The Enemy

CHAPTER 19

Moscow, Russia

The punch was a straight right that followed a stiff jab and caught Vladimir Kasakov a half-inch above his left temple. It wasn’t a flush blow, but Kasakov didn’t see it coming, and the ones that weren’t seen always hurt the most. The Russian boxer who threw the punch was a solid two hundred and fifty pounds, a professional heavyweight, and known for his one-punch knockout power. The sixteen-ounce glove did little to cushion the blow that jolted the Ukrainian arms dealer’s senses. He kept his guard high and tight as his opponent unleashed a flurry of hard left hooks and overhand rights.

Kasakov backed off and used his jab to keep the Russian at range. Kasakov’s opponent was three inches taller — six-six — but they had the same armpit-to-fist reach, which meant Kasakov could employ his jab frequently and effectively. The Ukrainian’s jab was his favourite punch; it was hard and accurate, and, though not a knockout shot, it set up other punches, and ten in the face each round took its toll on anyone and stopped them throwing back at the same time.

The Russian followed Kasakov as he backed off, flicking some jabs of his own but without the same conviction. He was just looking to throw the big punches, but Kasakov was using his better footwork and jab to stop the Russian setting his feet for power shots. The big man was good at cutting off the ring though, using lateral movement to slowly force Kasakov towards the ropes. That was where he definitely didn’t want to end up. He stopped backing off and threw some straight right hands and hooks after jabbing, but had difficulty getting them through the Russian’s textbook guard.

Kasakov wasn’t used to backing down in the ring or outside of it and he stayed toe-to-toe, throwing punches and taking them. The adrenalin surge was huge. Some of his ringside underlings were shouting instructions, but the arms dealer ignored them. When it came to boxing, Kasakov ignored everyone.

He’d listened to his old amateur coach, but he was long dead and Kasakov had never felt the need to seek another. He had been boxing since he was six years old, and after forty years’ worth of experience in the ring there was little anyone could tell him that he didn’t already know. He’d had an extensive and successful amateur career, winning regional and national titles but missing out on the Olympics due to an elbow injury during trials.

That amateur career had been cut short when he was drafted into the Soviet army and sent to fight in Afghanistan. He was assigned to logistics, and by the time of the withdrawal had made the rank of major. When the empire fell apart Kasakov was in a perfect position to acquire and sell the redundant munitions he had helped transport and manage. The market in small arms was already too strong to compete with but Kasakov saw an opening for heavier armaments. His first customers were his old enemies in the Islamic State of Afghanistan. He made a killing selling off Red Army T-55 and T-62 tanks, and when the Taliban took over the country he continued delivering weapons to his old customers in what became the Northern Alliance. But recognising a good opportunity when he saw it, Kasakov began trading with the Taliban at the same time, selling them rockets to defeat the tanks, and then mortars to the Northern Alliance to defeat the antitank teams. When one faction was gaining the upper hand, he held off on resupplies, and cut his prices to the other to prolong the conflict and keep his business thriving.

He soon expanded into Africa, and using aircraft from the grounded Soviet Air Force flew in arms to nations under UN embargoes. Before long he had customers in south-east Asia and South America too and was coming to the attention of the international community. To stay operating he reduced his hands-on involvement in the trafficking business, employing others to take the biggest risks for him. He made sure his name was never on anyone’s paperwork nor on any computer file. He wasn’t sure how many companies he had, but it had to be close to a hundred registered in a dozen different countries. By the time any agency started to get a handle on what one was up to, Kasakov closed it down and moved its operations to one of his other companies in another nation. The web of ownership was so complicated even Kasakov had difficulty keeping track.

The day the Twin Towers fell he was smart enough to cut all ties with the Taliban and anyone connected to Islamic terrorists, but the damage had already been done and international pressure for his arrest was escalating, regardless of his preventative measures. Acutely aware of the growing momentum against him, Kasakov moved from his native Ukraine to Russia. Having made the Russian government billions by brokering arms sales he had no trouble gaining Russian citizen ship. As Moscow never extradited nationals, he was safe.

