Retribution

FORTY-NINE

‘Kassim was seen at the airport.’ It was Archie Lubeszki on the phone. ‘Three UN cops think they saw him but they only realized it was him after they saw the pictures we circulated. I told them to scour the airport buildings and surrounding area, but I think he’ll be long gone by now.’

Harry felt a tightening in his stomach. With it came a reluctant admiration for the man’s ability and commitment. Coming out of the mountains of Afghanistan, if that was where he’d been, he’d trailed across Europe and the US, picking off his targets along the way, and was now on his home turf and frighteningly close to his goal.

He switched the phone to loudspeaker so Rik could hear. ‘What was he doing?’

‘Drinking tea and panhandling. They said he looked rough, like he’d been sick. Unless he was faking it.’

‘Could be genuine. He must be living on adrenalin by now.’ He wondered what Kassim had been up to. If he was sticking to form, he would have arrived in Kosovo some time before being spotted, so he must have been hanging around the airport for a good reason.

Lubeszki unwittingly supplied the answer. ‘He was probably watching the press frenzy about Kleeman’s arrival. But he wouldn’t have found out much about his itinerary. Nothing’s been issued yet and won’t be. He might know he’s going to appear at the National Library, but he’ll be behind a wall of protection there. It’d be suicide for him to try anything.’

Harry said nothing. Seemingly suicidal moves were something of a speciality with Kassim, given his attempts on Pendry and Koslov.

‘How about tonight?’ Rik queried. ‘Where’s Kleeman staying?’

‘The Grand. It’s where all the VIPs stay. The place is wall-to-wall with security screenings, armed guards and even a few off-duty Special Forces heavies littering the place. Kleeman’s not the only big hoo-hah in town tonight. There’s someone from the German government, two representatives of the Dutch government and a few European Central Bank suits. The hotel staff are hand-picked and never replaced without a thorough vetting, so he won’t be able to suddenly turn up as a cleaner or a room service waiter.’

‘You’ve been watching too many films,’ said Harry. ‘If Kassim does anything, it will be what nobody expects.’

Anton Kleeman yawned with relief as the armoured limousine that had carried him from the airport on a tour of the city, followed by a second vehicle carrying his staff and extra protection team, finally entered the high-security cordon around Pristina’s Grand Hotel. Military and UN police officers were everywhere, and even before the car stopped, the three members of the protection team riding with him were outside and clearing a path towards the entrance. Overhead a US Army helicopter clattered in a tight circle, a watchful figure leaning out of the fuselage with one booted foot swinging over the skid.

After a day of meetings with various government members, Kleeman was tired and snappy. He had been herded about like a child, pushed, pulled and virtually bullied from one point to another by officials and his close protection team, sparing little or no thought for his status. The bodyguards, increased on the recommendation of New York after some ludicrously over-egged threats against UN personnel, were sticking closer to him than yesterday’s sweat and filling the car with their silent presence. He wouldn’t have minded but there wasn’t a single spark of conversation among them, and they were as jumpy as two-day-old chicks.

The team leader beckoned him forward with what Kleeman considered a less than respectful gesture. He climbed from the car and allowed himself to be swept into the foyer of the hotel, where at least there was some semblance of warmth and comfort. The general decor was worn and in need of revitalization, but staying here had been a political move. At least the staff knew how to treat someone in his position.

As he walked across the well-trodden carpet through the bustle of VIPs, military and UN officials, he saw two men standing to one side, oblivious of the hubbub around them. Dressed in casual civilian clothes, they seemed out of place in this predominantly military setting. Yet there was about them something indefinably regimented and watchful.

He glanced at the leader of the protection team, but the man seemed unconcerned and continued past them towards the stairs.

Kleeman stopped, recognition slowly filtering into his mind. He remembered. That damned compound. He swallowed, feeling a vague twinge of unease that had begun at the airport that morning. It had started while he was preparing to address the press. Glancing over their heads for a moment, he had locked eyes with a tall, thin man staring at him from the back. He was poorly dressed and showed signs of malnourishment — not an unusual sight here. Kleeman was sure he had never set eyes on the man before, but the intensity of his gaze had crossed the room with an almost tangible power. It had left him momentarily shaken, until a question from the press had drawn him back. Next time he’d looked, the man was gone.

Now these two. One young, with a colourful shirt under a sports jacket and fashionably dishevelled hair. A stranger. The older man next to him, though, he recognized immediately. Kleeman had a memory for faces. This man had been the leader of the protection team last time he was here. What was his name? Stait? No, Tate. British, he recalled, and insubordinate. But efficient. Odd that he should be here. The thought added to his sense of unease, but he fought to suppress it.

He approached the men, causing the two bodyguards to swerve sharply.

‘Tate,’ Kleeman said warmly. It was a trick that served as well in politics as it did in commerce, especially with his recent visits to China and France. It was something the inhabitants of those two countries had in common; they liked to think they were important enough to be remembered after a single meeting.

Tate nodded without making a big deal of it and lifted a thumb at the bodyguard who had nearly fluffed his manoeuvre. ‘You should signal before you turn,’ he said. ‘It throws them off when you do something unexpected.’

Kleeman was piqued by Tate’s tone. Was the man laughing at him? ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ he said coolly. ‘Are you still in this business?’

‘I wasn’t. But the UN asked me back. Rik Ferris, my associate.’ Tate nodded towards the younger man beside him. ‘He’s helping out.’

Kleeman felt another twinge of unease. The two men were studying him as if they shared something, some secret. Suddenly he regretted having stopped. ‘Helping out with what?’

‘The business at the compound.’ It was Ferris this time, his voice as flat as gravel pouring into a bucket. ‘At Mitrovica. You know — the rumour you said was going to be investigated?’ Ferris’s eyes were cold and unfriendly.

‘Compound?’ Suddenly Kleeman felt a burst of panic. ‘I don’t think-’

‘You know. Where that little girl was raped and murdered back in ’ninety-nine. Then thrown over the wire like a sack of garbage. We’re here to pick up the man who did it.’

Kleeman felt as if Ferris had reached into his throat and pulled out his lungs. He stepped back momentarily, winded, looking at Tate. But the older man’s face was just as cold. Alongside him, Kleeman’s bodyguards shifted, puzzled by the change in tone.

Kleeman cleared his throat and wondered, if he were just to walk away, whether Tate would follow him. ‘Are you? That’s good. . very good. I expect to hear details as soon as you can release them. Do you have the man in custody? I seem to remember hearing it was a soldier.’

‘Not yet,’ Tate replied. ‘We’re looking at some new evidence. Then we’ll nail him.’

‘Evidence?’ The air around Kleeman’s head seemed suddenly very warm, and he had a desperate urge to run for the stairs and lock himself away somewhere dark and safe, away from these men of violence and their aggressive manners.

‘Blood samples. DNA. That sort of thing.’ Tate gave a half smile. ‘Amazing how long that stuff hangs around. Like a signature. Excuse us, won’t you?’

Kleeman watched the two men walk away, then allowed himself to be propelled up to his room, where he went straight to the bathroom and was violently sick.

‘You think we rattled his cage enough?’ Rik asked, as they left the Grand Hotel. They had talked it over on the way there, deciding to unsettle Kleeman and see how he reacted.

‘If we didn’t,’ Harry murmured, ‘nothing will. You’re getting good at the scary stuff.’

‘Well, I try my best. I hope we’re right about him.’

‘We’re right. I can feel it. Saw it in his eyes.’

‘And if we’re wrong?’

‘You’d better take my gun away, otherwise I might just go and shoot him for the hell of it.’