It took an agonising six minutes for the team hired by Burliuk to find Petrenko. He hadn’t dared move so he had phoned, and was drenched in sweat by the time he heard his name being shouted. Two idiots appeared, red-faced and out of breath. They were as unfit as they were dumb.
Very slowly and quietly, he explained the situation. The two men looked at him blankly.
‘One of you,’ Petrenko said through gritted teeth. ‘Take it out.’
Neither said anything.
‘Someone had better do it right now.’
The bigger of the two nudged the smaller and he meekly stepped forward.
‘Just hold still,’ he said as he approached.
‘Shut up and get on with it.’
When the man was close enough for Petrenko to smell the tobacco smoke on his clothes, he reached towards the shirt pocket.
‘Do it slower than that, you imbecile,’ Petrenko whispered. ‘It’s nitroglycerin. Highly unstable. If you don’t do it slowly you’ll kill us both.’
The man’s hand was shaking. He was more terrified than Petrenko. The guy extended his index and middle finger and lowered them slowly into the shirt pocket. He gasped as his fingers touched the bomb.
‘Careful,’ Petrenko whispered.
After a deep breath to compose himself, the man withdrew his fingers. Petrenko couldn’t see what they held.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Nice and slow.’
‘It looks like a cigarette lighter.’
‘And it’s full of nitroglycerin,’ Petrenko whispered. ‘So be careful with it.’
Petrenko took a step away. His underling held it at arm’s length.
‘Put it on the floor,’ Petrenko said, stepping further away.
The man’s face was flushed and sweaty. He squatted down an inch at a time until he could lower the lighter until it touched the concrete. He gently laid it flat. He released a huge breath when his fingers were free of it.
Petrenko stepped around the lighter and backed off. His man followed.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘Detonate it,’ Petrenko said.
‘With what?’
‘You’re armed, aren’t you?’
The hireling sighed and drew his silenced pistol. ‘Are we out of range?’
‘Of course we are,’ Petrenko spat. ‘Now shoot it.’
The aimed, took a breath, and fired. The lighter disintegrated, spraying out liquid, but there was no explosion.
Petrenko waited expectantly. Still no explosion. ‘What the hell?’
He pushed past the shooter, knelt down, and tentatively touched a finger to the small puddle of liquid. He smelled it. Just lighter fluid.
‘ Bastard,’ Petrenko yelled, then laughed.
CHAPTER 35
Moscow, Russia
Tomasz Burliuk disconnected the call from Petrenko and slipped his cell phone away. The Belarusian gangster had informed him that the freelancers Burliuk had hired were successful in giving Petrenko his show of strength, though three had died in the process. Burliuk cared nothing for dead hitmen. All he cared about was that Petrenko would keep the arrangement with Yamout a secret, and Kasakov would never find out Burliuk had made a deal with his best friend’s mortal enemies.
Burliuk took a composing breath and checked his reflection in the closest wall mirror for signs of stress and seeing none used his palm to brush the shoulders of his suit jacket. He flattened a wayward strand of hair, turned and returned to the far side of the dining room where Kasakov sat with Eltsina and two prospective clients. They were North Koreans, both serious men in their fifties, representatives of Pyongyang.
The club was one of Moscow’s finest and Kasakov’s personal favourite, which meant it was Burliuk’s favourite too. Burliuk frequently accompanied his friend when dining, but it was rare to see Eltsina at the same table. Whereas Kasakov and Burliuk were friends as well as colleagues, neither had any affection for the Russian. She was a humourless woman who rarely smiled and never seemed to have any fun. Jokes that had Kasakov crying with laughter would often garner no reaction from Eltsina. For this particular meal, however, her expertise was needed.
Doing business with North Korea was practically guaranteed to raise Kasakov’s profile if any aspect was not conducted with the utmost discretion and careful strategy to limit exposure. Despite the huge sums of money to be made selling arms to the communist regime, as well as selling on weapons of their own manufacture, traditionally Kasakov only brokered with Pyongyang when the timing was just right, and the risks minimal. Now, however, times had changed and the need for a large deal with the communists was imperative to the organisation.
‘Gentlemen,’ Kasakov was saying, ‘I trust you enjoyed your meal and are ready to talk merchandise. As you’re aware, I’m offering you the unique opportunity of adding the Mikoyan MiG-31 to your nation’s air force. This is the very rare and extremely sophisticated BM multirole version of the interceptor model, which has significant upgrades to the original design. These include, but are not limited to, the ability to carry air-to-ground missiles, HOTAS controls, advanced avionics, digital data-link capability and Zalson-M passive electronically scanned phased array radar. That PESA has a detection range of four hundred kilometres and enables your pilots to simultaneously attack both ground and air targets. Your catalogue has the full list of the extensive improvements.’
Kasakov smiled before continuing. ‘Now, NATO has seen fit to designate this aircraft the Foxhound, which I think you will agree is a very apt name. The planes of Seoul and Washington will be like foxes to these merciless dogs.’
The North Koreans sat without expression.
Burliuk took his seat next to Kasakov and whispered, ‘I’m very sorry about that.’
Kasakov nodded, but Burliuk knew him well enough to feel his displeasure. No one else at the table acknowledged him.
‘The MiG-31BM is a very rare fighter,’ Kasakov added. ‘With these mighty jets in your air force you will join a powerful and elite cadre of nations. Aggressors to your country’s sovereignty, America included, will be terrified to send their planes into your airspace or their ships into your waters. Your strength will be unmatched, and your ambition realised. I have twenty for sale for the very reasonable sum of seventy million dollars each. This price is non-negotiable and includes delivery of the planes to the location of your choice at the time of your choosing.’
One of the North Koreans spoke. He was tall, deathly thin, his jet-black hair cut short. ‘The Indians will sell us upgraded MiG-29s for forty million each.’
Eltsina gave a small shrug. ‘Of course they will. Especially when they are worth no more than fifteen million, upgraded or not. And those upgraded MiGs will have been modified in India. We are offering genuine Russian-manufactured hardware, surplus to requirements, but that has never been used operationally. They are in perfect working order. Moreover, when you buy from us, you know with one hundred per cent certainty that you will receive one hundred per cent of your order.’ She smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘You won’t have a repeat of that unfortunate Kazakhstan/Azerbaijan affair.’
The North Koreans began conferring among themselves in their own language. It sounded to Burliuk like an alien tongue. He shook his inhaler and used it to ease his breathing.
Kasakov turned to Burliuk and gestured for him to move closer. As he did, Kasakov whispered, ‘Kindly tell me what was so urgent that you had to leave the table in the middle of a deal that you said yourself we desperately need.’
Kasakov’s voice was quiet, tone calm and controlled, but Burliuk could feel the malice.
‘Forgive me, Vladimir, but I assure you it was necessary. I heard a rumour yesterday, from an associate of mine in Minsk, that an assassin would be travelling through the city on his way to Russia to make an attempt on your life. I sent some people to check the validity of the rumour. It turned out to be true. My men intercepted the assassin. Unfortunately, when they tried to detain him there was a gunfight and the assassin was killed before he could be questioned.’