Retribution

SEVEN

Harry focussed on the basic details, trying to push aside any emotion. ‘It could have been anyone. There were guards on duty when we arrived, and the road nearby had passing traffic.’

‘Yeah, but the guards all left with the convoy, didn’t they — for Pristina?’

Harry was puzzled. If Deane knew that much, he’d evidently done some groundwork. But then he shouldn’t have expected anything less. Deane was experienced and had a large security organization at his disposal; checking the facts would have been his first objective. But, as he was admitting, even the UN couldn’t know everything.

Harry cast his mind back to that night. After running into the ambush in driving rain, and having a truck with two men blown up and another vehicle crippled, the convoy had barged their way through at speed, following the lead vehicle, an armoured personnel carrier. With the agreement of the convoy commander, a Dutch officer, they had made for a container depot near Mitrovica. It had been the only place Harry had been able to find quickly on the map that offered any kind of safety perimeter. With no evacuation possible before dawn, his first responsibility was the isolation and protection of his UN charge, Anton Kleeman, and his assistant, a woman named Karen Walters.

Within minutes of their arrival, the convoy commander had received orders to leave for Pristina to assist with the protection of a refugee camp under attack from Serb militia. That had left Harry and his team alone in the depot with their two charges. He had given orders to get them out of sight in case the compound was being watched and the team had got them bedded down.

‘There was one other man,’ he recalled. ‘One of the guards. He’d just started his shift and knew the place, and he was a combat veteran, so they left him where he was. I don’t recall his name, though.’

‘Fine. I can check that out.’

‘It still doesn’t mean it was anyone in the compound.’

‘Actually, that might not be true.’ Deane seemed almost embarrassed, and rubbed his face hard.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s evidence, apparently.’

‘What kind of evidence?’

‘A piece of a uniform. We’re still trying to sort out what might be genuine information from hype.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Harry, there’s a lot of people out there would like to put us on the rack. It would serve several national interests if we got so tied up with scandal we couldn’t operate freely. And there are a few states out there that don’t like being landed with peacekeeping forces under a UN mandate, preventing them from sorting out their differences any old way they feel. Add to that the world economy right now, and I can think of a couple of regular members who’d be delighted to have an excuse to drop out of the UN and save some money.’ His face twisted. ‘United in name only, I’m afraid.’

‘So who’s generating the propaganda?’

‘I wish we knew. A couple of right-wing investigative hacks are jumping all over it, egged on by human rights groups and the usual anti-government, anti-UN, anti-everything nuts. But they’re being fed by someone who claims to know enough of the details to make it stick. In fact, right now there’s a small bunch of reporters out in Kosovo raking through the ashes and trying to find anyone who was there at the time. A lot of the population haven’t returned even now, and that’s the only thing slowing down the press investigation. But I don’t expect that to last. If there’s someone out there they haven’t found yet, it’s just a matter of time before they do.’

‘Do you know who the girl was?’

‘Not yet. Local, that’s all they’re saying. She probably went inside the compound looking for food. One of the reports hinted at a possible name, but they haven’t shared it yet.’ He shrugged. ‘Could be a bluff to stoke the fire and sell a few more copies, but gut feel tells me it’s not. There’s too much anger being generated. It’s as if the detail is there, but they’re holding it back for some reason.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Anything you can tell me about that time. Frankly, we’re up against it and I don’t know what else we can do. It could all blow over tomorrow, but sooner or later the names of the team are going to come out — including yours. You worked with these guys; you might have a gut feel about them. Anything we can do to get ahead of the game is worth a try.’

Harry felt a bristle of anger. ‘It sounds as if you’ve already made up your minds.’

‘I haven’t. But look at the facts, Harry. A small group of men from various backgrounds cooped up for the night in a remote compound. . and a girl — a kid. The girl ends up raped and dead. If the evidence these rumours are hinting at is real, one of those men was responsible.’

‘Are you sure this isn’t an exercise to protect your man’s reputation?’

‘Kleeman?’ Deane shook his head. ‘Fuck him. The guy’s a politician with his eye on the top job; I could care less about his reputation. He’ll move on one day, but in the meantime my responsibility is to the organization.’

‘It could be a politically motivated scam.’

‘And that’s just as bad. This could reflect badly on us for years to come.’ He glanced at Harry. ‘What do you think? Your gut feel.’

Harry thought about it. Common sense told him this could all disappear with tomorrow’s newspapers, overtaken by something bigger and more newsworthy. But it could do the opposite and blow up in their faces. And if anyone wanted to smear the UN, drawing in one of their top officials with a rape scandal involving one of his bodyguards would be a good way to do it.

‘I don’t know. I don’t really remember the others and I doubt they remember me; we were just a bunch of men thrown together for a couple of days. It wasn’t an opportunity to make lasting friendships.’

‘Jesus, Harry.’ Deane looked disappointed, and Harry suddenly realized that there was something else to this visit. To this meeting.

He gave Deane a hard stare. ‘I think you should cut to the chase, don’t you? What exactly do you want?’

Deane toed the grass underfoot. ‘OK. To the chase, then. I need your help in closing this thing down.’ He sounded relieved now, as if he’d got something difficult out of the way. ‘I asked a few people and spoke to a guy called Ballatyne. He said you were reliable and knew your way around.’

Richard Ballatyne was an operations chief in MI6. Harry and Rik had worked for him on a couple of occasions before, when non-attributables were required for tasks falling outside the scope of any specific government agency. Now, it seemed, Ballatyne was playing at being a part-time job finder, dropping Harry’s name in convenient corners.

