Outlaw, page 11
He walked away, ushered to a table by the window by a smiling waiter.
The brush-off was polite and polished, so smooth that Marc was barely aware he’d been totally dismissed until the woman called Willa glared at him and pulled up his press pass to study it closely. Thankfully, the badge didn’t have a photo image on it.
‘Please do not approach Signor Da Silvio again without discussing it with my office first, is that clear?’ Her tone was so icy the words had frost on them. ‘If it happens again, your pass will be revoked and you will be barred from the event.’
‘My mistake. I apologise for being a little too eager.’ Marc made his reply suitably contrite, using it to cover himself as he drew out his phone and palmed it.
There’s an opportunity here, he told himself, if I can push my luck a little more.
Marc’s spyPhone was still operating in intrusion mode, and he shifted slightly so that the device’s wireless connection could auto-seek the tablet in Willa’s hands. He and the woman were close enough to touch, close enough for Kara’s hacker programs to work their magic between the two devices.
Willa continued to tap at the tablet’s screen.
‘Signor Da Silvio will not be available for any additional press interviews. I have your contact information. If the situation changes, you will be alerted . . .’
She trailed off, raising an eyebrow. The device gave a low chirp and Marc saw a warning panel pop up on the screen, quickly followed by another and another. It was reacting to the spyPhone’s attempt to infiltrate its system.
‘Active, this is Overwatch, abort intrusion!’ Kara snapped out the words. ‘Whatever tech you’re messing with, it’s pushing back!’
‘Ah.’
Marc felt his colour rise and he thumbed the disconnect key, slipping the phone back into his pocket. Willa’s digital book was far better protected than the computer networks used by the hotels and the race, by an order of magnitude. He covered his dismay with a cough and stepped aside.
‘Okay then. Thank you for your time. I’ll wait to hear from you . . .’
But the woman had already moved on, forgetting him the instant she turned away. Marc sensed someone behind him as Willa moved to greet them with a cool, professional smile.
Looking up from under the peak of his cap, Marc saw the face of the man who had arrived for lunch with Da Silvio, a carved-granite aspect reflected in the mirrored glass behind the lounge’s bar. His blood ran cold.
‘Mr Glovkonin,’ Willa said to the new arrival, her voice as clear as a bell. ‘Welcome to Sochi. Signor Da Silvio is waiting for you. Right this way.’
Pytor Glovkonin – undeniably, the guiding hand behind every shade of hell that Marc and his team had gone through over the last five years. The man who held ultimate responsibility for the deaths of Marc’s friends and colleagues, who had threatened the lives of his family, schemed to tear down Rubicon and launch ploy after murderous ploy against thousands of innocent people . . . All so he could make himself that bit richer.
Here he was, unaware that the object of his enmity stood in the same room.
His back to the Russian, Marc turned to stone, unable to move, unable to look away. He watched Glovkonin’s reflection as he passed by – no more than five metres from Marc – and marched into the dining room where the Italian sat at his table.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. Marc kept remembering the feeling of the security guard’s hand on his shoulder, the moment replaying, but this time it was Glovkonin, with his hard, penetrating gaze boring into Marc’s back. He felt as if there was a screaming chorus echoing around him, as if everyone in the lounge was ready to turn and point the finger towards him.
The brief surge of panic made him light-headed, and Marc shut it off before it could take hold. He turned and moved away, hyper-conscious of trying to appear perfectly normal as he avoided the roving gaze of Glovkonin’s personal security detail. The two bodyguards hovered near the VIP area’s entrance, grimacing at everything.
‘Active, report status.’ Lucy’s tone had altered, growing concerned. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Active is heading to exfil,’ said Marc under his breath. ‘Mobile, come and get me.’
He exited the conference centre and moved quickly across the airy marble lobby of the adjoining hotel, towards the main doors. He pulled at his collar. Marc couldn’t get away fast enough.
Malte gave a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘Mobile on site in sixty seconds.’
Lucy heard the tightness in Marc’s words. ‘Do we have a problem down there?’
