The Enemy

CHAPTER 22

Yamout and his people arrived at the Hotel Europe with as little fanfare as an arms trafficker and six bodyguards could manage. They passed through the lobby with one guy working point from about ten feet ahead of Yamout. Another four surrounded him — two a little in front, two just behind — with the sixth man following at the back, approximately five feet away. It was an effective formation and Victor was glad he didn’t have to make the attempt here in the lobby. The group drew glances from most of the other occupants in the lobby but the steely gazes of the bodyguards ensured that few stared long except for the watchful rent-a-cops.

Apart from Yamout and the point man, none were Arabs. They were all pale-skinned, probably either Belarusians or Russians or from other neighbouring former Soviet states, hired for this gig because they were local and knew the language. Each man was alert, clearly knowing his job, and had the strong but not overly muscled build of bodyguards paid to do more than simply look mean. The point man was probably one of Yamout’s personal staff. He seemed at least as competent as the rest.

Yamout was no more than six feet but well over two hundred pounds. He was in reasonable shape though — the legacy of a naturally strong build and a physical youth, but an increasingly less active maturity. The whole group wore suits, Yamout in navy, the bodyguards in charcoal or black. Their pace was brisk but not hurried, demeanour all business but with a touch of arrogance. There was no luggage.

The way their jackets hung told Victor the bodyguards were armed. The five white guys all had belt holsters on their right hips. Not as concealable as carried underarm, but better for quick draws. Victor couldn’t see a weapon on the Arab working point, but he didn’t doubt he was still armed. There was no sign of a gun on Yamout either, but he hardly needed one with so much protection.

Victor was sat in the lobby bar with a lemonade. He was noticed by the bodyguards but, like everyone else in the area, quickly dismissed as a possible problem. He was just an unremarkable man in a suit, sitting alone in a bar. No threat to anyone. It was something he worked very hard on — appearing harmless when he was anything but.

The point man reached the elevator and hit the call button. The doors were opening just as Yamout reached them. The point man went in alone and rode it up to the seventh floor. Yamout and the others waited in front of the elevator for a minute before answering a phone call. The point man letting him know it was safe to go up, presumably. Yamout gestured to one of the bodyguards, who promptly hit the call button. The second elevator opened and Yamout and his men stepped inside. Victor watched them ascend.

There was no sign of the watcher, and there hadn’t been for hours. Victor didn’t like not knowing where he was, but there were only so many things he could control. He checked the time, picked up his bag, stood, and left the lobby. Using the hotel master keycard he accessed a door to the staff area, followed the memorised layout he’d taken from the blueprints, and, after making sure no one was nearby, entered the appropriate room.

It was dark and warm. Tiny lights glowed and flickered in the darkness. The hum of machinery filled Victor’s ears. He closed the door behind him and flicked the light switches. Strip lights illuminated the hotel’s electrical room and its large array of equipment. Along two walls were electric switchboards, circuit breakers, transformers, distribution boards and other electrical equipment. Vast amounts of insulated wiring and cables ran along the walls and ceiling.

Victor placed his bag on the floor and took out a pair of thick rubber gloves. When they were protecting his hands, he opened the switchboard panels. Inside were banks of copper busbars connected to the switchgear. Victor removed a zip-lock plastic bag containing six golf ball-sized spheres of C-4. He placed these carefully throughout the switchboards, making sure he kept away from the bare busbars and the huge charge that flowed through them. When the C-4 balls were in place, he pushed a slapper detonator into each one. The detonators were connected to a simple digital timer.

Victor set the timer to three minutes, grabbed his bag, and left the room.

Gabir Yamout stepped out of the elevator behind two of his bodyguards. Elkhouri, Yamout’s point man and chief bodyguard, had ridden up to the seventh floor separately. He had both announced Yamout’s imminent arrival to Petrenko and checked out the lay of the land. The serious-faced Arab was Yamout’s most trusted hireling, having been at his side for over ten years. He was both a bodyguard and an advisor, and always had Yamout’s safety and best interests at the forefront of his mind.

In the early days, Yamout had been like Elkhouri and had been simply a bodyguard to Ariff. As Yamout became more trusted, he had garnered more responsibilities, and now was a business partner and friend first, bodyguard second. Elkhouri had taken over as head of Ariff’s security and if Elkhouri had told Yamout it wasn’t a good idea to continue with the meeting, without question Yamout would have taken the man’s advice and left. From the call Yamout had received minutes before, Elkhouri was happy with what awaited them, or as happy as he could be when meeting ruthless gangsters on their own territory.

Elkhouri was waiting outside the suite’s door alongside two large Belarusians. They wore designer jeans and labelled sportswear and couldn’t look any more like ivory-coloured savages if they tried. Both visibly tensed when they saw just how many men Yamout had brought with him. That was good. Yamout always showed up in force when meeting with a new contact, especially in unfamiliar surroundings.

