Adrian Magson - Retribution

There had been no element of irony in the speaker’s voice at this statement.

The rucksack was on the floor behind his legs. He’d regretted having to get rid of the gun and hunting knife, but he could replace both and more on arrival in New York. Until then, he had to remain as unobtrusive as possible. He’d made a point of eating beforehand, so he would not need to be disturbed by the flight attendants.

He thought momentarily about the Swede. Another one who had appeared not to know what was happening. It puzzled him. Unless the man’s mind had rejected all memory of the past. In any event, he had died well, if too quickly. Kassim shook off the image and tried to focus on the next task ahead. But he couldn’t help the thoughts crowding in, as they always did. He had seen too much over the years.

It was going to be a long flight.

Harry rolled out of bed in response to a repeated knocking, only recognizing where he was by the hotel room decor. His head felt stuffed with cotton wool after the flight from Northolt, and his talk with Deane at Marble Arch seemed a long time ago. The security chief had booked him into a small hotel on East 36th Street, just a few blocks from the UN headquarters.

The visitor was a suited messenger holding up a UN pass for Harry to check, and a black canvas bag with a combination lock. Harry signed an electronic receipt pad and thanked the messenger, then called for an all-day breakfast to be sent up to his room. He functioned better on a full stomach.

After a quick shower he got dressed and opened the bag. It contained several sheets of printed paper and a typed note from Deane, two 9mm Ruger SR9 semi-automatics with four magazines, and two electronic swipe cards.

The note was brief.

Details of the team members. Broms and Orti are included for background. Don’t waste time with the Foreign Legion — they’ll probably nail you to a door and let the ants eat you. Any problems with US military, let me know. Use the passes with discretion and ring me when you can.

KD

The passes carried a small square on one side. Harry’s name and photo was on one, Rik Ferris’s photo on the other, but with the name James Morrison. Deane showing his age and a liking for dead rock stars, Harry decided. The shots were official — culled, he guessed, courtesy of someone in Thames House, the headquarters of MI5 in London. The passes described them as representatives of the United Nations Field Security Office, and requested all help be given to the bearer, followed by a 24-hour international telephone number for verification.

Room service interrupted his reading of the biographical sheets and he settled down to eat. Half an hour later, over a second cup of coffee, he had a rough plan of action worked out. He would contact the rest of the CP team — Pendry, Bikovsky and Koslov — in that order. The two Americans because they were closest, the Russian last. With a bit of luck he might not need to go all the way to Moscow, Koslov’s last listed posting. All he could remember of the man was a thin figure, pale of face and colouring, almost delicate compared with the other members of the team. But tough, if he was in the Russian army.

According to Deane’s notes, Carl Pendry was now a ‘black hat’ instructor at the Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Don Bikovsky had left the US Marines and gone back to civilian life. His last recorded address was Venice Beach, California.

He tried Bikovsky first, but got no answer. Next he tried Pendry’s number. The phone was picked up on the second ring by a man with the threat of a drill-sergeant’s eye on his back.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he replied in rapid-fire speech. ‘I’m afraid Sergeant Pendry’s on the range, sir. He should be back late this afternoon. I’m Specialist Cantrell, sir. Can I take a message, sir?’

Harry had to remind himself that most American soldiers spoke as if they were permanently on parade and addressing a senior officer. The energized-sounding individual on the other end was therefore behaving normally.

‘Just a friend calling, that’s all, Cantrell,’ he told the soldier in an effort to slow him down. ‘My name’s Harry Tate. I’m in the Fort Benning area tomorrow and I’d like to call by and stand him a beer. Where does he hang out when he’s not shouting at trainees?’

There was an audible sigh of relaxation and Cantrell laughed. ‘Well, sir, there’s only one place Carl hangs out right now, and that’s the Holiday Inn North near Columbus airport. He’s there most evenings when he’s off free.’ Cantrell seemed to find the idea amusing for some reason.

‘Is there something I should know about the Holiday Inn, Mr Cantrell?’

‘Well, it’s no secret, I guess,’ Cantrell chuckled again. ‘The sergeant’s gone and got hisself a lady, sir. She’s a vice president there, I think. Shall I tell him you called, sir?’

‘Why not?’ It sounded as if Pendry was a popular man, which said something about his character. ‘Tell him I’ll see him at eighteen hundred hours at the Holiday Inn.’

He replaced the phone and tried to picture the huge Ranger alongside any woman and gave up. He just hoped Pendry got the message and didn’t decide to make himself scarce. He wanted to keep their meeting as low key as possible.

He tried Bikovsky’s number again but still with no answer. It looked as though he was going to have to go out to Venice Beach after he’d seen Pendry. For now, it was time to get moving.

He was about to call the front desk for a cab when the phone rang. It was Ken Deane.

‘What you said about how the killer knew where to find Orti and Broms,’ he said without preamble. ‘It looks like we had a bug in the works. You need to be in on this. A car will be with you any minute.’ He rang off without asking if it was convenient.

By the time Harry got downstairs, a suited driver was standing outside with a black Suburban at the kerb. The man ushered him inside and closed the door, then climbed in and took off along the street. They stopped outside a plain, concrete building a stone’s throw from UN Plaza, and the driver told Harry he should go to the fifteenth floor, conference room 1217, where Deane was waiting for him.

‘Harry. Come in.’ Ken Deane greeted him at the door of a small lobby opening into a conference room overlooking the East River. Harry could see two other people already seated at the long table, a large man with receding sandy hair and a woman who looked vaguely familiar.

Before leading Harry through, Deane took his elbow and said softly, ‘You got the ID cards and stuff?’

‘Yes, thanks. I didn’t know you were a fan of The Doors.’

Deane grinned. ‘Long time ago. Listen, for reasons that will become clear, I got you on attachment easily enough — we drag in specialists all the time; but Ferris was later than I’d expected and would have been pushing it. I got him a genuine ID card but he’s not on the books, although the name Morrison is. Just don’t let him get caught in the spotlight. And if he gets shot, you’d better bury him before the press finds out.’ He gave a lift of the eyebrows to show that he was aware of Rik’s very public gunshot injury in central London a few months ago, and gestured towards the conference room. ‘Come on in. Let’s get this started.’

‘You already met each other some years ago,’ Deane said, indicating the woman. ‘Karen Walters, Special Assistant to Anton Kleeman.’

Walters was tall and slim, with the power-dressed appearance of the professional senior administrator. She was in her late forties, Harry judged, and if she remembered him, did not show it.

‘And Vince McKenna, my deputy.’

McKenna smiled and pumped his hand, but didn’t speak.