But Victor had talked to him, shared a personal connection with his target, however brief that connection had been. He had looked Kasakov in the eye long before he had been told to kill him. More than that, he had saved the man’s life. It shouldn’t matter. But it did.
‘Well,’ the control said. ‘Do you have a problem with this?’
‘No,’ Victor said carefully.
‘Good.’
‘What I do have a problem with is that Kasakov and his bodyguards have seen my face. I walked straight past them and they noticed me. They knew a shot had been fired so they were checking out everyone. Had I known that Kasakov would be — or even just might be — a target, I would have made sure that didn’t happen. Now I won’t be able to risk getting close to Kasakov in case I’m recognised. That limits my options. And less options makes the job considerably more difficult and more dangerous.’
‘Ah, I see,’ the control said. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’
‘Listen, my man, this is not a partnership. I’m your boss. You’re an employee. If I say sorry you should feel immensely fucking privileged.’
‘I told you before not to curse in my presence.’
‘My mistake. But you’re making a mistake if you think I care about your prudishness for bad language. I’ve apologised for the Kasakov situation, so you had better accept it, and move on. You’ve got a target to familiarise yourself with, so do it.’
‘This time the dossier had better contain everything I need to know, not just what you think I need to know. If I find out that this isn’t the case, or if there are any more of these kind of surprises, then I will not be happy.’
The control’s voice dropped a few decibels. ‘I don’t take too kindly to threats.’
‘I don’t make threats. It’s a statement of fact. Whether you take kindly to it is not my concern.’
The sound of heavy breathing lasted for some seconds. Victor waited for the control to say something.
‘Let’s both of us just calm down,’ the voice eventually said. ‘Okay?’
‘I’m always calm.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ the control added. ‘But I’m big enough and ugly enough to admit when I get it wrong. I’ve said I’m sorry already. I should have told you before Bucharest that Kasakov could be a target further down the line.’
Victor said, ‘I’ve done three contracts so far for you: in Bucharest, Berlin and Minsk, and each one has been rushed, or I’ve gone in without the full facts. Now I have Mossad after me, and you’re asking me to kill a man who knows my face. And once this job is out of the way you expect me to fulfil yet another contract for you, one that is in addition to our original agreement.’
‘Are you refusing to do this?’ his control asked. ‘Because for a man who has so many enemies that probably isn’t the smartest move.’
‘I’m not refusing the contract, I’m telling you that once Kasakov is dead our arrangement is over. This is my final job.’
Silence. Victor stared out of the hotel-room window. The rising sun cleared the mountains.
Eventually, the voice said, ‘Fine, you win. Kasakov is your last hit. After that, you’re a free man. You can go sell flower baskets on the streets of Bangkok for all I care. But you don’t go back to being a freelance shooter. No way. You take contracts from me or you retire and stay retired. If there is so much as a hint that you’re involved in a kill then I’ll do everything I can to bring you down. Do we understand each other?’
‘I understand you. I hope you understand me.’
‘So,’ his control said, ‘can we get back to the Kasakov assignment?’
‘That depends,’ Victor answered, ‘on one final condition. If I’m going to kill him, it has to be how I choose.’
‘You can do it any way you like. In a couple of weeks’ time he’s taking a vacation at his dacha on the Black Sea coast. He’ll be guarded, but he should be easier to get to than when he’s at home in Moscow. I’ll have more details on the location soon, but you have enough to be going on with for now. He’ll be there for two weeks, so you’ve got all the lead time you could want.’
‘Good,’ Victor said, and finished his lemonade.
‘And this time,’ the voice assured, ‘I guarantee there won’t be any surprises.’
CHAPTER 46
Heathrow Airport, United Kingdom
The flight from Dulles had been long. Clarke had spent the first four hours working — reading reports, signing documents, compiling his own reports — and the rest of the time sleeping. He woke up to the gentle tones of a stewardess telling him they were approaching Heathrow and he needed to fasten his safety belt. The sky outside the plane’s window was blue and mostly clear. There wasn’t a rain cloud in sight. So much for the stereotype.
As soon as the plane had touched down, Clarke was switching on his phone and checking his messages and emails. He had a couple of dozen — which was about average for the time period — but he paid attention to only one. It told him he wasn’t wasting his time crossing the Atlantic. Which was good because Clarke didn’t much like the English or British or whatever the hell the correct term for the self-righteous population was. The Scots weren’t too bad if they could be understood, and Clarke had never met anyone from Wales, but the rest of the UK he didn’t have a whole lot of time for.
The official reasons for his visit encompassed a trip to the Ministry of Defence, SIS headquarters and GCHQ. He was representing the Pentagon, at his own request, and if anyone ever decided to look particularly closely they might conclude that Clarke never really had to go to Britain himself. Intelligence could be shared through other means and there was no need to put a friendly smile on anything. There was never any need to encourage or coerce cooperation. Whatever his personal dislikes, Clarke respected Britain’s loyalty to her allies.
Heathrow was predictably horribly busy. Clarke walked through the terminal at a relaxed yet focused pace. He had an overnight bag but no other luggage to collect, as he would only be staying the night if absolutely necessary.
Clarke passed a store that sold soft drinks, confectionary, newspapers and books. He made for the books and spent a few minutes perusing the covers of the bestsellers. In the hardcovers were lots of biographies of British celebrities, most of whom looked too young to have a life story worth telling. He sidestepped to the paperbacks, which were mostly fiction. Clarke was an avid reader but he rarely had time for novels. History and politics were his subjects. He saw a few books he recognised from the shelves in the States and selected a paperback with a cover he liked the look of. He noted that novels in the UK tended to have much more arty jackets than their US counterparts. He skimmed the book’s blurb. Something about terrorists and a plot to destroy America.
A woman to the right of Clarke said, ‘I’ve heard that one is very good.’
‘I’m going to take a wild guess and say the good guys manage to stop the terrorists at the end and save the day,’ Clarke replied without looking at her.
The woman chuckled. ‘Not your genre?’
Clarke shook his head and put the book back on the shelf. ‘I prefer fact over fiction.’
‘A cerebral man then.’
‘I have my moments,’ Clarke said.
He turned and faced the speaker, who smiled and inclined her head in a brief nod. She was smartly dressed in a business suit, somewhere in her forties and attractive. She was short and slender but held herself with an obvious inner strength. Her eyes were small and intelligent and cold. She took another book from the shelf and handed it to Clarke.
‘Maybe this would be more to your liking.’
Clarke accepted the book without looking at it. ‘Thanks, I’ll give it a try.’
The woman seemed pleased. ‘I think you will not guess how it ends quite so easily.’
Clarke spent a minute reading the back and flicking through pages without interest, before saying, ‘I’m not sure meeting here was such a good idea.’