by Thomas Ryan
Even as Halam spoke, Zahar was sidling up to the window to look into the street. ‘Halam, come here.’ The urgency in his voice alarmed Halam. In an instant he was behind Zahar peering over his shoulder. ‘The UN vehicle on the bend. See it?’
‘I see it.’
He viewed a group of men stood chatting next to a UN vehicle some distance away. Nothing unusual in that. Prishtina was full of UN vehicles and people. He kept watching. One of the men looked towards the hotel. Then the others.
‘Twice they have looked this way. See. There. See that?’
Halam shook his head. ‘I just see people talking in the street.’
‘They’re coming this way. One has his hand inside his jacket pocket.’
Halam peered more closely. This was no figment of his brother’s paranoia. He leaped to the bed.
‘Grab the bag. I’ll take the briefcase. We will use the fire door.’
The brothers hurried from the room and bounded down the flight of stairs two at a time. In the dimly lit corridor Halam punched the release lever on the safety assembly that secured the door. It didn’t budge. Halam uttered a curse.
Both brothers put their weight to the lever.
Barry and Basholli stood at the entrance to the lane that ran down the side of the hotel. Basholli drew his pistol and insisted on going first. With no gun to back any argument, Barry let him proceed. The lane opened onto an unkempt car park encircled by a brick security wall. Faded white lines marked spaces for six cars. They were empty. A bulky metal rubbish bin stood in the left-hand corner. There was no way out other than the lane behind them.
Barry’s eyes alighted on the fire-safety door. No handle on the outside. Basholli positioned himself at the corner of the lane.
‘We stay here. The best place. We can watch the door and lane at the same time.’
Barry gave the door a push. It didn’t move. ‘Okay. I don’t have any other plans, mate.’
The fire door burst open in his face.
Two figures collided with Barry, knocking him over. They stopped and looked at the man on the ground. Then at the gun in the hands of Basholli.
‘Holy shit,’ Barry spluttered. He scrambled to his feet and ran towards Basholli pointing back at the two men as he ran. ‘Halam Akbar. Stay right where you are.’
Barry saw a look of astonishment on Halam’s face. He and his brother exchanged lightning glances.
Basholli pushed Barry aside and brought up his pistol but Halam, following Barry, had closed the gap. The briefcase in his hand arced through the air knocking the pistol from Basholli’s hand. It skittered across ground into the fence several metres away. Basholli grunted and swung a punch. He missed Halam, but struck Zahar in the jaw. The smaller man reeled backwards. Basholli leaped on him and wrapped an arm around his neck. They fell to the ground.
Barry stood face-to-face with Halam. Halam growled. The wild animal sound caused an involuntary shiver to run the length of Barry’s spine. He twitched. Nervousness. He wiped the sweat from the palms of hands on his thighs. Steadying himself. He already had a fair idea what would happen next. He was ready. Halam ran straight and hard at him. Barry had played rugby all his life and packs of eighteen-stone forwards had run over him more times than he could count. He lowered his shoulders and dived into Halam’s legs, dropping him to the ground in a tackle that would have made his junior rugby coach proud.
Barry clung to Halam’s legs as if his life depended on it. Halam released hold of the briefcase to punch at the Australian. Barry was strong, but he was no street fighter. He took a blinding punch to the nose. A cry of pain and both hands went to his face.
Halam kicked free.
Out of the corner of his eye Barry saw Basholli drive his elbow into the side of his opponent’s head. The man went limp.
Halam saw it as well. An expletive in Arabic stung the air.
Barry scrambled to his knees. A deep breath as he prepared to get upright. But Halam was already standing over him. Barry rolled aside and swung both feet at Halam’s ankle. He missed, but connected hard with the suitcase. It slid away. Another roll and he was halfway to his feet.
‘Son of a pig.’
A string of Arabic obscenities powered Halam’s fist into Barry’s face.
Barry slumped back to hands and knees. Blood poured from his nose onto the asphalt. He fought the urge to throw up.
