The Russian Assassin by Jack Arbor

Author:Jack Arbor [Arbor, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-06-10T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 33

Minsk, Belarus

In a vacant apartment half a block down from their target, Cezar jolted awake from a fifteen-minute power nap. The naps were one of his trademarks, a skill that allowed him to go long periods without sleep. He glanced at the set of monitors in front of him, fast forwarded through the last fifteen minutes of footage, then looked at his watch. He walked across the empty living room, his hard-soled boots ringing out on the hardwood floor, and threw open the sliding door to the balcony. Using a pair of binoculars, he scoured the street in front of the target’s apartment. He watched for a few moments, seeing residents leaving the building. Oddly, the residents were working the door themselves. He waited for a minute, but didn’t see the doorman appear.

Then he scanned the street in front of the building, looking closely at each car. Cezar had a photographic memory, one of the many traits that made him a success at Nathan’s firm. Born in Tunisia, Cezar had left as a young teenager, and had never returned. Now he considered Italy his home, and was currently only tolerating his post in Minsk. He couldn’t find good food to save his life and the women were as cold as a Peroni, his favorite Italian beer. He took note and realized that three cars he’d seen before were no longer on the street: a Honda, a Renault, and a Lada. The street was emptying as the neighborhood’s residents left for work.

“Anything?” his partner asked. The young man was from Albania, and early on had shown himself to be a bigot toward Muslims. Cezar loathed the man, but knew he couldn’t always pick his team. Still, Nathan would be lucky if Cezar didn’t kill the Albanian before this operation was over.

“Nah,” Cezar said, still looking through the binoculars.

The Albanian tipped his chair back and picked his teeth with the tip of a combat knife. “This thing ain’t happening,” he said. “Shitty deal. He ain’t gonna show up here. He’s too smart for that.”

Cezar put the binoculars down and lit a cigarette. The less time he spent with the young idiot, the less likely he’d kill him, so he kept to the balcony. He put the binoculars back up to his eyes and scanned the street. Then he saw the tall man in the distinctive doorman’s jacket and cap walking hurriedly down the street, toward the building, carrying what looked like a bag of groceries. He watched as the doorman entered the building, then he resumed scanning the street. He was looking for any sign of their target, one Mikhail Asimov, a man whose face and mannerisms Cezar had memorized. A man who had killed many of Cezar’s operators. A man Cezar was becoming obsessed with defeating.

He took his time with the cigarette, watching the street below him. As he took his last drag, he heard the young Albanian shout out, “Hey, look at this!”

Cezar dropped the butt and ground it out with this foot, then picked it up and put it in his pocket.

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