‘You know what he does?’

Deane nodded. ‘Sure. MI6. Why — is it a problem?’

‘It might be if he ever asks you for a favour in return. Just don’t agree to meet him in an Italian restaurant; the coffee’s rubbish.’

Deane suppressed a puzzled smile, no doubt writing it off as British humour. ‘OK. Are we on?’

‘Why me?’

‘Ballatyne said you’d ask that.’

‘Good. I’m choosy about the jobs I do. Still asking: why me?’

‘What can I say?’ Deane shrugged. ‘I’ve got plenty of guys, but not for this. They’re too close. I need an outsider. I can arrange for a full UN ID card and whatever facilities you need short of a guided missile, but you’ll be outside the dome.’

Harry figured that Deane would have many resourceful and skilled people on his staff, most if not all with military training. But organizations like the UN were rife with gossip, and speculation was a regular party game. Deane also had a secondary reason for calling on Harry: if the rumour about the dead girl was true and names began to come out, then Harry himself was going to be in the firing line. It was a great motivator.

‘Let me think it over.’

Deane’s face tightened. ‘Ballatyne said you’d say that, too. Trouble is, I need your answer now.’

‘No.’ Harry began to turn away, but Deane put a hand on his arm.

‘Wait.’ Deane scrubbed at his face, his eyes going walkabout with tension. ‘Just hear me out, OK? Two minutes.’

‘All right. Two.’

Deane breathed out and said quietly, ‘It’s not just rumours from the backwoods or some press hack driving this, Harry. We have credible intelligence that there’s an organized group behind it, and they intend blowing it wide open in a way that nobody will be able to ignore.’

‘How can they guarantee that? The UN has dealt with accusations before and come out smiling.’

‘I know. But this is different. Intel suggests they’re sending someone. Sounds crazy, huh?’ He gave a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes.

‘To do what?’

‘To go after the CP team.’

Harry digested that for a few moments, trying to picture the possibilities. It didn’t seem credible. Dramatic as hell, yes. But one man? ‘Who is he?’

‘We don’t know. An Afghan. That’s all we have. No name, no description.’

‘An Afghan. You’re saying this is terrorist-related?’

Deane lifted his shoulders. ‘Looks that way to me. Who else would benefit by hitting the UN?’

‘And does your intel say what he’s going to do?’

‘Yes. He’s going to find the men who were in the compound that night. And he’s going to kill them. All of them.’

In Paris, Kassim made his way to the Gare du Nord. He felt bone-tired, as if he had run into a wall. He’d been stunned by seeing the Frenchman, Orti, enter the cafe, and for a moment had nearly allowed his caution to overcome him. But then reason took control, and he realized that it was natural for the man to use the cafe, being in the same street.

In the end, it had worked to his advantage. It demonstrated that the photo in the pocket binder was good, which boded well for the rest. Satisfied that he was looking at the right man, he’d waited for the Frenchman to take his first mouthful of coffee, then got up and left, to find a quiet doorway further along the street.

This one had gone well. Yet he felt a strange sense of disappointment. Something told him that Orti had not understood what was happening, even at the end. The eyes had been too clear to be mistaken. He had not known why Kassim was there.

He bought a ticket for Brussels, the next stage of his journey, and found a seat at the rear of a carriage and sat down, tucking his rucksack under his legs. He did not trust to leaving the bag out of his reach for a second. The Makarov was in the bottom, unused, wrapped in a towel with the hunting knife. There had been no sense in leaving them behind, as it saved him acquiring others later. He checked the right sleeve of his jacket, where he had earlier noticed small spots of blood. He had scrubbed at them with a damp cloth before leaving Orti’s apartment, and the brisk walk to the station had helped the material to dry. Now the stains were almost invisible.

He stared through the window at the empty tracks, running over the killing in a series of flickering snapshots: going through the door, pushing Orti in front of him and trussing him like a goat, ready for the kill. The shock of surprise had generated a rush of adrenalin, helping him overcome the soldier in the first few seconds. It was a tactic learned in the training camps, then at first hand in various fields of combat.

Yet he had no sense of pleasure at taking the man’s life. It had been a task accomplished, nothing more.

Most of Kassim’s killing had been done on the hilly battlefields of Afghanistan, where personal contact was rare and death was meted out at a distance. Occasionally he had used the night to cloak his attacks, overcoming guards with a knife to ensure silence. But always he had managed to move on, brushing aside the dreams that later came to haunt him by telling himself there had been no other way.

This time, though, had been different. He had used Orti’s own blade, seen his eyes up close; had felt the other’s body warmth, sensed his final breath on his cheek; seen the flicker of something desperate in Orti’s face in the moments before he went.

But that wasn’t all. There had been a need to mark the killing for those who would understand. His trainers had been emphatic about that. He had closed his mind to what had followed, like a surgeon from his patient, and with a few swift cuts of the knife, his task was complete.

As the train slid almost noiselessly out of the station, Kassim felt relieved. He was not clear yet, but every second took him beyond the reach of any random police activity.

He slept most of the hour and a half it took to reach Brussels, lulled to sleep by the warm air and the hum of the engines. His dreams were vivid and random, a kaleidoscope of scenes from long ago, when life was very different, and those from more recent times. And among them, the image of Orti’s face swam up like a fish coming to the surface of a pool, staring up at him. He sat up with a jerk, wondering if he had said anything in the quietness of the carriage. But when he looked round, nobody had noticed.