The floor dipped as they rounded a tree-lined slope, and Kassim felt his stomach heave. Abused by bad food, irregular sleep and severe stress, he was now in a death-ride across the Kosovan countryside. Yet he felt almost serene.
He had done what he set out to do, and reached the man who was responsible for the murder and violation of Aisha, his beloved sister. Now that man would pay for his crime. He spat out a mouthful of acid burning his throat and stared at Kleeman, who had not taken his eyes off him since leaving Pristina. The Special Envoy was looking deathly pale, but beyond an initial protest, had said nothing. Kassim had seen in his silence a confirmation that the man knew who he was. And why he was here.
He stared out at the blurred scenery below, the hills and valleys, the houses and farms and rolling woodlands, and considered the wider reasons he had been chosen to do this: to bring shame and disgrace on the organization that employed this man, which would be a giant fist against the Americans and their Coalition partners. He had been eager to be useful in the struggle, even if not in his own country, which was spinning by below. Now he was home, he realized that all of that seemed to matter very little. All the teaching, the training, the mantras about killing Americans, the special lessons in the way of the west, the constant drip-feed of hate, which he knew had been carefully tailored to influence him in his moments of doubt; just as the teachings of the Koran were used to wipe away doubts in those chosen to give their lives along the back streets and patrol routes used by the hated invaders. That all now seemed unreal – a vague and misty dream. In the minds of the ones who had schooled him and brought him this far, it had been their plan, their dream.
Now it was all his.
‘Brace!’ the pilot screamed as the machine’s tail dipped. There was a loud bang and the helicopter was wrenched violently to one side, as if swiped by a giant hand. Electronic alert signals began sounding and lights flashing, and he heard someone scream. He hoped it wasn’t him.
So be it, thought Kassim, and raised his gun. And as the great machine tilted sideways and hung for a moment above the trees, defying gravity, he looked across at Kleeman and murmured a brief prayer for Aisha recalled from his childhood in the valleys below.
He pulled the trigger.
FIFTY-FIVE
The Black Hawk pilot was already dropping his machine towards the ground as the stricken Super Cougar plunged out of the sky, the fuselage turning lazily as the pilot fought vainly to keep it level. A heavy worm of black smoke from the remains of the tail rotor trailed the helicopter’s descent.
‘Brace for landing!’ A crew member shouted a warning through the intercom as the ground came up to meet them with dizzying speed. Three hundred yards away the Super Cougar rolled lazily on its side and hit some trees with a crash, debris arcing into the air and one of the five rotor blades spinning away like a giant boomerang. Then the fuselage sank out of sight into a large gully.
Harry and Rik were out of the Black Hawk before it touched down and running towards where a plume of black smoke was rising into the air. The tops of the trees where the helicopter had impacted were burning, emitting a crackling sound as oil-fed flames ate into the wet branches.
Behind them, Rekker and his men broke wide to approach the crash site from the side and give covering fire, while the crew member and medic brought fire extinguishers in the hope that they might be of some use.
Harry arrived at the lip of the gully and stared down at a spot a hundred feet below, where the wreckage of the helicopter had finally come to rest. Held in place by two enormous pine trees above a series of waterfalls and a deep gully, it was lying on its side, the fuselage bent and torn with great gashes along the side.
For a moment nothing moved, save a piece of damaged rotor swinging in the wind and a renewed surge of dark, oily smoke from the remains of the rear assembly. Then the remains of a side window in the forward section popped out, and a figure in a flying suit emerged and rolled down the damaged fuselage. Another man followed and they both took off flying helmets. It was the pilot and co-pilot. Both appeared injured but mobile.
A third figure appeared in the main doorway of the machine, his face covered in blood. He wore combat gear and was holding a submachine gun.
Kassim.
There was too much vegetation in the way for a clear shot, and Harry began a cautious descent of the steep slope between the trees, aware that if he slipped, he wouldn’t be able to stop until he landed right in front of the helicopter. He kept his eyes on Kassim, who seemed unaware of how close the pursuers were, and was struggling to get clear of the wreckage.
Then Kassim looked up and saw Harry and Rik, and to one side, Rekker and one of his men.
He tumbled from his perch on the fuselage, his weapon sweeping towards them.
