Retribution

EIGHT

‘Harry?’ It was Deane’s voice, dragging him out of a restless sleep permeated with jagged images of narrow mountain roads, snow-covered slopes and war machines. And Paulton’s face. That never went away completely.

Harry swung out of bed, the phone clamped to his ear. ‘Yes.’ He checked his watch. It was just after six. Too early to be anything good. ‘You gave me until noon.’ Deane had finally relented, seeing that Harry wouldn’t be pushed.

‘I know. But our situation just got worse. Marble Arch, thirty minutes?’

Harry debated telling Deane to go jump in front of traffic. He had a hospital visit to make. But he knew it would merely be delaying the inevitable. He was going to say yes in the end, and they both knew it. He gave his assent and put down the phone, then got washed and dressed and went out to find a cab.

Deane was standing near the giant Fiddian-Green horse’s head sculpture, sipping at a mug of coffee. He handed a second mug to Harry.

‘Sorry about this, but I got an alert from my office just over an hour ago.’ He led Harry away from a group of early-bird tourists planning their day. ‘Yesterday you mentioned one of the CP team. Orti?’

‘Yes. French Foreign Legion. What about him?’

‘I said this man — the Afghan — was coming.’ He stared out over the park. ‘Well, I think he’s already made his first move. Orti’s dead.’

If the coffee didn’t blow away the cobwebs, this bit of news certainly did. Harry had seen death enough over the years, as a soldier and an MI5 officer, to have developed a reasonably pragmatic view of it. For men like Orti, it went with the job, especially in an elite Special Forces outfit like the Foreign Legion. Even so. .

‘How?’

‘He was tied up and knifed late last night.’

‘Where?’

‘In his sister’s apartment in Paris. She was away and he was using it to bed down while on leave. He’d just got back from a bar in the same street, where he’d been drinking coffee. There were signs he’d been exercising in the apartment — he was due to report back today and was probably sweating off a hangover.’

‘Nobody saw anything?’

‘No. It was professional and quick — and no signs of robbery. The local cops think Orti must have pissed someone off, maybe an Algerian from way back; someone who recognized what he was and decided to get one back for old times’ sake.’

‘So what’s wrong with that?’ There was something in Deane’s voice and manner that showed doubt.

‘You were in Kosovo. . you saw what they could do to each other.’

Harry nodded. He knew all right. If every story had been reported in full, they would have had readers throwing up their cornflakes. He had seen the grim results of ethnic cleansing and the terrible revenge attacks by the Kosovars and ethnic Albanians. Gruesome failed to describe the horrors perpetrated on all sides in the name of nationalism and religion. Amid the killings, rapes and beatings that happened daily, there were numerous examples of torture, amputations and live burials.

‘There was that thing some of them did,’ Deane continued, his voice thick. ‘They’d leave a calling card, to show they weren’t going away.’

Harry remembered. It hadn’t been widespread, but it had occurred often enough to be noticed. One group had cut off the noses of the people they killed; another carved a cross on the forehead. Either way, it was another form of terror, a symbol of the undying hatred on either side and the lengths to which they would go to induce fear in their enemies.

‘And this one?’

Deane’s eyes looked bleak. ‘Orti had the letters “UN” carved into his chest. Throw in the rumours about the kid’s murder, it doesn’t take much to figure out who the killer had a grudge against — and it wasn’t the French Foreign Legion.’

Harry felt a tickle on the back of his neck. Deane was right. It was too pointed, too deliberate.

‘If Orti wasn’t still attached to the UN, how did you hear about the killing so quickly?’

‘A fluke of European manners. A customer in the bar told the police that Orti was with the Legion and had once been with the UN in Kosovo. They meant KFOR but my office was copied in on the news as a courtesy. My deputy ran Orti’s file to see who he was. . and up popped Mitrovica.’

‘And that rang alarm bells.’

‘You bet. It could be a coincidence thing, something in Orti’s background with the Legion. But I don’t think so.’

Harry didn’t, either. He tried to picture the man, but having known him for such a brief time didn’t help. Running a short-term CP team wasn’t the ideal way to get to know anyone; more time is spent looking outwards than in, watching for threat, not judging the character defects of the man next to you.

