The Enemy

CHAPTER 41

Zurich, Switzerland

The man who met Zahm had a low centre of gravity. He was squat and overweight, with a face that was kind, while the soul beneath was anything but. Deep lines bisected his forehead and spread out from the corners of his eyes. He stood with a slight stoop brought on by the early stages of a kyphosis hump. His eyes were red and watery. Liver spots dotted the thin, wrinkled skin of his hands and forearms. He wore a loose linen shirt, slacks and sandals, and held a canvas shopping bag in his left hand. He stood a full foot shorter than the six-four Zahm and greeted him with his head tilted way back so he could look the taller man in the eye. Zahm wore sunglasses. The air was warm and dry. No clouds spoiled the perfect sky.

‘Hello, my son,’ the shorter man said with a smile that showed his small, perfectly white teeth. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again.’

‘And you, Father,’ Zahm said back with an imitation of a smile. ‘You’re looking well.’

Father cast his old eyes over Zahm’s muscular frame. ‘Not as well as you, of course.’

Despite the smiles and friendly words there was no genuine warmth between them. Zahm played along because the pretence was important to Father. They shook hands, with Zahm careful not to squeeze too hard. If he didn’t think about it first he tended to hurt whoever’s hand he shook with what he considered a modest grip. And this was no man to hurt, physically or otherwise. They released hands and out of habit Zahm looked around for watchers.

Zahm was well aware that his size made him easy to follow, so he had to pay extra attention to remaining unobserved. He stood with Father in the grounds of the University of Zurich. Students sat on the nearby lawns, reading books, making notes, or just enjoying the sunshine. A typical scene, peaceful, except Zahm detected surveillance. A young woman sat on a bench close by, eating an ice cream. On the surface she looked just like the other students — the same casual clothes, the same earbuds, the same well-worn bag. Her demeanour was all student too, enjoying the sun and being young, head bobbing gently to her music. It was her forearms that gave her away. They were slim but Zahm could see the ridges of strong muscles not gained from a conventional workout or from playing sports. Those muscles were honed from endless classes in self-defence and unarmed combat. The same classes that Zahm had so excelled in.

He gave no indication he had made her. It would be impolite. She was not a threat, merely a precaution. Father liked to have people close by. He had survived three assassination attempts and was always on guard against the fourth.

‘Shall we take a walk?’ Father suggested.

Father took short steps, partly due to his age and size, but mostly because he never liked to rush. Zahm’s long legs made it difficult for him to match the old man’s slow pace, and he had to concentrate so as to not stride ahead. After a minute he looked over his shoulder and saw the young woman had started walking too.

‘Thank you for meeting me,’ Father said. ‘I’m so very sorry I had to disturb you on your downtime. Well earned, as always.’

Zahm said, ‘No problem.’

‘Especially fine work your team did last month.’ Father patted him on the arm. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

In Zahm’s mind the work was no finer or less fine than any of the other assignments his unit had performed.

‘Thank you,’ he said, to be courteous.

After a few more steps Father said, ‘I’m afraid that I may have to ask you to go away once again.’

‘So soon?’

Father nodded. ‘Something has very recently arisen that I cannot trust to anyone else.’

Zahm’s professional curiosity had been hooked but instead of further information he was led in silence for a minute longer. Father never liked to rush. When they were in a quiet corner of the campus, Father stopped walking and turned to face him. The young woman was out of sight but Zahm was sure she was nearby.

‘Last week I lost four of my boys,’ Father explained, sadness in his voice. ‘They were on a surveillance operation, in Minsk, watching a buy between a Belarusian criminal and a Lebanese arms dealer by the name of Gabir Yamout.’

Zahm had heard the name Yamout before. He knew who he was, what he did, and who he did it for. Zahm frowned at the wasted opportunity.

Father smiled sadly. ‘I can see your thought process, my son. Your operational skills may be exceptional but we really must work on your poker face.’

Zahm looked away.

‘Yes,’ Father said, ‘we knew Yamout was in Minsk, and no, I did not send anyone to kill him. That would have been terrible manners, considering Yamout works for me.’

