The Enemy

CHAPTER 12

Adorjan Farkas was drunk. A couple of beers had preceded his steak and more beers and a few cocktails had followed the meal. His men had convinced him to make a night of it, and when five Hungarians did that the results were often messy. While in a country where no one knew Farkas, or how he made his money, he felt more relaxed than he often did at home, but he was in Germany on business and as such had to keep some level of control.

The members of his entourage had shown less restraint, downing copious amounts of German beer with their own meals before moving on to a range of spirits in the bar. They were well behaved, as he liked, and it was good to see his men having fun. Farkas encouraged such behaviour because socialising strengthened the bonds of loyalty. He had been a boss in the Hungarian mob long enough to know that he only maintained his position because his men allowed him to be in charge. They needed him to pay them and he needed them to carry out his orders and protect him against the hazards of the organised crime trade. Farkas knew that without his men to exert his will he was all but impotent.

There was a line though, a line between employer and employee that could not be crossed. His men needed to like him and respect him and in turn feel that he liked and respected them, but he could never be friends with them. There might be a time when a man in his service became a problem, either deliberately or unknowingly, and Farkas had found it was hard to torture and kill a friend. With no friends working for him, he was free to operate without interruption from that annoying little thing called guilt.

He walked behind his men as they made their way back to the apartment building. He was quiet while his men joked loudly with one another. Though collectively they had enough alcohol in their systems to kill a bull, he knew that they still had their wits about them. In Farkas’s business one of the primary traits a man needed for success was to be able to handle his drink. A couple would probably spend most of tomorrow swallowing aspirin, but by the evening they would be ready to work.

On that day Farkas was due to meet some potential new suppliers. He was always looking to expand his burgeoning empire and he felt good about this trip’s prospects. The suppliers came highly recommended and if things went well they would help round out Farkas’s arms inventory. He shipped cheap Eastern European Kalashnikovs down to an Egyptian dealer, who in turn sold them throughout the Middle East and Africa. The money was okay and the risks minimal, but Farkas knew if he could get his hands on more sophisticated Western weaponry, he wouldn’t have to deal with the Egyptian bastard — who Farkas knew ripped him off — he could go straight to the smaller dealers. He would cut out the middleman and massively increase his margins.

With luck, these German suppliers might be able to help him do just that. He had his eye on some nice Heckler amp; Koch gear: MP5s, G36s, UMPs, the works. The market was there, ready and waiting. Farkas just needed to get his fingers on the goods. He also wanted a new pistol for himself. Something flashy that the other bosses back home didn’t have.

In the penthouse, his men started raiding the kitchen for anything edible or drinkable. Farkas likened them to a pack of scavengers, already full and intoxicated but eager to gorge on whatever could be found. One of his men grabbed the TV remote and began flicking through the channels in search of porn and Farkas knew it was time to call it a night when he saw the genital-to-genital close-up on the screen.

His decision provoked some jeers but he waved his hand dismissively and headed to his bedroom. He turned on the main light and began undressing, throwing his dirty clothes in one corner. Then he unzipped his suitcase and rifled through until he found his pyjamas.

In the en suite, he brushed his teeth and washed his face before returning to the bedroom. He switched off the main light and climbed into bed. Taking the novel he’d brought along for the trip off the bedside table, he flicked on the lamp.

Farkas read a few pages before tiredness got the better of him. The book wasn’t that good anyway — some thriller with too much talking and not enough killing. He folded over the corner of the page he’d reached and put the book down. He flicked the lamp off.

He lay in the dark for a few moments before switching the lamp back on and getting out of bed. He walked into the bathroom to relieve his bladder. Farkas pushed down the handle to flush the toilet. It didn’t flush.

He pushed the handle down again, harder.

Inside the tank, the handle rose to open the flush valve. It drove the firing pin taped to the top of the lever into the detonator attached to the underside of the tank lid. The detonator blew and ignited the main charge of RDX packed into the empty tank.

The shock wave travelled outwards with an explosive velocity of more than eight thousand yards per second, obliterating the tank, and everything inside the room. The door blew off its hinges and smashed into the far wall of the adjoining bedroom, followed by flames and debris.

Chunks of Farkas dropped from the bathroom ceiling.