number?’
‘It ends with oh-nine,’ Leeson whispered between clenched teeth. ‘It’ll be the last but one.’
The phone was already dialling before Leeson had finished speaking.
‘Sir?’ Coughlin answered.
Victor remained silent.
‘Sir,’ Coughlin said again, ‘is everything all right?’
Victor remained silent.
‘Are you there, Mr Leeson?’
A bus passed on the road outside. The glow from its big headlights washed over the two men in the alleyway. One had his hands in his pockets. The other’s hung loose at his sides.
It had been the same when Dietrich had answered.
Victor disconnected the call and tossed the phone to Leeson, who just managed to catch it.
‘Just what the hell is going on, Mr Kooi?’ he snarled.
‘Do you have any enemies?’
Leeson didn’t seem to hear. ‘I’ve had as much as I can take of your insolence, Mr Kooi.’
‘Listen to me carefully. A Jeep Commander followed us to Rome. There’s two guys now standing across the street. I thought they were Dietrich and Coughlin. They’re not.’
Leeson’s brow furrowed. ‘Of course they’re not. They’re both busy on my orders.’
‘So I say again: do you have any enemies?’
Leeson sat back, anger starting to fade, but he wasn’t grasping what Victor already understood. ‘Do you think a man in my line of work does not generate enemies?’
‘Who could have known about the farmhouse?’
‘No one. It’s an impossibility.’
‘The Rolls then. Who knows about the limousines?’
‘I, uh… I’m not sure.’
‘Tell me who might know.’
Fear crept into Leeson’s expression. ‘Georgians.’
‘Mob?’
Leeson nodded. ‘An organisation in Odessa. Half of them are former KGB and SVR. God, I—’
‘I don’t care what you did to them. If you want to survive this you’re going to need to do exactly what I say. No questions. No hesitation. I say; you do. Understand?’
Leeson nodded frantically. ‘You’ve got to protect me, Mr Kooi. These people are animals. They’re absolute animals.’
The waiter arrived and placed Leeson’s curry and Victor’s stir fry on the table. He bowed briefly and left.
Victor grabbed his fork and began eating.
Surprised, Leeson stared at him for a moment. ‘What… what the hell are you doing? We need to go. Right now.’
Victor spoke between chews. ‘I haven’t eaten in a long time. I need to fuel up.’
Leeson’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘We need to get out of here. I’m ordering you to.’ He pushed his chair back.
‘Go and die on your own if you wish.’ Victor waved a hand towards the door. ‘Or you can stay with me and live.’
Victor ignored Leeson while he shovelled into his mouth the crispy vegetables that wouldn’t bloat his stomach or weigh him down, along with the sauce packed with simple carbohydrates that would load energy into his blood. He’d ordered it in preparation for facing Dietrich and Coughlin, not Georgian criminals, but the benefits were the same.
‘Drink some water,’ he said to Leeson.
Leeson reached for his Scotch.
‘No, drink water.’
The younger man did, downing half the glass in one go. His face was pale.
‘Don’t worry,’ Victor said. ‘They’re not going to make the attempt while you’re in here unless we give them reason to. So get a hold of yourself.’
Leeson wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve, took a breath and nodded. ‘What do we do?’
‘Go to the men’s room. Put your gun in the bin. Then come back here and wait while I go and get it.’
‘Okay.’
‘Don’t forget the spare mags.’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘Then just leave the gun.’
Leeson nodded again and stood. He looked unsteady.
‘Keep calm,’ Victor said. ‘Don’t let them know we know.’
Leeson sucked in a large breath, relaxed his face as best as he could, and headed for the toilets.
Across the street, the two Georgians waited.
THIRTY-FIVE
Victor retrieved Leeson’s gun from the bottom of the bin that stood next to the paper-towel dispenser in the restaurant’s men’s room. He had wanted to find an FN Five-seveN that fired supersonic bullets capable of penetrating most conventional body armour and held twenty in its magazine. He would have been pleased with a reliable Glock or a Beretta with plenty of bullets to shoot, whether 9 mm or .40 or .45 calibre. He would have been content with a compact pistol that held fewer rounds but still had enough stopping power for a one-shot drop. He had to settle for a SIG Sauer that fired .22 calibre bullets.
A .22 had enough power to kill – Victor had done so using one several times – but he had also seen a .22 bullet ricochet off a man’s skull. The SIG’s barrel had less than four inches in length through which to spin the subsonic