Retribution

SIX

Out on the street after leaving the old man, Kassim experienced a faint sense of bewilderment. He’d somehow expected more, as would be the tradition in the mountains. But beyond providing the weapon and the money, this man would help him no further. For now, he truly was on his own.

He strode off along the street, uncomfortably aware of the weight of the Makarov in the rucksack against his hip. His bewilderment was a passing phase, he knew that. After all the lessons and training, where he was watched and coached every day, a sense of isolation was to be expected, his trainers had warned him. Those same men, older and wiser, had seen everything, witnessed many things. But he still wasn’t sure if they had done what he was now expected to do. Asking such a question would have met with instant reproof. It was enough that they had heard of his story, blurted out in a moment of anger, and selected him — him — to be the agent of destruction.

Barely twenty minutes later he was entering a more prosperous neighbourhood, with a profusion of shops, cafes and businesses. The houses were fresher and well-tended, and both sides of the street were lined nose to tail with shiny cars. He referred briefly to the binder in his pocket, checking one photo in particular.

He turned into a side street. Finding the address he wanted, he passed by without stopping, running a quick eye over the door. He could not tell for certain from such a brief inspection, but it did not look as if there were any special security measures in place. The wood looked normal, without the heavy, studded appearance of reinforcements or extra locks, and a narrow window to one side looked like a single pane of standard glass.

He decided to wait and watch before taking any action.

Nearby was a cafe with a few chairs and tables outside. He stepped inside, into a wall of choking cigarette smoke and loud talk, and the chink of glasses. He chose a table near the window from where he could watch the street, and ordered a fizzy drink from an aproned waiter.

His timetable was flexible and allowed for problems. If all went well, he would catch a train from the Gare du Nord at 22.01. If not, he would leave tomorrow instead.

All he could do now was wait.

In the building across from the cafe where Kassim waited, Jean-Michel Orti was going through a series of intensive exercises. His head was pounding with the after-effects of too much pastis, and he felt like shit. Much better if he just went to bed and got some sleep. But the routine of his years in the French Foreign Legion was too ingrained to break, so he gritted his teeth and continued, his body breaking out in a sweat in the stuffy room. He reached fifty with a final push and moved into squat-thrusts, his powerful leg muscles — which could normally carry him for miles with a full bergen — cracking from the lack of proper exercise over the past week.

Nearing the end of seven days’ special leave before reporting back to the Legion office in Marseilles, Orti was tiring of the city and the faded delights it had to offer. His dutiful visits to his mother and sister, whose apartment this was, had soon become dull for them all, and there were fewer familiar faces around to greet him any more. Those who had not moved away seemed more concerned with family and responsibilities than sinking a few beers with an old friend. He’d been too long in the Legion. He might as well have joined a monastery.

He sighed and stood up. A strong coffee would clear his head and get him in tune for the following morning. If he made the mistake of reporting back to base unfit even for the daily run, the capitaine would spot it immediately and have him doing several rounds of the assault course with a bunch of new recruits, to teach him a lesson.

He splashed water on his face and dried off, then ran lightly downstairs and crossed the street.

The Cafe Sport was bustling with noise from the usual clientele whiling away the evening with pointless chatter about politics and football, the air heavy with cigarette smoke. He ordered coffee and a reheated croissant to soak it up, and sat down at the back of the room, checking the other patrons out of habit. Mostly locals, there were a couple of strangers, clearly business types deep in conversation over a laptop. Near the window a man in a cheap suit was sipping a soft drink and staring out at the street. Strong face, weathered, good shoulders, like an athlete, but lean. Could almost be a Legionnaire. Italian, Orti guessed, or one of the paler North Africans. . Spanish with a touch of Moor, perhaps. A rucksack sat on the floor between his feet. An immigrant, looking for work.

The coffee was good and strong, and he drank a single cup, washing down the croissant. He made no attempt at conversation with the other customers. Those who knew him were aware of his background and paid him the courtesy of privacy; those who did not saw a fit-looking man in his late thirties paying the price for too many drinks.

Orti paid at the bar and left a tip for the waiter, then walked back across the street, breathing in the night air and looking forward to sleep followed by a morning run. As he put the key in the door and pushed it open he heard a whisper of sound behind him. Instantly he began to turn. But he was too slow, dulled by tiredness and the effects of drink. He felt a savage blow in the lower back and was thrown forward inside and against the wall of the hallway. An arm like a steel bar wrapped itself around his throat and another hand grasped his wrist like a vice and twisted it painfully up behind his back with no more effort than if he had been a child. Before he could make a sound he was dragged along the lower hallway into the kitchen, his feet scrabbling to gain purchase on the floor tiles.

Training as a Legionnaire includes some brutally effective unarmed combat, with moves borrowed from various disciplines such as karate, judo and aikido. Even if unarmed, Legionnaires are expected to meet all attacks with ferocious countermeasures. Yet Orti found himself unable to do anything against this attack. He was slammed face down on the kitchen floor and trussed with a length of clothes line before the full gravity of his circumstances could penetrate his confused mind.

The attacker rolled him over on to his back and placed a foot on his chest, thrusting a tea towel into his mouth with strong fingers. Orti found himself looking into a familiar face: it was the man from the cafe. . the immigrant. Dark eyes stared back with little expression, and Orti felt a chill of fear. It was not, he knew, the loud, noisily aggressive men you had to worry about; it was the quiet ones who said little. Like this one.

‘You are Orti?’ the man said softly.

The Frenchman thought the accent strange; from Spain or Italy, maybe. He shook his head instinctively, his brain fogged but now functioning, and fought to draw in air through his nose. He made a grunting noise to show he wanted to talk, but the man ignored him and rolled him over to find the wallet in his back pocket. The details inside clearly confirmed what he wanted to know. He took out all the folded euros inside and tossed the wallet to one side.

But next he did a strange thing. He raised one hand. He was holding a piece of ragged cloth. Light blue with one edge of thin leather, it was worn smooth, as if by constant rubbing.

Then Orti recognized the colour and texture. It was part of a UN beret. He frowned. What the fu-?

Whatever the man thought Orti’s expression of surprise portrayed, it seemed to disappoint him. His eyes hardened and he took a deep breath. He released the Frenchman for a second, then moved across the room. Seconds later he was back, holding a towel that he wrapped around something in his hand.

Orti caught a glimpse of polished metal and a bone handle, and recognized the object with a feeling of profound sadness. It was his own hunting knife.