Payback (9 page)

‘And if somebody finds us camping in a deserted carriage?’

‘We’re stupid Americans. We’ll just say we thought it was the Kiev express.’

Ten minutes later, they closed the compartment door of a carriage standing at a deserted platform on the far side of the station, stretched themselves out on the lumpy bench seats and closed
their eyes.

Al-Shahrood Stables, Ad Dahnā, Saudi Arabia

The two Mitsubishi Jeeps drove down the tarmac road that ran past the stud farm. Beyond the entrance, both drivers slowed their vehicles, turned round and drove back,
stopping about five miles from the farm, on a wide parking area just off the highway. And then there was nothing the six men could do but wait for the other two jeeps to arrive, with the digger and
the four remaining members of the team.

A little over two hours later, one of the drivers spotted approaching headlights, and stepped out of his vehicle. By the time the other two four-by-fours had stopped, dust and sand swirling in
their headlight beams, all six Arabs were standing ready, waiting.

Massood and Saadi – both randomly chosen names, a very basic security precaution for all the team members – climbed out of their vehicles.

‘Any problems?’ Saadi asked.

‘No, none.’

‘Good. Then we’ll run through the operation one last time.’

Saadi opened the glove-box of his vehicle and removed a plan of the nearby stud farm. Massood flicked on the parking lights of the Toyota to provide some illumination as Saadi squatted down and
unfolded the diagram, the others all clustering around him.

For fifteen minutes Saadi sat there with the men who had been placed under his command, ensuring that each knew exactly when to act and what to do. Then he stood up and opened the boot of the
Nissan. Unzipping the first fabric bag, he reached inside it and pulled out a Kalashnikov AK47 assault rifle, its magazine already attached. He passed this to Massood, then seized another. Within
minutes, each man was holding a Kalashnikov and two spare magazines.

Saadi glanced at his watch. It was just before dawn, ideal timing. ‘Is everybody ready? Good. We’ll start now.’

The four jeeps pulled back onto the road and headed for the entrance to the stud farm. The gates were wide open and Saadi guessed that they were probably cosmetic, intended to create the right
impression as owners and trainers drove in, and not designed with any security considerations in mind.

Lights now switched off, they drove slowly towards the house and farm buildings. Both sides of the drive were lined with white-painted three-bar fences, beyond which they could occasionally see
the dark bulk of horses.

The ground plan of the farmhouse that Saadi had been given was based on the architect’s original drawings, and was extremely accurate. In fact, calling it a ‘farmhouse’ hardly
did it justice, for the elaborate building boasted six bedroom suites, a formal dining room, an indoor swimming pool and games room, plus servants’ quarters. It was the kind of house that
Saadi – who had never set foot in America – thought was far more suited to California than to Saudi Arabia. He wondered briefly if this particular farm had been selected because of its
obvious opulence, or just because of the horse.

The vehicles parked quietly in front of the house. Saadi and Massood walked over to the main door while the other men dispersed to their pre-briefed positions. Two remained close to Massood,
while the other six slipped away, vanishing like wraiths into the lightening dawn, heading for the rear of the farmhouse and the stable block beyond.

Saadi silently motioned for Massood to stand aside, then pressed the buzzer. Immediately bright security lights, positioned on either side of the door, flared on, and Saadi looked up into the
dispassionate gaze of a security camera right above him. He ignored it and waited. Even if the camera was attached to a video recorder, it didn’t matter. They would check the house security
system and remove any tapes before they left.

After a couple of minutes the two lights switched off. Saadi pressed the buzzer again, and this time kept his finger on it. If they couldn’t get the owner or a staff member to open the
door, they would just have to break in.

Through a glass panel in the door Saadi saw the hall lights come on, and a vague shape approaching. A key turned in the lock and the door swung partially open: framed in the gap stood a young
Filipino man, obviously roused from sleep. For a brief second he stared at Saadi, his expression puzzled, then the Arab stepped forward and kicked out, knocking him violently backwards into the
wide entrance hall.

Seconds later, all four men were inside the house, and the Filipino manservant lay sprawled on his back, staring up into the muzzles of three assault rifles.

