In the half-light of dawn, the landscape resembled the highlands of Peru. Great plunging scenery with breathtaking descents and gorges through which the Rakitnica River ran, mountains and thick forest vying for attention. Alongside this, dwarfed into insignificance by Mother Nature, the odd stone dwelling and fields of sheep. With most roads unmarked by any map, he simply followed his own innate sense of direction, the car making a steep ascent, the snaking road ahead winding higher and higher about the canyon.
Changing down a gear, tyres spitting stone and gravel, he glimpsed lights in his rear-view mirror. At that time in the early dawn, it was probably a farmer in an old pickup, he thought, eyes flicking back to the deep and narrow track. Then he remembered Saul. Snatching to the rear-view again, he could scarcely make out the vehicle. If it belonged to an intelligence officer, odds-on it would be a 4x4, he reasoned, and he could tell that it wasn’t simply from the height of the headlights. All he could say with any conviction was that it maintained a nice steady distance. No hanging offence, yet the deep sense of unease prevailed. Was it someone else? There seemed endless possibilities.
In any other situation he would have either pulled over or instigated a quick manoeuvre and lost them. Neither opportunity presented itself. Stuck on a narrow road, with no means of turning off or turning back, he pushed on around the next twisting bend, where he finally met and accepted defeat. Summer rains had submerged the road ahead in mud. Climbing out, he once more scanned the landscape behind him. There were no lights, no visible sign he had company. Whoever it was could not have turned off; there was only one way in and out.
Travelling the rest of the way on foot, he took the pistol and set his face to the breeze, the air cool and thin. Pencils of light penetrated a drab dawn. Around him, hills and stone and rock and ancient tombstones. Like a timelord hurtling back through the centuries, he felt he was entering another universe, another vortex.
Remote and barren, Lukomir, an ancient-looking shanty town with wooden fences, crept up on him like a thief in the night. Apart from the odd vehicle, only a newly renovated mosque that stood like a silent witness provided any clue to the existence of the modern world. Without the conveniences of the twenty-first century, it didn’t seem the kind of place for young people. It might, however, offer protection for fugitives on the run. Watching for signs of life, he saw none.
Continuing his strangely solitary journey through empty streets, he counted over a dozen dwellings of whitewashed stone, the roofs fashioned from cherry wood, no single chimney in sight. Made him wonder how these people kept warm.
Noise to Tallis’s left made him start. He watched as an elderly man, addled with sleep, emerged from one of the dwellings. Oblivious to the presence of a stranger, he stretched, yawned, lazily took a leak and zipped himself back up. Stamping the ground with his feet, he turned, surprise flooding his features.
‘It’s beautiful.’ Tallis beamed, falling into tourist mode. He gestured towards the crop of houses. ‘I simply had to see this in the early morning.’
The man relaxed, smiled back. An eagle flew overhead and he pointed to the sky. Tallis followed the trajectory of the majestic bird in full flight, envying its freedom.
Nezir introduced himself. Blissfully unaware of events that had taken the world by storm, as if the highlands held mystical powers affording those who lived there protection, he offered Tallis coffee in a typical gesture of Bosnian hospitality. The choice? Either pump the old man for information and arouse his suspicions, or play it softly. Tallis accepted and followed Nezir inside. To his surprise, Nezir switched on a light.
‘I didn’t think you had electricity,’ Tallis said.
‘Only in the past few years,’ Nezir said and smiled.
Glancing round the humble dwelling, Tallis reckoned he’d seen bigger prison cells. Two chairs, a bed, a makeshift kitchen area, and that was it. Nezir beckoned for Tallis to sit down. A kettle was already boiling on a stove with a pipe that led out through the roof. While Nezir assembled a drink, Tallis asked how he survived.
Nezir shrugged. ‘I have sheep and a few goats. In October I take them to lower ground and stay with my sister, then return in the spring.’
‘A hard life.’
