Retribution ht-4

by Adrian Magson

  Twenty minutes later, he was several blocks from Carvalho’s apartment, walking at a deceptively fast pace. He felt very thirsty again, and recognized the after-effects of shock. He needed a sweet drink. He saw a coffee shop and ducked inside, where he ordered black tea and a glass of cold water. He took his drinks to the back of the room and poured copious amounts of sugar into the tea. The glucose would help settle his nerves. The shakes would come soon, as they always did. Once it was over, he could be on his way. The pain in his side was subsiding and he forced it to the back of his mind.

  Above the counter a television gave out the evening’s news. Kassim watched as a familiar face appeared, smiling off-camera. The man turned to climb a set of steps into an aircraft, followed by two security guards. The news anchorman came back to remind viewers that they were witnessing UN Special Envoy Anton Kleeman departing for a series of important meetings in China, France and Great Britain.

  Kassim watched with only vague interest. Kleeman’s face was in his binder, but the UN man was not important. Not right now.

  He pulled his rucksack towards him, checking that the sharpened screwdriver was concealed. Then he took the binder from his pocket and tore out the page relating to Carvalho.

  When he left the coffee shop thirty minutes later, the crumpled page went into a trash can at the end of the street. He walked until he saw an ATM, then took out Carvalho’s card and licence, and fed the card into the slot. When prompted, he keyed in the four-digit number. He had never owned a credit card, but something he’d learned in training was that people often wrote down the number required to access their account.

  Seconds later, he was holding a sheaf of money in his hand.

  He sat up. Light was filtering through the wrecked building, and with it the buzz of traffic. It was morning. He’d noticed the place the previous night, seeing a drunk slipping through a gap in some wood fencing around a development site. Beyond the fence the building rose high in the night sky, the window apertures empty of glass, with long, plastic rubbish tubes hanging from the gaps like the intestines of a gutted sheep. Cautiously, he’d eased through the gap in the fence.

  The drunk had disappeared, muttering and cursing, unaware of Kassim’s presence. A sharp, feral smell of sweat mixed with alcohol drifted back to Kassim’s nose, unpleasant and alien.

  Kassim had been so intent on not tripping, he’d missed the second man. There was a sudden movement in the dark, and he’d felt an arm wrap itself around his face. The pungent smell made his stomach heave. He was slammed against a wall, his face digging into the plaster and his ribs burning with pain.

  ‘No pass!’ a voice had grated in his ear, a spray of spit against his skin. ‘You ain’t got no fucking pass, you don’t come in without no fee!’

  Kassim had tried to heave the man around, but it was like trying to move a tree. In the background another voice, distant and higher up, wanted to know what was happening.

  ‘Gotta intruder,’ the man breathed, voice barely loud enough to be heard, as though wanting to keep his find to himself. ‘Got a silent, tiptoeing intruder wants to take our rights away. Think I’ll kill the sumbitch ’n take his rights, instead.’ There was a snick of metal and the man giggled, high-pitched and unnatural.

  Kassim pushed against the wall, the muscles of his back contracting at the thought of the knife and furious at the idea of being stopped in his task, not by the police or the UN, but by one of New York’s dispossessed.

  ‘The fuck’s goin’ on down there?’ someone yelled, and a bottle exploded nearby, showering them with splinters. ‘Izzat you, Tuck — you fuck?’

  The man behind Kassim hesitated. It was enough. Kassim heaved himself backwards, slamming his head into the man’s face, feeling bone and cartilage crumble. A grunt of pain and something metallic clinked on the floor in the darkness.

  ‘Tuck? Fuck you doin’, man?’

  Kassim turned. Angry and in pain, he yanked the man towards him, no longer capable of stopping even had he wanted to. The man tried to pull away, sensing Kassim’s greater fury and strength. But it was too late. Kassim spun him round and took his head in his hands, feeling long greasy hair and an unshaven jaw. Wrapping his fingers in the man’s hair, he gave a ferocious jerk and heard a crunch as his neck snapped.

