‘I know how much you value these scintillating chats of ours,’ he continued, ‘and I wouldn’t want you to think I was ignoring you if I don’t pop by for a while.’
‘Don’t let me keep you, then,’ she whispered, the sound raw, like sandpaper.
‘Great,’ he said cheerfully. ‘So we are talking. That’s nice. Shall I tell you about this new job? Well, it’s not really a job yet, but I’ve got a feeling it’s about to be.’ No reaction, so he ploughed on. ‘You know you get an instinct about some things? Of course you do — you’re ex-Six: you get injected with instincts when you join, don’t you? Well, I’ve got a feeling this one’s going to be nasty.’ He was rambling deliberately, hoping for a response. Anything was better than none, even insults. She didn’t disappoint.
She moved her head slowly and looked at him. Her eyes were cold, dark, empty. ‘Fuck off, Tate.’
TWELVE
The Swedish Embassy was on the Avenue Louise, a main artery into Brussels constantly full of speeding traffic. On either side of the route were exotic and attractively lit shops, nudging shoulders with elegant houses and faceless office blocks, many behind ornate iron gates and security systems.
A notice on the embassy wall said the building was closed. Kassim saw a policeman standing just inside the doors, and a camera peering down at him. He walked another two hundred paces, then turned back, unfolding the street map in the manner of a bemused tourist. The play-acting took him no more than two minutes, by which time he had seen no sign of visitors and absorbed all there was to see of the building.
He turned into a side street and consulted the binder. Arne Broms was a big man, pasty and rounded, eyes dull and uninterested. He would have little problem in recognizing him. Soldiers attached to the embassy, the binder told him, were billeted in a section house nearby. He checked the address. It was no more than three streets away.
He followed the map and found that the section house was just that — a house. He couldn’t tell how secure it was, but a camera over the front door made a direct entry too risky. He walked on, stuffing the map in his pocket, formulating a plan. He could not spend too much time here; it was too open. He had to move before he got noticed. As he turned the next corner, which was a deserted building site behind boards of marine ply, he found himself face to face with a man coming the other way. Kassim almost gasped with the shock of recognition.
It was his target: Broms.
The Swede was wearing a nylon windcheater and carrying a plastic shopping bag. He looked bored and unprepared, ripe for what Kassim had to do.
Kassim reached for the knife, every instinct telling him do it — now! But then the moment had passed, the opportunity for surprise lost. He continued down the street, the muscles in his back twitching, and a feeling of failure eating at him. If only he had been more alert! He could have been away before the Swede had stopped breathing.
Except that would not have been the right way to do it.
The man had to know.
Later that afternoon, Kassim returned to the street and ducked into the building site. After two hours, he saw the Swede emerge from the section house. He was now in uniform, shoulders back and head up, a man transformed by duty.
Kassim was feeling the strain. It had to be now. There was a flight the following morning, if luck favoured him. But that depended on completing what he had come here for, and in this city environment, opportunities in broad daylight were rare.
Then he saw his chance. Broms was heading towards him. Kassim began to breathe faster, his heart thumping in his chest. He had already worked out what to do, and now the opportunity was here.
He checked the street both ways. It was deserted. Broms was coming down this side, striding confidently, big arms swinging. He wouldn’t be an easy man to simply grab hold of as he went past.
Kassim stepped out of the building site and walked diagonally across the street, his back to Broms. As the Swede came abreast of the empty plot, Kassim spun on his heel and slid the rucksack from his shoulder. The knife was resting point down on one side, next to the Makarov wrapped in the towel. But the gun would be too noisy. It had to be the knife.
