Retribution

TWENTY-NINE

The air was sharp and cold in the restricted park when Russian Federal Security Service Captain Alexandr Koslov set out on his morning run. From the clawing warmth of the military apartment block three kilometres into Moscow’s southern suburbs, he trotted gingerly down the frosty front steps and headed for the path he always took through the trees. It was a favoured jogging track for any officers who believed in keeping moderately fit, offering a few minutes’ brief isolation from the demands of office or, providing one made it obvious enough, the mindless chatter of colleagues.

Not that many of Koslov’s colleagues were into running. Even he, at thirty-eight and the youngest in his department, was beginning to feel soft, thanks to the sedentary nature of his largely desk-bound job. But you had to make some effort, he told himself, with an eye to promotional prospects and a coveted foreign posting. Although the FSB was responsible for domestic security, it held a support brief for the conduct of electronic surveillance abroad and watching over nationals on overseas placements suspected of not toeing the line. London might be nice, or Paris.

There were few others out at this early hour. He could hear traffic building up on the ring road towards the city centre, and beyond the trees the sound of a commuter train clacking along the line. Sound carried easily in this thin, cold atmosphere, bringing distant noises much closer.

Ahead of him two senior officers from a mechanized rifle regiment shuffled along like a pair of marshmallows, dressed in black market trainers and enormous American quilted coats. Their brief verbal exchanges fired puffs of vapour into the air, and no doubt much of the talk was seditious, Koslov guessed. Probably complaining about their superiors or why they hadn’t received a recent pay increase. Dream on, comrades, he thought cynically. Welcome to the brave new world of economic austerity.

He accelerated past them, his feet flicking lightly on the cold surface, in contrast to their lumbering shuffle. Koslov had always been slim, and in spite of his job, weighed no more now than he had as a teenager. In fact, there were some colleagues who frequently joked that the FSB were now taking boys into their ranks, a jibe at his lack of inches and boyish features. He lifted a hand in greeting as he passed the two men. He didn’t expect a response and wasn’t disappointed; Russian army officers did not trust members of the FSB. Koslov had long ago given up worrying about it. Their loss, he told himself. One day they might realize the FSB was a replacement for the old KGB, not a carbon copy, and men like him were a reflection of modern times and not out to haunt the daylights out of anyone who coveted a pair of American jeans or the latest iPod.

Koslov had been in the army himself once, on attachment from a rifle regiment with the United Nations forces in Kosovo — a rare show of Moscow’s understanding and unity for the common good. Not that anyone had really believed him to be a mere soldier; almost without exception, his multinational colleagues had walked around him as if he were an improvised explosive device waiting to explode, some making silly jests about the KGB in ludicrously bad Russian accents. But he didn’t care: it had been a breath of fresh air for him, even if the air in Kosovo had been far from clean or pure.

Finding himself working as part of a close protection team had been an eye-opener for the young sergeant. Although he had undergone special training before going to Kosovo, his experience of bodyguards in the Russian army came from either the GRU — Russian military intelligence — or the various security units attached to each regiment. Not that too many officers needed guarding unless it was from their own men. Any physical threats were largely reserved for the staff officers who spent their time in comfortable postings in Moscow or St Petersburg, cordially loathed for their lack of teeth when supporting their men, and by civilians because it was an ingrained habit to distrust the military anyway.

The Americans he had found surprisingly generous and easygoing, eager to share whatever they had. It seemed they had largely forgotten the Cold War — or were perhaps bored with it — while the British captain treated him no differently to anyone else, an attitude Koslov guessed was entirely normal for the man.

It was his tour in Kosovo which had led to Koslov’s early promotion and the desk job which went with it. Boosted by a favourable report from the UN Field Security Division, he had been rewarded with enhanced training courses and the promise of a bright future. Without it, he would have been yet another low-ranking FSB grunt for the rest of his days, serving out his time.

He approached a series of obstacles built into the path. Low wooden hurdles for the most part, placed to interrupt the rhythm and increase the heart rate. But jumping them required care to avoid the inevitable icy patches. There were others too, such as pole hurdles and lines of rubber tyres, but they were best tackled when fully warm or when the ground was softer. A broken ankle while training would not be well-regarded and was a fast track to nowhere.

Behind him, he heard the slap-slap of another man coming up on his outside. He moved over, wondering who could possibly be running faster than him.

While waiting for Rik to clear arrivals, Harry checked in with Deane. The UN man would probably be at home by now, but he’d impressed on Harry the urgency of maintaining contact no matter what the time.

He answered immediately. There were still no developments on the knife found at Fort Benning. ‘They got some prints,’ Deane told him, ‘but they haven’t yet found a match on any of the obvious databases. They’ve now switched to broaden the search, but it takes time.’

‘He’s from outside the US,’ Harry said.

‘Looks like it — or he’s Snow White, which I don’t buy.’

Harry didn’t, either. The killer was too efficient and skilled. To have overcome three soldiers so easily, he had to have received some intensive military training somewhere. If official, it meant a high probability that his prints were recorded. Unless, like Bikovsky, there was a more sinister reason why no database was coming up with a match.

‘What about the ATM machines? Any pictures?’

‘I’m waiting on that. Carvalho’s card was used five blocks from the apartment where he was killed, and maxed out. They’re analysing the film now to match the withdrawals.’ He paused. ‘You get any sense of our guy being around?’

‘Not yet.’ Harry had thought about it ever since arriving in LA. He claimed no special talent for locating the enemy, but like most hunters, he had an inbuilt antenna when it came to sensing atmosphere, such as a tickle on the back of his neck when he felt he was being watched. So far that had not happened. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

‘All right. Give me a call if anything. . well, you know.’

Harry disconnected. He saw a world datelines panel above the arrivals board. It was early morning in Moscow. He called up Alexandr Koslov’s number. He had no idea if Koslov was still active in the military, but he owed him the courtesy of a warning. The number rang six times, and he was about to cut the call when there was a switch in the tone, as if it had been interrupted. Then it continued ringing. He gave it ten more rings.

No answer.

He hung up. It sounded as if the call had been transferred automatically. Was that to a landline or to another mobile? He had no way of telling. He gave it five minutes and dialled the number again and went through the same routine.

This time the call was answered in rapid-fire Russian.