Die Trying (6 page)

Valon’s going to finish you off.

No. I won’t let that happen.

He steadied himself. Christ, his body was in bad nick. But he had to forget about the pain. He closed his eyes and silenced it. Opened them and saw Valon, twenty metres away, inserting a fresh clip into the AK.

More bounds chopped up the Toyota. Gardner placed the TRG-22 on the ground and grabbed the Glock. It felt light and cold in his hands. He chambered a round of 9x19 Parabellum ammunition. He was counting Valon’s shots like a kid memorizing his times table.

Seven, eight, nine…

On the twentieth and final round, Gardner risked a peek over the Toyota. Valon was eight metres off, reaching for a third clip. The Toyota had more holes in it than a political manifesto. Gardner crept around to the boot. On a three-count he shot to his feet.

‘Drop it, or I’ll drop you like a fucking bad habit,’ he said, his voice firm and steady as the Glock pointed at Valon’s mug.

The guy’s right hand held the AK by the underside of the barrel. His left was suspended by his side, like a gunslinger in a shootout. Gardner had caught him about to reload. Valon beamed a bad-toothed smile, opening his arms in a bear hug.

‘The fucking rifle, Klint.’

Valon laid the AK on the ground like a mourner laying flowers at a memorial. ‘Shit, OK, bro. OK. See? I’m not armed now.’ He was still smiling. ‘What the fuck’s this, man? This is how you greet an old friend?’

Gardner edged out from the shelter of the Toyota. ‘Yeah, next time I see a mate I’ll lock him in a burning flat, then shoot the shit out of his car.’

‘We had to take the girl. Orders are orders. You’re a soldier. You know how this shit works.’

‘You’re no soldier, Klint.’

‘Harsh, bro. And after all we’ve been through.’

The sun crept above Valon’s back. Gardner didn’t fancy hanging about in the sticks. First law of any firefight – always displace. He waved the pistol towards the Land Rover. Valon got the message:
move
. When they reached the vehicle Gardner nudged Valon into the driver’s seat. Sat in the back himself, the Glock resting between his knees, eyeballing Valon’s seat.

‘Try any funny business and I’ll put one through your spine.’

Valon turned the engine on. The Land Rover growled.

‘Where to, man?’

‘Where’s the girl?’ asked Gardner.

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Think so?’ He tightened his face into a scowl. ‘You and me are gonna have a little chat.’

0702 hours.

Blame the synthetics, Sotov liked to say. Beautiful, man-made rocks produced using chemical vapour deposition in American laboratories, burning carbon at temperatures in excess of 800°C. They looked exactly like the real thing. Even to the expert eye, distinguishing synthetic from real diamonds was increasingly hard.

They flooded the market, the synthetic diamonds, lowering the cost of organically harvested rocks and eating into the profits of mining operations like Sotov’s. Then there were the arseholes in suits who demanded he line their pockets. The state officials, the meddling politicians in the Duma. Everyone took their cut.

To be sure, there was not much money in diamonds these days. Drugs were the real cash-spinner. Always had been. He could make more in a single drugs deal than in a month of dealings with the corrupt diamond merchants. Although it benefited Sotov to have a legitimate business empire – made him look respectable. If it wasn’t for that single benefit, he would have sold up the diamond business a long time ago.

The fifty kilos of cocaine he was acquiring was worth $30 million in America, but he intended to sell the coke on to contacts he’d acquired through his years of service in the
mafya
. Contacts that had taken a lifetime to build up, ever since his early days as a
vor v zakone
, a thief-in-law. Thanks to his influence, in less than twenty-four hours he’d be rich once more. Thirty million could buy a lot of hookers.

Sotov paused at the edge of the forest clearing and lit a Ziganov. He allowed his body a moment to acclimatize. Compared to Yakutsk, Serbia in the early autumn was positively tropical. Warm air swirled in his nostrils. His mouth was dry, a severe case of cotton mouth and the cigarette did not taste good. He took three drags on the cigarette before stubbing it out on a rock. Then he paced briskly back down towards the clearing, where a Lincoln Navigator was parked up.