‘Things have just got more complicated,’ he replied, feeling the sick twist in his gut from the ebb of adrenaline.
*
‘I took the liberty of ordering for you, I hope you don’t mind.’ The Italian gave Glovkonin his usual indolent smile as he took his seat. ‘The kambala here isn’t as impressive as they claim, but it bears indulging.’
‘I have sampled it before.’
The local delicacy of Black Sea flounder was an acquired taste, and in truth Glovkonin much preferred the amber trout from the nearby farms in Adler. He let the waiter fill his glass with an indifferent white wine and took a drink.
‘Of course, of course,’ smiled the other man. ‘You must know Sochi quite well. I sometimes forget this is your home country, it’s so temperate! It is so little like the Russia I expect.’ The smile became a grin. ‘Palm trees and blue water! Hardly what one thinks of when your country is mentioned.’
‘You have made yourself quite at home,’ Glovkonin countered.
He was going to add more to the thought, but movement by the entrance to the VIP area caught his eye. He saw a bearded man in a baseball cap and jacket hurriedly walking away, and something about his gait was familiar to the Russian. Glovkonin watched, waiting for the man to turn his head so he could see his face, but he never did, disappearing into the hotel.
‘That’s true,’ said the Italian, unaware of the other man’s distraction. ‘Places like this, on the borders between nations, on the edges of oceans, I love them. There’s something special in the air. A little danger . . . A lot of opportunity, yes?’
‘If you insist.’
Glovkonin put down the wineglass. He was caught between two impulses. On the one hand, he didn’t want to spend more time than he needed to in the Italian’s self-aggrandising presence, but on the other, he didn’t trust what the other man would do if he wasn’t there keeping an eye on him.
A group at the back of the VIP area had finished their meal and were on their way out. The Italian spotted them and stood up, opening his hands.
‘Ah, my friends! Are you enjoying your day?’
Glovkonin studied the group and immediately wanted to sneer. These men were cohorts from one of the larger Bratva gangs, the upper echelon of Russian organised crime – uncultured, thickset thugs in ill-tailored suits who wore too much gold and swaggered their way through life. He remained in his seat as the Italian greeted the men warmly, treating them like the equals they most certainly were not.
Most of them were interchangeable brutes who would have been better suited to the inside of a bare-knuckle boxing ring than this expensive restaurant. They all seemed out of their depth except one – a pit bull of a man with a flash of cunning in his gaze.
Glovkonin recognised him. Prior to arriving in Sochi, he had directed the hacker Andre to gather information on the Italian’s criminal contacts, and this man showed the most promising, most serviceable character traits.
The underworld called Pavlo Chumak ‘the Salt Seller’, and the man’s prolific dealing in hard drugs and sex trafficking were purported to be worth billions of roubles. Chumak’s criminal empire extended through the Ukraine and along much of the Black Sea coast, and his reputation warned of a hair-trigger temper and an inventive talent for violence.
‘Pytor Glovkonin.’ Chumak looked him up and down, appraising him like one of his women. ‘I know you.’
‘But of course . . .’ said the Italian. ‘Such great men, no doubt you know one another.’
‘Never met before today,’ Chumak rumbled, his voice the rough snarl of a lifelong smoker. ‘But who could mistake Moscow’s blessed son, here to take the waters in our relaxing climate?’
On cue, Chumak’s men chuckled at their leader’s jibe.
Glovkonin ignored the open sarcasm in the criminal’s tone and finally rose to his feet. He offered his hand and Chumak took it. The man had a dry, heavy grip.
‘I have heard much about you,’ Glovkonin said neutrally.
Chumak’s grip tightened and Glovkonin saw a narrowing around his eyes, a twist of suspicion on his lips.
‘That so? Who has talked about me? This one?’
He jerked his head in the Italian’s direction, and Glovkonin saw how his men tensed at the veiled accusation.
The Salt Seller has a healthy dose of paranoia, Glovkonin noted. Useful to know.
‘All of it respectful, of course,’ said Glovkonin, and that appeased the criminal. He released his grasp.