‘It is,’ Nezir said without rancour. ‘It’s why the younger generations tend to leave as soon as they can. There is nothing for them here. We are a population of old people. Just five families remain,’ Nezir said with a laugh, handing Tallis a tiny cup of strong sweetened coffee. Tallis nodded sagely, took a sip, the caffeine hit spiking his system. ‘Or, at least, we were,’ Nezir continued, rolling his eyes.
‘Yeah?’ Tallis kept his expression neutral, his voice even. He got the impression that Nezir didn’t often get the chance to talk to those other than his immediate neighbours and the odd tourist. Good, he thought. Talk away, old man.
‘A couple of youngsters recently moved into one of the abandoned dwellings on the edge of the village a little further down the mountain.’
‘Ambitious of them,’ Tallis said.
Nezir nodded. ‘It will be interesting to see whether they stay during the winter.’ Tallis smiled. From the tone of Nezir’s voice, he clearly thought the newcomers didn’t stand a chance. ‘It’s like living under siege,’ Nezir added with vigour.
‘The youngsters,’ Tallis said, as if expressing polite interest. ‘Know much about them?’
‘Keep themselves to themselves.’ Nezir shook his head sadly. ‘We are a close community. It’s important we get on.’
‘They don’t fit in?’
Nezir smiled. ‘I am saying nothing.’
‘Very diplomatic.’ Tallis smiled back, taking another sip, feeling a familiar lick of excitement. He tried to calculate how long it would take him to go further down the mountain, how long before he could be on his way.
Nezir dropped his voice and winked. ‘One of them is very beautiful,’ he said. ‘She would make you a good wife.’
‘Already spoken for,’ Tallis lied.
‘I talked to her one day,’ Nezir said, as though it were a matter of great pride.
‘Really?’
‘It is important to be friendly.’
‘Couldn’t agree more.’
Nezir leant towards Tallis as if betraying a confidence. ‘Originally from Sarajevo. Her name is Sabina. A pretty name, I think.’
Tallis nodded in agreement, encouraging Nezir to continue.
‘I think she lost her family during the fighting,’ Nezir said mournfully.
‘Like so many,’ Tallis murmured, draining his cup, which Nezir immediately offered to refill. Declining and resisting Nezir’s dogged attempts at further conversation, he thanked the old man for his generous hospitality and left.
Tallis strode to the edge of the village and down the lonely track to the hut of which Nezir had spoken. Took him several minutes. Exactly as the old man described, it was set apart from the others. With no lamplight at the narrow front window, it looked deserted. Disappointed, Tallis raked the surrounding hills and realised that the women could be anywhere. But he had to be sure.
Moving on the balls of his feet, he snaked round to the rear, pressing his back against the stone and took out his pistol. No sound of voices. No movement. The place enveloped in an eerie throbbing silence, like the deadly quiet that preceded battle. He reckoned the absence of sound significant, telling its own story. The back door unlocked, he went inside, where he planned to lay in wait for their return.
Eyes adjusting to the dim light, he blinked twice, the scene that awaited him one of destruction. Furniture smashed. Broken china. Two dead. He stooped to the nearest. Fully clothed, she wore jeans and a thick padded jacket, sturdy climbing boots on her feet. There was a neat hole in the temple, the lips slightly parted, expression as desolate in death as in life. Sabina, he recognised, the girl with sad eyes, the one who’d evaded capture, and the one whom Nezir thought would make him a good wife. Out of habit, he felt for a pulse, found none.
The other body lay on the bed, face twisted, a gun lying uselessly on the floor. He picked it up, examined it: Glock 19, mag capacity 15, one spent. Mind calibrating, he suspected that a bullet fired from the Glock currently resided in Sabina’s brain. As for the second corpse, fresh, oxygenated blood soaked into the bedclothes from where the throat had been cut. He wondered how Saul, a strong and powerful man, had been overcome and with such savagery.
Warmth from both bodies indicated the killer had recently struck, perhaps while he was drinking coffee with Nezir. In that time he’d not heard an engine start up or the sound of a vehicle leaving. Meant the killer had fled on foot.
