The Game (9 page)

‘Nod when you’re ready to tell me everything you know. It’s worth remembering that I can wait longer than you can.’

She didn’t hesitate and nodded as much as the belt around her neck would let her.

Victor released her wrist and she tugged on the strap, too hard, and it didn’t reel out. She panicked and pulled and jerked on it, panicking more and more when the strap didn’t slacken.

He prised her hand away and did it himself. ‘Slowly, remember.’

‘
Robert Leeson
,’ she spluttered out between heavy breaths. ‘My boss is Robert Leeson… That’s all I know about him. Please…’

‘And what’s your name?’

‘Francesca Leone.’

‘Well, Francesca Leone, stay still for a moment.’

Victor unwrapped the belt strap from around her neck and she collapsed forward, coughing and wheezing, traumatised and out of breath, but alive.

‘There won’t be any lasting damage,’ Victor said. ‘But it wouldn’t hurt to get a doctor to check you out.’

‘
You’re a bastard
,’ she hissed as she sat back. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’

‘You didn’t need to pretend to be a taxi driver.’

She glared at him.

In return, Victor showed no expression.

‘How did you know?’ she asked as she rubbed her throat.

Victor saw no immediate harm in answering but he wasn’t used to explaining his methods. ‘You’ll work it out eventually. It wasn’t hard.’

She stared at him, unsure whether he was being truthful or if he knew something he wasn’t revealing. He had revealed as much as he was going to.

He said, ‘Take another minute to recover and then let’s get going. I don’t want to keep our mutual friend waiting any longer.’

This time the woman calling herself Francesca drove without her seatbelt fastened. It was generally the preferred approach of professionals for reasons including, but not exclusive to, those Victor had just demonstrated. Though last summer being forced to wear one had helped save his life. He swallowed an unpleasant taste from his mouth.

Francesca glanced at him every few seconds, expectantly fearful of what he might do, but it was useless. Even if she was somehow able to identify the moment before he elected to act, she was driving the car and could hardly throw herself out of the line of fire should he decide to squeeze the Makarov’s trigger. Victor kept both hands in his lap to defeat her attempts at using mirrors to see which hand held the gun and where it was pointed. It was tucked in his waistband. He didn’t need it.

She said, ‘We’re almost there now.’

‘How long?’

‘Five minutes maybe.’

Victor nodded and said nothing more.

After four minutes she indicated and slowed, before turning onto a narrow access road flanked on both sides by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The road surface was cracked and potholed. It ended after thirty metres where a metal gate divided the road from the compound beyond, but the gate was already open.

The Saab rolled through the opening and onto an open area of asphalt that suggested a nearby factory or plant, but the wash of the headlights disappeared into darkness. Victor pictured a vast area of wasteland where a huge industrial complex had once been demolished.

The ground changed from unmaintained asphalt to earth that was uneven and rutted. It hadn’t been completely cleared from the demolition and the tyres threw up fragments of rubble that clattered against the wheel arches and pinged off the Saab’s underside. With two-wheel drive the car struggled on the terrain and its soft suspension caused it to rock and sway.

Francesca turned the steering wheel to the left and the headlights swept over a barren expanse of wasteland that seemed endless and empty until the lights bounced off the polished bodywork of another car.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked on a large flat area comprised of industrial-sized concrete slabs. Grass grew along the gaps between slabs. The concrete was cracked and split where plant life had forced its way through. The Rolls-Royce was a limousine, beautiful and monstrous at the same time.

Francesca stopped the Saab when it was parallel to the limousine, leaving about six metres of open space between the two vehicles. She applied the handbrake and killed the engine and sat motionless with her palms on her thighs, her reflected gaze locked on Victor.

‘This is it. We’re here.’

‘What happens now?’

‘He’s waiting for you in the back of the Rolls.’

‘Apart from the limousine’s driver, is he alone?’

She nodded.

‘Is the driver armed?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘If you were armed, is there any reason the driver would not be?’

She shook her head.

‘I take it you’re supposed to call when I get out of the taxi, yes? To give the all clear.’

She nodded. ‘But it’s not all clear, is it? I’ll have to say about the pistol.’

Victor nodded back. ‘I imagine you will.’

‘He won’t be happy about it,’ she said. ‘I’m just warning you.’

‘I expect he won’t. Do whatever you must.’

Her eyes widened, suspicious. ‘Really?’

‘A couple of points for consideration, though. If this is a setup then you should know that it’s not going to work, and if you mention the gun I’ll have to kill you with it after I’ve killed whoever is in the other car. The Rolls can carry six people including the driver, so even if it’s at full capacity, which of course it isn’t, that still leaves one bullet in the Makarov for you and one spare in case I decide to make you suffer first.’