Basholli made a dive for his pistol. Barry saw Halam pause as if weighing his options. There was no way Halam could beat Basholli to the weapon. He turned and ran at the rubbish bin. With the agility of a cat he sprang onto the lid and disappeared over the wall.
Basholli snatched up his pistol and swung it towards Halam.
Too late.
A vicious Albanian curse met Barry’s ears. Then a disappointed Basholli made his way over to him.
‘He’s gone. You okay?’
‘Yeah, mate, I’ll live.’
Barry’s words came thick with blood. He had a good spit. Panting and with no strength to make it to his feet, he remained on hands and knees. Basholli surveyed the unconscious Zahar, then the wall over which Halam had vanished. Barry’s head shook.
‘No point in chasing after him. Let’s just hang on to this one. Besides, I don’t feel too good, mate.’
Basholli sat on the ground between Barry and the man he’d left prone and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. A slow roll and Barry was on his back, eyes closed.
Blackness claimed him.
When Barry came round, Lee Caldwell was kneeling beside him. He tried to rise. Caldwell placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Take it easy.’
‘Jesus, I’m sorry, mate. I tried to stop him, but I guess I’m not up to this sort of thing after all.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ve got one of them and we’ve got the money. I’m sorry I underestimated you. Good job.’
Barry tried a smile that morphed into a grimace. His mouth hurt and one tooth felt wobbly in its socket. ‘Really, Caldwell? You don’t think I’m a useless arsehole?’
‘Certainly not useless.’
‘Thanks. I think. Help me up, will you? I can’t lie here all day. Everyone will think I’m a flaming bludger.’
Caldwell extended a hand to help Barry to his feet. He swayed for a few seconds, his knees like jelly. Caldwell pulled one of his arms over his shoulder and helped him stay upright.
‘Jesus, I feel like I was hit with a sledgehammer.’
He raised a hand and made a tentative exploration of his forehead where the pain seemed to be centred. What felt like an ostrich egg met his fingertips. His eyes fell on Zahar who had struggled to a sitting position, back against the wall. The bomber’s eyes were ignoring the pistols Basholli and Sulla had trained on him.
‘I think we keep this to ourselves?’ Barry said. ‘I’d rather Bethany didn’t know I got beaten up. It would just upset her.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be able to hide anything, Barry,’ Sulla laughed, but his eyes were concerned. ‘Best go see a doctor straight away. You might have a concussion.’
Caldwell’s two men arrived a half-hour later in an unmarked four-wheel drive. One of them climbed out and jerked Zahar to his feet. Basholli and Sulla kept their pistols aimed at Zahar’s chest until he was handcuffed.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ Caldwell said. ‘If we need anything else from you, we’ll be in touch.’
With Zahar tossed into the back like a side of beef and covered with a tarpaulin, Caldwell climbed into the passenger seat. A salute and he was gone.
Barry looked from Basholli to Sulla. ‘Well, guys, I guess that’s Yank for “thank you and now you can all fuck off”. I better let Jeff know what’s happened.’
49.
Halam bought a razor and shaving cream from a minimarket.
In the cafe next to the fried chicken kiosk
, he locked himself in the toilet. There was no mirror but the image reflecting off the rear window would suffice. He sprayed foam into his hand and dabbed it over his face. A rip as the plastic covering on the razor came off and he began scraping.
Leka. The name burned in his mind. Zahar had been right. Leka must have betrayed them. Halam rinsed the razor clear of hair then continued attacking the remainder of his goatee. Leka had said he was leaving the country. Tonight. Halam doubted the double-crossing bastard would have left just yet. Certainly not in the last hour.
Halam now needed money more than ever. Leka would have cash on him. Staking out the prosecutor’s office for a few hours seemed a sensible move. If Leka did not show in that time he would head for the border. They would meet again, and he swore in his brother’s name he would squeeze Leka’s throat until his eyeballs burst.
He tried to resist giving any thought to helping his younger brother. The two had long ago agreed that risking the freedom of one in an attempt to rescue the other in the event of capture was off the table. A pointless exercise. The survivor was not to dwell on the other’s fate. But words said without pressure are easy. Now the anticipated moment had arrived, Halam was finding it difficult to subdue feelings of outrage and loss. Would he truly never see his brother again?