He ran the last few paces, silent even in the western shoes. At the last second Broms heard him. The man turned, his mouth open, but too late. Kassim hit him full on and plunged the knife with all his strength into the Swede’s ribs. There was a popping sound followed by a groan, then the momentum of Kassim’s attack carried both men tumbling through the nearest section of boarding on to the building site. The knife was wrenched aside by the Swede’s body falling away from him, but Kassim followed him down, landing on top of the other man with a grunt, dropping his rucksack to the ground nearby. He drove his knees either side of Broms’ chest, pinning him down, then thrust a hand in his pocket and took out the piece of blue cloth he had shown to Orti.
The Swede was still alive, stunned, a faint spot of pink froth bubbling at his mouth. His eyes rolling in pain and shock, he focussed on Kassim. ‘What-?’ he muttered, uncomprehending. He flapped his arms, trying to dislodge his attacker, but his strength was fading quickly. ‘What?’
Suddenly Kassim wanted done with it. He shoved the piece of cloth under Broms’ nose, waiting until the man’s eyes rolled round to look at it. Just for a second, there was a sign of something, a dim light deep in the pupils. Then nothing.
‘I don’t. .’ Broms sighed and tried one more time to lift himself off the ground. Then the life force drained out of him in a rush.
Kassim twisted his wrist and pulled the blade from the dead Swede’s side. A small gout of blood leaked on to the soil beneath. He slid the knife point under the edge of the windcheater and sliced open the man’s clothing, exposing his chest.
When he was finished he jumped up and wiped the blade on the dead man’s uniform, before stuffing it into his rucksack. As he turned to leave, he saw an old woman standing across the street. She was staring at him, then at the body of Broms on the ground.
For an old woman she had a scream like a banshee, the noise echoing off the buildings and raising the hairs on the back of Kassim’s neck. It was too late to stop her, so he stepped through the broken boarding and walked away quickly down the street.
Two minutes later, he was among shoppers and homeward-bound workers, just one face among many.
THIRTEEN
‘Harry?’ It was Ken Deane, later that evening. Harry had his television on with the sound off, thinking about what he had to do. Deane sounded angry. ‘I’m on a secure line. Another man’s down.’
‘Who?’
‘Arne Broms. He was stabbed in Brussels this afternoon, near the Swedish Embassy. Word just came through.’
Harry felt a tightening in his stomach. Broms the driver. Big, solid, careful. Not an easy man to take down.
‘What are the locals saying?’ He was sure Deane’s office would already have been in touch with the Belgian police, no doubt pushing as discreetly but as firmly as possible for the basic details.
‘They’re playing wise monkeys. They think it must have been a political act. Do you believe that? I mean, who the hell gets snitty with the Swedes, for Chrissakes?’
‘You think it was the same as Orti?’
A long sigh filtered down the line. ‘Yeah, pretty much. There was a witness to the killing: an old lady who freaked out with the shock. Kept shouting about “a man with dark eyes. . a man with dark eyes”. They haven’t got a useful word out of her since.’ He coughed. ‘It chimes with something the Paris police said. A couple of barflies where Orti had his last drink said there was a man with dark eyes in the cafe.’
‘What was Broms doing in Brussels?’
‘He was on secondment to the embassy, Two I/C of their security section. The embassy’s closed down but they had a skeleton staff packing up and needed a security presence. Broms rotated shifts with two other guards, and lived in a section house nearby. He died of a single stab to the side. The cops say his chest had been mutilated. I asked
for pictures, but they haven’t sent them through yet.’
Harry thought about what kind of man could kill two experienced soldiers with such apparent ease. First Orti, who would know every possible move of rough-house fighting going, then Broms, big enough to shrug off most men with little effort. Whoever the killer was, he had used the element of surprise backed up with lethal skill.
Deane said, ‘You remember Anton Kleeman?’
‘How could I forget?’ Harry almost had, until now. He vaguely recalled a handsome man in his early forties, smooth and urbane, with the healthy glow of the outdoors common to many Americans; a professional politician but not one you would necessarily like unless he wanted it.
‘Well, he’s moved up the UN totem pole since Kosovo. He’s now a Special Envoy and nobody’s taking bets that he doesn’t try for one of the top jobs one day. He’s got the clout and influence to get his hat in the ring; he just needs something to propel him the last few rungs of the ladder.’