That safety didn’t extend into the ring, where the Russian giant found an opening in Kasakov’s defences through which to send another hammer right hand. Kasakov saw it coming, but it still snapped his head back and momentarily buckled his knees. He’d never sparred the Russian giant before and now knew why his people had tried to keep them apart. The fight was tougher than expected. Much tougher. Kasakov wished he’d put in more time training in the preceding weeks, but with the assassination attempt in Bucharest and the slowdown in the business requiring his complete attention, he had drastically reduced his hours in the gym. He shook off the thought. So it wouldn’t be a walkover today for a change.

Though training and fighting were now very much a solitary pursuit for Kasakov, he had, for many years, trained alongside his nephew, Illarion. Although the kid didn’t have Kasakov’s passion for the sport, he always trained and fought hard. As he matured out of adolescence they sparred together, and despite being far smaller than his uncle, Illarion’s speed, youth and natural athleticism always made such bouts close enough that Kasakov did not have to fully pull his punches. He wondered what Illarion would say about how he was faring against the Russian. Kasakov was sure it wouldn’t have been complimentary.

He managed to dodge away from the ropes and back to the centre of the ring to set about turning the fight around. The Ukrainian kept no official scorecard for his fights, knowing that his underlings would score even the most one-sided beating against as a victory for their boss, but Kasakov scored the fight privately, for his own satisfaction. Neither man had landed anything significant in the opening round so he would have given that round even, but the last two had gone to the Russian, who had landed the bigger shots in both. Making it 30–28 against. Still three rounds to go. He would need to take them all to win the six-round contest. He might be able to jab his way to a draw, but Kasakov fought to win.

He attacked cautiously, throwing the jab, and landing flush, but doing little damage save for keeping the Russian giant at range. The giant’s face shimmered with sweat, and the bridge of his nose was red from the jabs, but otherwise he was unmarked. Kasakov couldn’t say the same about himself.

The Russian surprised Kasakov by jabbing back and Kasakov was happy to continue the jabbing contest, knowing he had the better technique. The arms dealer punched his opponent with four more to the face and one to the gut. Maybe this was going to be a walkover after all. The big overhand right that slammed into his left eye socket erased any thoughts of an easy fight in one humiliating instant. He’d been set up, tricked by a modicum of success, and timed to perfection. The punch hurt like hell and made the strength leave Kasakov’s legs.

His vision blurred and he stumbled, but stayed standing and covered up while he tried to shake off the effects of the big punch. The Russian unloaded on him and every second that passed meant more and more stinging blows to Kasakov’s arms, shoulders and head.

The Russian exploited Kasakov’s high guard by throwing some hard body shots that struck unprotected ribs. In response, Kasakov lurched forward, wrapping his arms around his opponent’s, tying him up so he couldn’t punch, trying to buy the time until his sight returned and his head cleared.

He leaned into the Russian so that his opponent had to support his weight as well as his own. Kasakov was extremely fit for his forty-seven years and was a master of pacing himself during a fight. He knew he should be fresher than this at the current stage of the fight, but the body shots had stolen his stamina. Wrestling with the Russian, who was the bigger man in the ring by twenty pounds, was wasting even more energy. This wasn’t working, Kasakov told himself.

The crowd shouted their encouragement but their mirth was being beaten out of them as surely as the will to fight had been beaten out of Kasakov. The Russian wriggled his arms free and shoved Kasakov away. His head still swam from the big overhand right, and his legs had no strength. The next flush shot that landed would put him on the canvas. Even if he managed to get up again he wouldn’t make up the additional lost point. His opponent pawed with a jab, and followed with another overhand right that Kasakov managed to deflect with his left glove. He doubted he would be so lucky next time. The arms dealer tilted his body to the right as he stepped forward and threw a short left uppercut.

