Outlaw, page 34
The fault was his. He’d gone out for drinks, stayed too long, and now he was going to pay for it. It would not look good if the interim systems supervisor came in after everyone else, not good at all. The golden opportunity he had would slip away, if he couldn’t prove himself a worthy successor to that stuck-up prick Harlow.
Of course, the supervisor gig should have been Novick’s from the start. He was the one who had put in the hours, he was the one who knew the hardware better than anyone else in the building. But because he didn’t play the game like the other office mandarins, Novick had been passed over again and again.
They were jealous, obviously. Those day-players couldn’t code their way out of a wet paper bag, while he had skills that could outshine them, if only he had the chance to do things his way.
Adjusting his glasses, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in sync with the swish-swish of the Honda’s windscreen wipers, glaring at the avenue before him as he chewed on the same old affronts for the millionth time.
I mean, what the hell does sustained passive-aggressive tendencies even mean?
He wasn’t supposed to have seen those words in his evaluation report, but one day it turned up in his email queue.
Some idiot in human resources screwed up and copied me in on it by mistake. More fool them!
He pulled around the bus and continued south, passing Canal Street Station as he raced the traffic signals. He’d hoped that Manhattan’s regular crush of traffic would be lessened because of the storm warnings, forcing people to stay home, but the city was spiting him. Everyone on the road was getting in his way.
Novick leaned on his horn as a cabbie cut across at the mid-block, and the bored driver barely bothered to give him the finger as he passed. Novick thought about snapshotting the taxi driver’s licence plate.
I could find you, he said silently, tank your credit rating for shits and giggles, dickweed. Would you like that?
There was a strict moratorium on using the facility’s hardware for personal use, but the thought of the petty revenge made him feel a little better. He approached the following intersection, changing lanes for the next turn.
Up ahead, a truck halted and suddenly nobody was going anywhere.
A tinkling electronic tone, like music from a cheap toy, came from out of nowhere. It made Novick jump. He knew exactly what the sound signified.
Now? he thought. You’re calling me right now?
He snatched up the bag on the passenger seat next to him and fumbled for the scruffy first-gen Nokia cellphone hidden in a rolled-up copy of yesterday’s USA Today. Ancient tech by his standards, decades out of step with his Government-issue encrypted smartphone, but that was exactly why it had been chosen.
Stuck there with no chance of escape, Novick could only answer it.
They’ll know if I don’t.
He steeled himself and pushed the call accept button.
‘Yes?’
‘Good morning, Walter.’ It was the guy with the French accent, the one he always spoke to. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready for what?’
Novick wasn’t sure if that twang was the real deal or something the man put on. He’d never been further afield than Cleveland, so he couldn’t tell – it all sounded foreign to him. He looked around, scanning the faces of people on the street through the car’s rain-streaked windows. Were they watching him?
‘Don’t be coy, Walter, it’s insulting.’ French Guy’s tone turned flinty. ‘Time to pay what you owe.’
‘Yeah.’ He swallowed hard. ‘About that. If we could hold off for a while—’
‘It’s happening today,’ the other man said firmly. ‘I hope you’re not going to let us down. Because that would be very bad for you.’
‘I’m not really prepared . . .’
Ahead of him, the roller door on the back of the stalled truck rose halfway, and Novick’s voice died as he took a good look at a man in black fatigues crouching inside.
The man wore a balaclava that hid most of his face, but his eyes found Novick’s and locked with them. In one hand, half-hidden so only the two of them could see it, the masked man held an Uzi sub-machine gun with a long silencer.
‘Take a second if you want to reconsider your position. You have until the lights change.’
The back of the truck was so close to the hood of Novick’s Honda that the masked man would be able to spray a burst of fire across the windshield before anyone could react. He kept staring into Novick’s eyes, unblinking.
‘Okay, sure,’ Novick heard himself say. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Better.’
The man in the mask nodded a moment later, hiding away the gun as he reached up to pull down the roller door.