  A scrape on the stairs warned him of more danger. Kassim turned and moved deeper into the building, searching for a hole in which to hide.

  He found another stairwell, and a door leading out to a bare patch of ground. It was an escape route. He settled down just inside the doorway, exhausted, pulling sheets of cardboard packaging around him. It was enough to keep him dry. Within seconds he was asleep.

  Now it was time to move. With daylight, the area might be flooded with police, searching every available inch of space. He had no idea how the New York police would react to the death of a soldier, but he had to assume the worst.

  He had to leave.

  He moved out of the building, picking his way carefully through the debris and builders’ rubble, not pausing to look back. He walked until he saw a coffee bar with computers on tables around the room. It was an internet cafe. In the back was a washroom. It wasn’t open yet but a couple of skinny youths were slouched outside, waiting for a fix of their favourite narcotic.

  Kassim joined them. He needed the tickets and documents for the next two stages of his journey. He knew he could call on Remzi in person or phone him, but it was safer to use email. He would pick them up at a prearranged point away from the agency, since he didn’t trust the man to have kept himself secure. Then he would be on his way.

  EIGHTEEN

  Harry was at Newark, about to board a military flight for Columbus, Georgia, when his phone rang. It was Deane.

  ‘The police have confirmed the identity of the dead man: it’s Carvalho, the US Marine who was riding shotgun on convoys.’

  ‘What was he doing in New York?’

  ‘Attending a friend’s wedding and staying at an apartment on the Lower East Side. Early estimates say he was stabbed sometime last night. The scene-of-crime officer thinks it was some sort of shank. He’d also got the letters “UN” cut into his chest.’

  A shank: a rough stabbing instrument with a sharpened point. The killer seemed to favour cold steel. Was that to ensure a silent kill or did it show a sadistic touch?

  ‘It’s the same man.’

  ‘Right. Forensics is still going over the scene and we’ll have copies of their report later, but they said the place was bust up, like after a fight. An ex-grunt down at the local precinct had served tours with the UN in Nicaragua. He saw the detail of the mutilation and figured we’d like a heads-up.’

  ‘I thought Carvalho went to Pristina with the convoy? Why would the killer target him?’

  ‘Maybe he switched duties with one of the others. No way of knowing. Whoever is doing this is going through the names he’s been fed by Demescu. He’s not stopping to ask where they were on the night — he’s taking them all out.’

  ‘You’d better warn the other guard in the UK,’ suggested Harry. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s being taken care of.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A local Vietnamese shopkeeper told them a man had been watching the place earlier. Thin, he said, dark-eyed but not black. . and foreign.’

  ‘What made him say that?’

  ‘He said he looked too fit, unlike most Americans. One minute he was there, the next he’d disappeared. He thought he heard some noise coming from upstairs, but that’s not unusual in the area.’

  Harry felt things were getting out of hand. He wondered how the killer had known of Carvalho’s movements. He soon got his answer.

  ‘As soon as you left we re-checked Demescu’s audit trail. In the last couple of days she made a point of accessing various military files, checking the whereabouts of the men on the list still serving. She was looking for changes of detail, postings, troop movements — anything that affected their locat
ions. The only one relevant was the US Marine Corps database with details of Carvalho’s leave application. She did it minutes before she left, the same time she picked up on your assignment to the UN. I’m sorry, Harry, that was my fault: I’ve kept this quiet for the most part, but I had to make a record of your involvement with the UN to back up the firearms licence and the ID card. Demescu used a search engine to pull up your name. She’ll have seen the notes I made.’

  The idea that whoever was behind Demescu and the killer now knew where he was gave Harry an uncomfortable feeling between the shoulder blades. He was accustomed to working in the shadows, not having his location on display like a fridge magnet. ‘What about Demescu?’ he asked. ‘Anything on her yet?’

  ‘We’re still looking. I don’t think we’ll see her again. She’s probably out of the country by now.’

  ‘Whoever was using her,’ said Harry, ‘must have thought burning an asset like that was worth it.’