One of the savages hurried back inside the suite, obviously to report to Petrenko about Yamout’s numbers. How Petrenko reacted to this news would tell Yamout everything about the man he could ever need to know. Elkhouri gave Yamout a small nod.

He approached the lone thug left holding open the door, who stepped aside to allow Yamout past. Four of the bodyguards went in first, followed by Elkhouri and then Yamout. The final bodyguard stayed outside the door with Petrenko’s man.

Yamout was no stranger to luxurious hotel rooms but even he was quietly impressed by the Presidential Suite.

Petrenko stood in the centre of the lounge area, smiling as though he was pleased to see Yamout. He didn’t smile back. They were strangers meeting to do business, not friends meeting socially. Behind Petrenko was the primate from the door with two other similarly attired gangsters. Petrenko was dressed more stylishly than his men, in linen trousers, loafers and a white button-down shirt hanging loose and with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He looked around fifty and seemed almost civilised compared to his employees. None of Petrenko’s men had any guns out and Yamout gave Petrenko some credit for this. Though outnumbered he wasn’t intimidated. Or if he was, he was doing an excellent job of disguising the fact.

‘Mr Yamout, it’s nice to finally meet you,’ Petrenko said in Russian.

He held out a hand.

Yamout took the hand loosely and they shook. ‘Thank you for inviting me to your city.’

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

Yamout nodded. If it was, he hadn’t noticed.

They released hands.

‘Come,’ Petrenko said. ‘Let’s sit down.’ He glanced around at Yamout’s men. ‘I don’t think we’re going to have enough chairs.’

Yamout didn’t respond. There were plenty of places to sit throughout the suite if not in the immediate vicinity. Petrenko was fishing for an explanation as to why Yamout had brought along so many guards. He wasn’t going to get one.

Petrenko led Yamout through to an area of the suite where a large television was set in front of a leather sofa and armchairs, immediately settling himself in one of the chairs without first allowing Yamout to sit. The arms dealer wasn’t sure whether this was typical of Belarusian manners or a petty response to his own failure to justify his number of bodyguards. Either way, it didn’t improve Yamout’s opinion of the man.

Yamout took a chair for himself. Elkhouri and one of Petrenko’s men shared the sofa. Petrenko’s man, red-haired and square-faced, took off his sports jacket to reveal a vest underneath. He was sweating. The others waited in the lounge area.

‘Drink?’ Petrenko offered.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Or maybe something to eat? The food here is excellent and room service very brisk. You won’t have long to wait.’

‘No, thank you,’ Yamout said again.

‘As you wish,’ Petrenko said. ‘I take it you want to get straight to business.’

Yamout nodded. ‘I didn’t fly two thousand miles to fill my stomach.’

Petrenko smiled, but in a different way. His demeanour changed, hardened. The friendly host act had gone. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I hate wasting time when we can be making money.’ He crossed his legs and slouched in the armchair. The leather creaked. ‘As I’m sure you have already been told, I have a large stockpile of small arms, both former Soviet and modern Russia army munitions. Assault rifles, machine guns, even rocket-propelled grenades. Everything.’

He took a briefcase from the coffee table and opened it. He removed a sheet of white paper and handed it to Yamout. ‘As you can see, my prices are very reasonable.’

Yamout spent a minute reading through the long list of weaponry and the accompanying prices. Then he spent another minute pretending to read while a scowl deepened on his face. He passed the document to Elkhouri, who performed a similar routine.

‘These figures are not what I had been expecting,’ Yamout said.

Petrenko adjusted his seating. ‘In what way?’

‘Your pricing structure is too high and doesn’t make a lot of sense.’

Petrenko’s calm persona vanished and Yamout glimpsed the hot-tempered man it was hiding. ‘ Doesn’t make a lot of sense. What the fuck does that mean?’

‘It means-’

The lights went out.

Elkhouri was up from the sofa immediately. There was a commotion in the adjoining part of the suite, anxious bodyguards made more anxious by not being able to see.

Petrenko exhaled heavily. ‘The hotel will have the power restored momentarily, I’m sure.’ He raised his voice to be heard throughout the suite. ‘Everyone stay where you are and keep calm. No one do anything stupid. It’s just a blown fuse.’

‘Maybe we should go,’ Elkhouri suggested in Arabic. He seemed uncommonly agitated.

‘When this idiot is selling guns for a third less than what Ariff would pay,’ Yamout said back, ‘we can afford to sit here for a few minutes.’

‘Everything okay?’ Petrenko asked.

‘My friend is afraid of the dark,’ Yamout replied drily.

‘He shouldn’t worry,’ Petrenko assured. ‘We’re perfectly safe here.’