Her eyes widened further.

‘However,’ Victor continued, ‘if this isn’t a setup then you can have the gun back after I’m done speaking with your boss, so if you tell him about it on the phone the only thing you’ll achieve is to inform him that you can’t be trusted to do your job properly. If your boss is the kind of man who will have no problem with that then by all means let him know I disarmed you. But it’s up to you.’

Victor placed his hand on the door handle.

She frowned and said, ‘I can really have it back after you’ve finished?’

‘Sure you can,’ Victor answered. ‘Now give me your car keys.’

A cold wind blew across the wasteland and rippled Victor’s jacket when he stepped outside the Saab. The cold air found its way under his shirt and he saw his breath cloud in the night air. He left his jacket unbuttoned and looked around. The half moon was the only source of light, but Victor’s eyes had adjusted to the night while he’d sat in the back of the taxi.

The Rolls-Royce limousine was painted black and polished to a gleaming shine, with blacked side windows. Whoever was in the car would be able to see him, even if the darkness would disguise his features. If Kooi’s broker knew what he looked like then he would know Victor wasn’t him before he got much closer.

He looked to his right, back towards the gate and the razor-wire-topped fence. He couldn’t see them, but they were there, approximately two hundred metres away. A short distance, but a long way to sprint in the dark if pursued by cars and armed men.

Running wasn’t an option. Nor was fighting – the limousine’s ground clearance was about an inch less than it should have been because it was carrying six hundred extra kilos of reinforced steel and polycarbonate. The Makarov tucked in Victor’s waistband wouldn’t make a dent. He would sooner face a tank, because at least a tank’s crew had limited visibility and the Rolls-Royce, even one carrying extra weight, had twice the top speed of the fastest main battle tanks in the world.

Which meant the Saab behind Victor was the only option if things went wrong. Ejecting Francesca from the driver’s seat, whether she was alive or dead when he did so, would take time. Inserting the key into the ignition, starting the engine, releasing the handbrake, circling towards the exit, would all take time. And he wouldn’t have that time.

Because he looked to his left, to the empty blackness that extended seemingly into infinity, and pictured someone lying out there, about a hundred metres away, peering at him down the scope of a rifle.

This Robert Leeson had sent an armed subordinate disguised as an unthreatening female taxi driver to pick him up directly from an airport to ensure he had no weapons. He was a cautious man. His precautions in Budapest wouldn’t end with an eight-shot Makarov. He was sat in the back of an armoured limousine. He hadn’t ordered Francesca to leave so much space between the two cars for some arbitrary purpose, and if she had received no order she would have parked closer. Leeson wanted the space for a specific reason. The same reason that meant they were meeting on empty wasteland for more than just privacy.

The marksman had to be to Victor’s left, because the entrance was to his right and the Saab’s headlights might have given him away as Francesca drove through the gates and across the site. Victor looked away so as not to let the marksman know of his deduction.

The only remaining question was whether the marksman was out there as a precaution, or whether he was there because Leeson wanted to erase the link between himself and the NOC’s death. He might have learned about the client’s disappearance and arrived at the correct conclusions.

That question would be answered when Victor was equidistant between the two vehicles, in the killing zone, with no cover and nowhere to run. Even if this wasn’t a setup, it was conceivable that Francesca would reveal that Victor had taken her gun and Leeson, ever cautious, would give the order to shoot rather than risk a face to face with an armed killer.

He waited next to the Saab. He was protected while he stayed there because the marksman had no need to take a shot that might miss and hit the car or Francesca, or else spray Victor’s brain matter over the Saab’s bodywork. Simpler to wait until Victor was in the open. Fewer risks and less cleanup.

He looked expectantly at the limousine, as though he had misinterpreted how the meeting was to be conducted and was waiting for Leeson to step outside too. Whether Leeson complied would tell Victor a lot about the situation and the man, but he didn’t believe Leeson would give up the protection of the armoured car. If anyone got out, it would be the driver.

He did. The wind disguised the sound of the limousine door opening on the far side of the vehicle, but Victor heard the scrape of the driver’s shoe on the concrete. The driver climbed out with no discernible effect on the Rolls-Royce’s suspension, because even before the extra weight from the armoured bodywork and glass it weighed over three thousand kilograms straight from the factory. Ninety kilos didn’t make a difference.

The driver wore dark clothing and momentarily faded into the gloom as he rounded the limousine’s long bonnet. He approached Victor, who walked towards the driver, meeting him in the centre of the killing zone, but veering to the right a little to put the driver between himself and the marksman.

