Arkady Dyukov stayed back in London like the good soldier he was. For the first time in his years with Victor Kemp, he chafed at his orders. From a purely practical standpoint, it made sense. He needed to clean up a few matters. He and Kemp stayed in touch, conducting business over a secure video feed.
He found himself disquieted. As Kemp’s second, shouldn’t he have seen to the move and hired the staff? No, Dyukov didn’t need to idle away his time in some remote hilltop villa. He simply thought he ought to be stuck to the old man like glue, especially with this new shipping company. The model remained the same, but the execution required an enforcer who spoke with the authority given to him by his employer. In order to do that, Dyukov needed to know what Kemp was thinking. He couldn’t tell from 1400 kilometers away.
He’d made two trips to Marseilles over the past two weeks. They expected to run more business through the Marseille-Fos port, one of Europe’s largest in terms of tonnage. It divided between two sites, the struggling downtown location and a far larger and more active hub with aspirations of becoming the world’s leading container entry point. Seventy-two percent of its cargo was crude oil. Despite assured employment in a high-growth market, workers at every level were always open to making more money.
A careful man, Dyukov nevertheless had a skewed perception of himself. He correctly valued his importance yet underestimated his visibility. He was indeed critical to the overall operation. He held more in his head about the business than anyone alive, including his employer. The deeper into the underworld the activities went, the more comfortably and skillfully he maneuvered.
At the same time, he didn’t believe anyone really noticed him or tracked his movements. If he headed to a meeting with Kemp, he naturally took innumerable precautions. When he was out and about, he didn’t always look over his shoulder. He figured he could take care of himself.
He never expected anyone to follow him to France.
Fourteen days after his boss left London, Dyukov landed in Marseille. He stayed in a cheap hotel a kilometer from the port. It suited him fine. He didn’t plan to walk more than he had to. The gritty port area north of the city remained plagued by crime. Grinding poverty and the lure of drug money trapped residents in an endless cycle of violence. In this part of town, the risk of dying before the age of sixty-five was thirty percent above the national average. Dyukov had seen it all before.
After a surprisingly decent night’s sleep, the enforcer cadged a cup of bitter coffee from the restaurant downstairs and walked over to Marseille-Fos. In contrast with the deserted streets, the docks were bustling, the workers an ethnic stew of sub-Saharan and Middle Eastern migrants. Not too many white faces appeared, but Dyukov figured the tattoos that covered his body offered a degree of protection, not to mention credibility. Indeed, several people gave him a wide berth.
He found his contact by Quai de la Pinède. Nassir Kateb was a sturdily built Algerian Dyukov had hired through recommendations. A one-time gang member, he was now married with a growing family. Though Kateb eschewed violence in favor of management, he welcomed money. He’d already moved from freight handler to supervisor. With a fourth child on the way, he didn’t mind facilitating shipments of any kind where a cash stipend was involved.
“We have a problem. Two of your containers are missing.” Kateb spoke English.
Dyukov couldn’t believe it. In the nearly two years since they’d entered the business, no product had ever been mislaid, unless you counted the girl owned by the human trafficker, the one who jumped ship. Kemp prided himself on his near-perfect record. One container might go missing, but two?
“Are you sure?” he asked his contractor.
“Take a look.” Kateb handed him a manifest. The Monachus ship looked to be carrying machine parts bound for Algiers. The real cargo involved weapons that would find their way to central Africa. A simple shipment, a well-traveled route, a well-documented lack of interest as to what went into and out of that part of the world, a reliable client. What happened?
“Show me the other cargo,” Dyukov demanded.
“We need to drive over. Three minutes.”
They climbed into Kateb’s Toyota and drove the short distance to a small quay with a single warehouse. Dyukov noted the sleek new vessel with the outline of a seal docked adjacent. He nodded his approval. Kemp/Krüger still had the best-looking boats around.
The warehouse was dark and empty, save for for a pile of bags in one corner next to a small metal barrel and a single large cargo container in the center.
“What am I looking at?”
“Me.” A figure stepped out of behind the box, a clean-shaven man with dark hair and a belted trench coat that might be worn by a character from the nineteen forties. As he stepped closer, the Russian noted the other man’s peculiar eyes. More purple than blue, they glittered behind wire-rimmed glasses. The gun he held pointed straight at Dyukov.
“Nassir, what’s going on?” Dyukov demanded.
“I’m sorry, Arkady. You seem like an honorable man, as much as any of us can be. You made me an excellent offer. This gentleman simply made a better one.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kateb.” The stranger spoke with an American dialect. “You’ve received your payment. You might wish to leave now. No need for you to witness further unpleasantness.”
