Adrian Magson - Retribution

After making his way back off the training area, Kassim had driven into Columbus and found a cyber-cafe. Remzi had not been pleased to hear from him. His responses were terse and poorly typed, the sign of a man in a hurry. . or on the edge of his nerves. But he had complied with Kassim’s request and told him that a courier would deliver the funds later that day. It had meant telling Remzi where he was staying, but there was no way round it. He would have to trust him.

Next Kassim had purchased a change of clothing and returned to his hotel, a cheap commercial place near the station, and taken a shower to wash off the dust and grime of the previous night. Then he’d fallen asleep for a few hours.

It was the middle of the afternoon when he was woken by a call from the front desk. A package to sign for. He drank some water, then went down and signed for a padded envelope. Next he found a local phone book and began dialling hotels near the airport. He was counting on Tate having booked one nearby rather than staying on the base, but it was a long shot. If that failed he would have to think again.

He struck lucky on the seventh try. Tate had a room at the Holiday Inn, but had left before breakfast; on his way, the receptionist thought, to Fort Benning. The irony of how close he might have been to the man yet again didn’t escape Kassim. When the receptionist asked who was calling, Kassim had rung off.

Next he’d called the training base and asked for Mr Tate, saying the call was from UN headquarters in New York. As he’d hoped, the Englishman’s presence was known and the answer had been immediate. ‘I’m sorry, sir — Mr Tate’s not available right now. Can I ask him to call you back?’

Kassim had rung off with a satisfied smile. Perfect.

He’d gone out to look for a replacement, no-questions-asked vehicle, and tried three backstreet garages before finding a ragged Toyota pickup in a chop shop. The owner had let it go for three hundred dollars. By the time he’d driven back out on to the road running past the training camp and crossed the extensive tract of countryside used by the military, news of the killing had spread to the outside world. It had pulled a gaggle of onlookers, press people and television crews to the area, and he’d found it easy to blend in with the crowd and watch for developments.

When Tate had come out in the back of an army vehicle, Kassim had followed, biding his time.

Now he decided to make his next move.

A new group of arrivals had just entered the lobby and were crowding the desk. Kassim went over to a house phone on one wall and dialled reception. It took a while but a receptionist eventually excused herself to answer the phone.

‘Mr Tate, please.’

‘One moment, sir.’ As he’d hoped, the receptionist sounded rushed. ‘You can dial his extension direct.’ She gave him the room number with a prefix digit.

Kassim made his way towards the rest rooms, where he found a room number locator. Tate’s room was on the ground floor at the rear. His stomach was tight with anticipation, and he felt for the reassuring weight of the hunting knife he’d been forced to buy to replace the lost one. He paused at the end of the corridor to consult the binder one last time, then snapped it shut and slipped it into his pocket.

Soon it would be over.

The air-conditioned quietness of his room did little to lift Harry’s sense of frustration, caused by all the pointless questions he’d faced earlier. In typical military fashion, things had gone in circles, accomplishing little and serving only to delay him getting off the base and in pursuit of the killer of Orti, Broms, Carvalho. . and now Lloyd.

He dialled Deane’s number in New York. The phone rang twice before he answered. ‘Harry? What’s up — can’t sleep?’

‘Not yet. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. Things got a little hectic.’

‘I’m not surprised. The brass give you a hard time?’

‘Not too bad. Your call this morning helped smooth things over. I’m flying to LA in the morning to see Bikovsky. No point in hanging around here. . I think our man’s backed off for now.’

‘Good. How’s Pendry?’

‘He wants blood for whoever killed the trooper, but he’s dealing with it.’

Deane grunted. ‘You think he’s clean?’

Harry had already dismissed any idea of the Ranger being involved in anything in Kosovo. ‘As sure as I can be. He doesn’t feel right. I think the guilty man’s still out there.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I know who he isn’t.’

‘Huh?’

‘It wasn’t Orti because the killer went after Broms too, then Carvalho. Now he’s tried Pendry. Unless he really is planning on wiping out the whole team, he hasn’t yet found his target. Do you have any information on the other two?’

‘No. Bikovsky’s dropped off the radar and Koslov’s somewhere in Moscow. Even our reach only extends so far. Keep in touch, Harry.’

‘Wait,’ Harry stopped him. ‘What was it you wanted?’

‘Me?’

‘You called me earlier.’

‘Not me, bud. I’ve been in back-to-back meetings.’

Harry felt a chill crawl up his back. ‘You didn’t call at two p.m.?’

‘No. Pendry, perhaps?’

‘He was on the base with me.’

Deane was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Jesus. He knows where you are.’

Harry thought about the photo Deane had got from MI5. It would now be on the UN records. ‘And he knows what I look like.’

Deane swore softly. ‘Do you need backup?’

‘No. I’ll be in touch.’ He clicked off and reached for the Ruger.

‘You sure this is the place?’ The cab driver eyed Rik in the mirror. They were in Phenix City, Alabama, across the Chattahoochee River from its bigger neighbour, Columbus. ‘There are better places to eat, my friend.’ His tone suggested that passengers from England didn’t usually find their way to this part of town.

‘I’m positive, thanks.’ Rik peeled off some notes and passed them over. The man took the money with a nod and gave him a card with a cab company logo and a number in big, black not-drunk-enough-to-miss typeface.

‘Call that number when you’re ready to leave and I’ll tell you if I can make it or not. Things get busy later.’ He peered over his shoulder and added, ‘I’d keep the British accent down a little, you hear? Ain’t that they don’t like you folks, just some of ’em don’t like anyone different . You take care, now.’

As soon as Rik’s feet touched the grit of the car park, the driver was gone, leaving a trace of exhaust fumes in his wake.

Rik stood and looked around. A hundred yards away the late traffic on Phenix City’s 13th Street was a constant buzz, the sound washing over the surrounding buildings, streets and alleys like a gentle flood. This part of town was strictly commercial, with auto repair shops and small engineering units every few yards, and signs offering marine engine servicing, panel work and paint spraying alongside grill restaurants, bars and barbecue joints.

Rik’s contact had been wary of meeting anywhere too open, insisting on a place he called Mooney’s Bar. ‘Any cab will get you there,’ he’d said enigmatically. ‘Tell him Mooney’s off Thirteenth. He’ll know. You’ll know me, too, when you see me.’ He hadn’t explained why.

Mooney’s was a narrow-fronted, brick-built, single-storey building sandwiched between two auto repair yards. It stretched back a hundred feet with parking spaces along the front and down one side. There were several vehicles around and the sound of country music drifted from the open door. Neon signs advertised nachos, chicken wings and several brand names he’d never heard of. Across the road were more industrial units with floodlit yards and shadow-filled spaces lined with silent vehicles and piles of car parts, and further along, a scattering of trees and bushes with more buildings poking aluminium vents into the night sky, one of them lit by floodlights.