A dirt track led from the clearing into the main road some two hundred metres away. Popov the chauffeur leaned against the hood of the Lincoln and ran a hand through his silver hair. The four-man team under Sotov’s command was equipped with OTS-33 automatic pistols he’d acquired by bribing an army officer. Popov himself was ex-Spetsnaz – Sotov considered it wise to travel with a guy who could shoot as well as drive – and had an AK-47 as his primary weapon, a virtually indestructible assault rifle that could be burned, frozen and buried and still work perfectly.

The greatest legacy of our Soviet Union, thought Sotov. A brutally effective gun.

These men – Popov and the other four – were Sotov’s finest soldiers, the ones he could rely on when he needed something done and done right. Popov watched as the others diligently performed last-minute checks on their firearms, going through their paces. Sotov knew there was no room for error. The exchange had to be quick and smooth, and he didn’t trust the Italians an inch.

Sotov checked his Rolex. Ten-fifteen.

Not long to go now.

He turned back to Popov.

‘It’s time.’

Popov nodded; his phone rang. He showed Sotov the text message. ‘We’re in place,’ it said. ‘Awaiting further orders.’

Popov looked at Sotov. ‘Something on your mind?’ he asked.

‘The first fireteam is already at the site,’ Sotov replied.

‘That’s good.’ Sensing that Sotov was still not satisfied, Popov added, ‘I have a good feeling about this operation, Aleks.’

‘I hear from Valon that Petruzzi – the man they call the Pallbearer – is a greedy fuck.’ He felt a laugh ripple in his lungs, didn’t quite make it to the surface.

‘When are the Italians ever anything else?’

Sotov laughed out loud now. ‘You’re right. As always, Denis.’ He smiled at Popov. ‘That’s why I trust you so much. Other
vory v zakone
are like crows. Their only interest is to line their own pockets. They speak of loyalty. Bullshit. They know nothing of the word. But you—’ Sotov patted Popov on the back. The chauffeur went to say something, cut himself short.

0800 hours.

They drove in silence for several minutes, due west along Route 19, until Gardner indicated for Valon to take a left turn. As they headed south the motorway corkscrewed past an old farm, its overgrown fields populated by mangy goats and starved sheep, an early nineties Nissan Firebird out front. A minute later they came to an abandoned depot west of the Makis freight station. Gardner ordered Valon to stop the car.

They got out, Gardner keeping the Glock on Valon. The earth was reclaiming the train tracks, grass shoots clawing at the old iron path. Three hundred metres to the north-east stood the functioning Lokomotiv depot. Just after eight o’clock in the morning and the mechanical grunts of trains stopping and starting carried on the chill air. Gardner and Valon were too far away for the rail workers to spot them. He led the Albanian towards the carcass of an old train carriage, its rusting frame dumped at the end of the line. Gardner recalled this spot from his operations here as a Blade. They’d settled on the disused depot as an RV point in the event of the op going tits up.

Once they reached the depot, Gardner got down to business.

He brought his pistol hand down hard on to the dip between Valon’s shoulders, heard the crunch of the grip connecting with bone. Valon dropped like shit out of a dog’s arse. His body made unnatural sounds as Gardner smothered him with body blows. The guy writhed this way and that. Gardner booted him in the ribcage, then the gut. Then the balls. He eased off, allowing Valon to catch his breath. The guy was on his hands and knees, scrambling to catch his breath. His mouth open, he sucked at the ground.

‘Where’d you take her?’

‘
Fuck—
’ Valon angled his head up at Gardner, his voice no more than a cancerous rasp.

‘Wrong answer, mate.’

Gardner raised the Glock level parallel with his elbow – then swung it in an arc. The pistol swept down and smashed into Valon’s face. His hands gave way; his knees buckled. The front of Gardner’s T-shirt was flecked with red dots. Something dark and sticky clung to the end of the Glock’s barrel.

Getting down on one knee, Gardner lifted Valon’s head. He was fucked. A three-inch dent stretched like an oversized leech from his ear to his jaw. His forehead and nose were freckled with blood, and snot around his mouth had mixed with dirt from the ground to form a sort of sandy paste covering his chin.

