Retribution

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.

It was going to be a long flight.