Adrian Magson - Retribution

The rest, though, would be up to him.

As instructed, on arrival in Lahore, he had used some of the money in the bag to buy western clothes: a cheap suit, shoes, shirts and underwear. He had also purchased a medium-size, dark green rucksack, more befitting a student of agriculture than the bag provided. Being shaved clean had left his skin tender after years of being covered with a light beard; he still wasn’t accustomed to the open air on his cheeks. But now he looked no different to a thousand others. Many followers of Islam — notably the Taliban — believed a man should never lose his beard. He thought the view extreme and had shaved so as not to stand out. For what he had to do, blending in was of paramount importance.

Now he was here, he saw that he was, if anything, even lighter skinned than many others, and felt instantly at ease. But he recalled being told in the briefings that in many western cities, making eye contact was to be avoided, and reminded himself not to make simple mistakes.

The air was chilly and the streets of the French capital were busy, but he had no eyes for the architecture and the cold meant nothing. He waited for the bus to move away, then consulted the map he had bought at the airport, before setting off north along Rue Auber. He felt awkward in the new shoes, especially on the unforgiving pavements, but he was grateful to be on his feet again. Although the atmosphere here was loaded with petrol fumes and the smoke of cigarettes, he had room to stretch, feeling the muscles of his calves gradually loosening as he moved.

From Auber he crossed Boulevard Haussmann to the Gare St Lazare. He found the street he was looking for tucked away behind the station. It was a narrow, untidy passage between a jumble of old houses. Litter-filled puddles from earlier rainfall gave the street a forlorn air, and a scavenging dog tugged at a refuse sack outside a butcher’s shop, scattering bloody remains across the pavement. Loud Moroccan-style music wailed from a first-floor apartment, and bedding fluttered from ornate balconies, a flash of colour in a drab setting.

He stopped outside a peeling doorway and studied the name written below the doorbell. At his feet a refuse bag gave out an unwholesome smell, and he wondered how people could live in such surroundings. He pressed the bell.

The door opened to reveal an old man in a white djellaba and skullcap. He peered at Kassim through thick spectacles, his expression carefully blank.

‘I’m Kassim.’

The old man nodded and beckoned him in, checking the street before closing the door again. They exchanged brief courtesies before the old man led Kassim up the stairs to a small room. It contained a rickety card table and two chairs, and on the floor, a cardboard box. On the table stood a coffee pot and two cups.

The old man bade Kassim sit, and poured coffee. It was blue-black and thick, the steam curling upwards and infusing the air with its heady aroma. The two men sipped the treacly brew, eyes on each other. Finally, courtesies over, the old man stood up.

‘Your package is here.’ He nodded at the cardboard box on the floor. ‘I will leave you for a minute.’

‘No.’ Kassim stopped him. ‘Stay. I will soon be gone.’

The old man inclined his head and watched as Kassim pulled the box towards him. Inside was a small pocket-sized binder containing more than a dozen sheets of typed paper. He flipped it open. Each sheet carried a small photo, and beneath each one was a name and address with some notes for Kassim to study.

Beneath the binder was an envelope containing a thick wad of money. He fanned through it, noting euros and US dollars, all medium denominations. Depending on his travel and accommodation, he had been assured there would be sufficient to last several days. With the money was a single sheet of paper showing the address in New York of a travel agency.

The final item was a heavy bundle wrapped in newspaper. It was a Russian-made Makarov 9mm with a clip of ammunition, a twin of the one he had thrown down the drain in Torkham. He must have looked startled by the similarity, because the old man asked softly, ‘There is something wrong?’

He shook his head, wondering if it had been coincidence or a lack of imagination on somebody’s part. The gun looked well used but was clean and gleamed with oil.

‘Is this all the ammunition you could get?’ he asked. He slipped the clip into the gun with a practised movement and hefted it for balance.

The old man seemed unimpressed by his deftness with the weapon. ‘Why? Are you going to start a jihad — a holy war?’ His tone was serious, and Kassim felt instantly chided, like a child that had suggested something outrageous.

‘No. Of course not.’

‘You must dispose of it carefully afterwards.’

He stared hard at the man, wondering at the departure of his earlier courtesy. Maybe living here in the west eroded the customary traditions of welcome and politeness to guests.

‘I know what I must do,’ he said gruffly and stood up. Venting his anger on this old fool was pointless. He was merely a contact to be used for limited assistance; he knew nothing of Kassim’s mission and probably cared less, and would in all probability be glad to see the back of him, this mountain man from far away.

He placed the gun inside his rucksack, pushing it down between the few clothes where it would not bump against anything. He put the binder inside his jacket, then followed the old man from the room and down the stairs.

At the bottom Kassim took his arm, feeling the thin bones beneath the cloth of the djellaba . ‘I may need to contact you,’ he said, before his host opened the door.

The old man stared at Kassim’s hand until the visitor released him. When he looked up, his eyes were cool and unfathomable.

‘I will not be here. This is not my home. After you leave I will never come here again.’ He spoke with absolute finality, and Kassim wondered at the man’s past that he could be so calm, so definite. So controlled.

The old man pulled the door open and stood back. ‘Go with God,’ he said politely, dipping his head in salute.

Harry stood on the east side of Grosvenor Square and watched Ken Deane walking towards him. The American looked relaxed, in spite of the tone of his text message. Dressed in a neutral suit and sombre tie, the man who was now Deputy Head of UN Field Security could have been any one of dozens of workers from the imposing structure of the US Embassy on the opposite side of the square. He reached the pavement under an angry blast from a cab driver, and grinned in triumph.

‘You’d get arrested for that in New York,’ Harry told him.

Deane pulled a face. ‘Not me, pal — I’m UN, remember? They pull that shit and I’d have a team of Gurkhas come through the windows to haul me out.’

‘Actually,’ Harry pointed out, ‘you wouldn’t. They’re all in Afghanistan.’

‘Damn. Is that right? I can never keep track of where everyone is these days.’ Deane pumped his hand, his grip softer than Harry remembered. ‘So how are you, bud? How’s life in the private sector?’ He turned and led Harry around the square, past the heavy anti-bomb barriers and the armed police outside the guardhouse, up towards Park Lane. ‘Somehow I never saw you as a PMC.’

‘I’m not.’ Private military contractors were security personnel working in war zones like Iraq and Afghanistan, often employed by shadowy organizations led by former Special Forces officers. Some regarded them as the blue-chip version of what had once been called mercenaries. ‘I’m freelance.’

Deane gave him a quizzical look. ‘If you say so. Is it true what I heard — that you nearly got iced in Georgia, courtesy of your own MI5?’