‘If it was me,’ Deane continued, ‘and one of my men was hit like that, on the back of the rumours going around, I’d be keeping one eye over my shoulder.’ He looked keenly at Harry. ‘I looked up your ShootReps and IncReps while you were there. You had a couple of wild incidents.’

‘Nothing most other units didn’t come across.’ He wondered at the change of direction. Shooting Reports and Incident Reports were made by UN or KFOR ground troops. Harry’s unit had reported on several ‘hot’ incidents, some serious, others less so. ‘How is that relevant?’

‘It’s not. I’m just thinking of other angles. Did any of your “hot” contacts involve any collateral damage? Women killed by accident? Kids killed or badly hurt by stray fire? Anything Orti was involved in, maybe on the side?’

Harry considered the question dispassionately. Not all UN or KFOR troops behaved impeccably, although they were generally picked for their attitude and inter-personnel skills. But occasionally the stresses and dangers of a peacekeeping posting could get to an individual and spiral out of control. Boredom was a problem, made worse by being isolated in a compound with not enough to do and men you had already spent too many hours with. That could lead to many things, not least of which was gambling.

By its nature, it inevitably spilled over into the local community, always on the lookout for ways of making money in a desperate situation. Money, or any other form of currency such as pilfered stores and equipment, was always the target. It was part of the desperation economy wherever foreign troops were called in to keep the peace.

‘Orti seemed a good soldier, but I can’t say I knew him.’

‘Pity.’ Deane looked glum. ‘Looks like we’re no further forward, then.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to get to the embassy. There’s a press conference in New York today. A couple of reporters have tabled questions about the rumours.’ He pulled a face. ‘They’re not going to let this go. And when they hear about Orti, it’s going to gather weight and speed.’

Harry nodded. ‘I agree. And the answer’s yes.’

‘What?’

‘I’m in.’

Harry left a relieved Deane to make his way to the US Embassy to do whatever damage limitation he was able to, and walked round to Rik’s place in Paddington.

‘He doesn’t give much away, does he, your mate?’ Rik greeted him at the door dressed in a lurid purple T-shirt and jeans, his hair spiky and unruly, as if he’d just rolled out of a hedge.

‘He’s not supposed to. What have you got?’ Harry gestured at a laptop blinking quietly on the table where Rik usually worked, and guessed he’d been up for some time.

Rik spun the laptop round to face him. He’d cut and pasted a variety of documents culled from several sources, but it didn’t take long to read. From early enlistment in the US Marine Corps, Ken Deane had applied for a job with the United Nations as a field security officer. He had served in a number of UN operational areas, including Kosovo, rising through the ranks to become a leading figure in the Department of Safety and Security, dealing with everything from security clearance procedures through protection of humanitarian volunteers and UN personnel, and linking to investigations into the behaviour of personnel and claims against the organization. Much of it appeared to be desk driven, but Harry guessed that Deane’s major role was as a troubleshooter, ready to up and go at a moment’s notice when trouble flared. As it had now.

He pushed the laptop back towards Rik. Deane was looking to nip this thing in the bud before it got out of hand. Speaking to Harry was the logical step in the investigation, trying to ferret out quick answers at first hand and protect the UN’s back. He couldn’t hold that against the man; he’d have done the same. But the implications for Harry were clear: if the rumours and the intelligence were true and a member of the CP team had been involved in rape and murder, it meant they were all at risk.

He rang Richard Ballatyne on his mobile number. Since the MI6 officer had pointed Deane his way in the first place, he must have a point of view on the matter.

Ballatyne sounded cautious. ‘To be honest, Harry, this is not something we want to get involved in.’

‘That didn’t stop you putting my name forward.’

‘Sorry. I should have warned you.’ He didn’t sound sorry. But then, he never did. ‘If you want the general feeling around here,’ he continued, ‘it would be in all our interests if this thing could be laid to rest. The UN’s too vital to all our interests to become embroiled in a long-running scandal with no resolution. And if that means finding and hanging out the guilty party to dry before this escalates, then so be it.’