Harry wondered where this was leading. He soon found out.
‘He called a press conference earlier today in New York. It was supposed to be a follow-up briefing dealing with reports about brutalities committed by UN forces in Africa. Word is, he was using it to beef himself up prior to a number of Security Council meetings. There was certainly no need for any briefing on the subject today. Unfortunately, he got sandbagged about the alleged rape and murder in Kosovo.’
‘Which he discounted?’
‘Which he did not. He actually said the matter would be fully investigated and the guilty trooper, even if no longer serving, would be charged and punished.’
‘But it was twelve years ago.’
‘Some other allegations are even older — the accusations against the British in Kenya. . against the US in Vietnam and Cambodia, the UN in Haiti and Somalia. Memories are long when it comes to injustices.’
It wasn’t what Harry had meant; he’d been thinking of the time span compared with more recent allegations. But Deane was right: there was no statute of limitations for accusations against nation states. ‘What happened?’
‘You can imagine. When he said “trooper”, the Times reporter nearly had an orgasm.’ Deane huffed down the line. ‘Man, what an asshole.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ said Harry, sensing it was his turn.
Deane didn’t even express surprise. ‘Ideally, find the rest of the team. Go talk to them. . Koslov, Bikovsky, Pendry. . see if they’ve got anything to hide. Oh, and the compound guard, too. See what they say, did they have any scams going on the side involving girls in the compounds — that kind of thing.’
‘Why should they tell me anything?’
‘You’re one of them. They’ll talk to you. They won’t give me Jack shit.’
‘They’ll know what I’m doing, though — who I’m reporting to.’
Deane came straight back. ‘Listen, we’ve got two ex-KFOR guys who’ve been hit and I need to find out why. We wouldn’t want this to become a habit.’
‘You still think the killings are connected with the rumours about the girl?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ Deane sounded exasperated. ‘You know how it works: make enough noise and people start to believe you, no matter how wild or how far back it goes. Piggyback on the shoulders of fresh reports about the same organization doing stuff it shouldn’t, and it gets easier to take at face value.’
‘Have the two murders been reported?’
‘Only locally. But not the full details — and nothing about the links to the UN. So far we’re managing to keep a lid on it. Just two soldiers murdered. It happens all the time.’
Harry felt a momentary doubt. He was still adjusting to life after leaving MI5, building up contacts and getting himself known. In a crowded security field, with a lot of Special Forces people also out there looking for work, he couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.
Yet a part of him was intrigued by the possibilities Deane had to offer. Working undercover was dangerous, lonely and in the end no guarantee of good health if you stuck at it too long. But this wasn’t strictly undercover. And it wasn’t for ever.
‘What about the other KFOR units over there?’ he asked. ‘We weren’t the only ones.’
‘No incident reports have come in — I checked.’ Deane had a smile in his voice, like a dog suddenly presented with a juicy bone. ‘Not one single death among ex-UN or KFOR personnel that wasn’t a certified accident.’
Harry relented, as he’d known he would. This wasn’t going away, and he’d rather face up to the situation than let it come and find him. ‘All right.’
‘Good man. I’ve booked you a seat on board a US Coast Guard flight out of Northolt tomorrow. It took some doing, but it’ll save a lot of hassle.’
‘That was a hell of an assumption.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t have time to hang around. We need to find the source of this rumour and whether it’s connected with Orti or Broms. And to safeguard the other men you need to track them down and talk to them — hard if needs be.’
‘Is that what you want me to do — protect them? Or find the guilty man?’
Deane didn’t hesitate. ‘Do what you have to, Harry. It’s all the same in the end.’