‘Try not to worry, Walter,’ said French Guy, his tone becoming amiable. ‘By the time this is over, you’ll be a hero. You want that, don’t you?’
He did, he had to admit. Sean Harlow had been an impediment that Novick wanted gone for a long time, and these people had made it happen. There was an open path in front of him, and if he played it right, he could follow it straight into a permanent senior role. Assistant director. Maybe even director one day.
The lights changed and the truck drove on, allowing him to make the turning on to Thomas Street. His destination came into view as he rounded the corner.
The featureless tower of weathered concrete rose up towards the grey sky, its bleak aspect broken only by the maws of black ventilation grilles. Some people thought the blind, windowless building was sinister, but to Novick it was like a fortress out of ancient myth. And every dark tower needed its arch-wizard.
‘This is an essential task,’ said the voice on the phone. ‘You and I and the other contingencies, working together. We cannot succeed otherwise.’
‘I get it.’ Novick came up to the entrance to the underground car park, and he knew that once inside, he would lose the signal. ‘I’m ready.’
French Guy seemed to sense that, too, his tone becoming urgent.
‘Leave the phone, you won’t need it. The equipment is in a case in the trunk of your vehicle, along with instructions as to where to place it. Don’t worry about passing through security, the contents are camouflaged.’
Novick blinked. ‘In my car? How did you get it in there?’
‘Does that matter?’ said the voice. ‘Do as instructed. We will handle the rest.’ He paused. ‘You know the consequences of failure. Harlow is not the only person who can be removed.’
‘I know,’ insisted Novick, but the line cut as his car descended the ramp, into the shadows beneath the tower.
*
The helicopter dropped from the clear blue sky, reflected sunshine blazing off the silver fuselage and the spinning rotor blades. As it settled on its skids, the downwash blew powdery snow off the landing pad, catching it in sparking vortices.
Misha disembarked and opened the passenger door for Glovkonin to exit the leather-lined interior, and the Russian ducked his head as he strode away to where a suited aide waited for him.
‘Welcome to the Bremmens estate,’ said the aide. ‘May I offer you a hot beverage? A glass of brandy or glühwein?’
He had a colourless mid-European accent and a young, bland face. At his side, a plain woman in a long maid’s dress held a tray with steaming glasses in metal holders.
Glovkonin labelled the aide as forgettable and ignored the offer, sweeping his gaze around the buildings before them. He had seen the estate from the air as they flew up over the Alps, most of it covered with a thick forest of snow-dusted trees, but the main cluster of buildings was set in a large clearing. They were modern forms that mimicked the traditional design of Swiss byre-dwelling houses, with steeply sloped triangular roofs of heavy wood and walls of blank concrete or smoked glass.
The aide moved on past Glovkonin’s lack of response with a practised smile.
‘If you would like to follow me? Herr Bremmens is able to accommodate your early arrival.’
‘How good of him,’ said the Russian.
Gregor remained by the helicopter while Misha fell into step behind Glovkonin, as he trailed the aide along a decking walkway kept clear by heating elements beneath the planks. They crossed beneath a towering pine groaning with snow and into a reception area.
The building’s interior was open-plan, divided by a few low walls and raised sub-floors connected by wide, suspended skeletal staircases. On one side, a huge fireplace burned radiantly, ferociously devouring firewood that crackled and spat tracer across the polished floor; on the other, doors led out to a great patio looking down into the valley below.
There were paintings crowding the walls – mountain landscapes of various kinds in heavy oils – and the silver nubs of electronic devices embedded in tables, armchairs and the like.
Glovkonin didn’t understand the prevalence of the paintings. If one wanted to see mountains in this house, one needed only look out of a window.
‘Pytor.’ A voice floated down from one of the upper floors.
Glovkonin looked up and saw the Swiss at a carved balustrade, holding a tablet computer in one hand. The banker was, for once, wearing something different from the same suit he usually affected. He had on a shirt beneath a green woollen jumper and dark slacks. For such a precisely unimaginative man, the choice of clothing was almost radical.
