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.
CHAPTER 34
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.