The skin of the driver’s face was tanned and weatherbeaten. His head was shaved, but he wouldn’t have had much hair had he let it grow. A broad chest and broad shoulders advertised a build packed with muscle. He was a couple of inches shorter than Victor and moved like all that muscle was weightless. He wore black boots and trousers and a navy windcheater. Black leather gloves covered his hands. He was somewhere around thirty-five, and looked as though he had reached that age purely through brute strength and an enjoyment in using it.

He spent a moment examining Victor and then stared into Victor’s eyes, unimpressed with what he saw and concluded from that.

‘In the back,’ the driver said, his voice a raspy growl.

Victor said nothing in response and they headed towards the limousine. Victor stopped a few feet away.

This confused the driver, who stopped himself and gestured to where the two cabin doors led into the limousine’s rear compartment. Victor nodded and waited. The driver gestured again, stabbing his finger in the direction of the doors. Victor waited.

The driver’s face warped and contorted in frustration and bewilderment. He went to gesture yet again, but then understood. He scowled at Victor, his jaw muscles bunching into hard balls beneath his skin, and opened the rear of the two coach doors.

‘There you go,’ he snarled between clenched teeth, ‘Your Majesty.’

There was no attempt to frisk Victor, because he had been picked up straight from the airport. He now knew Francesca had kept the fact he had her gun to herself, trusting Victor’s word that she could have it back more than she trusted her boss’s capacity for forgiveness.

He ducked down and climbed into the back to meet Kooi’s broker.

There were four individual seats in the rear compartment of the limousine, each covered in cream-coloured leather; two where the back seats would be in a conventional car, and two facing them with their backs to the divisional wall that separated the compartment from the driver’s cab. On the far side of the vehicle, on the seat positioned directly behind the driver, sat a man.

He had one leg crossed over the other and sat with both hands resting casually in his lap. He wore a three-piece suit, silvery grey in colour, with the jacket open to reveal the waistcoat and a striped red and white dress shirt underneath. His tie was ruby red and affixed to the shirt by a gold tie bar shaped like a pirate’s cutlass. His shoes were brown tasselled loafers with the toes polished to a mirror sheen. Light brown hair was swept back from a face that was far more youthful than Victor had expected. He looked no older than twenty-eight or nine.

Victor slid onto the nearest seat so that he sat diagonally opposite the man. Blue eyes free of fatigue or emotion locked with his own.

The driver, still scowling, pushed the door shut and it made a solid clunk.

‘Please accept my most sincere thanks for meeting with me, Mr Kooi,’ the man said, with the accent of someone who divided his time equally between the two sides of the Atlantic.

‘My pleasure,’ Victor said back.

Muir didn’t know the name of Kooi’s broker, nor if Kooi had known it, and Victor wasn’t about to trust that Francesca had told the truth, but the man dispelled any doubt when he said, ‘My name is Robert Leeson.’

Victor showed no reaction. Leeson watched him with an intense, searching gaze, but his expression revealed nothing of what he might be looking for, or have found.

‘I trust that you had a pleasant flight.’

‘It was uneventful.’

Victor heard the driver’s door open and then the creak of leather as he slid onto his seat, but there was almost no reaction from suspension that balanced over three and a half thousand kilograms of weight. The sliding window between the back and the driver’s cab was closed.

Leeson saw him look. ‘For privacy,’ he explained. ‘It’s completely soundproof.’

Victor imagined the sound of three-and-a-half grains of gunpowder exploding and the sonic crack of a bullet breaking the sound barrier within a confined space, and nodded.

‘I expect you must grow weary of all the air travel necessitated by your line of work,’ Leeson said.

‘It affords me time to think.’

‘Then it is good that you can derive some benefit from it. To me it’s a simply odious way to travel. I don’t know how you do it. When you can breathe in marvellous sea air as pure and unsullied as a newborn, I cannot abide the thought of sharing that recycled garbage with all and sundry on an aeroplane.’

‘Beats walking,’ Victor said.

A corner of Leeson’s mouth turned upwards in what Victor took to be as much of a smile as the younger man was willing to placate him with.

‘I hope the taxi ride from the airport proved agreeable.’

‘Fine,’ Victor said.

Leeson nodded, satisfied with the response. He hadn’t moved since Victor had entered the vehicle. He seemed relaxed and in no rush and showed not even the smallest evidence of trepidation in the company of a hired killer.

‘I have to say,’ Leeson began, ‘that you don’t look quite as I expected.’

‘Then I’m glad.’

Leeson acknowledged the remark with a little nod. ‘Your accent is curious. Which part of the Netherlands are you from?’

