Dead if You Don’t

103

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

‘Very clever,’ Dervishi said.

It had taken the bomb-maker less than twenty minutes, so far.

‘See, I knew you could!’

Luka Lebedev, watched by Dritan Nano, Ylli Prek and Jorgji Dervishi, carefully squeezed superglue along the back of the Samsung phone, then pressed the fake battery pack, which he had fashioned from black plastic, against it. He laid it on the work surface. ‘Needs two minutes to bond.’

‘You’re sure there’s enough explosive to do the job?’ Dervishi quizzed, lighting a fresh cigar.

Lebedev began to roll a new cigarette with one hand.

‘No smoking, please.’

He frowned. ‘But, Mr Dervishi, you are smoking!’ Lebedev carried on rolling.

Dervishi stepped forward, grabbed the partially finished cigarette from his palm and trod it into the floor. ‘I don’t want that cheap shit polluting my Havana, understand?’

There was a moment of awkward silence. Lebedev glared at his employer and, for a moment, Dritan thought the Russian was going to deck him.

Dervishi tapped his own chest, self-importantly. ‘So long as I pay you, you do what I tell you, understand?’

Lebedev continued glaring at him.

‘Are you going to answer my question, Luka? You are sure there’s enough explosive in that battery pack? To blow up a house?’

‘Let’s try it.’ Lebedev’s lips parted in his malevolent grin.

‘Maybe I’ll stick it up your ass and try it.’

Dritan looked at the others, attempting not to show his utter contempt for them. Contempt for Ylli Prek, for even daring to think he might deliver a bomb to the football stadium. For Luka Lebedev for making these evil things. And way, way above these two, Mr Dervishi, the arrogant, murderous monster.

Dervishi caught his eye and smiled. ‘My trusted Dritan, who has today killed three people who crossed me.’

‘You told me, Mr Dervishi, that if I did this, you would give me the money you promised and arrange your private aeroplane to fly me home.’

‘I did indeed, Dritan. Just one more task for you and then I will fly you home.’

‘That wasn’t our deal. You gave me besa.’

‘I said I would fly you home in my private plane. I’m doing that.’

‘You did not say there was one more thing.’

‘You want to argue with me? You don’t like it? Go — just leave, I won’t stop you.’

Dritan hesitated. He was tempted to do just that. But, he realized, he was in Mr Dervishi’s hands. His name and details might be all over the border controls imminently, if they weren’t already. The only safe escape was by Mr Dervishi’s plane from the local airport where there would be no questions asked.

Mr Dervishi had given him besa. He could trust that. ‘I do it,’ he said, reluctantly.

‘Of course you will!’ Dervishi smiled and pointed at the primed phone. ‘I want you to go and see my uncle, Edi Konstandin. Take this phone to him and tell him it is a secure phone on which I will call him with a peace offering.’ He handed him a slip of paper on which he had written Konstandin’s address.

Dritan frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You leave it with him and tell him I will be calling him on it. When you ride away, you then send him a text.’ He smiled and blew out another perfect smoke ring.

‘And what about if someone sends me a text, by accident, on my way?’ Dritan asked.

Despite simmering visibly with anger, Lebedev said, ‘It is secure. To prevent against random or accidental texts to a wrong number being sent, you have to send the same text three times within a sixty-second window. Miss the window and you have to start over. Simples!’ Again, his metal teeth flashed. ‘Enter the number on your own phone.’

Copying it from the sheet of paper, Dritan tapped it in. When he had done that, he asked, ‘What should I do if your uncle is out, Mr Dervishi?’

‘My uncle rarely goes out, except to the football. He is confined to his wheelchair and he is too afraid of enemies. I wonder why!’

They stood in silence, whilst Dervishi blew more smoke rings. Finally, Lebedev said, ‘OK,’ picked up the phone and handed it to Dritan, who took it very nervously and placed it in the top pocket of his leathers.

‘One word of warning, Dritan,’ Lebedev said. ‘Don’t drop your bike — or the phone. Or there might be no more Dritan and a very big hole in the road.’

Dervishi and the bomb-maker grinned.

‘Text me when you have completed your mission,’ Dervishi said. ‘My plane will be waiting. I will give you instructions where to find the pilot.’

Dritan, watching him closely, saw Dervishi shoot a glance at Lebedev. And he clocked the smile Lebedev flashed back.

It made him feel very uncomfortable.

Dritan put on his helmet, went outside and stood in the afternoon sunshine beside the van, Hyundai and large black Mercedes, looking around, carefully, warily. And thinking.

Could he possibly trust Mr Dervishi? He had moved the goalposts. Would he move them again?

He did not like that glance he had seen between Mr Dervishi and the Russian.

Mr Dervishi would kill anyone who crossed him or who got in the way of any profit he might make.

He entered the address he had been given into the maps app on his phone, started the engine and rode off, slowly. A few hundred yards from the unit he stopped his bike, the engine running at tick over, and stood still, his feet on the ground, thinking.

He had a primed bomb in his pocket. If he carried out this mission, what incentive did his boss have to fly him out of the country?

None.

Looking around, he clocked the blue Jaguar estate that had been here when he arrived. But there was something parked beyond it, a dark-grey vehicle that had not been there before. It made him nervous. Maybe it was innocent. Maybe not.

Should he cruise round the block and see if it moved?

But if it was the cops, how could they be on to him so soon?

Shit.

He started the bike and rode off, back the way he had come.

The BMW that had been parked on the other side of the Jaguar estate was still there.