Retribution

THIRTY-NINE

Harry’s neck stirred uneasily at the knowledge that Kassim was already here. With the airport just a few miles away, and even allowing for lengthy delays at immigration, it meant he could now be sitting somewhere very close, watching. With his kill record so far, it was an uncomfortable sensation.

‘I’ll get back to you,’ he told Deane, and cut him off in mid-sentence. He looked across to where Rik was doing some lazy stretches, and hit the transmit button on the radio. ‘Our man’s already here. He landed two hours ago.’

‘What? You kidding me?’ Rik muttered something obscene and stopped what he was doing. ‘Do they know who he is?’

‘He’s down as a student, using the name Zef Haxhi. Eyes wide open, you hear?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

Harry cut the connection and went back to studying the area in front of the shops and apartment blocks. The evening visitors were already beginning to show themselves along the sidewalk, a colourful mix of after-work strollers, ancient hippies, pairs and singles, moving aimlessly in their own world, content to be in the cool anonymity of the evening shadows. Among them was a new breed of bladers and riders, their outfits even more garish than their daytime counterparts as they swooped and glided along the pathway.

There was an increase in traffic, along with one or two police patrols and the occasional delivery van. A sanitation truck rumbled along the edge of the sand, emptying garbage cans, while a sweeper buzzed along the cycle path, damping down the day’s dust with a fine spray of water.

A yellow pizza van nosed into the alleyway from the far end and stopped outside Bikovsky’s apartment block. A young man in whites leapt from the cab and disappeared inside bearing a flat box, and re-appeared moments later folding something into his trouser pocket. He reversed the van with smooth skill and disappeared out the far side.

Harry relaxed; even if it had been Kassim, he wouldn’t have had time to get to the first floor and back down.

‘Boss.’ It was Rik, sounding puzzled. ‘Two hundred yards at nine o’clock. . guy in a yellow shirt, jacket and jeans. Isn’t he supposed to be somewhere else?’

Harry shifted his weight and focussed on a knot of strollers in front of a cafe and an ethnic jeweller’s. At first he saw nobody he recognized. Then he felt a jolt of surprise. A large, muscular figure was ambling along the path, hands in his pockets. He appeared unhurried and relaxed, nothing like a man whose life might be hanging in the balance.

Harry rang Deane. It was quicker than fighting his way through the LAPD network. ‘I thought you said Bikovsky was in a safe place under guard?’

‘He is.’

‘Not from where I’m sitting. Right now he’s walking towards his apartment.’

‘Christ. . can you stop him?’

Bikovsky was just passing the Tex-Mex. As he did so, Maria appeared in the restaurant doorway. She glanced at him without reacting, then turned and walked back inside.

‘No to that,’ said Harry. ‘Not without breaking cover.’ He cut the connection and rang Bikovsky’s mobile, hoping he had the sense to pick up. It rang a dozen times. No answer. He keyed the radio and said to Rik, ‘There’s nothing we can do. Hold your position. He’ll have to take his chances.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Rik.

Back in the alleyway, a small panel truck stopped alongside a pile of cardboard produce boxes stacked against the wall of the Tex-Mex restaurant. The driver climbed out and began throwing the boxes into the van. Behind him, a trail bike pulled up and the rider leaned it against a wall. He was wearing a white apron and took a pizza box from the pannier on the back.

Everything about the place was telling Kassim that this was wrong. His antennae were buzzing, a sure sign of trouble that had helped him avoid Russian forces in Chechnya and American Taliban hunters in Afghanistan. Yet there was nothing obvious to cause him concern. People were coming out for the evening, minds on their excesses, and everything about the decadent beach community seemed as normal as it ever could. Yet he felt an underlying movement in the air, like the buzz of night flies around his head.

He had retrieved the pizza box from a nearby garbage can, and a white towel tucked into his trousers gave the appearance of an apron. Pizza delivery boys in America were numerous and practically invisible. It made perfect cover.

Yet the memory of his trip through immigration at Los Angeles was making his head hurt. Three times he had been sick on the way here. He’d cursed himself for not thinking sooner of a change of passport. It was an unforgivable lapse. All it needed was for the Americans to have picked up on the frequent use of the Haxhi passport in the last few days, and they would have him.

In the immigration queue his heart had been thumping wildly, and the pulse in his temples seemed set to explode. When the uniformed immigration officer had queried his reasons for visiting, Kassim had not heard him. The officer, a muscular young man in crisp white shirt and dark pants, had peered hard at Kassim through steel spectacles.

‘Tough flight, huh?’ he’d said sympathetically. Then he’d repeated his question.

It had been too close for Kassim’s increasingly fragile peace of mind. Once he was clear he’d gone straight to the washroom and thrown up. He’d emerged feeling dizzy and nauseous, and realized he needed something to regenerate his energy. He’d found a cheap restaurant and forced down some food, fighting against his lack of appetite and an over-abundance of grease.

After eating, he’d located a phone box and called Remzi in New York.