Tallis sped outside. He knew nothing of the area, nothing of the terrain, but mountains and hills offered the best choice of cover. Easy to disappear behind a contour, vanish into the forest and make your way unseen down a mountain. Which way, he thought, dropping down on to his haunches. Which way would the killer run?
A bloody bootmark pointed the way.
I cannot breathe. I cannot think. I feel sick and dizzy. And I hurt, not from the pain of my wounded side but the agony of knowing that Sabina is dead. In my head I kill her assassin again and again. I feel his blood on my hands, witness the struggle, smell the ordure and hear the death rattle.
I look crazily about me. I don’t recognise where I am. I ran to a line of trees, but I can run no longer. Every inch of me is spent.
I should never have left her. It was my fault. Instead of closing my eyes and resting, I let the clear mountain air seduce me. I was gone only for minutes, or so it seemed. I had no idea we were followed. It did not even occur to me. Once Isolde was free I believed they would leave us alone. It’s what she told us, promised us. I trusted her. I want to howl it to the wind.
She said we’d change the course of history. She said that people like us could make a difference. She said it was only the women of the world who could curb man’s insane desire to kill and conquer. Yes, we had to become them to defeat them. What a small price to pay. And it was easy, so easy. It wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t violence for its own sake. It was retribution. It was justice.
Isolde arranged everything. She hand-picked each of us. She selected the victims, all of them deserving of execution. She chose the locations. She siphoned money from the UN to fund the project. She provided us with false documents. She organised our training. She smuggled us on to flights. She supplied us with weapons. She made things happen. Nobody suspected her because of her position. She herself contrived a brilliant defence by ordering a personal investigation into the attacks, enabling her to keep track of the enemy.
Most impressive of all, Isolde volunteered to come with me for the Paris job. She wanted to prove to us that she was unafraid, that she would kill in order to bring about the necessary changes, so that Srebrenica could never happen again. She wanted to inspire and she succeeded. We were good. We were tight. We were magnificent. We achieved something mighty.
Or so I believed.
Sabina is dead. Isolde is a liar and a cheat.
I stumble forwards across a rope bridge, the water beneath shallow and clear. I look over the edge and catch my own reflection and tremble. I have the empty eyes of a mother who has lost her child.
In misery, I stagger to where the air is still and pure, where the light shines and glistens like angel’s wings in the morning. My only hope is to find somewhere quiet, somewhere I can be alone, somewhere…
My belt is sturdy and long and made of leather. I take it from my waist, wincing at the effort. I find a branch low enough. It must be strong. It must not break. I throw the belt, loop it around and run the strap through the buckle so that it holds, so that there is enough leverage. I wrap the long end around my neck. I tie it tight. The back of my head rests against the bark of the tree. I have been determined all my life. How else did I survive and yet I know that what I’m about to do will take more willpower than anything I have ever done. I lower myself. I feel the leather bite against my neck. I feel the squeeze and crush. I gag for air. My eyes bulge. I cannot change my mind, must not. I press harder against the leather.
Some choose never to forget. I choose never to forgive…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tallis stood motionless, his eyes locked on the dead woman, on Anna. In a near-sitting position on the ground, her head to one side, her slight body reminded him of a broken bird. The mental control required to carry out such an act must have been intense, he realised. There was no break in her neck. She’d died of asphyxiation.
He sat heavily on the ground, rested his ankle. If he hadn’t been injured he might have made it in time. To do what exactly, he didn’t know. Whatever her story, she’d terrified and brought death and destruction to others. Perhaps he could have forced a confession from her. He let out a heavy sigh. With Sabina’s death and Anna’s suicide, the trail went cold, and he was left clueless and hanging in the breeze.
He got up, loosened the belt from Anna’s neck, laid her down with more kindness and respect than she’d shown to others, his fingers bumping against the outline of something inside her jacket. He slipped down the zip and, curious, pulled out a small battered notebook. Intrigued, he took it and walked away, found a spot where the sun trickled through the trees, sat down on the damp earth and opened it. Dozens of handwritten pages of dense text, the lettering unformed and childlike, it was a diary. Tallis started at the beginning:
My real name is Alma Sehic. I am eleven years old. I am a Bosniak. My mother and father and my little brother are dead. I have no one and nothing.
