Adrian Magson - Retribution

Harry’s neck stirred uneasily at the knowledge that Kassim was already here. With the airport just a few miles away, and even allowing for lengthy delays at immigration, it meant he could now be sitting somewhere very close, watching. With his kill record so far, it was an uncomfortable sensation.

‘I’ll get back to you,’ he told Deane, and cut him off in mid-sentence. He looked across to where Rik was doing some lazy stretches, and hit the transmit button on the radio. ‘Our man’s already here. He landed two hours ago.’

‘What? You kidding me?’ Rik muttered something obscene and stopped what he was doing. ‘Do they know who he is?’

‘He’s down as a student, using the name Zef Haxhi. Eyes wide open, you hear?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

Harry cut the connection and went back to studying the area in front of the shops and apartment blocks. The evening visitors were already beginning to show themselves along the sidewalk, a colourful mix of after-work strollers, ancient hippies, pairs and singles, moving aimlessly in their own world, content to be in the cool anonymity of the evening shadows. Among them was a new breed of bladers and riders, their outfits even more garish than their daytime counterparts as they swooped and glided along the pathway.

There was an increase in traffic, along with one or two police patrols and the occasional delivery van. A sanitation truck rumbled along the edge of the sand, emptying garbage cans, while a sweeper buzzed along the cycle path, damping down the day’s dust with a fine spray of water.

A yellow pizza van nosed into the alleyway from the far end and stopped outside Bikovsky’s apartment block. A young man in whites leapt from the cab and disappeared inside bearing a flat box, and re-appeared moments later folding something into his trouser pocket. He reversed the van with smooth skill and disappeared out the far side.

Harry relaxed; even if it had been Kassim, he wouldn’t have had time to get to the first floor and back down.

‘Boss.’ It was Rik, sounding puzzled. ‘Two hundred yards at nine o’clock. . guy in a yellow shirt, jacket and jeans. Isn’t he supposed to be somewhere else?’

Harry shifted his weight and focussed on a knot of strollers in front of a cafe and an ethnic jeweller’s. At first he saw nobody he recognized. Then he felt a jolt of surprise. A large, muscular figure was ambling along the path, hands in his pockets. He appeared unhurried and relaxed, nothing like a man whose life might be hanging in the balance.

Harry rang Deane. It was quicker than fighting his way through the LAPD network. ‘I thought you said Bikovsky was in a safe place under guard?’

‘He is.’

‘Not from where I’m sitting. Right now he’s walking towards his apartment.’

‘Christ. . can you stop him?’

Bikovsky was just passing the Tex-Mex. As he did so, Maria appeared in the restaurant doorway. She glanced at him without reacting, then turned and walked back inside.

‘No to that,’ said Harry. ‘Not without breaking cover.’ He cut the connection and rang Bikovsky’s mobile, hoping he had the sense to pick up. It rang a dozen times. No answer. He keyed the radio and said to Rik, ‘There’s nothing we can do. Hold your position. He’ll have to take his chances.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Rik.

Back in the alleyway, a small panel truck stopped alongside a pile of cardboard produce boxes stacked against the wall of the Tex-Mex restaurant. The driver climbed out and began throwing the boxes into the van. Behind him, a trail bike pulled up and the rider leaned it against a wall. He was wearing a white apron and took a pizza box from the pannier on the back.

Everything about the place was telling Kassim that this was wrong. His antennae were buzzing, a sure sign of trouble that had helped him avoid Russian forces in Chechnya and American Taliban hunters in Afghanistan. Yet there was nothing obvious to cause him concern. People were coming out for the evening, minds on their excesses, and everything about the decadent beach community seemed as normal as it ever could. Yet he felt an underlying movement in the air, like the buzz of night flies around his head.

He had retrieved the pizza box from a nearby garbage can, and a white towel tucked into his trousers gave the appearance of an apron. Pizza delivery boys in America were numerous and practically invisible. It made perfect cover.

Yet the memory of his trip through immigration at Los Angeles was making his head hurt. Three times he had been sick on the way here. He’d cursed himself for not thinking sooner of a change of passport. It was an unforgivable lapse. All it needed was for the Americans to have picked up on the frequent use of the Haxhi passport in the last few days, and they would have him.

In the immigration queue his heart had been thumping wildly, and the pulse in his temples seemed set to explode. When the uniformed immigration officer had queried his reasons for visiting, Kassim had not heard him. The officer, a muscular young man in crisp white shirt and dark pants, had peered hard at Kassim through steel spectacles.

‘Tough flight, huh?’ he’d said sympathetically. Then he’d repeated his question.

It had been too close for Kassim’s increasingly fragile peace of mind. Once he was clear he’d gone straight to the washroom and thrown up. He’d emerged feeling dizzy and nauseous, and realized he needed something to regenerate his energy. He’d found a cheap restaurant and forced down some food, fighting against his lack of appetite and an over-abundance of grease.

After eating, he’d located a phone box and called Remzi in New York.

The travel agent had not been pleased to hear from him. ‘You should not be calling me,’ he’d hissed. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need new papers,’ Kassim had said, brushing aside Remzi’s arguments. ‘Also a passport. Send them to the Marriott Hotel on West Century Boulevard near Los Angeles airport. I will collect them.’

‘I cannot-’ Remzi began, but Kassim interrupted him.

‘You can — you must !’ he snapped. ‘The Americans know I am here.’

‘ What? But you must flee! What if you are caught? ’ Remzi’s voice rose to a screech, and it was clear that he feared for his own freedom. If Kassim were picked up, his own situation was compromised.

‘That’s why I need new papers and tickets, you idiot! If I use the Haxhi papers again, they will take me.’ He overrode the agent’s protests by telling him where he was going next, and that it had to be soon.

It was enough to get Remzi to agree. ‘I will use a person in Los Angeles,’ he said, as if talking to himself. ‘Yes, that is what I will do. He is very good but very expensive. . but the situation demands it. Absolutely, we will do that, I-’

‘When?’ Kassim finally cut him short. This cowardly idiot might go on for hours.

‘What?’

‘When will I have them?’

‘Oh. Yes. I should be able to get a passport to you by this evening. It will be enough to get you out of the country, but that is all. Wait one minute.’ The phone went down with a thump.

Kassim waited, knowing that Remzi was only doing it as a means for his own safety; the sooner he got Kassim out of his hair, the sooner he would be able to go back to his normal life.

Remzi came back moments later to explain that Kassim’s new name would be Roberto Lucchini, a third-generation Italian from New York. The paperwork would be good, Remzi warned, but might not stand close scrutiny.

‘It does not matter,’ Kassim told him. Just one more journey, he thought, and it would all be over.

‘I will also enclose travel vouchers for your next trip,’ Remzi added. ‘You must pick up the tickets at the airport using your new passport.’