Adrian Magson - Retribution

‘The Russians won’t want to admit that a foreign killer got into the grounds of a residential military complex in Moscow and nearly popped one of their officers. I think this is worth a try.’

‘I guess. But I thought their databases were creaking at the seams.’

‘Koslov’s FSB. . they’ve probably got the latest Pentiums or Macs in every office.’

‘Courtesy of someone in Silicon Valley, I bet.’ Deane sighed in frustration. ‘Jesus, this guy gets around, doesn’t he? Paris, Brussels, New York, Georgia and now Moscow. We should have him working for the UN!’

‘He’s mobile and has resources,’ Harry agreed. ‘He’s getting help from somewhere.’

‘Did Koslov get a look at him?’

‘Not really. He was busy trying to stay alive.’

‘Pity. We could use a break.’

Harry rang off and was about to switch off the television in his room when a familiar face and name appeared on the screen. It was UN Special Envoy Anton Kleeman standing alongside a group of smiling Chinese politicians. Then the picture cut to show some older footage of a grinning Kleeman in a camouflage jacket, looking younger and slimmer. Karen Walters stood unsmiling to one side. The backdrop looked familiar, Harry thought, a notion quickly confirmed when the camera swung round and caught a brief glimpse of a Sea King helicopter taking off in the background, a crew member visible in the open doorway. It was the same machine that had airlifted everyone out of the KFOR compound near Mitrovica.

As he packed his things away, Harry listened with half an ear to the reporter giving a bland account of talks between the UN Special Envoy and members of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Beijing. The studio was evidently using a collage of the Macedonia footage and other short extracts to show Kleeman’s versatile role in the organization over a number of years and his increasing prominence in its affairs, including snaps of his college days when he showed great promise as a collegiate wrestler and rower.

He shook his head at the envoy’s posturing and turned off the set, sceptical of the ease with which Kleeman had donned the DPM jacket for the cameras and wondering if it was on his own initiative or that of Walters, his assistant.

At a dismal, rain-soaked truck stop outside Moscow, where the city’s vast ring road joined the intersection of the M7 at Reutov, Kassim was eating a cheap meal of stew and potatoes, his eye on a television bolted to the wall in one corner. Around him was a melee of drivers and travellers, the air of the cafeteria thick with pungent tobacco smoke and a misting of steam rising from damp clothes.

The sound on the television was drowned out by the volume of talk around him, but the picture was clear enough. What had drawn his attention was the sight of a British military helicopter, and a man talking to a clutch of news reporters. The face looked familiar, and Kassim quickly dug out the small binder from his pocket and rifled through the pages until he found the one he wanted.

Anton Kleeman. UN Special Envoy.

Kassim took his plate and edged nearer the television, peering over the shoulders of lorry drivers at the counter. He still couldn’t hear anything, and the language would have made it unlikely he’d have understood in any case, but the same reporter’s voice continued talking when the picture changed to a shot of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, followed immediately by Big Ben in London.

At the end of the bulletin Kassim returned to his seat with a thoughtful expression and finished his meal. Even when an enormous trucker, clearly overcome by an excess of cheap vodka, lurched against his table and mumbled an apology, he continued staring into the distance.

He needed to get to a computer.

The young woman named Maria was again serving when Harry and Rik entered the Tex-Mex restaurant the following morning. The first crush of customers had gone, leaving a few late risers and one or two even later finishers from the previous night. Most had their hands clasped around mugs of strong coffee as they fought to shake off the effects of insomnia, hangovers or non-prescription drugs.

Outside, the day’s parade of the Venice Beach beautiful people had not yet begun in earnest. A few early sun-worshippers eager to stake a place on the sands were there, along with the more serious athletes, joggers and bladers, and on a patch of sandy grass, a clutch of t’ai chi exponents were going through their paces, ages ranging from teens to the elderly. Harry suspected it was the only sane time of the day.

They took a table away from the other diners, and when Maria came over, ordered breakfast. If she recognized Harry from the previous evening, she gave no sign, but nodded once and went away to get their food order.

‘You dog,’ Rik said neutrally, eyeing Maria’s departing back. ‘You’ve been schmoozing with the hired help.’

‘Shmoozing isn’t in my armoury,’ Harry muttered. ‘But I’m certain she knows Bikovsky.’

A man in a Fred Perry sports shirt and tan slacks put their breakfasts before them. He was about sixty, with dyed hair, a tanned face and deep lines either side of his mouth. His hands were covered in gold rings. ‘I’m Jerry — I own this place. Maria said you was askin’ about Bikovsky.’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes. You know where he is?’

Jerry gave a minute shake of his head, eyes assessing them both. ‘He ain’t been around for a few days. He owes rent for his place across the alley, so I’m kinda keen to see the big mutt myself. You’re British, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thought I recognized the accent. He owe you money, too?’

‘Nothing like that.’ Harry decided to stick close to the truth, which would sound more believable than if he told Jerry that Bikovsky’s life was in danger. ‘I met him some years ago in the army — in Kosovo. I was in the area for a couple of days, so I thought it would be nice to meet up.’

‘Yeah, Don was in the Marines out there. He told me about it. Rough place.’ Jerry flicked a crumb off the table. ‘Sometimes he gets work at the studios and stays on location, you know? Easier than travelling up and down the canyons every day.’

‘Acting work?’ Harry couldn’t imagine Bikovsky as a thespian.

The man’s smile became lopsided. ‘Hell, no. Not what I’d call acting, anyway. More like stunt work, if you know what I mean.’ He laughed coarsely, and when Harry looked blank, rolled his eyes and bent near, his voice dropping. ‘Skin flicks. Porno movies. The guy’s got the pecs, see. . he looks good in the flesh. It pays pretty good, too, but personally, I don’t think it’s all that healthy.’

Harry wondered if things had been tough for Bikovsky after leaving the Marines, and whether his history in San Diego had followed him rather more closely than he’d liked. After what Deane had told him about the rape charge, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that he’d gravitated to the sex industry.

‘Do you have an address for this studio?’

Jerry raised his shoulders. ‘Who knows? These guys, they move around a lot. Plus Don’s been hanging with a strange crowd recently. I think maybe he’s in trouble and he’s gone to let things cool down.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

The man turned away as another customer began to get impatient and a crash came from the kitchen. ‘What other kind is there?’ he said simply. ‘Girls, of course. . or drugs.’ He stopped and put out a finger. ‘But if you see him, tell him he’s gotta pay me the rent or I let the place to someone else. I gotta make a living, too.’ He walked away and disappeared through a door at the back.

They finished their meals, and Harry led Rik out on to Ocean Front Walk. As they drew level with the alleyway alongside the building housing Bikovsky’s flat, he glanced around and saw an LAPD patrol car drifting towards the County Lifeguard station a hundred yards away.