Halam drew a thumb across his chin. Smooth. Water splashed over his face and he reached for the small towel. The thought of where it might have been struck him. He used the sleeve of his coat instead. The clothes he bought from a store five doors away were not a good match but they changed his appearance and that was all that mattered. Now, any description the authorities might issue of him would be of little use. Beard gone, he looked like any run-of-the-mill store worker.
Halam’s old clothes found a new home in a rubbish bin at the rear of the cafe. Out on the street again, he tagged on behind a group of locals heading in the direction of Leka’s office. For whatever reason, Avni Leka had cost Zahar his freedom. He would answer for it.
Leka scanned the street. From his office vantage point nothing came into view that should cause him anxiety. Certainly no UN vehicles. The only activity was that of labourers pushing barrow loads of cement up wooden ramps.
Time to leave.
He pushed the pistol into his belt. He had debated leaving it in the car but decided against it. If he was captured by the CIA he well knew what they would do to him. He had no intention of being taken alive. With a small box of documents under his arm, he made his way back down the staircase.
The two court officers were reading the newspapers and chatting behind the glass of the lunchroom. He waved in their direction. One of them lifted a hand, then returned to their conversation. No one was about to bother a man of Leka’s status.
When he reached to the car he threw the carton onto the back seat and climbed in. As the motor roared into life he felt he could relax a little. Nothing but road stood between him and the border. He pushed the automatic lever into drive. But before he could release the brake, the passenger door opened. Leka’s heart jumped into his throat. The hostile, piercing eyes of the man sliding into the seat beside him were those of Halam Akbar. The end of a knife pricked at his jugular.
‘We meet again, Mr Prosecutor. As you can see I am alone. And I am not happy.’
As Leka gasped for air, a hand patted around his chest then moved down stopping on the bulge just above his groin. A swift movement. With a grim smile Halam brandished Leka’s pistol before his face.
‘Mine, I think. Now we can go. Drive.’
Jeff and Morgan sat talking but navigated clear of the topic Jeff most wanted to discuss. Rod Stewart’s husky voice sung his songs of love at a low volume on Morgan’s car stereo. The rattle of a concrete mixer came from across the street. Men waiting for the mix to blend smoked and stared through the window at the couple in the four-wheel drive. Jeff tried to ignore the way they ogled Morgan. And the remarks and jerky hand movements at crotches that brought toothy grins. Morgan appeared not to notice.
A deep breath and Jeff decided he would have to take the initiative.
‘Um. The other day, you know? I wanted to stay. I should have stayed.’
Even as he said it, Jeff cringed. His words sounded whiny and not at all as he’d intended. But in retrospect, to have left with Caldwell the morning after they had made love for the first time was bad behaviour. And the more he looked at it the more the dimensions of badness grew. And not returning later in the day made it all the more inexcusable. What could he say to her? That he preferred to kill a man rather than spend the day in bed with her.
The lightness of Morgan’s laugh unnerved him. ‘I’m a big girl, Jeff. You had your priorities. I just wasn’t top of the list.’
Jeff winced. He’d rather she punched him in the stomach. ‘Oh Christ. You’ve got it all wrong. Look, I’m not that great an operator. With women, you know? I’m all bloody thumbs and I know it. Christ, Morgan. I . . . I don’t want us to end.’
Morgan regarded him with an innocent arch of the eyebrows. ‘Well. You’re not all thumbs.’
He knew she was teasing him. He wanted to taste her lips, to smell her hair, feel her against him. He leaned towards her, so close he could feel her breath against his skin. She opened her mouth with a whisper.
‘Jeff.’
‘Yes.’
‘I think that’s Leka leaving.’
Jeff’s head shot around to face Leka’s building. ‘Bloody hell.’
Despite their nervous tension, Morgan allowed a laugh as Jeff started the motor. She touched his arm. Not the same, but it would do Jeff for now.