‘Rutger,’ he replied. ‘You look positively relaxed.’
‘I am at home,’ said the banker, without weight. ‘You were not expected until this evening. That was made quite clear.’
‘Regrettably, circumstances have forced me to move up our timetable.’
‘For what reason?’
Glovkonin glanced at the aide, then away.
‘It is best that we discuss that privately. Perhaps you can come down from there? If I continue to crane my neck I will develop an ache.’
Bremmens made a hollow noise that might have been approval and adjusted the thick glasses on his nose.
‘Join me.’
‘Wait here,’ said the Russian, drawing a nod from his bodyguard.
Glovkonin climbed the zigzag stairs, and as he approached the upper level, he realised that the topmost platform was walled in on three sides by long rectangular panes of glass.
When he drew level with the Swiss, he saw that the panes were actually screens. Digital displays of graphs and numbers were projected on to them, the images visible only to someone viewing them at the correct angle. He recognised live feeds of data from Standard & Poor’s Global, the London Stock Exchange, the NASDAQ, Nikkei 225 and dozens of other worldwide financial indicators. Mountains and valleys of green profit and crimson loss rolled past like the scenery from a primitive computer game, alongside virtual stock tickers charting the rise and fall of corporate fortunes in real time.
Bremmens absorbed everything, the large, watery eyes behind his glasses in constant motion as his gaze flicked from place to place. Absently, he ran a hand over his balding head, smoothing the tufts of grey hair at his temples. He was, the Russian estimated, perhaps fifteen to twenty years his senior, but the Swiss carried himself with the upright bearing of a man half that age. As rigid in posture as he was in personality.
‘The Indonesian venture,’ Bremmens noted, pointing out a particular pane of data as Glovkonin approached. ‘I made some minor adjustments this morning, over breakfast. The correction is bedding in as we speak.’
‘Ah.’
The Russian was vaguely aware of the operation in question – the organised defrauding of an offshore oil firm whose holdings would be beneficial to the Combine’s greater portfolio. The company would soon collapse, leaving its assets open to be stripped by one of the group’s many proxies. A similar process had been used to dismantle Rubicon’s corporate holdings.
‘You will explain why you are here early.’ Bremmens stared into the see-through screens, occasionally typing something on the tablet in his hand. ‘I do not enjoy unexpected alterations to our arrangements.’
‘Quite,’ offered the Russian. ‘It was necessary.’ He left a pause to build the drama of his next words. ‘I bring bad news. Our Italian colleague has been murdered.’
Bremmens halted in mid-type. ‘You know this how?’
‘I have sources within the criminal sphere,’ he admitted. ‘You are aware he associated with several volatile felons?’
‘Yes. He convinced me it was a requirement. I remained dubious.’
‘Rightly so . . .’ Glovkonin schooled his expression, reflecting deep concern. ‘The details are not clear at this time, but it appears he fell foul of a Ukrainian Bratva faction.’
‘Those people are animals.’ Bremmens showed the first sign of something like emotion – a tic that drew up the corner of his lip into a brief sneer. ‘I warned him.’
‘Giovanni enjoyed the thrill of the illicit,’ offered Glovkonin. ‘It was a character flaw.’
‘I will have my people look into it. I will require additional confirmation.’
‘By all means,’ said Glovkonin, knowing full well that it wouldn’t matter.
‘We must consider how this affects our work.’ As the Russian had expected, the cold-blooded financier concentrated on how the death of the Italian would impact his bottom line. He worked the tablet, bringing up the current status of Da Silvio’s personal holdings. ‘This information has yet to be released?’
‘Correct. As far as the general public and Giovanni’s shareholders know, this absence is nothing of note. He has done it before.’ Glovkonin cleared his throat. ‘You are the first person I have told. In addition, I chose to keep this from our American colleague, for the moment.’
‘Sensible,’ said Bremmens. ‘Cassidy is likely to react . . . expressively . . . to such an event.’
‘I agree. Would it be callous of me to say he would squander the opportunity it presents?’
