The Game (Tom Wood)

EIGHTEEN





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.