Father began walking again. Zahm followed, waiting patiently for Father to provide additional details. This time when Father stopped he elected to sit on the grass of one of the University’s lawns. He removed his socks and sandals, and let out a satisfied groan as he made fists with his bare toes. Zahm squatted on his haunches, his shoulders to the sun. The young woman was back, this time in a light jacket, wearing sunglasses, no earbuds or ice cream, and with her hair tied back in a ponytail. To a casual observer she would look like a different person, but not to Zahm’s trained gaze.

‘Yamout works for me,’ Father said again. ‘But without his knowledge, of course.’ Father gave another little smile and his white teeth shone in the sun. ‘We’ve had people watching him and his business partner Baraa Ariff for over a decade. At their homes, where they go out for dinner, when they take their children to the zoo, and especially when they meet with their clients. The logic is very simple: our enemies will always desire weapons, and if it is not Ariff and Yamout who supply them, others will. Arms dealers are middlemen. Eliminating them solves nothing.’ Father paused. ‘But with Ariff and Yamout alive, we can watch them and their people and find out who they supply, and in doing so identify our enemies long before they put those weapons to use.’

Zahm nodded, understanding the strategy and feeling annoyed with himself for being so quick to anger before he knew the facts.

Father said, ‘There’s that poker face again.’

‘What happened to the surveillance team?’ Zahm asked.

Father waited while two male students walked nearby, talking loudly and gesticulating in the way only those under twenty found acceptable. When they were out of earshot he continued. ‘Yamout was in Minsk to buy weapons, not to sell them, though we did not know that in advance. While he was meeting his supplier, an assassin attempted to kill him. My boys, passionate and selfless as they were, did not hesitate in intervening to preserve our link to Ariff’s network. We’ve protected both Yamout and Ariff in times past, always without their understanding, and in this instance my boys acted most courageously, but four out of the five were viciously murdered by the assassin.’

Father took a moment to compose himself and wipe his eyes with a patterned handkerchief. He said, ‘Yamout survived the attack, so my brave boys succeeded in protecting one of our most valuable sources. But their sacrifice is no less tragic for that.’

‘Who were the shooters?’

Father shook his head. ‘Singular. We have him on film. He worked alone. I’ve never seen so much death so quickly.’

He reached into his shopping bag and produced a file folder. He handed it to Zahm, who looked through stills of the incident.

‘At this time we don’t know who the assassin represents, but as he went after Yamout once, he could again. Or others might in his place. Perhaps Ariff will be targeted too. If they die, one of their many lieutenants would likely take over, and it might take us months to adapt to the new leadership, all the while losing opportunities to track our enemies. An even worse outcome would be that some unaffiliated arms dealer or dealers steps into the void left behind and we would know nothing of them. We can’t allow that to happen.’

Zahm nodded.

Father said, ‘But there is more for us to consider than the need to protect the operation. I have lost four of my heroic children. And in dying they saved a life of the very worst kind.’ He paused, revulsion and anger taking the place of grief in his sagging face. ‘That fact sickens me to my stomach. What would their families think if they knew who their loved ones had died to protect?’ He paused again to compose himself. ‘My son, I want your unit to avenge them.’

‘Of course,’ Zahm said without hesitation.

‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but don’t be so hasty to commit yourself and your people to this mission. Who knows how many others were involved in this, or how long it could take to find them all. And don’t forget, the assassin himself is a dangerous target. Like yourself, he is an exceptional killer.’

Zahm gave a placatory nod. ‘Regardless, I still accept. My team is the best I’ve ever worked with. One man, however dangerous, is still one man. Our people deserve vengeance, and I can promise you my team will share these sentiments. We will be honoured to kill this killer and those who sent him.’

Father took Zahm’s hands in his own. ‘I knew I could count on you, my son.’

‘Do we know who this assassin is, or where he is?’

‘No to both,’ Father answered. He reached into his canvas shopping bag again and handed Zahm a file containing another series of photographs. ‘But these were taken at Minsk Central train station the day after the attack. As you can see, there are two men walking together, one a little way behind the first. We do not see the face of the second man, but I believe him to be the assassin we seek. The first man has been identified as Danil Petrenko, the Belarusian crime boss Yamout went to Minsk to meet with.’

Zahm examined the photographs. ‘He looks like a captive to me.’

Father nodded. ‘Yet he flew out of Belarus later that day with his girlfriend on a flight to Barcelona. I think it might be worth you having a quiet word with Mr Petrenko.’