The Russian groaned as the gloved fist hit him square in the crotch. Like Kasakov he wore a groin protector, but the metal cup and padding were never enough to stop the agony. The Russian sank down to one knee, face red and contorted. From outside the ring a chorus of cheers erupted and one of the underlings began shouted a count.

‘ One… two… three… four… five…’

Kasakov stood in a neutral corner, elbows up on the top rope, breathing hard. A thick film of sweat covered every inch of his skin. The Russian looked up at him and despite the pain in his face, Kasakov could see anger and disgust. He pretended not to notice.

‘ Six… seven… eight… nine… TEN.’

Kasakov raised a hand to the air to acknowledge the celebration of his underlings. He felt no joy at having won the fight by cheating, but neither was he ashamed. When faced with a greater enemy a smart man used whatever methods he could to even the field. The Russian was happy to accept the large payment for sparring with Kasakov so he would have to accept fighting by the Ukrainian’s rules.

He climbed out of the ring and nodded and smiled to his underlings as they congratulated him on a great body shot. Some would not have noticed the blow had been illegal but plenty would have had an uninterrupted view. No one even hinted at it being even on the belt, let alone very low. The benefits of fear, Kasakov told himself. Illarion would not have placated him had he been there to bear witness, but he would have respected Kasakov’s desire to win at any cost.

A head-on collision outside of Kiev had orphaned Illarion and killed Kasakov’s only other living blood relative — his younger brother — as well as his brother’s wife. Kasakov had done the noble thing and taken in the orphan. Children had once seemed irrelevant to Kasakov, but he enjoyed young Illarion’s company far more than he would ever have imagined and soon, despite himself, thought of the boy as a son. Kasakov had no children of his own, and though he refused to have himself tested, was sure he was infertile. He and his wife never spoke of the situation, but it was the single stain on their otherwise perfect marriage and grew larger all the time.

One of the underlings unlaced his gloves and the arms dealer wiped the sweat from his bare torso, arms and face with a soft towel.

It was another minute before the Russian could stand back up.

After showering and changing, Kasakov left the locker room to see two well-dressed individuals — one man, one woman — standing expectantly nearby. Both were in their forties, the man was a fellow Ukrainian, the woman a Russian. Together they formed Kasakov’s innermost circle. Each was supposed to be busy with other duties, so the presence of both indicated something important had arisen and their dour expressions told him this was not good news.

He imagined it was in regard to the recent attempt on his life in Bucharest. His people had been working hard to determine what had actually taken place and who had orchestrated it. No one had yet claimed responsibility for saving his life, so the arms dealer believed he had been saved merely as beneficial side effect of the morning’s kill. Even so, he would like to know more.

The fact that he had nearly been killed convinced Kasakov to reevaluate his travel and security arrangements, but did not unduly worry him. He had a long list of enemies, and had been the target for assassination more than once. Though this time had been the first in over a decade, the last being a French hit squad that had shot off half his left ear. Kasakov would have preferred a quieter life, but the billions of dollars he was personally worth easily made up for the risks of his chosen business.

Yuliya Eltsina was the first to speak. She was a former officer in the Russian security services and had been in Kasakov’s employ for nearly eight years. Close to a foot shorter than Kasakov, slim, with age now marring her once obvious beauty, Eltsina still carried the air of hawkish knowledge and casual brutality that had propelled her through the ranks of the KGB and then SVR. Kasakov had no affection for Eltsina and often found her humourless company tiresome. The woman was, however, a genius at devising new strategies to keep Kasakov’s arms trafficking empire flourishing beneath the noses of the international community. Her numerous contacts and friends in the intelligence agencies of Russia and the surrounding states enabled her to provide Kasakov with an assortment of otherwise inaccessible information on his business partners, rivals, suppliers and customers.

‘We have a situation you need to be aware of.’

‘Details,’ Kasakov responded.