‘All of it.’

‘I sense that you aren’t keen on revealing personal details about yourself.’

‘Are you surprised by this?’

‘Not at all. Perhaps you would like a beverage?’

He motioned, but did not look, at a crystal decanter of amber liquid that sat with fat tumblers on a silver tray. The tray rested on the console next to Victor, set between his seat and the one next to it. An identical console was positioned opposite, between the backward-facing seats. They had various buttons and dials for climate and sound control. There were compartments for a fridge and drinks cabinet and all sorts of other necessities the wealthy required when travelling.

‘Thank you for the offer, but no.’

Leeson’s face showed a trace of surprise. ‘You’re not a drinker?’

‘On occasion.’

‘It’s twenty-four-year-old Scotch,’ Leeson explained. ‘Perfect for any occasion.’

The decanter was full. Seven hundred millilitres of whisky. An entire bottle. The tumblers were clean. There was no smell in the air. Perhaps Leeson had not touched it because it had been purchased especially for Kooi’s tastes and Leeson was demonstrating etiquette by not having drunk any before now. Or there could be any number of reasons why Leeson hadn’t touched it himself.

‘I’m fine without,’ Victor said.

Leeson interlaced his fingers. ‘And I thought you were a sailor.’

Victor tried to read the younger man’s expression, but there was nothing there except the same searching gaze.

‘Not while discussing business,’ Victor said.

‘Though we are yet to discuss any.’

‘Then what are we doing?’

‘Getting to know one another a little better.’

‘With all due respect, I’m not interested in getting to know you.’

Leeson said nothing. There was something new in his eyes.

‘My time is precious, Mr Leeson. So if there is no business for us to discuss then I’m afraid I shall need to depart.’

Victor reached for the door release and Leeson held up a hand.

‘Please, Mr Kooi. Stay. Please.’

Victor let his hand fall away.

‘Mr Kooi,’ Leeson began. ‘I know you are a busy man. I know you are a man whose services are in much demand. I’m not trying to waste your time. I invited you here because I wish to discuss a contract with you, a contract that has specifics I feel require more than just inflectionless words bounced by satellite across the world.’

‘I’m listening.’

Victor used an index finger and thumb to pick up a paper napkin from the tray next to him, unfolding it and using it to cover his fingertips as he removed the decanter’s stopper and poured himself a measure of whisky. Leeson watched him the whole time, expressionless.

Victor poured a second glass and offered it to the younger man, who made no move to take it.

‘I don’t drink alone,’ Victor said.

Leeson reached out a hand, but didn’t lean forward, and Victor had to stretch further to bridge the gap. A power game. He sat back down and rested the tumbler on his thigh, the paper napkin still between his fingertips and the glass.

‘You’re a cautious man,’ Leeson said and took a sip from his glass.

‘Is that a problem for you?’

‘Not at all, Mr Kooi. I believe in reliability and trust. And I trust that a cautious man is a reliable man.’

Victor sipped too. ‘I’ve had no complaints thus far.’

‘I can imagine,’ Leeson said with a nod. ‘My last client was most pleased with the way you dealt with those problems in Yemen and Pakistan.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘But not his,’ Leeson said, watching how Victor reacted. ‘He has disappeared into the ether.’ He made a rippling motion with his fingers. ‘Rumour has it that he has been captured or killed by friends of your previous target.’

‘I don’t see the significance,’ Victor said, because he did see it.

‘This is a great shame for two reasons. Firstly, I expected a number of similar contracts to pass my way from him, and therefore to you. That business has now vanished along with the client.’

Leeson paused, and Victor knew he was expected to ask, ‘What’s the second reason?’

‘Ah, the second reason. If the first reason was a great shame then this second is highly troubling, because if the client was apprehended then it raises doubt as to the quality of your work.’

Victor didn’t respond. He looked at Leeson while thinking he could put a bullet through his skull and be out of the Rolls-Royce before the driver could respond. But that would put him in the kill zone between the two cars. The Makarov was a poor copy of a much better, but still outdated, pistol. It had limited effectiveness against anything beyond point-blank range. Victor couldn’t hope to face the marksman and live, even exploiting the limousine’s armour plating as cover. He would have to go out of the left side to put the limousine between himself and the guy behind the rifle, but that meant scrambling over the seat and past Leeson’s corpse. That delay could mean the driver would be ready for him. He might have a better weapon, perhaps body armour underneath his jacket, and would have an easy shot as Victor leapt out of the door. If the limousine’s armour extended to the partition between the rear compartment and the driver’s cab, then a 9 mm round from the Makarov had no chance of penetrating it. There was more chance a ricochet would kill Victor if he attempted to kill the driver by shooting from where he sat. If the partition was unarmoured, Leeson’s corpse would still be in the way and shooting at a trajectory that would avoid the body meant a significant chance the luxury seats and partition wall, thickened by the angle, would deflect the round or slow it enough to render it ineffective. If he attempted to open the partition window it would give the driver enough time to be out of his seat before Victor could shoot through the window.

