eyes. His hands were restless but his gaze was steady, never leaving her. With Claesen and the pair behind her, the men numbered six, two of them definitely armed.
‘Where’s Mostovoi?’
The man in the chair said, ‘Max has been detained.’
‘Detained?’
Incorrectly, he thought he detected anxiety in her tone. ‘Not in that sense of the word.’
‘I’m not interested in the sense of the word. If he’s not here, he’s not here.’
‘He sent me instead.’
‘And you are?’
‘Lars. Lars Andersen.’
Her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light. Andersen had short, dark, untidy hair, prominent cheekbones and olive skin that was lightly pockmarked; a Mediterranean look for a Scandinavian name, Petra thought.
‘No offence, Lars, but I don’t know you.’
‘You don’t know Max, either.’
‘I know what business he’s in. Which is why I’m here. But I’m starting to think I made a mistake. I’m running out of patience. That means he’s running out of time. It’s up to him. There are always others. Harding, Sasic, Beneix …’
‘They’re not as good.’
‘As good as what? A man who never shows? What could be worse than that?’
Andersen appeared surprised by her contempt. He glanced at the short one and said, in Russian, ‘What do you reckon, Jarni? Not bad, huh?’
‘Not bad.’
‘You think she could play for Inter?’
‘No problem.’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere, probably. That’s what I hear.’
Also in Russian, Petra said, ‘What’s Inter?’
Raised eyebrows all round. Andersen said, ‘You speak Russian?’
‘Judging by your accents, better than either of you.’
Andersen grinned. ‘Max said we should be careful with you. Watch out for her, he told us, she’s full of surprises.’
Outside, a lawnmower started, its drone as nostalgic as the scent of the grass it cut. It reminded her of those summer evenings when her father, back from work, would mow their undulating garden. A childhood memory, then. But not Petra’s childhood. The memory belonged to someone else. Petra was merely borrowing it.
‘What’s Inter?’ she asked again.
‘You don’t know?’
‘Should I?’
He shrugged. ‘Inter Milan.’ When she made no comment, he returned to English. ‘You’ve never heard of Inter Milan?’
She shook her head.
‘The football team?’
The name was faintly resonant but she said, ‘I have better things to do with my time than watch illiterate millionaires kissing each other.’
‘Inter is more than a football team.’
‘Is there any danger of you straying towards the point?’
Andersen looked as though he wished to continue. He leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak – to protest, even – but then appeared to change his mind. An awkward silence developed. Petra sensed Claesen squirming behind her.
Eventually, Andersen said, ‘Tomorrow morning, the Mellah.’
‘Mostovoi will be there?’
‘Someone will be there. They’ll take you to him.’
‘If he’s not there I’m going home.’
‘Place des Ferblantiers at ten.’
The Land Cruiser drove her back to the city centre and came to a halt on Avenue Hassan II, just short of the intersection with Place du 16 Novembre. Claesen turned round. An inch of ash spilled down his red T-shirt. His creepy confidence had returned the moment they left the walled compound.
‘Until next time, then?’
‘How did they know that you knew me?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘I received a message, an air ticket and the promise of dollars.’
‘And that was enough for you? It never occurred to you to check it out first?’
His reply was bittersweet. ‘These days that’s a luxury I can’t afford.’
‘You know something, Claesen, I’m amazed you’ve made it this far.’
‘Me too.’ Smiling once more, he waved his Gitanes at her. ‘I used to think I’d never live long enough to die from lung cancer. Now I’m beginning to think I have a chance.’
The Hotel Mirage on Boulevard Mohammed Zerktouni was in the Ville Nouvelle, not far from Café La Renaissance. Mid-range, it mostly catered for European tourists. Which was precisely what Petra was: Maria Gilardini, a single Swiss woman, aged twenty-nine. A dental hygienist from Sion.
There was a message for her at reception. She took the envelope up to her room, at the rear of the building, overlooking a small courtyard, opposite the back of an ageing office block. She sat on the bed and opened the envelope. As expected, there was nothing inside.
Petra had heard of Maxim Mostovoi long before he became a contract. A former air force pilot, he’d emerged from the rubble of the Soviet Union with his own aviation business. His military career had been restricted to cargo transport. At the time, that had been a source of regret. Later it proved to be the source of his fortune.
Among the first to recognize potential markets for the Soviet Union’s vast stockpile of obsolete weaponry, Mostovoi was able to commandeer cargo aircraft from what remained of the Soviet air force. Then he formed partnerships with contacts in the army who were able to supply him with arms. In the early days he based himself in Moscow, taking comfort from the chaos that bloomed in the aftermath of the collapse of the Soviet Union. There were few laws to contain him. Those that existed were not enforced; bribery tended to ensure that. Failing bribery, there was always violence.
Mostovoi’s first fortune was made in Africa. Rebel factions sought him out, eager for cheap weapons. Using huge Antonov cargo aircraft, he delivered to Rwanda, Angola and Sierra Leone, frequently taking payment in conflict diamonds, depositing the gems in Antwerp. Soon Mostovoi decided he would prefer to be closer to them. In 1994 he moved to Ostend, establishing an air freight company named Air Eurasia at offices close to