Barry picked up the phone on the second ring.
‘Barry, it’s Morgan. Leka came out of the building and walked to the end of the street. He had a car parked there. Another man got in with him. We’re following.’
‘The other man. About five foot ten, suit, black hair, dark skin, goatee beard?’
‘Yes, all that except for the clothes and the goatee.’
Sulla and Basholli must have picked up the gist of the conversation. They gathered close with heads down listening.
‘Okay, so he’s changed his clothes and shaved. Don’t play games with these blokes, Morgan. They’re most likely packing.’
‘We’ve turned onto the main road to Prizren. Passing the bus station now.’
‘They’re doing a runner. I guarantee they’ll take the left-hand fork at the Italian shopping complex and head for the border. I’m going to contact Caldwell. I’ll call back in a few minutes. Save your battery. You may be needing it.’
Barry rang off and met Sulla’s excited look. ‘Leka picked up a passenger and I’ll bet all the beer this side of the black stump that it’s the bastard who escaped us at the hotel. They’re scarpering for the border. Jeff and Morgan are following.’
Sulla rattled off some Albanian to Basholli. He nodded. Sulla turned back to Barry. ‘Blerim will alert his men in the border area to watch for Morgan’s Range Rover, then he and I will head out after Jeff and Morgan. They have a ten-minute start but with a bit of luck and a few traffic hold ups we might catch up.’
‘Good idea. Hand me your mobile please, Bethany.’ Barry checked the digital display and wrote the number on a piece of paper. He handed it to Sulla. ‘Only call me on that number. I’ll keep my line free for Morgan and Jeff.’ Barry turned a wide grin on Sulla. ‘And Sulla . . . be bloody careful out there, mate. Huh. I’ve always wanted to say that.’
Sulla frowned at him. ‘Why?’
‘Oh. It’s an Aussie thing. Forget it.’
As the downstairs door slammed behind Sulla and Basholli, Barry was dialling Lee Caldwell’s mobile.
50.
Lee Caldwell, his team and Zahar Akbar bounced about as the four-wheel drive crossed over the unused rail line and onto the potholed dirt road that ran through the Prishtina industrial area. The brow of Draga
don Hill brooded above. The remnants of factories and warehouses now lying in piles of rubble bore testament to NATO bombing raids. Some had been cleared enough for use as lumber and construction yards.
The driver stopped in front of one of the few remaining structures that still resembled a building. The tile roof looked unstable and giant slabs of plaster render had fallen from the walls exposing the red brick. But it would do. Caldwell picked his steps across sodden ground, steering clear of puddles that could easily disguise metre-deep holes. The side door, barely attached to its hinges, gave way without the need of the key he had been given.
After a few tugs the rusted chain freed up and the roller door creaked and groaned its way upward. When it was high enough to allow the vehicle to pass beneath, Caldwell signalled the four-wheel drive in. He kept his weight on the chain until it passed, then let go. The door juddered back to the ground, the crash of metal on concrete reverberating throughout the empty warehouse.
Pins of sunlight pierced through holes in the many broken roof tiles. But not quite enough to illuminate the dusty interior. Echoes resounded from the click of Caldwell’s leather-soled shoes on the concrete as he walked to a junction box and opened the cover. His peering eyes discovered what looked like a master switch. He flicked it and two naked bulbs hanging from exposed beams came alive. The light was fairly feeble, but it was enough to brighten the interior. Other than some broken wooden pallets against the back wall, the warehouse was empty. Caldwell went into the small office. He pulled on a cord hanging from the ceiling. A fluorescent light flickered into life. A single table and two chairs stood in the centre of the room. It was all he would need. ‘Bring him in,’ he called out.
Zahar tried to break free from his two escorts but he was no match for the brawny ex-marines. They dumped him into the chair Caldwell had placed against the wall. Then Caldwell pushed the table into his prisoner’s gut, effectively immobilising him. Zahar spat in contempt. Caldwell ignored it. Pistol at the ready and aimed at Zahar’s head, the driver backed away to stand in the doorway.