The Operative

by Falconer, Duncan

  Skender remembered the Englishman who had telephoned him. ‘This cop, Draper, he told this Englishman it was Ardian and Leka?’

  ‘No. He told him nothing.’

  ‘Then how’d he find out?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Skender thought on that for a moment as he stared into Cano’s eyes. The Englishman had no doubt got Skender’s phone number from the same source who had given him the names. That had to be a pretty high-up source. ‘Why do you think he isn’t connected to anyone?’

  ‘This was a revenge killing.’

  ‘How would he know it was your brother who killed that Englishwoman if he’s not connected with someone who would know?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But he ain’t business. He don’t even live in this country. He came over because the Englishwoman was killed and the next thing is Bufi gets taken out and then my brother.’

  ‘And so he just happens to find out and marches into the Santa Monica courts, through a dozen cops, kills Bufi in his cell, escapes, then kills your brother right in front of you – and you think he’s just an ordin ary guy.’

  ‘Okay, so maybe he’s got talent. My point is, he’s not connected to us. This wasn’t about business. Look, boss, I know how sensitive things are right now. I’m not about to do anything stupid. Let me find out who he is, then I’ll come to you with what I’ve got.’

  ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘No, but I have an idea how to find out. I want this guy, boss. I’ve never asked you for anything before, but I’m asking now. It’s the Kanun of our fis. It’s the Kanun.’

  Skender walked away and stood looking into space while Cano watched him. Skender’s immediate impulse was to have Cano killed as soon as possible and end it there. But deep down he knew only too well the meaning of retribution for wrongs committed against one’s family. The Kanun was a set of norms that constituted the Albanian syndicate’s common law, a code that had been in place for centuries and was used by all the fis or tribes. It was the blood-bond that held the Albanians together and made them so much more dangerously different from other nationalities in the same business. Skender could not ignore it for it was in his own blood.

  Strangely, while listening to Cano, especially the part about his new nemesis being an Englishman, Skender had been reminded of his own youth, for it was a man from that country who had been responsible for the destruction of his entire family. Skender was from the Geg tribe who occupied the mountainous regions of Northern Albania. Unlike most of his current peers, Skender’s family had not been linked to crime but were strongly political. They’d been followers of Zog, the ousted King of the Albanians.

  When Mussolini invaded Albania in 1939 the King had fled to England. Geg chieftains, one of whom was Skender’s father, organised an anti-communist royalist group and in 1952, a few years after Skender was born, the King, whose son Skender was named after, joined a plot organised by the US and Britain to help the loyalists overthrow the Albanian communist government that had by then taken power.

  Hundreds of Albanian émigrés and refugees were recruited, many by Skender’s father, and infiltrated back into Albania for the coming fight. However, the plot was revealed to the commun -ists by the infamous British double agent Kim Philby. Practically every Albanian infiltrator and many of the Geg tribe, including Skender’s parents, were brutally murdered.

  Skender was barely six years old on the morning when the killers came to his village. There had been no warning. No one was to escape death, no matter what their sex or age. Skender remembered waking up to the noise of screams and gunfire. He climbed out of the bed he shared with his older brother and two sisters and ran to the window to see what was happening. The first sight he saw was the woman who lived across the road being dragged outside with her three children after her husband had already been shot. Skender watched in horror as they were killed by a combination of rifle fire and sword thrusts.

  Seconds later the front door to his own house was kicked open and more gunfire erupted. They killed Skender’s mother first and as his father rushed out of the back room with his gun raised he was cut down by a volley of fire from several government soldiers. Then came the sound of someone running up the stairs. Skender reacted instinctively. He jumped up onto the windowsill and pulled himself over it. As he hung on to the window frame the bedroom door burst open and shots rang out. A bullet smashed through the window and Skender let go to land hard on the small roof along the front of the house before rolling off and hitting the dirt road.

  A soldier immediately saw the little boy but instead of shooting he raised his sword and ran at him. Skender scrambled to his feet and sprinted around the side of the building with all the strength he could muster. The soldier followed but Skender knew his own backyard and, being a fraction of his pursuer’s size, was able to dart through a hole in a wooden fence as the sword swung down. He rolled down the steep slope in between the houses. Skender was free from that pursuer but there were many more soldiers in the village and the sound of wholesale slaughter had risen to a frenzy.

  Skender continued to run, not knowing where to go other than downhill since it gave him the greatest speed. He paused between two buildings to consider his options. The sounds of screams and shooting surrounded him and all he could think of was continu ing on to the bottom of the village, across the road and into the river.

  A bullet hit a wall inches away from Skender, painfully splattering his cheek with plaster. He looked up to see a soldier aiming a rifle at him from a window. The next bullet hit the ground between his feet and he was off running again, ducking between houses and sheds, pushing through flimsy fences that corralled various livestock and on until he reached a road. He ran across it without a glance in either direction. As he leaped up onto a bank on the other side a hand grabbed him by the neck, twisted him round as if he was a doll, and raised him off the ground.

