Adrian Magson - Retribution

‘If this Kassim is tracking members of the team,’ he said, ‘he’s not doing it because someone’s feelings got bruised. Something serious must have happened at the compound. I’m trying to find out what that might be.’

Bikovsky looked defensive, his eyes flicking towards the door as if seeking an avenue of escape. ‘What — and you think it may have been something I did? Like what? Man — I was wasted that night, same as everybody else.’ He sat back, making the seat creak, and swept a large hand through the air. ‘You know what it was like; it was in, bed down and out again. Anyway, the compound guards could’ve been doing stuff before we even got there. With nothing to do all day except pound the wire and keep out the camp rats, who could blame them? Maybe they got some of the local girls in there for a party and the locals got pissed.’

‘You might be right, except that Carvalho was rotated out of the convoy to stay with us. He arrived and left when we did, and the other compound guards went on to Pristina. So far they’ve been left alone.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘If something happened, it was the night we were there. Nothing else makes sense.’

The waitress arrived with their orders and Bikovsky shrugged, then took a large bite of his Danish. ‘Well, I can’t help you. Wish I could, you know?’ He finished off the pastry in a few swallows and gulped down his coffee. ‘So where to next, huh?’ His tone was suddenly relaxed, seeing the meeting as done.

Harry sipped his coffee and pulled a face. ‘Moscow, probably. How about you — are you managing to make a living from the films?’ He kept his voice casual.

Bikovsky smirked, his manner easier now the talk was no longer of any possible misdemeanours. ‘Pretty good. It ain’t what my mother wanted me to do, but doin’ what comes natural and being paid for it. . well, it’s OK until something better comes along, right?’

Harry glanced around, then edged forward, his manner conspiratorial. ‘So what kind of girls do you work with, then?’ he asked, in what he hoped was a guy-to-guy manner.

Bikovsky laughed. ‘The people I work with, they’re at the top end. They distribute right across the States — even Europe. And the chicks, well, they have to be a certain standard.’ He smirked, eyes hooded. ‘I tell you, some of them, they ain’t gonna make it in Hollywood, but, man, they’re still classy. If I wasn’t in the business, there’s no way I’d ever get to party with them. As it is, though. . well, I get to play with some of the finest ass you’ll ever see, let me tell you.’

Harry pushed his coffee away. He badly wanted to knock Bikovsky out of his seat. He had no real recollection of how good the man had been as a soldier, but guessed that underneath the uniform he had never been any different from when he was out of it.

‘Are they young?’ he asked.

Bikovsky frowned. ‘Man, I don’t know. Long as they’ve got the right equipment in the right condition, who cares? If it ain’t willing, ready and able, it don’t get the job, that’s the only rule.’

Harry suppressed his distaste. ‘Teenagers? Kids?’

‘Sure — I guess. Eighteen, maybe seventeen.’ He looked suddenly wary. ‘I ain’t never heard no one ask for their birth certificates, if that’s what you mean. As far as I’m concerned, they’re the same as me: do the job and take the money. We done?’

Harry nodded. He’d had enough. If Bikovsky was into young girls, he wasn’t about to admit it. He took a copy of Kassim’s photo from the envelope and slid it across the table so Bikovsky could see it. ‘This is Kassim — or was about ten years ago.’

Bikovsky frowned at the poor reprint. ‘He’s just a kid!’

‘He was. He’s grown up a lot since then.’

Bikovsky feigned indifference, but Harry guessed it was an act; his service in the Balkans would have given him a clear idea of what revenge attacks could be like. And age was no guarantee of inability to kill a man.

‘Looks a mean little asshole,’ was his only comment.

‘He’s worse. As well as killing the others, he got within thirty feet of Carl Pendry on a sniper training range — and Carl was expecting company. He makes Eddie and Marty seem like pussycats in comparison.’

‘So how come he didn’t try nailing Pendry again? And if he’s so freakin’ awesome, how is it he hasn’t come after me?’

Harry stood up. ‘He missed his chance with Pendry, so he moved on to take a shot at Koslov instead. He’s keeping us guessing. It doesn’t mean he’s given up.’

Bikovsky looked sour. ‘What are you saying — that I should leave? Run away? I can’t do that.’

‘Fine. It’s your life.’ Harry glanced at Bikovsky’s mobile on the table. ‘Give me your number. I’ll try to warn you if he comes back.’

The Marine shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He read out the number and Harry keyed it into his own phone. ‘The sooner I can forget this shit, the better.’

‘Do that. But remember one thing: Kassim won’t forget you.’

Deep in the picturesque Cotswold hills of southern England, at a small helicopter flight base off the old Roman road, the Fosse Way, Corporal Malcolm Oakes of No. 51 Squadron RAF Regiment was watching the coming of dusk. The silhouette of one of the hangars was turning black against the sky, the vast roof curving down at the sides. As the light faded, the adjacent maintenance workshops would be swallowed too, followed by the admin block nearby and the perimeter fence three hundred yards away, leaving only the outer and inner security lights to push back the night.

Oakes shivered. It was only his third day here and it was a sight he hadn’t tired of, this coming of the evening. Yet he couldn’t explain even to himself why he found the sight so compelling. Maybe it was something deep in his psyche he’d never fully grasped, this small, low-key ending to the day.

He’d seen more dramatic moments over the years, in different places, especially on a posting to the Falklands, when the sun came up over the South Atlantic like a shock to the system. Then, he’d witnessed colours more intense than he’d ever seen before, an event he felt should have been accompanied by a swelling chorus of music to do it justice. Even on his last tour in Iraq, the sunset over the desert possessed a cold, ethereal beauty that touched the land as if trying to compensate for the ugliness and killing that had gone on over the generations.

He continued his patrol between the hangars, which housed a collection of training helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft, and spotted his colleague, Andy Killick, disappearing behind a vehicle garage near the admin block. Killick was slipping off for a quick smoke. One day he’d get caught and then wonder why the might of the RAF rulebook was descending on him like a ton of bricks.

Oakes checked his watch. Another thirty minutes, then he’d be off duty. A few hours’ sleep and he’d be heading for a day’s hiking along the Windrush. He hadn’t done the walk through the Cotswolds yet and it was time to get his boots out and exercise his leg muscles before he was posted somewhere else less inspiring.

He stretched and heard the crackle of the envelope in his top pocket. He’d picked it up earlier when he’d clocked on. He hadn’t opened it yet because he was sure he knew what it was; a bollocking for getting heavy-handed with a couple of local men who’d strayed on to the base two days ago in search of whatever wasn’t tied down. His method of dealing with trouble had cost him dear in promotion over the years, and his current tenure of the rank of corporal looked like being shorter than ever. One of the men had thrown a punch and made a run for it, but Oakes had brought him down within thirty paces, managing to roll on the intruder’s throat in the process. The youth had ended up in hospital, bitching about being beaten up.