  ‘Unless she was being coerced. We don’t know what her family situation is like back home. I’ve got people looking into that. If she thought she was going to be dropped once she completed her work, getting out while she still could would have been the better option.’

  Harry agreed. ‘Any more news on the rape story?’

  ‘Some. A couple of UN interpreters in Mitrovica have picked up stories about a dead girl found years ago outside a KFOR compound. It blew over because of ethnic violence in the area. . and what was another death among so many? But now it’s coming back. There’s still no hard information, but it’s beginning to take on a reality that’s hard to shift.’

  ‘The killings aren’t going to help,’ Harry said grimly.

  ‘Yeah. Paris, Brussels and now New York. . maybe this guy’s just following his nose.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. He got his information on the CP team from Demescu. Find her and we might find out who else is involved. That might lead us to the killer.’

  Deane sighed. ‘Yeah. I wish I knew where he was right now.’

  ‘On the move,’ said Harry. ‘I would be if it was me.’ He saw a man in crew uniform waving to him. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘OK. Listen, if you do go to Moscow to see Koslov, you might swing through Kosovo. Our man on the ground in Pristina is Archie Lubeszki. He can fill you in on any local background. At this stage every little bit helps. And Harry — ring me any time, you hear?’

  Harry switched off his phone and followed the crewman on board his flight, a US Army Cessna UC-35. It was classed as a utility flight, and he’d got company in four senior officers, who all stopped talking the moment he walked aboard, their inbuilt antennae warning them of a civilian presence. He ignored them and sat down, closing his eyes. Over the years he’d developed the soldier’s facility of snatching sleep whenever the opportunity arose, and right now he needed to pack away as much as he could. He was going to need it.

  Harry found the Holiday Inn a short car ride from Columbus airport. A large, 222-room building with conference facilities, fitness room and satellite television, it still managed to look like a hundred other similar hotels.

  He parked his rental car near the front entrance and walked into an air-conditioned chill. The lobby was full of men and women dressed in suits or blazers, with sharp creases and little jewellery, badges pinned to their chests.

  Harry checked in, then skirted the melee and headed for the lobby bar. He needed a cold drink and to check the lay of the land. The bar already held a collection of serious drinkers — presumably colleagues of the group outside — and he found a spot away from the noisiest group. He ordered a beer and nodded towards the lobby. ‘Sales conference?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The bartender placed a beer in front of him. ‘You from out of town?’

  ‘New York,’ Harry said. ‘Down to see a friend.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The man nodded, as if being from New York explained it all.

  ‘My name’s Harry Tate. I’m here to see Carl Pendry.’

  The man dunked a glass into a basin of water. ‘Carl? Yeah — I know Carl.’ He excused himself and moved along the bar to serve another customer, leaving Harry with the uncomfortable feeling that he’d breached some local code of conduct.

  Moments later he sensed a movement nearby and detected a trace of perfume. He turned and found a young woman looking up at him.

  ‘Hi,’ she said brightly. ‘You’re Harry, right?’ She spoke with an attractive, soft drawl, and was small and slim, dressed in a dark trouser-suit and a frilly blouse. A mass of blonde hair topped a pert face with large, alert eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, assuming she was a member of staff. Ten feet away the bartender was watching from the corner of his eye. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘You’ve come to see Carl.’

  ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘Only when it has to. I’m Gail Tranter. Carl’s a friend.’ She signalled to the bartender, miming a drink. ‘He asked me to meet you and make sure you were comfortable. He’s been delayed at the base, but he won’t be long. They have a lot of new arrivals to deal with.’

  She collected her drink, which looked to Harry like a straight tonic, and led him to a table away from the other guests.

  ‘Sorry about the crush — when we don’t have corporate meetings, we get a lot of military personnel and their families passing through.’ She sat neatly and sipped her drink. ‘Our policy is to support the military at all times. Carl tells me you were with him in Kosovo?’ Her tone ended each sentence on a rising inflection, and Kosovo was pronounced with soft and rounded Os.