She handed Kasakov a dossier. ‘In this file you’ll find a police report pertaining to a bomb explosion that took place in Germany, last week. The bomb killed a Hungarian named Adorjan Farkas, a high-ranking lieutenant in a leading Hungarian organised crime family. For the past two years Farkas had been supplying Baraa Ariff with cheap assault rifles. My people tell me that Ariff had Farkas killed because he was seeking to bypass Ariff and go direct to his customers.’

Ariff’s business practices were of little interest to Kasakov so he waited patiently for the reason Eltsina was providing him with such information. Ariff’s network didn’t stray into Kasakov’s, or vice versa. Kasakov’s attempts to move into the small arms trade had always been unsuccessful. Ariff’s network was established long before Kasakov had even started in the business, and could not be competed with.

Kasakov’s second advisor, Tomasz Burliuk, said, ‘Also in the dossier is the chemical analysis completed by the BKA of the explosives used to kill Farkas. The reason this has come to our attention is that the analysis shows the compound that killed Farkas was RDX high explosive, Russian army issue. The RDX was unique in that it contained an experimental marker compound. There was an agreement between several countries to come up with a way of tracking explosives in an effort to combat terrorism. A few batches were made up, but the idea was abandoned. We bought the surplus marked RDX a few years back.’

Burliuk was one of Kasakov’s childhood friends. He was tall, though not as tall as Kasakov, and had the easy confidence of a man who knew he was handsome and looking even better with age. He was immaculately groomed, hair perfect, beard expertly trimmed. He had been at Kasakov’s side since the early days, for longer than Kasakov could even remember. A good man and a hard worker, Burliuk had started off by handling the accounting and number-crunching of the operation. Balancing the books wasn’t something Kasakov was good at, but Burliuk was a master at managing money. These days, as well as the accounts, Burliuk handled most of the day-to-day decisions, leaving only the most important ones for Kasakov to make.

‘That RDX was in turn shipped to Istanbul to be sold via an intermediary so it couldn’t be traced back to us,’ Burliuk added, then removed an inhaler from his inside jacket pocket, shook it briefly, and took a hit of asthma-relieving gas.

Eltsina continued for him. ‘While in Istanbul it was hijacked by persons then unknown.’

Burliuk put away his asthma inhaler and delivered the climactic point. ‘As you are aware, it was in this incident that your nephew, Illarion, was shot and killed.’

Kasakov had stopped reading the file the moment Istanbul had been mentioned. He felt pain worse than any punch flood through him. It made him feel weak, light-headed. He pictured Illarion’s dead face and vivid bullet holes puncturing his corpse-white skin.

‘How much of this is verified?’ Kasakov said through clenched teeth.

Eltsina spoke again. ‘The BKA forensic evaluation of the explosive is beyond question. Farkas was killed in Berlin at the end of last week by the marked RDX that was stolen in Istanbul four years ago when Illarion was killed. So far, there are no police suspects for the Farkas bombing. My contacts tell me that it was widely known in the Hungarian mob that Farkas was in Germany to buy new weaponry. He planned to set up his own network and cut out Ariff to increase his profits. Farkas’s mob associates are convinced it was Ariff and want him dead. They don’t know where he is, otherwise they would already be seeking retribution against him.’

Kasakov nodded, satisfied with the evidence he had been presented with. ‘So if Ariff killed Farkas with my RDX then it was Ariff’s people who stole it from me in the first place. And therefore it was Ariff who murdered Illarion.’

‘But we need to exercise restraint,’ Burliuk said quickly. ‘Ariff’s network is as strong as us, his reach is perhaps longer. We don’t need a war with him while the North Koreans are watching us. Any hint of strife and they’ll buy elsewhere. And we badly need that deal. They’re already angry you couldn’t make the meeting with their broker in Bucharest. Vladimir, please, you must listen to me. You must-’

But Kasakov wasn’t listening. He handed back the file. ‘Find and kill Ariff,’ he said easily. ‘This is our number one priority. Nothing else matters. Hire the absolute best. I don’t care how much it costs. Torture and kill his family first. Make him watch.’