Kondal, Russia

Breakfast was some barely edible
kasha
porridge, served in a steel bowl, and a cup of weak tea. Borisov tried a couple of spoonfuls of the porridge, then gave up
and just drank the tea.

He emptied the remains of the meal down the toilet, swilled out the bowl and mug in the sink, and attempted to wash himself in the icy water. The tiny piece of soap produced barely any lather,
and his hands were still really painful, but he did his best. He had neither toothbrush nor toothpaste, so he rubbed his teeth with the end of the towel. His rudimentary ablutions finished, he put
his jacket and shoes back on, lay down on the bunk and waited.

An hour or so later the cell door opened, and another police officer appeared. He gestured, and Borisov stood up and preceded him down the corridor. The policeman gave him a shove in the back as
he passed, and Borisov made a mental note to complain to Litvinoff when he saw him again. In fact, that turned out to be almost immediately.

The policeman opened the door of the interview room and gave Borisov another hefty push. As the prisoner stumbled inside, he saw Litvinoff sitting at the table. The investigator didn’t
look pleased, and Borisov guessed that something unforeseen had happened. He said nothing then, just walked to the other chair and sat down.

Litvinoff was studying the bank passbook, turning it this way and that in his hands, and ignored Borisov. Finally he tossed it across the table.

‘You must think I’m a fool,’ he snapped.

Borisov had no idea what the other man was talking about. ‘What?’ he asked, in surprise.

‘That.’ Litvinoff pointed at the passbook. ‘Very funny indeed. It must have amused you, sending me off with that. Perhaps it won’t seem quite so hilarious when
you’re being sentenced to twenty years’ hard labour or you find yourself looking at a firing squad.’

Borisov still had no idea what Litvinoff meant, but whatever had irritated the investigator was clearly serious, and might have disastrous consequences.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I really don’t know what you mean.’

Litvinoff stared at him blankly for a moment, then reached across the table and retrieved up the passbook. ‘This,’ he shouted. ‘This is what I’m talking about. This
two million dollars
.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You must have known, even before I left here yesterday.’

‘I must have known what?’

‘You must have known the account was already empty.’

It seemed to Borisov as if the floor of the interview room had suddenly vanished, and he was falling backwards down a long dark tunnel. For a few moments he just shook his head, his mouth
working soundlessly as his brain struggled to accommodate what he had just been told.

Watching him closely, Litvinoff realized that either Borisov was one of the finest actors he had ever encountered in his long career with the FSB, or the man genuinely hadn’t known the
account balance was zero.

‘I checked it very carefully through our foreign banking section. The outstanding balance was transferred yesterday to a bank in the Cayman Islands. From there they think it was sent back
to Europe, but they couldn’t trace it any further.’

Borisov just gaped at him, shaking his head helplessly, his mind still refusing to accept what the other man was saying.

‘I assume your partner-in-crime found a better home for those funds than Switzerland.’

‘Partner? What partner?’ Borisov asked, his mouth dry and his voice quavering.

Litvinoff picked up the passbook again and pointed to a single word inside it. ‘Do you know what “
Gemein-schaftskonto
” means? It’s German,’ he added
helpfully.

Borisov shook his head.

‘Pity. If you’d looked a bit more carefully, you might have noticed it. The word means “joint account”. You had a joint account, and either party had authority to access
all the funds. Your partner – the man you claim you didn’t know about – removed everything yesterday. The whole balance. And this is the best bit. Would you like to know your
partner’s name?’

Litvinoff glared across the table at Borisov, who nodded desperately.

‘His name was rather unusual. He was a Mr M. Mouse. We managed to find out from the Swiss bank that his first name was Mickey. Mr Mickey Mouse. He’s probably the richest rodent
you’re ever likely to meet. And now, Borisov, I think it’s time we had a
serious
talk.’

Al-Shahrood Stables, Ad Dahnā, Saudi Arabia

Saadi stood in the centre of the spacious hall and held up his hand for silence. The house seemed totally still, no noise anywhere, but that didn’t mean that nobody
else was awake. He gestured to Massood, pointing down the hall towards the back of the house, and his colleague moved away, heading for the rear door.