  ‘That’s right.’ Harry wondered how much Pendry had told her.

  ‘Close protection?’ she said with no trace of irony. ‘Does that mean you’re like the Secret Service, you have to put yourself in front of the — what is it? — the veepee?’

  ‘Actually, the industry standard is to duck for cover and let the veepee take the bullet.’

  ‘That’s what Carl said. I didn’t believe him, either.’ The look she gave Harry warned him she wasn’t a weak, fluffy-headed female who needed protecting from the harsher truths of the world, so he could cut the bullshit. He decided he liked her.

  ‘Have you and Carl been friends for long?’

  ‘Sure. We were at school together. Then he joined the army and moved away. I stayed around here and did college and majored in business studies. We bumped into each other again in Columbus about a month ago.’ She grinned at the memory. ‘He’d put on about fifty pounds of muscle and grown another ten inches. I hardly recognized him. But we get on pretty good.’ She smiled meaningfully.

  Then a shadow loomed over their table and a voice growled menacingly through the background hubbub. ‘Say, what’s a good southern gal doin’ with some skinny-assed white dude from England?’

  In Columbus airport, Kassim made his way through the arrivals hall and found a cab. He asked to be taken to the city centre.

  The driver nodded without a word. He was a skinny Asian with a scrub of jet-black hair over a pale, pockmarked face. He drove single-handed, the other beating time on the centre console to the radio, pausing only to answer incomprehensible bursts of chatter from his dispatcher. Other than an occasional glance in his rear-view mirror, he ignored his passenger completely.

  Kassim was happy enough to sink into the rear seat and keep his head down. He was thinking about the Hotmail message he’d picked up in the internet cafe in New York. He had deleted the words immediately after reading them, but he could still see the text in his mind. It had warned him that the Americans were looking for him, that a pursuer was already out there, waiting for him to make a mistake. The message had also confirmed where he needed to go next.

  He stared out at the garish lights of a Holiday Inn as they passed, and toyed with the idea of booking in for the night. At least here there would be no danger; he’d be just another weary traveller looking for a bed. After his night in the deserted building and the fig
ht with the derelict, he needed a shower and some rest. But the faint lure of comfort gave way to the need for action. . to prepare for what lay ahead.

  After a couple of miles the cab stopped behind a line of vehicles edging past an auto wreck. Emergency crews were clearing up the debris, and an ambulance was just leaving. The cab driver applied his brake and sighed resignedly.

  ‘We wait,’ he explained shortly.

  Kassim leaned forward and said, ‘I have to hire a car. You know of a person?’

  The driver looked back at him in the mirror. A person, not a place. This passenger hadn’t been to the rental agencies at the airport, which had to be for a reason. A bad credit risk, maybe. He nodded. ‘Sure. I know. What kind car?’

  ‘Ordinary. Not big.’

  ‘Compact?’ The driver slapped the wheel. ‘Like this?’

  Kassim nodded. ‘Ordinary.’

  ‘Sure. You have money?’ He rubbed his fingers and thumb together, the international sign for cash. His passenger needed a car without signing any papers, this was the only way.

  ‘I have,’ Kassim confirmed, and stared hard at the man in the mirror until he looked away. His message to the driver was brutally clear. Try to take advantage of me, and you will not live to see the morning.

  He sat back and prepared to wait, thinking about the man who was coming after him. The name had been included in the Hotmail message, and was also in his pocket binder. Maybe this man had a double motive for finding him as quickly as possible: to stop him from carrying out his task and to conceal his own involvement. If so, Kassim reflected, then it would be right that they meet soon.

  He pulled out the binder and stared hard at the photo of Harry Tate, committing the face to memory.

  NINETEEN

  Harry looked up to find Carl Pendry grinning down at him, his dark skin gleaming under the soft lights. He was dressed in chinos and a pale shirt, his arm muscles bulging under the thin fabric.

  ‘For a minute there I thought a human being had walked in,’ Harry responded drily. ‘But it’s just a robot grunt in civilian clothes.’