‘I fucking swear, mate, the next one is a bullet in your head. Do you understand?’ Valon gave a battered nod. ‘Now, where the fuck is Aimée?’

‘Is that her name? Very cute.’ He slurred his words. ‘Forget her, Joe. She’s better off dead. And she soon will be.’

The fury crescendoed from Gardner’s stomach to the small of his throat.

‘So where is she?’

Valon’s silence answered for him.

‘What are you doing working with John Bald?’

‘Fuck your mother.’

‘When’s the exchange happening?’

‘Shit, brother. You kill me and you’ll never see Bald or the girl again.’ Gardner pressed the Glock against Valon’s temple.

Do it, he was thinking. One shot. That’s all it’d take. Put a hole in his noggin that you could drive a cattle rod through.

No. I can’t kill him. Not with Aimée out there, not with Bald on the verge of making his deal.

He pulled the gun away.

‘Give me your hand, brother,’ he said.

Valon obeyed. Stubborn cunt, Gardner thought as he directed the muzzle at Valon’s balls. The Albanian offered up his left hand instead of his right. Gardner fished the red bracelet from his pocket and clicked it around his bony wrist.

‘Hey, what the fuck is this?’

‘This bracelet’s loaded with bang-bang powder,’ Gardner said, making up a spot of bullshit. This guy’s a sly cunt, he thought, but he ain’t exactly clever.

‘It operates on a remote-control detonator. One press of the clicker and you won’t be doing any hand shandies for a long time. Try and take it off, you’ll short the circuit – boom. See, you’re going to lead me to John Bald, mate. And I’m going to put the drop on him.’

Valon eyed the bracelet, his pupils bulging like white poker chips. He’d clearly bought Gardner’s line about the explosives. ‘You’re fucking crazy, brother. Bald will notice this.’

‘Then tell him you’re trying to make poverty history, I don’t give a fuck. But you’d better come clean, or I’ll blow your arm to fucking mush.’

‘Shit. OK, OK.’ Valon snatched at air. Sweat trickled down the sides of his head. ‘The meeting is at a place called the Presevo Valley. It’s about 320 kilometres south of Belgrade, maybe a bit further.’

‘I know it,’ Gardner said. The valley, near the border with Macedonia, had been a hotbed of ethnic violence in the war. In the years since then it had become the site of conflict between the Kosovo Liberation Army and Serbian security forces.

‘Where in the valley?’

‘On the E-75. Near the village of Brezovan.’

‘What time?’ Gardner said.

‘Noon today,’ Valon said back.

‘And you’re John’s bodyguard?’

‘Fuck no, man. Don’t insult me, I’m more important than that,’ Valon snorted, bringing up phlegm. ‘I’m here to make the introduction between Bald and the Russian.’

‘The Russian?’

‘A
mafya
guy, name of Sotov.’ He flashed a look at Gardner. ‘He’s the one who told me to kidnap the bitch. They call him the Grey Wolf.’

‘Some kind of a joke?’

‘Don’t you get it, bro? He’s
mafya
. He’s got this big diamond company, lots of money, and he’s a stone-cold killer. Fuck, man, you don’t mess with this guy. I’m fucking serious. He’s a real player.’

Daybreak announced itself in harsh, unforgiving rays. We’ll be visible to the depot workers if we stick around much longer, Gardner realized. He watched Valon wipe his nose with the sleeve of his coat, then ordered him to his feet.

‘Tell me about your plan,’ he said.

Valon struggled to stand up upright. His legs wobbled, he remained unsteady. ‘I’m supposed to rendezvous with Bald at nine o’clock on the dot. We run through a checklist, get our shit together and head out to the meet.’

‘At Presevo?’

Valon nodded, eyes on his sleeve.

‘In the car,’ Gardner said. ‘Head to your get-together with Bald. I want you to pretend like nothing’s happened. You go to the drug swap. When the deal’s done and dusted, you pretend you lost the car keys. Search the ground and stay the fuck away from Bald. And if you say a word about me, I’ll blow your bloody arm off.’