  Skender could barely breathe. His vision blurred but he could see the huge grinning face of the communist soldier, a monster of a man with bad teeth and a beard. Skender pulled at the man’s gnarled fingers and kicked out with his shoeless feet in a vain effort to release himself. But the man just grinned, even as he removed a knife from its sheath and drew it slowly across Skender’s throat, cutting deeply into it. The man then walked a few yards, holding the boy at his side like a dead chicken, and unceremon -iously threw him into the swiftly flowing river that was full and freezing at that time of year. Skender plunged beneath the surface and was dragged and rolled along the gravel bed. He fought to reach the light and when he broke through to air he took in great gulps, unaware that much of it – as well as some water – was coming in through the slit in his throat. He had to fight not only to stay on the surface but also to keep his throat clear enough to take in precious air. He slammed into a boulder and managed to grab hold. Then, with a supreme effort, he pulled himself up onto it. While he gulped in air he could still feel fluid going down his throat and as he violently coughed and retched he could see that it was blood, not water. He gripped the wound and scrambled across some other boulders to the river bank, keeping a tight hold of his throat. He ran through a wood, not knowing where he was heading. Like a frightened, wounded animal he was desperate to find a cave or a hole to burrow into and hide.

  Skender must have covered half a mile or so, stopping every now and then to cough up blood that had trickled into his lungs. As he pushed on through a clump of bushes he was suddenly grabbed, pulled to the ground and held down by his shoulders. When he looked into the eyes of his attacker he saw that the man was not in uniform and that the people with him were villagers like himself. They were two families with several children and they all looked as frightened as him.

  Skender then started to choke uncontrollably and on seeing the blood gushing out of the slit in the boy’s throat the man quickly turned him over. Skender had been lucky. When the communist soldier had held him up to kill him he had pushed Skender’s head as far back as it could go, thereby
forcing the carotid arteries behind the front of his windpipe. When the knife had been drawn across his neck the windpipe had been cut but the blade had not penetrated deeply enough to sever the two arteries either side. Had Skender’s head been bent forward he would have died in seconds.

  As soon as Skender had recovered from his choking fit the man got him to his feet with warnings that they all had to get going. He forced Skender to keep his chin firmly pressed against his chest. One of the women placed a strip of cloth around his neck and after a while the bleeding subsided. Skender could now breathe without spitting up blood every few seconds.

  For several days he remained with the family as they made their way through the mountains, holding on to the person in front of him while keeping his chin pressed against his chest to keep the wound closed. Eating the soup they gave him was almost intolerable – every swallow caused a searing pain – but he forced himself to eat, aware that it was a matter of pain or death. Skender did not say a word the whole time, unable to speak. It was not until they reached a small farm within sight of Lake Shkodra on the western coast that he was taken to a professional healer.

  It was weeks before Skender could utter any kind of sound and more than half a year before he could form words again and talk loudly enough to be understood. People said his croaky little voice had a charm to it but that was only while he was young. As it began to break in his early teens it became deeper and more ominous, befitting the image of a man who’d clearly once had his throat slit.

  The man who had helped him that day brought him into his family’s drug-trafficking business and Skender began his working life as a courier. As the business grew and became more sophisticated Skender displayed a high degree of intelligence and ingenuity and was given a greater control of operations. Then he came up with the idea of opening a travel agency as a cover for the movement of drugs, illegal immigrants, prostitutes and arms into Italy and the rest of Europe. This increased his power still more. By his late thirties Skender had offices in Milan and Paris, two of the main gateways into Europe.

  With the death of his new father on Skender’s fortieth birthday he assumed control of a vast territory. By the mid-1980s the growth of his empire was being seriously impeded by his inability to launder the vast pile of cash and other undeclarable assets that he had amassed, thus preventing further investment. But then came the war in Kosovo.

  Having taken control of many aspects of the KLA’s operations against the Serbs, Skender immediately saw a further opportunity when the Americans got involved. He set up shop as a building contractor and when the rebuilding of Kosovo and Serbia began, financed by America, he spent his drug money on local workers and building materials and deposited the legitimate payments for his construction work in banks all over Europe and America. It was amazingly simple and he became a legitimate dollar billion-aire practically overnight.

  Despite being Muslim, a leader of an army as demonic and brutal as any SS outfit of World War Two and rumoured to have ties with the likes of Osama Bin Laden’s international terrorist network Skender’s overt anti-communism and pro-Americanism were credentials enough for him to be embraced by the Clinton administration. But better-informed critics warned that Skender was more like a phoenix rising from the ashes – and not necessarily on the side of the West.

  By the time that Skender was ready to build a legitimate operation in the United States and leave his ongoing and expanding crime organisation in Albania in the care of a syndicate of Bajraks or families that he had control over, he had gained huge US governmental support and made personal friends with a dozen senators and high-ranking officials in the administration. His plans remained largely unhindered with the arrival of the Bush administration but his prospects took a turn for the worse after 9/11 due to his terrorist connections.