Nassir Kateb didn’t wait to be told twice. He exited quickly without looking back.
Dyukov hadn’t taken his eyes off the man with the gun. He couldn’t see any way to disarm him, but he continued to calculate the odds. “May I know what this is about?” he asked.
The man chuckled. “What’s it about? Let’s see. Anger, injustice, revenge, love, and hate, to begin with. Or perhaps something else. I see it as a smart business move, long overdue. Then again, I’m simply taking orders. For now.”
“Who is it you work for?”
“Let me ask you a question, Arkady Dyukov. How do you make someone disappear? I would guess in the course of your illustrious career you’ve had occasion to deal with that problem more than once. Given advances in forensic science, wiping out all evidence is challenging, isn’t it? I’m no scientist, but I would opt for chemicals.”
The man was a talker, Dyukov thought. That might turn into an opportunity.
“Walk over here. Now.” The gunman gestured with his gun to a small freestanding set of stairs that led up to the open container. “Climb, please. It’s easier if you go in over the top.”
Dyukov mounted the stairs until he was level with the lip of the container. He glanced down. If he acted quickly, if the man kept talking, he could jump him. He risked a fatal gunshot, but it was better than standing here waiting to see what this crazy person had in mind.
Before he’d moved so much as a muscle, the man fired, hitting him in the ankle. Dyukov yowled and tumbled into the container. He lay there for a moment or two, trying to get his bearings and will away the pain. The man appeared above him.
“Hello again. Sorry about the fall. I figured it was the best way of getting you inside. By the way, I neglected to introduce myself. I’m Lucas.”
He patted the inside of the container. “We’ve customized your new home. Look over in the lower corner behind you. You can turn around, can’t you? It’s just an ankle. Unless you hurt something else.”
Dyukov struggled to prop himself on one arm and looked over his left shoulder. He saw an opening, perhaps eighteen centimeters round, into which some sort of tubing had been fitted. He wondered where it led. Then he remembered the metal barrel.
“Sodium hydroxide, also known as lye,” Lucas said. “A high-volume industrial chemical, easily manufactured. Restricted, naturally, but readily available if you know where to look. Quite popular with the drug cartels, I understand. And Russian enforcers.”
Lucas climbed back down the stairs and walked a few steps. Dyukov heard the man grunt, as if engaged in a difficult physical task. Something creaked, perhaps a door or a lid. Half a minute later, the man’s face reappeared above the container, shiny and slightly flushed. Dyukov noticed an ominous gurgling sound.
“Had to use some muscle to turn the valve. The directions suggest I add a mixture of lye and water to a sealed chamber and then apply heat. I think hot water should do the trick, don’t you?” Lucas laughed. “I’m kidding. I don’t have any directions, just some pointers from a man whose services you’ve probably used.
“So. When everything cools down, we’ll dump the bags of fertilizer on top. What the Americans might call a shit sandwich. Finally, we’ll send the concoction out on one of Johan Krüger’s ships. Perfect, yes? I’d like to stay and watch, but I don’t want to risk getting hit by the backsplash. In fact, I should run. Flood’s coming.”
The gurgling became a roar as the lye-and-water mixture pushed through the tube and into the container. Dyukov had always known he might die violently. He had never envisioned such a hideous, ignoble death. He could barely think. “Wait, who is doing this?” he yelled.
“The answer may surprise you, Arkady.” Lucas called out a name as he scrambled back down the stairs and ran for the door. No sense risking his life. He locked the warehouse behind him. Others would come to take care of the follow-through. His part was over.
As for Arkady, he didn’t hear the man’s reply over his own tortured screams.
~
After leaving Marseille and the mess that used to be Arkady Dyukov, Lucas made his way over to the lovely seaside town of Cassis. He enjoyed a meal of mussels and fresh bread, along with a decent local rosé. Then he went back to his enchanting hotel to relax on the balcony that overlooked the harbor and the cliffs beyond. In one hand he held a cigar, in the other a cell phone.
“I’m glad we’ve ended up here,” he said to his caller. “I like this part of France. It’s really quite charming. Almost makes up for my time in London.”
“I’m delighted you can enjoy it, at least for tonight. You deserve some down time. Today must have been harrowing, not that I want you to share any details.”
“None will be provided. Where to now? Are we all gathering in Nice?”
“We are.”
“I assume that includes the former assassin?”
“Oh, yes. By this time, she’s received her invitation.”