Retribution

FORTY-TWO

Thirty minutes later, in the foyer of the Comfort Inn on West Century Boulevard in Inglewood, Harry and Rik showed their details to two LAPD officers. They were escorted to a room on the first floor with two uniformed guards stationed outside.

Bikovsky was watching television and sucking on a beer. The bedside table held the mangled remains of a meal, and judging by the number of crushed cans in the waste bin, he’d been drinking most of the day. He was unshaven and looked a mess, and Harry wondered what else he had taken to keep himself going.

The ex-Marine showed no surprise at seeing them. When Harry picked up the remote and muted the television, he started to protest, but thought better of it. Instead he pointed at the screen.

‘We just been on the TV with that prick Kleeman. He looked a jerk, but we looked cool as hell.’ He sank another mouthful of beer. ‘You can put a prick in a uniform, but no way can you put the uniform in a prick.’

The flickering image on the television was the tail end of an evening news item about ongoing international development plans in Kosovo and Bosnia. Old footage of shell-torn houses swam into view, overlaid with white block titles of the location and a scrolling text beneath.

‘You and Eddie Cruz,’ said Harry, dragging Bikovsky’s attention back into the room. ‘You look pretty similar, did you ever notice?’ A close-up of Anton Kleeman sprang into view, a politician’s smile on his smooth face, against the backdrop of the UN building in New York. It looked recent.

‘Can’t say I did,’ said Bikovsky. ‘Why?’

‘Because he was waiting for you at your apartment.’ The news report changed to commercials, and Harry switched off the television. ‘Then along came Kassim.’

Bikovsky showed no emotion, and Harry guessed the man was too far gone for the information to penetrate.

Rik shook his head and went over to the window, checking the car park.

‘Eddie’s now got his own drawer at the city morgue. He took the knife that was intended for you. He was standing in the doorway to your apartment at the time.’

Something finally seemed to reach Bikovsky’s beer-soaked brain, and he rubbed his face. He started to get up to move towards the light.

‘I’d stay away from the windows,’ Rik told him. ‘If Kassim doesn’t have another try, Marty Bell might.’

‘Wha-?’ Bikovsky blinked and sat down again. ‘What’re you sayin’? I didn’t kill Eddie Cruz.’

‘You know that and so do we. But his friends don’t. Look at it from their point of view; Eddie sits in your apartment waiting for you to turn up. He opens the door to a knock and ends up sliced and diced. Pretty easy to jump to conclusions about who might have done it, don’t you think? Especially since Eddie’s friends don’t even know Kassim exists.’ Rik smiled coldly. ‘But they know you do.’

Bikovsky looked alarmed as the information sank in. ‘Hey — that ain’t right!’

‘Scary, isn’t it?’ Harry said coldly. ‘Let’s talk about the compound at Mitrovica, shall we?’

‘Aw, man,’ Bikovsky protested, waving his hand. ‘How many times I gotta tell you. . I don’t know shit about that place. I told you, the compound guards musta had somethin’ going — or maybe this Kassim’s just a twisted fuck who likes cuttin’ people. I wasn’t into nothin’, I didn’t do nothin’, ’cos I didn’t have time!’

A knock at the door had Harry and Rik reaching for their weapons. It was one of the officers from outside.

‘It’s Lieutenant McKenzie at Venice Beach,’ he announced. ‘Says there’s something you have to see.’

Telling Bikovsky they’d be back, they left the hotel and drove back to the apartment building. When they arrived at the alleyway the crowd had gone, with only a few curious latecomers craning their necks to see what was happening.

They found Lieutenant McKenzie standing at the end of the corridor where Kassim had made his exit through the window into the alley. Portable lights had been erected, highlighting the area round the smashed glass, which was dusted in forensic powder. McKenzie was holding a plastic evidence bag.

‘We found this snagged on the brickwork outside the window,’ he said, holding up the bag for them to see. ‘It didn’t get there by accident.’ He studied both men with serious eyes. ‘You two are with the UN, right? This should interest you.’

Harry didn’t explain their precise relationship with the organization, but took the bag. Inside was a piece of blue fabric, stained with dirt or rust. One edge was trimmed with leather.

Rik said, ‘It’s part of a beret.’

‘Bingo,’ McKenzie muttered, eyes glittering. ‘So he does speak.’

Harry recalled what Deane had told him about the old woman’s words after seeing Broms killed in Brussels. She said the killer had waved a blue handkerchief. Was this what she had seen? If so, why was Kassim carrying it? And did he wave it at his victims — always assuming he’d done the same to the others — as a kind of talisman or trophy? Or was it a symbol of whatever was driving him on?

‘See this?’ McKenzie asked, pointing at the rust stain. ‘It’ll be analysed, but I don’t need no lab to tell me what it is. It’s dried blood.’

Harry nodded in agreement and thanked him, then signalled for Rik to follow him outside. He needed to think. Everything had happened so quickly it was beginning to feel like a film on fast-forward, and he was in danger of missing something.

