Adrian Magson - Retribution

‘Have the Aeroflot passenger lists thrown up anything?’

‘We’re narrowing it down — or at least the FBI is. There are three possibles at the moment, all unaccompanied male passengers who flew from the US to Moscow on Middle East or European passports. They’re running a check of late flights from Moscow to London as we speak. Once they’ve got the right one, they’ll have a name and passport details, and where he got his tickets. I’m willing to bet it’ll be right here in New York.’

‘Nothing on the woman, Demescu?’

‘Not a whisper. She’s either gone to ground in the local community or she’s back in central Europe.’ Deane sighed, his frustration at being so in the dark and helpless clearly showing. ‘I just wish we knew where this Kassim was going to pop up next. It’s like he’s got a fucking crystal ball.’

Harry rang off and looked for Rik, who was chatting to a young woman in a USAF uniform. They had another hour before boarding their flight. He couldn’t help wondering if they were wasting their time going to Kosovo when Kassim might even now be heading back to the States, and any information he picked up in the Balkans could prove futile. On the other hand, if he kept on the move, at least Kassim wouldn’t know where he was, which was good.

He stopped in mid-stride, his brain spinning. Something Deane had said. .

He rang Deane again, who said, ‘What’s up — miss your flight?’

‘You said Oakes was on a temporary posting to the base in Gloucestershire.’

‘That’s right. He’d been there three days.’

‘With Demescu in the wind, how would Kassim have known that?’

The silence on the other end was palpable, then Deane said, ‘I’ll call you back. When’s your flight?’

‘Just under an hour.’

Thirty minutes later, Deane called.

‘Remember Demescu’s supervisor — a techy nerd named Ehrlich?’

‘Yes. A nervous type.’

‘And with good reason. They shared drinkies, he admitted that at the outset. It looks like she’s been playing him. Security checked his workstation and found a memory stick concealed in the handle of his rucksack. It was full of data from the personnel records. Ehrlich’s been carrying information out of the building to Demescu, and from her to Kassim. The last data he downloaded was about Oakes, lifted from British MoD personnel movement records.’

‘So he took over from her.’

‘Yeah. He had a programme running that updated any new information on each of the names. We should have spotted it.’

‘Does Ehrlich know you’re on to him?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Good. Let him run. Demescu must still be out there somewhere. She probably knows who some of Kassim’s other helpers are — like the source of the tickets he’s using.’

‘Hell of a way to operate; they must have known we’d make the connection sooner or later.’

‘Maybe. But it was never meant to be a long-term arrangement. They probably figured on being long gone before then. And Kassim wouldn’t care.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everything he’s done indicates he’s on a one-way trip. He’s not using multiple documents to travel and he’s taking bigger risks. It’s as if he knows when this is over, he’ll be burned, and the others will fade into the background. Let Ehrlich run but monitor his movements.’

‘You got it. This guy’s gonna be more carefully watched from now on than the Secretary-General himself. What are you going to do?’

‘I’m staying put in LA. Kosovo can wait. You’ll have to pass my apologies to the military. I want to draw Kassim in.’

‘How?’

‘By laying some bait.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

Harry had already had an idea which might draw Kassim out of the woodwork. ‘We can start by updating the UN computer records on Bikovsky. Put him back in his apartment in Venice Beach, say, nursing a broken leg.’

Deane gave a grim laugh. ‘Christ, a British hunting trick from the days of the Raj. Put out a wounded goat and wait for the tiger.’

‘More or less,’ Harry agreed. He didn’t care for Bikovsky, but he drew the line at coldly using the man as such obvious bait. But he could use the address and Kassim’s knowledge of its location at no risk to anyone else. ‘You’ll have to spice it up a bit,’ he added. ‘Make it really worth his while coming.’

‘How do we do that?’

‘Put in something that Ehrlich will be bound to pass on.’

‘Like what?’

‘Let him know I’ll be there as well.’

In the cramped toilets of the flight from Heathrow to Los Angeles, Kassim’s urine looked luridly purple under the bulkhead light. He stared at his reflection in the mirror with dismay; the last few days had done more to wear him down physically and mentally than the years in the inhospitable hills of Afghanistan. Then, he’d been in constant danger of being caught by the Americans or the Afghan army, or being vaporized by one of their drones. Yet nothing had wreaked more visible damage on him than the days since leaving the hills on this mission.

He’d developed dark shadows beneath his eyes, making his cheekbones more prominent, and his shaven jaw was like that of a man only days away from death, with a sallow greyness to his skin. Assaulted by rushed convenience meals snatched between flights, and rare stretches of sleep which were becoming increasingly restless and disturbed, his body was beginning to rebel. His digestive system, schooled after years of deprivation in the hills to exist on a meagre diet of dried meat, coarse bread and little water, was now collapsing, causing him acute stomach pains and loose bowels.

He filled a plastic beaker with water and swallowed three of the pills he’d got from the man who had supplied the car in West Drayton. He had explained that he needed something to help him make the long drive without stopping, and to overcome a pain in his gut. The man had told Kassim that his sister was a pharmacist and knew about such things. He’d made a brief phone call and within minutes a small bottle with a dozen pills was Kassim’s, in exchange for fifty English pounds.

As he emptied the cup he recognized that it wasn’t merely his physical self he needed to preserve; his mental shell, armoured over the years to shut out the disabling emotions of fear and doubt, was showing signs of severe strain. He wondered what kind of pills he could take to rectify that particular problem.

Someone rattled the folding door and a warning tone sounded, followed by an announcement that they were shortly coming in to land. Kassim put the remaining pills in his pocket. He would keep them for later, for as much as he had so far accomplished, there was still a lot to do. And though the binder in his jacket was now thinner than it had been, his task was still far from over. Apart from the Americans, Bikovsky and Pendry, who still lived, there was their leader whom he had come so tantalizingly close to.

He took out the binder. He now knew a little more about the Englishman, Tate, than he had before. He was a member of the British Security Service known as MI5. Kassim knew about such operatives; they were trained in covert work and were skilled investigators as well as experts in counter-offensive methods. It could not be long before their paths crossed and, God willing, if he was strong enough and watchful, Kassim was sure he could take this man, too.

He returned to his seat and fastened his seatbelt. The overhead television screen was showing CNN highlights. He slipped on his earphones and watched a smiling group of politicians, hair gently ruffled by a breeze gusting off a river behind them. Kassim recognized the building the English called Big Ben, on the River Thames.