Adrian Magson - Retribution

He followed the map and found that the section house was just that — a house. He couldn’t tell how secure it was, but a camera over the front door made a direct entry too risky. He walked on, stuffing the map in his pocket, formulating a plan. He could not spend too much time here; it was too open. He had to move before he got noticed. As he turned the next corner, which was a deserted building site behind boards of marine ply, he found himself face to face with a man coming the other way. Kassim almost gasped with the shock of recognition.

It was his target: Broms.

The Swede was wearing a nylon windcheater and carrying a plastic shopping bag. He looked bored and unprepared, ripe for what Kassim had to do.

Kassim reached for the knife, every instinct telling him do it — now! But then the moment had passed, the opportunity for surprise lost. He continued down the street, the muscles in his back twitching, and a feeling of failure eating at him. If only he had been more alert! He could have been away before the Swede had stopped breathing.

Except that would not have been the right way to do it.

The man had to know.

Later that afternoon, Kassim returned to the street and ducked into the building site. After two hours, he saw the Swede emerge from the section house. He was now in uniform, shoulders back and head up, a man transformed by duty.

Kassim was feeling the strain. It had to be now. There was a flight the following morning, if luck favoured him. But that depended on completing what he had come here for, and in this city environment, opportunities in broad daylight were rare.

Then he saw his chance. Broms was heading towards him. Kassim began to breathe faster, his heart thumping in his chest. He had already worked out what to do, and now the opportunity was here.

He checked the street both ways. It was deserted. Broms was coming down this side, striding confidently, big arms swinging. He wouldn’t be an easy man to simply grab hold of as he went past.

Kassim stepped out of the building site and walked diagonally across the street, his back to Broms. As the Swede came abreast of the empty plot, Kassim spun on his heel and slid the rucksack from his shoulder. The knife was resting point down on one side, next to the Makarov wrapped in the towel. But the gun would be too noisy. It had to be the knife.

He ran the last few paces, silent even in the western shoes. At the last second Broms heard him. The man turned, his mouth open, but too late. Kassim hit him full on and plunged the knife with all his strength into the Swede’s ribs. There was a popping sound followed by a groan, then the momentum of Kassim’s attack carried both men tumbling through the nearest section of boarding on to the building site. The knife was wrenched aside by the Swede’s body falling away from him, but Kassim followed him down, landing on top of the other man with a grunt, dropping his rucksack to the ground nearby. He drove his knees either side of Broms’ chest, pinning him down, then thrust a hand in his pocket and took out the piece of blue cloth he had shown to Orti.

The Swede was still alive, stunned, a faint spot of pink froth bubbling at his mouth. His eyes rolling in pain and shock, he focussed on Kassim. ‘What-?’ he muttered, uncomprehending. He flapped his arms, trying to dislodge his attacker, but his strength was fading quickly. ‘ What? ’

Suddenly Kassim wanted done with it. He shoved the piece of cloth under Broms’ nose, waiting until the man’s eyes rolled round to look at it. Just for a second, there was a sign of something, a dim light deep in the pupils. Then nothing.

‘I don’t. .’ Broms sighed and tried one more time to lift himself off the ground. Then the life force drained out of him in a rush.

Kassim twisted his wrist and pulled the blade from the dead Swede’s side. A small gout of blood leaked on to the soil beneath. He slid the knife point under the edge of the windcheater and sliced open the man’s clothing, exposing his chest.

When he was finished he jumped up and wiped the blade on the dead man’s uniform, before stuffing it into his rucksack. As he turned to leave, he saw an old woman standing across the street. She was staring at him, then at the body of Broms on the ground.

For an old woman she had a scream like a banshee, the noise echoing off the buildings and raising the hairs on the back of Kassim’s neck. It was too late to stop her, so he stepped through the broken boarding and walked away quickly down the street.

Two minutes later, he was among shoppers and homeward-bound workers, just one face among many.

‘Harry?’ It was Ken Deane, later that evening. Harry had his television on with the sound off, thinking about what he had to do. Deane sounded angry. ‘I’m on a secure line. Another man’s down.’

‘Who?’

‘Arne Broms. He was stabbed in Brussels this afternoon, near the Swedish Embassy. Word just came through.’

Harry felt a tightening in his stomach. Broms the driver. Big, solid, careful. Not an easy man to take down.

‘What are the locals saying?’ He was sure Deane’s office would already have been in touch with the Belgian police, no doubt pushing as discreetly but as firmly as possible for the basic details.

‘They’re playing wise monkeys. They think it must have been a political act. Do you believe that? I mean, who the hell gets snitty with the Swedes, for Chrissakes?’

‘You think it was the same as Orti?’

A long sigh filtered down the line. ‘Yeah, pretty much. There was a witness to the killing: an old lady who freaked out with the shock. Kept shouting about “a man with dark eyes. . a man with dark eyes”. They haven’t got a useful word out of her since.’ He coughed. ‘It chimes with something the Paris police said. A couple of barflies where Orti had his last drink said there was a man with dark eyes in the cafe.’

‘What was Broms doing in Brussels?’

‘He was on secondment to the embassy, Two I/C of their security section. The embassy’s closed down but they had a skeleton staff packing up and needed a security presence. Broms rotated shifts with two other guards, and lived in a section house nearby. He died of a single stab to the side. The cops say his chest had been mutilated. I asked for pictures, but they haven’t sent them through yet.’

Harry thought about what kind of man could kill two experienced soldiers with such apparent ease. First Orti, who would know every possible move of rough-house fighting going, then Broms, big enough to shrug off most men with little effort. Whoever the killer was, he had used the element of surprise backed up with lethal skill.

Deane said, ‘You remember Anton Kleeman?’

‘How could I forget?’ Harry almost had, until now. He vaguely recalled a handsome man in his early forties, smooth and urbane, with the healthy glow of the outdoors common to many Americans; a professional politician but not one you would necessarily like unless he wanted it.

‘Well, he’s moved up the UN totem pole since Kosovo. He’s now a Special Envoy and nobody’s taking bets that he doesn’t try for one of the top jobs one day. He’s got the clout and influence to get his hat in the ring; he just needs something to propel him the last few rungs of the ladder.’

Harry wondered where this was leading. He soon found out.

‘He called a press conference earlier today in New York. It was supposed to be a follow-up briefing dealing with reports about brutalities committed by UN forces in Africa. Word is, he was using it to beef himself up prior to a number of Security Council meetings. There was certainly no need for any briefing on the subject today. Unfortunately, he got sandbagged about the alleged rape and murder in Kosovo.’