His first burst sprayed through the trees, clipping off branches and chunks of wood. The second burst caught one of the men as he moved down, throwing him on to his back.
It was Rekker.
Kassim switched his attention to Harry, sending a burst of fire past him, one round tugging at his sleeve. It was enough to spin him off balance, and he slammed against a tree, feeling the rough scrape of bark against his face.
‘Down!’ Rik shouted, and Harry dropped to the ground just as Kassim took aim again.
Rik fired two three-shot bursts. The second caught Kassim in the chest. The impact flipped him over and out of sight down the slope, his submachine gun falling to the ground.
Harry skidded the last few feet down to the Super Cougar and looked beyond it, to see Kassim’s body floating in a pool of water fifty feet below. He reached up and hauled himself over the lip of the helicopter’s main door, and stared down at two figures lying against the other side of the fuselage. Both were covered in blood. He recognized Anton Kleeman. The other was a crew member.
Rik joined him, coughing through the smoke. ‘They dead?’
‘Can’t tell,’ replied Harry. The air inside the cabin was thick with the powerful stench of aviation fuel and the sickly smell of burning rubber. He handed his MP5 to Rik and slid inside the helicopter, the movement producing a rasping groan of metal as the machine slipped against the trees.
He bent to check the crewman. He was barely conscious, with a serious gash across his chest and a bullet wound in one shoulder. A steady flow of blood was pumping from the chest wound, and Harry knew they hadn’t long to get him some help.
‘Get the medic,’ he told Rik, then turned to Kleeman.
To his surprise the envoy was conscious, his eyes watching Harry but dulled by shock. Harry checked him over carefully and found a bullet wound in the man’s side. Kassim must have shot them both, the intended coup de grâce.
‘Get me . . . out . . .’ Kleeman breathed hoarsely, his skin white and greasy. He tried to pull himself up by using the injured crewman as leverage, but his leg was caught under the bench seat that had collapsed under the craft’s impact. ‘Damn you . . . get me out! You can see to him later.’
Harry felt a cold anger clutch him at the man’s selfishness, and wondered if Kleeman had ever shown true compassion about anyone. Somehow he doubted it.
He bent and grasped the bench seat and braced himself, then heaved upwards, feeling the metal beginning to straighten. It moved sufficiently for Kleeman to pull his foot clear, and the envoy scrabbled away, gasping and coughing.
‘Who . . . who was that man?’ he asked, touching his side and inspecting his bloodied fingers. He seemed surprised to see the splash of red, as if he’d never considered that he might bleed like anyone else. He slumped against the crewman, eyes rolling, and waved away a spiral of smoke drifting across the cabin.
Harry stared at him. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No – should I?’ Kleeman coughed again, and a small spot of blood appeared on his lip. If he noticed, he made no sign.
‘But you remember the compound at Mitrovica,’ said Harry.
Kleeman’s gaze faltered, eyes moving away. It was as if the envoy had deci
ded that, for once, silence might be safer than words. It might have worked had he not said, ‘You knew that crazy bastard was coming after me! I saw him at the airport, yet you did nothing to stop him – any of you!’
It was enough. Suddenly Harry knew – knew without a flicker of doubt that Kleeman was responsible. It was in the air around them, in the sickly pallor of the man’s face, in the expression of his eyes, the set of his mouth.
‘You raped her,’ Harry muttered softly, his words dropping dully into the cold air of the fuselage, loaded with contempt. ‘A child. You stuffed a beret in her mouth and raped her. Then you carried her outside and tossed her over the perimeter fence like a bag of dirty laundry.’
Kleeman’s eyes flared in defiance. He gasped and clutched his side as a sharp pain coursed through him, and tried to struggle upright, away from Harry’s accusing words.
‘You’re mad, Tate.’ Kleeman’s smooth veneer had gone, replaced by the ferocity of a snarling animal at bay. ‘You fucking moron. You don’t know what you’re saying – I’ll have you put away for this!’ As he moved again, the fuselage shuddered and tilted with a sickening lurch, emitting a loud groan of tortured metal as it shifted against the trees holding it up.
