‘ One… two… three… four… five…’
Kasakov stood in a neutral corner, elbows up on the top rope, breathing hard. A thick film of sweat covered every inch of his skin. The Russian looked up at him and despite the pain in his face, Kasakov could see anger and disgust. He pretended not to notice.
‘ Six… seven… eight… nine… TEN.’
Kasakov raised a hand to the air to acknowledge the celebration of his underlings. He felt no joy at having won the fight by cheating, but neither was he ashamed. When faced with a greater enemy a smart man used whatever methods he could to even the field. The Russian was happy to accept the large payment for sparring with Kasakov so he would have to accept fighting by the Ukrainian’s rules.
He climbed out of the ring and nodded and smiled to his underlings as they congratulated him on a great body shot. Some would not have noticed the blow had been illegal but plenty would have had an uninterrupted view. No one even hinted at it being even on the belt, let alone very low. The benefits of fear, Kasakov told himself. Illarion would not have placated him had he been there to bear witness, but he would have respected Kasakov’s desire to win at any cost.
A head-on collision outside of Kiev had orphaned Illarion and killed Kasakov’s only other living blood relative — his younger brother — as well as his brother’s wife. Kasakov had done the noble thing and taken in the orphan. Children had once seemed irrelevant to Kasakov, but he enjoyed young Illarion’s company far more than he would ever have imagined and soon, despite himself, thought of the boy as a son. Kasakov had no children of his own, and though he refused to have himself tested, was sure he was infertile. He and his wife never spoke of the situation, but it was the single stain on their otherwise perfect marriage and grew larger all the time.
One of the underlings unlaced his gloves and the arms dealer wiped the sweat from his bare torso, arms and face with a soft towel.
It was another minute before the Russian could stand back up.
After showering and changing, Kasakov left the locker room to see two well-dressed individuals — one man, one woman — standing expectantly nearby. Both were in their forties, the man was a fellow Ukrainian, the woman a Russian. Together they formed Kasakov’s innermost circle. Each was supposed to be busy with other duties, so the presence of both indicated something important had arisen and their dour expressions told him this was not good news.
He imagined it was in regard to the recent attempt on his life in Bucharest. His people had been working hard to determine what had actually taken place and who had orchestrated it. No one had yet claimed responsibility for saving his life, so the arms dealer believed he had been saved merely as beneficial side effect of the morning’s kill. Even so, he would like to know more.
The fact that he had nearly been killed convinced Kasakov to reevaluate his travel and security arrangements, but did not unduly worry him. He had a long list of enemies, and had been the target for assassination more than once. Though this time had been the first in over a decade, the last being a French hit squad that had shot off half his left ear. Kasakov would have preferred a quieter life, but the billions of dollars he was personally worth easily made up for the risks of his chosen business.
Yuliya Eltsina was the first to speak. She was a former officer in the Russian security services and had been in Kasakov’s employ for nearly eight years. Close to a foot shorter than Kasakov, slim, with age now marring her once obvious beauty, Eltsina still carried the air of hawkish knowledge and casual brutality that had propelled her through the ranks of the KGB and then SVR. Kasakov had no affection for Eltsina and often found her humourless company tiresome. The woman was, however, a genius at devising new strategies to keep Kasakov’s arms trafficking empire flourishing beneath the noses of the international community. Her numerous contacts and friends in the intelligence agencies of Russia and the surrounding states enabled her to provide Kasakov with an assortment of otherwise inaccessible information on his business partners, rivals, suppliers and customers.
‘We have a situation you need to be aware of.’
‘Details,’ Kasakov responded.
She handed Kasakov a dossier. ‘In this file you’ll find a police report pertaining to a bomb explosion that took place in Germany, last week. The bomb killed a Hungarian named Adorjan Farkas, a high-ranking lieutenant in a leading Hungarian organised crime family. For the past two years Farkas had been supplying Baraa Ariff with cheap assault rifles. My people tell me that Ariff had Farkas killed because he was seeking to bypass Ariff and go direct to his customers.’
Ariff’s business practices were of little interest to Kasakov so he waited patiently for the reason Eltsina was providing him with such information. Ariff’s network didn’t stray into Kasakov’s, or vice versa. Kasakov’s attempts to move into the small arms trade had always been unsuccessful. Ariff’s network was established long before Kasakov had even started in the business, and could not be competed with.
Kasakov’s second advisor, Tomasz Burliuk, said, ‘Also in the dossier is the chemical analysis completed by the BKA of the explosives used to kill Farkas. The reason this has come to our attention is that the analysis shows the compound that killed Farkas was RDX high explosive, Russian army issue. The RDX was unique in that it contained an experimental marker compound. There was an agreement between several countries to come up with a way of tracking explosives in an effort to combat terrorism. A few batches were made up, but the idea was abandoned. We bought the surplus marked RDX a few years back.’
Burliuk was one of Kasakov’s childhood friends. He was tall, though not as tall as Kasakov, and had the easy confidence of a man who knew he was handsome and looking even better with age. He was immaculately groomed, hair perfect, beard expertly trimmed. He had been at Kasakov’s side since the early days, for longer than Kasakov could even remember. A good man and a hard worker, Burliuk had started off by handling the accounting and number-crunching of the operation. Balancing the books wasn’t something Kasakov was good at, but Burliuk was a master at managing money. These days, as well as the accounts, Burliuk handled most of the day-to-day decisions, leaving only the most important ones for Kasakov to make.
‘That RDX was in turn shipped to Istanbul to be sold via an intermediary so it couldn’t be traced back to us,’ Burliuk added, then removed an inhaler from his inside jacket pocket, shook it briefly, and took a hit of asthma-relieving gas.
Eltsina continued for him. ‘While in Istanbul it was hijacked by persons then unknown.’
Burliuk put away his asthma inhaler and delivered the climactic point. ‘As you are aware, it was in this incident that your nephew, Illarion, was shot and killed.’
Kasakov had stopped reading the file the moment Istanbul had been mentioned. He felt pain worse than any punch flood through him. It made him feel weak, light-headed. He pictured Illarion’s dead face and vivid bullet holes puncturing his corpse-white skin.
‘How much of this is verified?’ Kasakov said through clenched teeth.
Eltsina spoke again. ‘The BKA forensic evaluation of the explosive is beyond question. Farkas was killed in Berlin at the end of last week by the marked RDX that was stolen in Istanbul four years ago when Illarion was killed. So far, there are no police suspects for the Farkas bombing. My contacts tell me that it was widely known in the Hungarian mob that Farkas was in Germany to buy new weaponry. He planned to set up his own network and cut out Ariff to increase his profits. Farkas’s mob associates are convinced it was Ariff and want him dead. They don’t know where he is, otherwise they would already be seeking retribution against him.’