The travel agent had not been pleased to hear from him. ‘You should not be calling me,’ he’d hissed. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need new papers,’ Kassim had said, brushing aside Remzi’s arguments. ‘Also a passport. Send them to the Marriott Hotel on West Century Boulevard near Los Angeles airport. I will collect them.’

‘I cannot-’ Remzi began, but Kassim interrupted him.

‘You can — you must!’ he snapped. ‘The Americans know I am here.’

‘What? But you must flee! What if you are caught?’ Remzi’s voice rose to a screech, and it was clear that he feared for his own freedom. If Kassim were picked up, his own situation was compromised.

‘That’s why I need new papers and tickets, you idiot! If I use the Haxhi papers again, they will take me.’ He overrode the agent’s protests by telling him where he was going next, and that it had to be soon.

It was enough to get Remzi to agree. ‘I will use a person in Los Angeles,’ he said, as if talking to himself. ‘Yes, that is what I will do. He is very good but very expensive. . but the situation demands it. Absolutely, we will do that, I-’

‘When?’ Kassim finally cut him short. This cowardly idiot might go on for hours.

‘What?’

‘When will I have them?’

‘Oh. Yes. I should be able to get a passport to you by this evening. It will be enough to get you out of the country, but that is all. Wait one minute.’ The phone went down with a thump.

Kassim waited, knowing that Remzi was only doing it as a means for his own safety; the sooner he got Kassim out of his hair, the sooner he would be able to go back to his normal life.

Remzi came back moments later to explain that Kassim’s new name would be Roberto Lucchini, a third-generation Italian from New York. The paperwork would be good, Remzi warned, but might not stand close scrutiny.

‘It does not matter,’ Kassim told him. Just one more journey, he thought, and it would all be over.

‘I will also enclose travel vouchers for your next trip,’ Remzi added. ‘You must pick up the tickets at the airport using your new passport.’

Kassim thanked him and cut the connection. Then he made a phone reservation at the Marriott, explaining that a package would be arriving and to hold it for his arrival later that evening. He had no intention of using the room, and he doubted the authorities would ever think of looking for him in such a prestigious establishment. As his trainers had explained, a hotel was an ideal post box.

Next he needed transportation. Walking out of the terminal, he had narrowly missed stepping in front of a courier on a weather-beaten trail bike with a noisy engine. Unbelievably, the young rider had left the bike at the kerb without taking the key. Like all mujahedin, Kassim had ridden mopeds and Japanese motorbikes extensively in the mountains, often loaded with weapons; LA traffic was easy by comparison.

Now, walking down the alleyway, Kassim noted the garbage collector out of the corner of his eye. He ignored the rumble of nerves in his stomach and kept walking. The man might be genuine or he could be a policeman waiting for Kassim to make an appearance. A young woman peering out of a side door across the alleyway shooed off a scavenging dog, then went back inside. Another police officer?

Then he was in the doorway on his left and walking down a gloomy corridor. A sweet smell hung in the air, and the faint sound of music came from behind one of the two doors on the ground floor. He walked up a flight of bare concrete stairs. He hesitated on the landing, sniffing at the air. A large window at the end of the corridor let in the dying light. No signs of anyone lying in wait.

He had already torn away the edge of the pizza box nearest to him, and slipped his hand inside, grasping the rubberized handle of the shark knife he’d bought earlier from a local dive shop. He muttered a faint prayer and glanced at the fragment of blue cloth in his other hand.

He knocked on Bikovsky’s door.

‘Pizza,’ he chanted, the way he’d heard the delivery boys do it. Here, his accent didn’t matter; most delivery boys were of foreign extraction.

There was a shuffling sound inside, and a grunt as Bikovsky approached the door. Kassim felt his stomach tighten and a buzzing began in his ears as the adrenalin kicked in. A glimmer of movement showed in the peep hole, then the door clicked and swung open.

Kassim had a momentary flash of recognition as the man in the doorway emerged from the gloom within the apartment, followed by a fleeting second of doubt. Then the hunting mechanism took over. He flung the pizza box to one side and lunged forward with the knife, his arm as rigid as an iron bar. The blade bit deep, ripping through flesh and vital organs, and Kassim used his free hand to palm-heel the stricken man in the chest, causing him to stagger backwards until his foot caught on a rug and pitched him over with a crash. He lay still, making a hollow keening sound, his eyes wide with shock.

Kassim followed him down, pinning his shoulders. The man’s heels drummed on the floor as shock crashed through his system, and his breathing became ragged.

Then Kassim stared at him with a sense of puzzlement and disbelief. Something was not right. He stood up and rolled the dying man on to his front. With the bloodied point of the knife he ripped open his rear pocket and took out his wallet, flipped it open to reveal a driver’s licence.

It wasn’t Bikovsky.

Then his nerves got the better of him and he was up and running, out of the room where death was hovering and along the corridor. He’d walked into a trap. Instead of Bikovsky, he had killed a police officer — maybe a member of the American FBI. It had been a close resemblance, but in the poor light of the apartment building, an understandable error.

As he ran past an open doorway, a woman stepping out saw the bloodied knife and screamed, a nerve-jangling wail which ran through the whole building.