  By that time Skender had invested a great deal in the US and he might have continued to operate just below the radar had an investigation into his Bajrak partners back in Albania not revealed a direct link with Bin Laden’s weapons-supply network in the period leading up to the Twin Towers strike. There was evidence to suggest that Skender’s narcotics- trafficking routes had continued to be used by the terrorist leader. Furthermore, Bin Laden was receiving funding for his activities directly from Albanian sources connected with Skender. At one point it looked as if Skender’s goose had been well and truly cooked.

  However, the man was not without a string or two to his bow and the survival instincts that had saved his life when he’d been a boy were as strong as ever. In the final analysis it was an American government that had given Skender the power he currently enjoyed. If necessary he could produce damning evidence of American financing and training of personnel who later became key players in the international terrorist arena. But that was not enough to keep him out of jail since the new administration, although not squeaky-clean itself, would not be overly concerned about any exposé of their predecessors’ dodgy foreign policies.

  Skender had to offer something substantial to keep the wolves at bay and he was quick to respond. He promised to provide information that would allow the Americans to monitor terrorist supply lines – and he indicated that he might be able to give them something even bigger. He suggested that he could one day deliver Bin Laden himself. This was a daring ploy but it had the desired effect and gave him time to reorg anise. The fact was that he could indeed be very useful in delivering Bin Laden to the Americans and they believed as much. But that would also pitch Skender from the frying pan into the fire, not just because of the danger from the Islamic militants under Bin Laden’s control but also because of the vast number of anti-westerners among his own people in Albania.

  The Americans understood that as well and were willing to give Skender the space to manoeuvre, but they would not sit back and allow him to dictate the schedule entirely. Serious problems in Iraq, Afghanistan and other parts of the world meant that they were anxious to see some worthwhile results from this special relationship. Time was running out for Skender: short of the big prize, no matter what he gave the Americans they would always want more. They would hound him until he delivered on his promise, with the clear-cut understanding that if Osama Bin Laden died in the interim Skender would be expected to deliver the terrorist leader’s replacement.

  To add to these troubles, Skender had been warned that all his current and future activities within the US had to be legitimate and above board. Regardless of any help he provided against international terrorism his deal was not a licence to run a crime syndicate. He was given a period of grace to get his business affairs in order and its end point was now in sight. That was why matters like the extracurricular activities of his employees and the murder of the Englishwoman were counter-productive for Skender’s plans. The transition from criminal activity to legitimate ditto was bound to have its problems.

  Ultimately, Skender wanted to be rid of all ties to his country -men. But the harsh truth was that he would always need their protection and the only way he could maintain that was to rule as an Albanian clansman. There was no way around it. He would have to let Cano have his revenge if he was to maintain stability within the ranks. It was the Kanun.

  Skender faced Cano and stared at him for a moment. ‘I want you to be sure of everything before you make a move on this man – do you understand?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  Skender drew closer to Cano so that his face filled his subordinate’s vision. ‘Don’t worry? Is that what you just said to me? Don’t you ever tell me what to do again, ever.’

  Skender walked off through the doors.

  Cano cursed himself for being so stupid. The comment had been a slip of the tongue but it had been the wrong time to make such a mistake. It was also a reminder that working for Skender was like riding a wild tiger – if he should ever lose his grip he would fall off and be torn apart. Cano had no illusions about his place in the operation and no ambitions to be anything more than what he already was to Skender. He could never take t
he reins. He was and would always be an outsider. Had things gone better for him in Kosovo perhaps he could have had his own Bajrak but that was now nothing more than a nostalgic dream. He often wondered when his usefulness would end and if he should flee before then and hope to find a place to hide. But Skender would be relentless: he would set the world against Cano who would be hunted down, for his crimes in Kosovo as well as for his betrayal of Skender. He was in limbo and as power -less as those condemned to dwell in that place of myth. But that was a concern for another time. Right now Cano was in a position of control and he also had a mission: to avenge his brother’s murder.

  Cano walked inside the building and followed Skender into one of several elevators, took a key-card from his pocket and slipped it into a slot. The doors closed. Seconds later the high-speed elevator accelerated between floors and came to a smooth stop at the top of the building.

  The doors opened and the two men stepped out onto a floor where workmen were laying cables and decorating surfaces. Skender and Cano walked along a curved corridor that was green glass on one side, revealing a large boardroom. Seated in luxury chairs were several men in expensive suits, most of them as old as Skender.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Skender beamed as he walked through the glass doors that slid open automatically as he approached. ‘Thank you for coming to my new offices.’

  The men got to their feet out of politeness but nothing else. It was clear that they were powerful men in their own right, a meeting of old lions who still possessed the sharpest of teeth and claws. They were a group of wealthy bankers and investors, all legitimate and all seeking to become even richer. In the centre of the room was a table with a large model of a modern residential and business community at the edge of a lake. Skender’s secretary was waiting for him and handed him a file while Cano pushed a button on the glass door. It slid closed, leaving him outside in the corridor and cut off from the meeting. ‘Okay, guys,’ he said to the construction workers in the corridor. ‘Time for a smoke break.’