They were halfway down the beach when he had a thought. Every man in the CP team had been issued with a UN beret. It was something Kleeman had requested, to show a united front. Most chose not to wear it, preferring their own regimental headgear. Some occasions, however, demanded it, especially when the UN had to be seen and identified quickly. He dialled Carl Pendry’s number. The Ranger answered immediately.

‘What did you do with your UN beret after your tour?’

Pendry was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Handed it in, I guess, along with everything else that wasn’t my own kit.’ He paused. ‘Why you asking?’

‘Just checking something.’ He gave Pendry a brief run-down of what had happened in LA and Moscow, and with a cautionary note to keep his eyes open, cut the connection. Then he rang Deane and told him about the fragment of UN beret.

Deane recognized it as the final piece of the jigsaw — the proof the rumours had been hinting at. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need. OK, I’ll check to see if we still have the inventories for that time. But people lose equipment. It doesn’t prove this fragment came from a beret in Kosovo. It could have been picked up anywhere.’

‘I know. But what are the odds?’ The only way to prove it would be by forensic examination of the cloth. . and the stains.

Deane agreed to call back as soon as he had something, then disconnected. When Harry looked up, Rik was frowning.

‘What?’ Harry had learned to recognize the look.

‘Back at that hotel: Bikovsky was watching a news report from Kosovo.’

‘I know. What about it?’

‘It was old footage from when you were over there. He saw himself and Kleeman. . and the rest of the team. Wasn’t that across the border?’

‘Yes. We’d crossed into Macedonia after leaving the compound. The cameras were waiting for Kleeman to do his piece.’

‘What headgear were you wearing?’

Harry thought back. Rik was right: they should all have been wearing blue UN berets. Karen Walters had been there to manage the press briefing, to reinforce the UN’s image. He called Bob Dosario at the FBI office on Wilshire Boulevard and explained what he wanted. The special agent was immediately helpful.

‘Come on round and I’ll have it sent in. I think I know which station it was.’

They drove over to Wilshire and were shown into a conference room with a large flatscreen display. A young female technician in a crisp white shirt was running through a section of film on a DVD player. Dosario welcomed the two men and gestured them to seats.

‘Should be there any second. I heard about the killing down at Venice Beach. How’s this going to help with your investigation?’

Harry started to explain, then was interrupted by a scene of Anton Kleeman walking away from a Sea King helicopter, his shoulders hunched under the down-draught. He was wearing a DPM smock and flanked by the security team, with Karen Walters fussing in close attendance like a mother hen.

Pendry was big and hard to miss. Behind him was Broms, scoping the crowd of press representatives with a brooding stare. Both wore blue berets. He saw himself stride into picture, signalling to someone to move position, also wearing his beret. Then Orti, the Frenchman moving in a sideways stance just behind him, and further back was Koslov’s slim figure turning like a dancer, checking his back. Blue beret.

‘Bikovsky,’ Rik murmured. ‘I don’t see him.’

The picture changed, showing a smiling Anton Kleeman in front of the press corps. He was playing them like the experienced politician, lifting the collar of the camouflage smock and pulling a wry face, evidently in response to a comment by one of the reporters. The security team had moved out of the frame, forming a cordon around him but leaving him room to manoeuvre.

When the report ended, Harry turned to the young technician. ‘Can you wind it right back to where we exit the helicopter?’

She did and Harry waited while the film ran again. After a few seconds he told her to stop and freeze-frame. On the very edge of the screen a familiar figure was staring off to one side, eyes in shadow.

Bikovsky.

He was wearing his Marine-issue green beret.

Harry turned to Dosario, and moments later the special agent was through to the agent-in-charge at the Comfort Inn. Bikovsky came on, his speech even more slurred.

‘C’mon, Tate,’ he protested. ‘Leave me alone or get me outta here, will you? This place is driving me nuts. They won’t even let me use my phone.’

‘You’ll get out when we’re ready,’ Harry told him. ‘What did you do with your UN beret after your tour in Kosovo?’

‘What?’ Silence filled the line as Bikovsky tried to work out if it was a trick question. ‘Shit, man. . my beret? What you gonna do — bill me for some cruddy piece of military equipment? Is that what they pay you guys to do? I thought you was chasin’ some freakin’ killer.’

‘Answer the question,’ Harry said harshly, ‘or I’ll turn you out on the street and let Marty and his friends know where you are.’

‘Hey, man. . c’mon,’ Bikovsky said quickly. ‘Lemme think. . it was a long time ago.’ The line hummed for a moment. ‘Hey — I remember: the beret, yeah. I handed it over, but I never got it back. They gave me a hard time about that. But you tell me who hands in everything? It was a war zone, for Chrissake!’

‘What do you mean you handed it over?’

‘Like I was told to. When the convoy left, Pendry said to find spare jackets and stuff for the two civilians, ’cos they stood out like tits on a bull. I found two DPM jackets but only one helmet, so I handed over my blue beret. No way was I going to wear that pussy’s colour. I was a Marine.’ He laughed and gave the US Marine battle cry: ‘Hoo-agh!’

‘Who did you give it to?’ Harry was holding his breath, although he already knew the answer.

‘Who’d ya think?’ Bikovsky’s voice contained outrage. ‘To UN-Special-fuckin’-Rapporteur Kleeman.’