Chumak made his excuses and left with his entourage, and Glovkonin returned to his seat. Across the table, the Italian gave a theatrical sigh.
‘I have to keep a lot of people happy,’ he explained. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Perhaps you should try making them afraid of you instead,’ Glovkonin said coldly. ‘More efficient in the long run.’
The Italian chuckled and waggled his finger at Glovkonin.
‘Ha, you do like to tell me how to do my work, don’t you, Pytor? It’s almost as if you believe you could do better.’ His smile did not reach his eyes.
‘You have your approach, I have mine.’
‘And yours has not been without its missteps, let us be honest. While my approach, as you put it, has worked well enough.’ The Italian talked around the salad course, eating like a starving man. ‘You really don’t need to be here, looking over my shoulder.’
‘Is that what you think this is?’ Glovkonin feigned innocence. ‘Perhaps I am here to watch you work and to learn from you.’ He inclined his head. ‘I am the newest recruit to the Combine’s committee, after all.’
‘And you do have much to learn.’
The Italian winced at the mention of the group’s name, his casual mask slipping for a moment.
‘You hate it when I say the word.’ Glovkonin chuckled. ‘You act as if I utter a curse.’
‘I understand the value of subtlety,’ retorted the other man. ‘Secrecy.’
It was all Glovkonin could do not to laugh out loud at that.
‘So says the playboy. Parading in front of the world’s media with his speedboats, supermodels and fast cars. Glad-handing and back-slapping with criminals. This is a use of subtlety beyond a simple peasant like me. Please, elucidate.’
The Italian’s smirk returned. ‘Hiding in plain sight is the perfect camouflage.’
He tried constantly to charm Glovkonin, but the attitude that allowed him to manipulate so many others rebounded harmlessly off the Russian’s contempt.
‘I know you do not want me in Sochi. But the transfer of the equipment is too essential to be left to one person.’ Glovkonin shifted in his seat, confident of the conversation going in the direction he wanted. He leaned closer, his voice dropping. ‘Chumak and men like him – you have them so close at hand. Why? Why take the risk?’
‘Because they are useful. Those contacts ensure that our operation will move forward without hindrance.’
‘I wonder, is it because you like the thrill of mixing with killers?’ Glovkonin shook his head. ‘They are dangerous.’
‘Not to me.’ The Italian’s smile turned cold. ‘You think I’m a pampered fool, don’t you, Pytor?’
‘I would not judge.’ It took effort to utter the lie and maintain his disinterested expression.
The Italian looked out of the windows, as the crowd on the shoreline gave a whoop of excitement. Glovkonin followed his gaze and saw two powerboats thundering towards the finish line, one in a green livery and one in orange.
The green boat gave the other vessel a well-timed shunt as it passed, and the orange craft spun out of control, skidding across the wave-tops and into a spray of white water. The move was vague enough that the driver in the green boat would be able to pass it off as an accidental contact, but Glovkonin didn’t doubt it had been deliberate. The crowd knew it, too, and they roared their approval.
The rumours the Russian had heard about the fierce competition between the Veloce Cup’s race teams, of violence and intimidation, seemed quite believable. This was a hazardous sport, after all.
‘People have spent so many months cooped up, and now they want some excitement!’ The Italian laughed and clapped his hands, enjoying the spectacle as a rescue dinghy raced out to the stricken vessel. ‘I like the taste of blood, my friend,’ he said, showing teeth. ‘Perhaps it is the legacy of Imperial Rome in my spirit!’ He held up his thumb, and then tilted it downwards, imitating some ancient emperor sealing the fate of a luckless gladiator. He was amused with himself. ‘I am not afraid of it, and I am not afraid of those poorly educated thugs.’
‘Men like Chumak can kill every day and show no remorse,’ insisted Glovkonin. ‘They must be treated with respect. Unless . . .’ He trailed off, and drew a thumb across his throat in a cutting motion.
‘I can deal with Chumak.’ Irritation flared in the Italian’s words, as he grew annoyed at Glovkonin’s hectoring manner. ‘There is a contingency plan. It’s not something you need concern yourself with.’