‘Thanks.’ Harry felt cornered. He was already mentally committed to helping Deane; Ballatyne had just placed the full stop at the end of the sentence.

‘There’s just one thing, Harry. If you start on this, there’s no dropping the baton halfway. This isn’t like our normal work: there are no shadows, no smoke and mirrors. It’s in the full glare of the sun and there’s already been too much focus on it. If you find anything, it’s likely that you’ll only be a step ahead of the press and whoever’s driving this.’

‘So?’

‘So make sure you get it right. Close it down.’

Harry put down the phone with an uneasy feeling. He’d just been given official approval, such as it was, to help the UN with their problem. But it was a nod at arm’s length and free of any recorded official sanction.

He told Rik everything Deane had said, and gave him the names of the personnel he could remember from the close protection team. ‘If the group behind this identified Orti, then they’ve got all our names and it won’t be long before they’re in the public domain. See if you can find out what’s out there. I’ll get full details of the team as soon as I can.’

Rik nodded and made some notes. ‘Will do. I’ll put out feelers with some people I know.’ He looked at Harry. ‘Are we getting on board with this?’

‘I don’t have much choice. If I can identify the guilty party, I might be able to put a stop to it.’

‘Not just you.’ Rik looked determined. ‘So forget the “I” bit.’

Harry smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks. I could do with someone watching my back.’

‘Are we carrying?’

‘We will be.’ Harry and Rik were ‘carded’ — authorized to carry a weapon. It was a rare permission for civilians, and only ever granted to former military or government security personnel. But it came with a proviso: the holder could be called on at a moment’s notice to jump into the breach and be ready to use the weapon on government business. Those occasions had been rare, and in Harry’s case, often disguised as semi-commercial arrangements. The last one had been through Richard Ballatyne, in the search for a rogue organization using and killing deserters from the military. Since then, Harry and Rik had been working in the private sector, searching for missing persons of dubious repute and providing security-related services to quasi-government individuals.

Now it looked as if they were going to be working for more personal reasons.

He took a cab down to an upmarket flower shop near Fulham, and walked into the usual heady aroma of fresh greenery and blossom and the taste of something metallic. The co-owner, Jean Fleming, was snipping stems and arranging a display for the window. She was tall and slim and smiled when she saw him, and he felt his day brighten as always.

They exchanged kisses and she leaned against him. ‘This is a surprise. Do you want me to arrange some flowers for you, sir? We have a special offer on today, for hunky men only.’

‘Damn,’ he breathed, ‘I’m off hunky men this week.’

‘That’s a relief.’ She leaned away from him. ‘You’re going somewhere, aren’t you?’ The widow of an army officer, she knew all about sudden absences and goodbyes and not asking where.

‘A few days. Week at most. Can you struggle on without me?’

She shrugged. ‘If I need company I can always hang around the gate at Wellington Barracks. They keep a spot especially for me whenever you’re away.’ She pulled him close and said softly, ‘Stay safe for me, Harry Tate, or I’ll be really cross.’

He nodded. ‘Always do.’ Their relationship was what she referred to jokingly as ‘occasional’, but they both knew it was a bit more than that, although neither wanted to say it. It worked fine as it was.

In Brussels, the smell of cooking woke Kassim and set his stomach growling. It was a reminder that he had not eaten for many hours. He knew he could not risk going for much longer without food, since the successful outcome of his mission depended on his strength as well as his skills. To compromise that by not eating would be unforgivable.

He was tucked into a shop doorway not far from the Midi station. The night had been chill and damp, but nothing he couldn’t cope with; he’d existed for weeks at a time in far worse conditions in the mountains of Afghanistan and elsewhere. He checked the money he’d taken from Orti’s wallet. He already had some, but it had been an opportunity to add to his reserves. He stood up and stretched the kinks out of his limbs, then walked until he found a backstreet cafe where he ordered a simple meal of lamb, rice and vegetables washed down with plain tea. He was one of several men, each ignoring the others, focussing on their food. Over his meal he checked the pocket binder for his next target. The address was just beyond the city centre and it would probably take no more than half an hour to walk there.

He put the binder away, retaining a mental image of the next man on his list.

Arne Broms. Another soldier.