Harry wondered how much of his life they had gone through in the last few days; how much detail they had sifted through, how many people they’d talked to. This business was snowballing fast, and some influential strings must have been pulled to get all this organized. If Deane had already spoken to Ballatyne, it was likely that MI6 had provided a full briefing on Harry’s background. But to do that and sign it off, they must have had complete confidence in his record in Kosovo. ‘Fine. When’s the briefing?’
‘You just had it. A file with the addresses of each man and their current or last known whereabouts will be delivered with a UN security clearance to your hotel in New York.’
‘I haven’t told you where I’m staying yet.’
‘No need. I arranged that, too. Oh, and I’m arranging for a sidearm and permit to be delivered, too. Just don’t go waving the gun around in public. The cops in New York are a little sensitive these days.’
This was outside anything Harry had heard about non-US law enforcement agency or military personnel being allowed to carry weapons in the country. It was a measure of how seriously Deane was taking the issue. ‘Is it really necessary?’
‘I think so. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. He’s taken Orti and Broms, so everyone else is at risk including you.’
‘In that case, you’d better throw in a spare.’
If Deane wondered why he wanted a second weapon, he saw no reason to argue. ‘Will do. You OK with this?’
‘I’m fine.’ Harry didn’t mind being a sacrificial goat — as long as the goat could show some teeth. ‘How many people can you throw at this on the research side?’
‘As many as I’ve got. Why?’
‘You’re going to need them. Get them trawling through airline schedules. Look for single male travellers coming out of Afghanistan, Pakistan and India, and moving on across to Europe.’
‘Why not two? It would look more natural. And how do we know it’s a man?’
‘Two would stand out and increase the likelihood of mistakes. This person took out two experienced soldiers; a woman wouldn’t have the strength.’ The exception, he thought, was Clare Jardine, who had guile and speed instead. ‘A woman would have to get close first, to gain their confidence. He’s not doing that — he’s going for it.’
‘OK, so one man. He could have a change of ID for each flight.’
‘He may well have. But changes of documentation take more planning and increase the risk of getting caught. I think he’ll keep it to the minimum.’
‘Shit. Thanks a bunch, Harry. You’ve just made this thing ten times — pardon my French — fucking worse.’
‘It’s a crunching exercise. You might get lucky.’
‘Yeah, I can hope. Maybe if he’s an Afghan, he�
�ll stand out.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that. Look at Hamid Karzai: take away his cloak and hat and he’d pass as French, Italian or Spanish.’
‘Ah, shit, Harry, do you give lectures in this kind of stuff?’ Deane sounded depressed.
‘It’s elementary. Hear a man’s name and you stop thinking about what he looks like.’
‘Thanks, Sherlock. Anything else you want to hit me with?’
‘Just one thing. Assuming this business is connected with Kosovo, neither Orti nor Broms was still assigned to the UN.’
‘Right. So?’
‘So how did the killer know where to find them?’
It was a second or two before Deane grasped the implications. When he spoke, it was softly, a realization that there was a leak in the bucket. ‘Oh, shit.’
At Brussels airport, Kassim boarded his flight at the earliest opportunity, to avoid being too long under the scrutiny of the other passengers, and took his seat at a window. He buckled himself in and pulled down the blind, then closed his eyes and settled back. He had no desire to engage in pointless conversation, as his English was sufficient but not fluent. People noticed and remembered accents, his trainers had pointed out. Especially around international flights.
There had been no element of irony in the speaker’s voice at this statement.
The rucksack was on the floor behind his legs. He’d regretted having to get rid of the gun and hunting knife, but he could replace both and more on arrival in New York. Until then, he had to remain as unobtrusive as possible. He’d made a point of eating beforehand, so he would not need to be disturbed by the flight attendants.
He thought momentarily about the Swede. Another one who had appeared not to know what was happening. It puzzled him. Unless the man’s mind had rejected all memory of the past. In any event, he had died well, if too quickly. Kassim shook off the image and tried to focus on the next task ahead. But he couldn’t help the thoughts crowding in, as they always did. He had seen too much over the years.
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