here. We will show that fool just how foolish he really is. Let Kasakov send his killers into our domain and we shall send them back to Russia in little pieces.’
Yamout exhaled and stood. ‘But why attack us now, after all these years? We do not fight for the same business.’
Ariff sipped some water and said, ‘He should have no reason for wanting you or I dead, agreed. We have made no move against him, nor has there been any strife between our traffickers. And if there were some unknown personal grievance there would be no need to kill Callo. But remember, Kasakov has been trapped in Russia for some years now. The UN pressure to apprehend him is considerable. This could be affecting his ability to deal in heavy armaments.’
Ariff set his water down and stepped out from under the pergola. He unhooked his cufflinks and folded up his shirtsleeves. He walked to the edge of the stone patio, slipped off his sandals, and walked barefoot on the grass. It was cool and moist beneath his feet. Yamout walked with him.
Ariff said, ‘Vladimir does not have the infrastructure to flourish in the small arms trade. His giant cargo planes that are so good for delivering tanks to warlords are not subtle enough to sneak assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenade launchers into a war zone. He knows he can’t compete with us, which is why he has never made more than token efforts in the past. But he must believe if he can wipe us out he can fill the void that is left.’ Ariff shook his head but smiled. ‘He must be insane to think that, and to have come after us like this, so blatantly, so arrogantly. That he failed to kill you, which of course I am glad of, is proof enough that his intelligence is second to his ambition. He will suffer for his lack of foresight.’ Ariff stopped to face Yamout. ‘We are now at war, Gabir.’
Yamout exhaled and squinted against the sun. ‘Yet how are we going to strike back? Russia is a long way for us to reach.’
Ariff nodded. ‘Do not forget that Kasakov’s empire overlaps with our own. We deal with many of the same parts of the world, with the same clients. Our paths cross frequently. If he thought he could sweep us away without leaving himself exposed he is very much mistaken. We need not stretch our arm all the way to Russia when Kasakov is already so close. We will attack his network. We will destroy his shipments. We will kill his traffickers. We will slice off his fingers one by one and leave his empire crippled.’
Ariff smiled and set his hands on Yamout’s shoulders. ‘Then, when he has no strength left to resist us, we will deliver the killing blow.’
CHAPTER 31
Minsk, Belarus
Victor climbed out of the taxi and into the cold, wind and rain immediately darkening his overcoat. His gaze swept over the small group of taxi drivers standing together under a bus shelter, laughing and joking, smoking cigarettes. No one else nearby was stationary. Pedestrians hurried on their way, faces down, shoulders up. The weather was too bad to be outside without the strongest of need. Even watchers would want to stay warm and dry. If the train station was under surveillance it would be from inside not out. That suited Victor just fine.
Minsk Central was a huge station built in the Stalinist style that managed to remain grand and imposing despite the freezing downpour. Crossing the road, Victor could see a couple of armed police officers patrolling the square. Both looked alert. Not unusual. He showed nothing on his face, displayed nothing in his actions — just another anonymous businessman on his way home.
There was a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it. He moved around a Belarusian family who seemed happy enough to wait in a position where they blocked the better part of the main entrance.
Air travel was the quickest way of creating distance, but also the most watched, the most regulated, the most restricting, and by far the best way of getting apprehended. A car offered the most freedom, but, whether he stole one and gambled with the watchfulness of the police, or hired one and added exposure to one of his aliases, was not without its negatives. A train, though not perfect, was usually the best option. He could pay cash without being noted, needed no identification, and created no paper trail outside of a ticket that would be destroyed once its use was spent.
As a boy he’d loved trains, and had spent endless hours watching them from his dorm window that overlooked a station. Back then he’d longed to drive them. Instead he killed people, and now his fondness for trains extended only to their benefits in extraction.
Inside the station the concourse was noisy and crowded with commuters. Victor glided among them. His eyes, partially shielded behind a pair of non-prescription glasses, flicked back and forth between the faces of those standing along the walls or sitting down, where he would position himself if he were watching people enter. He was searching for recognition, some action or movement that would give away surveillance, but he saw no indication that he was being observed. He didn’t relax. Just because he saw no one watching him, it didn’t mean that no one was. If Petrenko’s network was large enough and they were smart enough, his description, maybe even a picture, could have been passed around. Train stations and airports could be watched.
He circled the concourse several times. He bought a cup of coffee, a newspaper, browsed books, acting casually, trying to cut down as many lines of sight as possible in the hope of drawing out watchers. Professional shadows could be working in multi-sex couples or disguised as station employees. He doubted Petrenko’s network would be that proficient, but he had no doubts that whoever the surveillance team worked for were. He noticed an athletic and alert young woman with a buggy but no child in his peripheral vision twice. The child might be with the father or there might be no child at all. Passing windows, he watched her reflection to see if she was watching him, but at no time did she look his way.
Victor headed to the men’s room and spent five minutes waiting in a stall before coming out to find the woman was nowhere to be seen. He checked the departure boards, found an appropriate train, and joined the queue for the ticket counters. He behaved like any other Belarusian, not worthy of attention, but he caught a short man look his way. It was only one time and maybe it meant nothing but maybe it meant everything. The man had a round face, bald, about twenty pounds overweight, wearing a train company uniform. Victor looked at his watch for a few seconds and stepped out of line. He entered a pharmacist and perused the shampoos before looking up in the direction of the bald guy. He wasn’t there.