‘You OK?’ It was Rik in the open doorway. Behind him was the other member of the CP team. Rik’s gaze rested coolly on the injured Kleeman, but he was talking to Harry with steady urgency. ‘The paramedic’s coming down and I sent the crew guy back for an anchor line. Harry, this thing’s either going to blow or go south. You need to get out. Now.’
Harry felt the fuselage shudder. Rik was right; there was no time to wait – for the paramedic or the anchor line. He could also feel the heat as fire began working its way along from the tail section, and smoke began boiling up into the tree canopy above their heads. If the flames didn’t take them, they’d all end up at the bottom of the gully a long way below.
Ignoring Kleeman, he grabbed the injured crewman by his harness and dragged him as carefully as he could to the lip of the doorway.
‘Take him. Get him out of here.’
Rik and the CP team member reached down and lifted the wounded man clear of the fuselage and began dragging him up the slope.
‘Hey!’ Kleeman protested. ‘What are you doing? What about me?’
‘I’ll get you out,’ said Harry coldly, ‘once you tell me what happened at the compound.’
‘What? Are you insane?’ Kleeman’s mouth showed a trace of pink froth, and his eyes flashed wildly at the thought of being left a moment longer in the wreckage. He snatched his hand away from the skin of the cabin, where it was growing hot, and tears sprang in his eyes. Then there was another jerk of movement beneath them. He nodded wildly, his expression desperate. ‘OK . . . OK – I’ll tell you. Get me out of here first!’
Harry shook his head. He was beginning to feel dizzy from the acrid smoke swirling around in the cabin. ‘We’ve got time. Go ahead.’
Kleeman looked as if he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. But he clearly saw the resolve in Harry’s face, and finally buckled.
‘All right . . . it was me! Is that what you want to hear? I found her . . . she was in the canteen.’ His voice dropped to a wheedling tone. ‘I went to get a drink, that’s all. I couldn’t sleep. She was probably there to steal food. What one of your men called a camp rat. She was nothing!’
‘A victim, actually,’ said Harry. ‘She was a victim.’ He felt a huge sense of anticlimax at hearing the final confirmation from Kleeman’s own lips, and fought to resist the urge to stamp on the man’s face, to thrust the contemptible words back down his throat. ‘We were supposed to be protecting kids like her, remember?’
‘For Chrissakes, why should you care?’ Kleeman gave a shrill scream as something cracked like a gunshot and sparks began joining the smoke pouring into the cabin. His face was blood red and he began to sob in fury and desperation, like a child denied a treat. He stared up at Harry, his eyes no longer possessing any sign of sanity, and little vestige of anything human. ‘You’ve killed people, haven’t you, so why the moral fucking judgement?’
Harry heard a shout from up the slope. He glanced back. Rik and the CP man were clear with the injured crewman, and waving frantically at him to get out. Whatever they saw from up there must have been bad.
Then Kleeman grabbed his ankle. The envoy was struggling to get out, clutching desperately at Harry’s clothing and trying to push him to one side, babbling incoherently. For just a second, Harry was tempted to respond and pull him clear, to take him back to face justice for what he’d done. Then he realized that there would be nothing adequate to deal with this man. Whatever the fallout against the UN was going to be, it would be dealt with, no matter how brutal. But individuals like Kleeman always knew too many people, carried too much influence. A word here, a touch of political pressure there; they had built their lives on contacts and used them whenever trouble threatened. And if Kleeman left this place, it wouldn’t be to stand trial, of that Harry was certain.
Ballatyne was going to be pissed off, he figured. No happy endings. But that was too bad. He’d get over it.
As he swung his feet out of the cabin, he felt a sickening lurch as the helicopter dropped further, and heard the tearing sound of the trees giving way underneath.
‘Harry – she’s going!’ Rik shouted.
‘Wait!’ Kleeman cried. ‘Tate, you can’t leave me. Come back here! You can’t do this!’
Harry didn’t answer. He slipped over the rim of the doorway. When he looked back, Kleeman was staring at him like a man looking up from the bottom of his own grave.
He turned and made his way up the slope to where Rik was waiting.
As he reached the top, the flames billowed around the side of the fuselage and began licking through the open door. Then the broken machine finally slipped out of the clutches of the trees and plunged into the gorge below, a long metallic-human squeal following it all the way down.
Retribution Page 29