Two hours later, blazing with anger, Tallis emerged from the forest and returned to the village. He passed the house of the dead, Nezir’s lowly dwelling, the cars, the wooden fence, the sheep in the fields. He walked unseeing, intent on getting back to Sarajevo.
With Diamond’s car exactly as he left it, he climbed inside, turned it round and headed for the capital. He had no plan other than to return it to Stella. The insanity that had consumed him in Chechnya assailed him here. Perhaps it had never really gone away. Perhaps that’s why his head clattered with ghosts.
He reached Hope International around noon and went straight upstairs to Diamond’s office. She greeted him without a smile. He thought she could read the madness in his eyes.
‘There’s someone to see you.’
‘Who?’ he asked, an edge to his voice.
‘He didn’t give a name.’
Tallis asked for a description. Within seconds he knew the identity of the visitor. ‘Did you tell him I was here?’
She bit her lip, gave an awkward smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Downstairs, waiting. You must have passed him.’
He hadn’t seen anyone. She lowered her voice, touched his arm, her expression one of concern.
He forced a smile. ‘I’m all right,’ he assured her. He wasn’t and he knew it, and Diamond knew it, too.
‘Do you think it’s safe?’ she said.
‘Only one way to find out.’
‘Paul,’ she said, anxious.
‘What?’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Tallis shook his head, dismissive, descended the stairs, walked into the restaurant below, crossed the floor and sat down at a corner table.
Asim met Tallis’s level expression with one of his own. ‘How are you?’
‘You didn’t travel all this way to enquire about the state of my health,’ Tallis said, a sour note in his voice. ‘You want to know if you can still use me.’
Asim flicked a smile, glanced at the wall. His beautifully tailored jacket slipped open, revealing a gun in a holster.
‘Ah.’ Tallis leant forward. ‘I was wrong. You’ve come to kill me.’
‘I don’t think that’s strictly necessary.’
But it’s on the cards, Tallis thought. ‘I suppose at least you’re being honest.’ He leant back in his chair, arms crossed, one hand tucked inside his jacket. That way he could
reach into it if he had to. He reckoned he’d had a damn sight more practice at pulling a gun than the man in the outrageously expensive suit sitting opposite.
‘Beckett doesn’t like loose ends. You threatened him, Paul. It was unwise.’
Unwise? Such were the niceties of spook-speak. Why didn’t Asim just say: dangerous. Containing his anger, Tallis said nothing. Uncomfortable, Asim cleared his throat. ‘I’ve not come here to fight.’
‘What have you come for?’
‘To save you.’
Tallis suppressed a smile. He remembered the first time the security services came calling. It had been after he’d shot the girl with the midnight eyes in a Midlands shopping centre. The intelligence had been wrong and he’d killed an innocent woman. A woman called Cavall had made the approach. She’d used exactly the same line: that he was in need of redemption. He told Asim what he’d told her. ‘I don’t need saving.’ In fact, he was past saving.
The air crackled with tension. Tallis thought if he struck a match the room would be engulfed in flame. ‘Shall we start again?’ Asim applied his most urbane smile.
‘What, to the bit where you enquire about my health?’
Asim flicked another smile. ‘Would you like coffee, a soft…?’
‘No – thank you.’
‘OK, I’ll be straight with you,’ Asim said, businesslike. ‘There has been a change of emphasis in the department. We hired you for a particular job.’
A shadowy, inchoate thought flitted through Tallis’s brain. ‘Don’t you have a special department for such operations?’ He’d heard on the wire of the aptly named Disposals Unit.
‘Certain sets of circumstances negate that option.’
Tallis smothered any reaction. He didn’t believe Asim. ‘We have no idea who set up the programme of abductions, who bankrolled the terrorists,’ Asim continued.
Tallis remained inscrutable. He didn’t believe that either. ‘Disappointing for you.’
‘But we’ve located two of the main hostage-takers, including the girl who escaped in London. They are here in Bosnia.’
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