Saadi looked round. The hall was long and wide, the floor marble, the walls decorated with English hunting prints and paintings – probably expensive, Saadi thought, his lip curling in
disdain. At one end a winding staircase led to the upper level, and on either side of that corridors ran off to the left and right, leading to the various ground-floor reception rooms.

He gave the manservant a brief, dismissive glance, then looked back down the hall, where Massood had just reappeared, followed by two other members of the group. The other four would be securing
the stable block and detaining the staff who lived there. He looked again at the Filipino, then nodded to one of the men standing beside him.

‘No blood,’ he ordered, his voice a whisper.

Bashar nodded, slung the Kalashnikov over his shoulder, and stepped behind the recumbent figure. He pulled out a roll of wide gaffer tape, a loop of stout cord and finally a short length of wood
from the pocket of his
gellabbiya
, and beckoned. Two of the men stepped forward and seized the manservant, pulling him to his knees and holding him firmly in position.

Bashar tore off a six–inch strip of tape and swiftly stuck it over the Filipino’s mouth to silence him. Then, with a single unhurried movement, he dropped the loop of cord over the
young man’s head, where it settled around his neck. The manservant finally realized what was about to happen, and began to struggle violently, trying desperately to pull his arms free from
the Arabs who were holding him.

It did him no good. Bashar slipped the length of wood into the back of the loop and began turning it, holding the twisted cord in his left hand while rotating the wood with his right. When the
garrotte began tightening on the Filipino’s neck, Bashar changed position and seized the wood with both hands, so as to exert maximum force.

Saadi and Massood watched impassively as the young manservant’s face bloated, the skin flushing red. His strug-gles grew more and more desperate, then suddenly weaker. Finally the light
went out of his eyes and he slumped forward. But Bashar maintained the pressure on the garrotte for another minute, just to make sure, before he removed the cord.

‘Leave him there,’ Saadi hissed, turning away and heading towards the staircase.

Volgograd, Russia

The two Americans woke early, stiff and cold. They’d barely slept and both were feeling the strain. They climbed out of their uncomfortable and unauthorized
overnight accommodation back on to the platform, pulling their cases behind them. They could hear the sounds of the station coming to life, and the last thing they wanted was to find their carriage
shunted onto a siding or, worse, hitched to a locomotive and taken off to Moscow or Kiev or somewhere.

They were determined to linger in Volgograd no longer than was necessary but, as Wilson checked the departure boards, he realized they were not going anywhere soon, because almost all the trains
were heading the wrong way. The first three were destined for Saratov, Perm and Brest respectively, which meant they were heading north, back into the heart of Russia.

‘OK,’ Wilson muttered, craning his neck to check the boards again, ‘there’s no point in waiting for the Astrakhan train because it doesn’t leave for nearly twelve
hours, and I don’t want to hang around here that long. We could take the Groznyy train at four, but I think we’ll head the other way. We’ll take the five o’clock to
Adler.’

‘Where the hell’s that?’ Dawson asked.

‘On the eastern shore of the Black Sea, just south of Sochi,’ Wilson replied. ‘It’s closer to the Turkish border than either Astrakhan or Groznyy.’

‘That still leaves us with eight or nine hours to kill.’

Wilson looked around him before replying. ‘What we don’t do is hang about this damned station all day. We’ll go find a coffee shop, or whatever this place has to keep
passengers from starving to death. We’ll grab a quick breakfast and use their bathroom to wash up. Then we’ll check into a hotel real close to the station and try to get some sleep. And
this afternoon we’ll come back here and catch that train.’

Kondal, Russia

Yuri Borisov seemed to have fallen apart. The money the Americans had paid him was gone, with no hope of its ever being recovered. He had colluded in the theft of a highly
classified weapon and was, by implication if not in fact, an accessory to two murders. He’d been caught by the police carrying an unlicensed firearm. He had a broken arm and two hands that
were almost useless. Finally, and of no importance whatsoever, his car was a total write-off. To say he was vulnerable was a grotesque understatement, and Litvinoff planned to get as much as he
could out of the plant administrator before he recovered his senses.