‘Of course.’ Glovkonin inclined his head, as if admitting defeat, and changed the subject. ‘I’ve had my people secure the relevant documentation for the transit.’
‘Good.’ The Italian nodded to himself. ‘The transport will arrive on race day. We’ll make the transfer then, and by the time the victors are standing on the podium, the equipment will be halfway to its destination.’ His smile returned. ‘Well, if you must insist on remaining, Pytor, at least try to enjoy yourself. Anything you want is available.’ He sipped his wine and sat back in his chair. ‘This is the winner’s circle.’
*
When the meal was at an end, they parted ways.
After his bodyguards Misha and Gregor had cleared it for him, Glovkonin entered one of the Marine Luxe’s opulent washrooms.
He found a quiet corner, and from an inner pocket in his jacket, he recovered an ultra-slim custom satellite smartphone, pulling with it a hair-thin wire that connected the device to a tiny solid-state microphone and camera concealed behind one of his jacket’s black buttons.
The smartphone had recorded the conversation in the lounge, capturing the sound clearly and securing a good angle of the Italian’s face as he ate and talked. Glovkonin wound carefully through the playback until he found the right moment.
The Italian’s words crackled in the hush. ‘There is a contingency plan. It’s not something you need concern yourself with.’
He nodded to himself.
‘Perfekt.’
His rival had handed him everything he needed.
Glovkonin activated the phone’s encoding software and made a call. Andre answered immediately.
‘I’m here, sir.’
‘I am sending you something,’ he explained, appending the audio-video file to an upload. ‘Clean it up.’
‘Does it need any . . . embellishment?’
‘No.’ Glovkonin’s smile returned. ‘Alterations could be discovered and our time is limited. I want it to be as untouched as possible. Build on it. You will know what to do.’
‘Understood,’ said the hacker.
*
The elevator deposited them on the fifth floor of the Rubicon tower, and Delancort squeezed out, past a cluster of hatchet-faced bankers belonging to the building’s new owners.
‘This way,’ he said, beckoning the woman with the long blonde hair following in his wake.
She walked with the pinpoint pace of a fashion model on a catwalk, scanning the corridor through a pair of oversized glasses.
‘Didn’t think I’d come back here again,’ said Grace.
‘I remember.’ Delancort shot her a venomous look. ‘Do not assume I have forgotten what you did. Solomon might be willing to work with you, but I have no trust in you.’
‘Smart boy,’ she retorted. ‘The feeling’s mutual. But right now our interests align. So try to act professional.’
He swore under his breath. The woman’s presence made him anxious. She was sly and calculating, and he could not get a read on her. As someone who prided himself on being a shrewd judge of character, Delancort felt ill at ease around someone whose persona changed from moment to moment.
Grace had been operating under a different alias and a different face on the day Rubicon’s enemies had come to destroy it. She had been part of the team working with Lau, a former comrade of Ekko Solomon’s from the old days. Lau had led the way towards Rubicon’s dissolution, supported by the Combine, but ultimately he had lost his life when his usefulness came to an end. Delancort had been there at that moment, in a conference room a few floors above, and he shuddered at the memory.
Although she would hate to admit it, Grace was as much a tool of the Combine’s agenda as Lau had been, and she, too, would have been dead now if not for Solomon’s intervention. But Delancort found it hard to believe that Grace would feel any kind of obligation. She was the epitome of self-serving. Delancort knew that ugly trait, because he recognised it in himself.
He paused at the door to a server room, and tapped in the six-digit skeleton key code Solomon had given him. The magnetic locks on the door clicked open.
‘In here,’ he said, slipping inside.
Grace took off her glasses and gave a low whistle.
‘What happened to this place?’
‘You did,’ Delancort retorted. ‘When you helped bring Rubicon to its knees.’
Half the size of a hockey field, in the past the server room space had been lined with rows of air-cooled computer towers. Now it was almost empty, with a cluster of units arranged in one corner, near an operations desk.