‘Well?’ Leeson asked. ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

‘Yemeni authorities ruled that my last victim committed suicide, as per the stipulations of the contract. Same as the Pakistani informant.’

‘I’ve read the Yemeni report,’ Leeson said. ‘The target died from a stab wound to the neck. Hardly a common way to end one’s life.’

‘He was a hard target. A CIA operative. He was smart. He took precautions. When you passed me the contract you should have known it would be a difficult ask. And, lest we forget, it was still ruled a suicide.’

‘So why has the client disappeared?’

‘I don’t know enough about the client to offer a considered opinion and I’m not the kind of man who likes to guess. That said, if I had given the target’s associates enough reason to convince them he was murdered, and I say convince because they would automatically suspect given his occupation, then how would they have learned of the client? Certainly not through any mistake I made, because I don’t know enough about the client to leave clues leading to his doorstep. Any mistake I made, and I made none, would have led back to me and me alone. I’m still here, even if he’s not. Hence, the client’s disappearance is nothing to do with my last job.’

Leeson didn’t respond.

Victor said, ‘You must have come to the same conclusion yourself. At least, I sincerely hope you did if we’re to continue this business relationship.’

‘Of course.’

‘So why even bring it up?’

‘Because I wanted to hear what you had to say about it.’

‘To what end?’

Leeson produced a little smile. ‘Call it peace of mind.’

‘Then I hope I’ve provided you with some.’

The younger man nodded. ‘Please know that I have been satisfied with your work, which is no small thing. Your good work reflects favourably on my reputation, and a reputation is perhaps the most valuable trait for men like you and I.’

‘I don’t take a job if I don’t believe I can fulfil my part.’

Leeson nodded again. ‘Though, lest we forget, a reputation is nothing but hearsay.’

‘I don’t remember suggesting otherwise. But I didn’t stab the CIA operative in the neck with my reputation.’

‘True,’ Leeson said, smiling again. ‘And there is no hearsay in a man’s eyes. There is only truth.’

‘What truth do you see in mine?’

He didn’t answer for a moment. He just looked at Victor, then said, ‘I see a man of experience. I see a man without conscience. I see a man who sold his soul before he knew he possessed anything of value.’

‘Shall I tell you what I see in yours?’

Leeson shook his head. ‘Not necessary.’

Victor sipped some Scotch.

‘The work I’m offering is dangerous,’ Leeson began, ‘but I expect it to be no more dangerous than other contracts you will have successfully completed. But I don’t just need a man who can pull a trigger. I need a man who can be relied upon. I need a man who can be available where and when I require him to be. I need a man who will follow orders but a man who can improvise. Can you be that man for me, Mr Kooi?’

Be his perfect assassin.
 

‘For the right price, absolutely.’

‘I’m delighted you said that.’ Leeson rested his whisky on the console and extended his left arm in front of him. He used his right hand to pull back his shirt cuff to reveal a gold watch. He unclasped it and tossed it at Victor, who caught it while sipping Scotch. ‘That’s a diamond-encrusted Rolex Super President. Solid twenty-four karat gold for the most part. Weighs a ton. I think it’s hideous, but I wear it because the circles I mix in require such classless and revolting displays of wealth. Amusing, of course, because the members of such circles do so like to believe they are of a higher class.’

Victor turned the watch over in his hand. It was heavy and extravagant and as obviously genuine as the Algerian trader’s stock had been counterfeit. He didn’t know the price tag, but the watch was worth tens of thousands of dollars.

‘It’s yours,’ Leeson said.

Victor looked back up. ‘In return for what?’

‘A mere ten seconds of your time.’

Victor remained silent.

‘I know you said your time was valuable, Mr Kooi, but a diamond-and-gold Rolex for one-sixth of a minute must be a good deal, even for you.’

‘That depends on how those ten seconds are spent.’

‘I want you to do what you do best.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I want you to climb out of this limousine and walk over to the taxi and then I want you to kill the driver.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s not a taxi driver. She works for me, and she has failed me far too many times. Kill her any way you like and don’t worry about the mess. We’ll take care of the cleanup and we’ll even drive you back to the airport. I would have paid you in cash, but large amounts of money can be so bothersome to pass through an airport with.’