Adrian Magson: Retribution

Harry was trying to put that episode out of his mind, but clearly the talk was still rumbling around on the security and intelligence grapevine. After a failed drugs intercept in which two civilians and a police officer had been shot dead, Harry had been sent to a combined MI5/MI6 office in Georgia, code-named Red Station. Ostensibly to get him away from the press furore and the sniping of politicians looking for a scalp, the posting had been a sham; when he’d made noises about coming back, he and his new colleagues, including Rik Ferris, had been made the subjects of a kill order by a man known as The Hit.

‘Not all of MI5,’ he said. ‘Just one.’

‘Right. Paulton. He’s still out there, isn’t he?’

‘For now.’ Harry didn’t doubt that Deane knew all there was to know about his MI5 background and George Henry Paulton, his former boss. He’d clearly made his way up the UN security ladder since Kosovo, which put him in a position where digging around in Intelligence files was relatively simple, and finding people who knew all about men like Harry Tate was no more than a phone call away. It made him impatient to find out what Deane was doing here in London. ‘You didn’t fly all the way over here just to talk about me, though.’

Deane waited until they had skirted a group of men in white djellabas clustered on the pavement by a limousine before answering. It gave Harry a chance to study him. He had the white teeth and smart, brush-cut hair of many Americans, which was little different to how Harry remembered him, but he was beginning to run up some extra weight. Too much time spent driving a desk.

‘Yeah, look — I’m sorry about the subterfuge, Harry. It’s true I was over here anyway, some business at the embassy. But what I have to talk about has taken precedence over everything. I have orders to keep it away from the embassy and off the wires, and I couldn’t think of any building in London where we could meet that wasn’t awash with spooks. I’ve been in this game too long, I guess. . suspicious of everyone.’

Harry knew how he felt; he’d become far less trusting of people himself of late. Being marked down for elimination does that to a person.

‘So why the message?’

‘Let’s get in the open first,’ Deane muttered finally. ‘I’ve been cooped up in planes and cars and offices, and I need some fresh air and the feel of green grass under my feet.’ He nodded towards Hyde Park. ‘That looks good to me. We could get an ice cream and walk.’

They bought ice creams from a late vendor and walked out across the park, steering clear of being overheard. Deane took the top off his ice cream and said, ‘You ever thought of going back in uniform, Harry?’

‘Why?’ Harry studied his cone and dumped it at the foot of a tree where the birds could feed on it. He’d lost his appetite. ‘Are you recruiting?’ Deane had tried to get him on the UN payroll after Kosovo, but Harry had preferred the army, before transferring to MI5, the Security Services.

Deane shrugged and dumped his ice cream, too. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

He seemed tense, and Harry wondered what was coming. He didn’t have long to wait. ‘You remember your team in Kosovo, when you were dragooned into babysitting Anton Kleeman?’

‘Was that his name? It was a long time ago.’ Long enough to have shut out some of the memories, anyway.

‘You had some close calls out there.’

Harry nodded. ‘A couple. Your note mentioned Mitrovica.’

‘That’s right. You got targeted by a Serb ambush squad and had to duck into a UN container depot for the night, remember?’

Harry remembered, and thought that it was a very specific situation to bring up. His team and their protectee had been travelling in armoured four-by-fours and had joined up with a resupply convoy coming down through the hills. The convoy had run into some mines on the road, losing two men and a couple of trucks. ‘We rested up at the depot then got on a flight across the border next morning. Job done.’

‘Do you remember any names?’ The question was casual. Too casual.

‘A couple. Broms, Orti. . Bikov-something — a US Marine, anyway.’ They had only been together a couple of days, not enough to make a lasting impression. ‘Why?’

‘Because stories are coming out of the region about stuff that happened back in Kosovo in ’ninety-nine. Stories backed up by some accurate details. It’s beginning to make serious waves.’

‘It was Kosovo. Lots of stuff happened back then. Remember ethnic cleansing?’

‘Yeah, of course. But this is closer to home — specifically the UN and KFOR. Actually, it’s KFOR, but the UN is the whipping post for all that’s bad in international peacekeeping, and it was our mandate that put KFOR in there, so. .’ He paused.

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this, but he was here now. ‘Go on.’

‘The stories all amount to the same thing.’ Deane took a deep breath. ‘Sometime in autumn ’ninety-nine, a fourteen-year-old girl was raped and murdered inside one of our compounds, and her body dumped outside the wire.’

Harry had seen too much in Kosovo to be surprised by anything that had happened in that broken region. Even so, this was, as Deane said, closer to home.

‘How does that involve me?’

‘Because what we’re hearing, she was raped and murdered by a UN soldier.’ He paused, then added, ‘A UN soldier in the container depot on the Mitrovica road. The night you and your team were there.’

Out on the street after leaving the old man, Kassim experienced a faint sense of bewilderment. He’d somehow expected more, as would be the tradition in the mountains. But beyond providing the weapon and the money, this man would help him no further. For now, he truly was on his own.

He strode off along the street, uncomfortably aware of the weight of the Makarov in the rucksack against his hip. His bewilderment was a passing phase, he knew that. After all the lessons and training, where he was watched and coached every day, a sense of isolation was to be expected, his trainers had warned him. Those same men, older and wiser, had seen everything, witnessed many things. But he still wasn’t sure if they had done what he was now expected to do. Asking such a question would have met with instant reproof. It was enough that they had heard of his story, blurted out in a moment of anger, and selected him — him — to be the agent of destruction.

Barely twenty minutes later he was entering a more prosperous neighbourhood, with a profusion of shops, cafes and businesses. The houses were fresher and well-tended, and both sides of the street were lined nose to tail with shiny cars. He referred briefly to the binder in his pocket, checking one photo in particular.

He turned into a side street. Finding the address he wanted, he passed by without stopping, running a quick eye over the door. He could not tell for certain from such a brief inspection, but it did not look as if there were any special security measures in place. The wood looked normal, without the heavy, studded appearance of reinforcements or extra locks, and a narrow window to one side looked like a single pane of standard glass.

He decided to wait and watch before taking any action.

Nearby was a cafe with a few chairs and tables outside. He stepped inside, into a wall of choking cigarette smoke and loud talk, and the chink of glasses. He chose a table near the window from where he could watch the street, and ordered a fizzy drink from an aproned waiter.

His timetable was flexible and allowed for problems. If all went well, he would catch a train from the Gare du Nord at 22.01. If not, he would leave tomorrow instead.

All he could do now was wait.