The Swiss gave him a brief, measuring look. ‘No. Quite right. Cooler heads must prevail.’ He made some quick calculations. ‘When news of the Italian’s death breaks, share value in Da Silvio Ingegneria will fall precipitously. This prior knowledge can benefit us if correctly manipulated.’
Glovkonin hid a half-smile. ‘I thought you might see it that way.’
Bremmens continued to tap away at the tablet screen. After a moment, he spoke again.
‘Did you have a hand in this?’
‘I didn’t kill him, if that is what you mean.’
‘I find it difficult to determine if you are being deceptive,’ said the banker. ‘I will discover the truth if you are concealing it.’
‘I have never insulted your intelligence by asking you to do something as naive as trust me.’ Glovkonin nodded at the screens, and invoked the only thing he knew Bremmens never doubted. ‘Follow the numbers. They do not lie.’
‘They cannot,’ murmured the Swiss. ‘If the timeline for New York must be altered, I will need to recalculate some variables. When do we begin?’
‘Soon,’ said the Russian. ‘I think I will have that drink after all.’
*
The dingy safe house in Istanbul’s Nakkaştepe district was built into a sheer ravine, next to a winding road barely wide enough for cars to pass side by side. The two-storey building was wedged into the gulley, the uneven floors clinging to the steep side, and it sat so low that the roof of dusty orange slates was level with the feet of anyone walking downhill in the direction of the coast. A metal door set into what would have been the attic of any other domicile was the main entrance, but there were other routes of egress hidden along the gulley floor.
Stepped terraces of greenery and poured slabs of aging, crumbling concrete formed a misshapen chequerboard that went down and away, and hidden among them a tumbledown garage contained a Lada jeep for escape, if it came to that.
Delancort sat glumly on a stool in the kitchen, waiting for an electric kettle to boil. He stared out of a barred window towards the minaret of a local mosque, the thin tower lit up against the sunset.
‘You look uncomfortable.’ The big man, Benjamin, stood in a nearby doorway. ‘You are accustomed to better things.’ He gestured around at their shabby accommodations.
‘It would be terribly conceited of me to say yes to that, but yes.’ Delancort sighed as the steaming kettle clicked off, and he poured hot water into a mug filled with instant soup powder. The aroma of something vegetable-like filled the air. ‘I’m not a field operative. Never was, never wanted to be.’
‘Ah, don’t sell yourself cheaply,’ said the other man. ‘You’re doing all right.’
Delancort eyed him. ‘You do not have to counsel me, counsellor. My mood may be bleak but I’m hardly traumatised.’
The reply came out too glib, more insulting than he meant, but Benjamin didn’t appear to notice.
‘Occupational hazard,’ he said. ‘I look to other people’s well-being before anything else.’
‘Odd career choice for an elite soldier.’
He shrugged. ‘I woke up one day and decided I wanted to mend things instead of destroying them. Is that odd to you?’
Delancort noted that Benjamin had a burner phone in his hand and changed the subject.
‘You have some new information?’
He had heard the other man talking on the line earlier, in low, murmuring tones.
‘Oui.’ Benjamin stepped past him, going to the barred window to peer out through grimy net curtains. ‘We have confirmation that G-Kor’s Gulfstream landed in Zurich, and hangar fees have been paid to house it there for a minimum of seventy-two hours.’
‘Was Da Silvio with Glovkonin?’
‘Unclear.’
‘What is he up to . . .?’ Delancort grimaced, clasping the mug of hot soup in his hands.
The Russian’s wolfish, predatory expression came back to him in a moment of stark recollection. He had been in the room when Glovkonin ordered a murder, right then and there in front of him. A slight nod of the head – that was all it had taken for the Russian’s bodyguard to execute someone whose existence his master no longer required. Glovkonin had given the command without a second’s hesitation, even though Delancort had not been the only witness. The supreme lack of concern in the man’s eyes had been stark. The Russian felt the rules of lesser men did not apply to him. And he clearly believed that everybody was lesser than him.
