Adrian Magson - Retribution

Harry explained briefly about his encounter with the men, drawing a fresh look of appraisal from McKenzie, who looked as if he would like to have seen it.

‘When that news gets round,’ he said shortly, ‘you’ll make a lot of new friends — mostly in the porno business.’

A few minutes later, Harry and Rik were walking down the stairs.

‘Where are we going?’ Rik asked.

Harry had got away from McKenzie by using the excuse that he needed to confer with Deane in New York. What he really wanted was to talk to Bikovsky before the LAPD and the FBI put the ex-Marine off-limits.

‘I’ve got a feeling Bikovsky knows more than he thinks. . or more than he’s letting on.’

They were met outside by a crowd of onlookers being pushed back behind a police cordon. Among them were Jerry, concerned about the apartment he let to Bikovsky, and Maria. She was hugging her arms around her, face creased with concern.

‘It’s not Bikovsky,’ Harry explained to Maria. ‘Just a man who was unlucky enough to look like him.’

Maria nodded, relief flickering briefly across her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and turned away, disappearing into the crowd, anxious to distance herself from the presence of so many police officers.

‘Hey — what about my apartment?’ Jerry demanded, pushing forward. ‘Did they tear the place up? Am I gonna have to get the place cleaned or what, huh? That no-hoper, Bikovsky. . he’s nothing but trouble!’

A few miles away, on the outskirts of Los Angeles International, Kassim pulled out of the heavy evening traffic and turned in to a block of cargo warehouses. Satisfied he was unobserved, he killed the engine and dumped the trail bike behind a garbage skip, retrieving his rucksack and throwing it over his shoulder. He could see the airport buildings in the distance, and quickly made his way on foot towards them. He was beginning to shake from the kill and the subsequent chase, and was experiencing dizziness again and loss of vision. He badly needed to get cleaned up and to rest, to let the reaction pass before showing up at the Marriott to collect his new passport and travel vouchers.

He arrived at a perimeter road, on the other side of which were the terminal buildings and public car parks. He remembered belatedly that Americans never walked if they could ride, and that he could have used the bike without standing out. He’d been careless, but he put it down to not feeling well. Even so, it was a lesson for the next few hours.

He arrived at the nearest terminal building and found a deserted washroom where he was able to clean himself up and change his shirt. He was covered in a film of perspiration and dust from his ride across the patch of rough ground, and had some minor cuts on his hands where he had burst through the window of the apartment block into the alleyway.

He glanced down and saw a patch of blood on the thigh of his pants from where he had shoved the knife before jumping from the building. He pulled the blade out and rinsed it under the tap, then wrapped it in some paper towels and put it in his rucksack. He would have to dispose of it later. For now, though, he felt safer having it within reach.

As he was holding his leg under a hot-air dryer, he felt a shock penetrate his gut. Something was missing.

The fragment of blue cloth. He’d dropped it!

He searched everywhere, but knew it was no good. He felt as if a piece of him had been ripped away. This was bad. Very bad. He walked up and down, shaking his head, trying to figure out what to do. It was pointless going back; he’d be seen and locked up — or worse, shot dead. Yet it represented a major part of why he was here. . why he was doing this. How could he have been so careless? It must have happened after he’d killed the American, on his way out of the building.

He forced himself to remain calm and took a deep breath, then drank some cold water. It was time to let go. He could still complete his task. But first he needed to change his profile.

The men chasing him back at the apartment buildings would have got a partial look at him at least. One in particular, who had emerged from the alleyway just as he was leaving on the motorcycle: the Englishman, Tate. It had been close — too close — and he was amazed Tate had not used a weapon. Had it been him, Kassim would not have hesitated.

The outer door rattled and Kassim ducked his face into a basin. A man came in and used one of the cubicles, then stepped across to the basins to wash his hands. He was carrying a sports bag in one hand and in the other a lightweight tan windcheater with a dark blue lining. Kassim went into a cubicle, noisily locking the door, then counted to five before silently slipping the catch and stepping out again.

The man had his head down, soaping his face. His windcheater lay on top of the sports bag at his feet. As Kassim stepped past him, he reached down and scooped up the garment, and was out the door before the man even knew it had gone.

Ten minutes later, having reversed the windcheater and flung it across his shoulders, Kassim found a cafeteria and took a spare seat at a table of Spanish tourists, nodding gratefully as they made room for him.

As he drank a glass of iced coke, allowing his nerves to settle, he noticed a Herald Tribune lying on a chair. On the front was a picture of a war-torn building, scarred by fire and pockmarked by shell holes. The photo looked dated, with a woman standing in the centre of the shot, staring in shock at a body lying twisted and burned among the bricks and dust. Kassim was about to look away when he noticed a familiar name in a side column. He picked up the paper and followed the page reference.

UN SPECIAL ENVOY KLEEMAN RETURNING TO KOSOVO.

Inside was a large photo of Anton Kleeman.

Harry also noticed the headline as Rik was scrolling for news on his laptop. They were in an airport hotel, waiting for Deane to call back. Harry had asked him to use his influence to gain access to Bikovsky. He would have to go through the FBI and the LAPD, both of whom were probably claiming primary control over him; the police for questioning about events at his apartment and the FBI for the wider investigation into the UN team murders.

‘This can’t be good,’ Rik commented. He clicked on a link and brought up the picture of Kleeman in a camouflage jacket, smiling into the cameras. It was not a current picture and Kleeman had put on a little weight since 1999.

‘It’s not.’ Harry immediately saw the significance and rang Deane. This couldn’t wait.

‘When was Kleeman’s Kosovo trip planned?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Deane admitted. ‘I’d have to check. Karen Walters is right here.’

‘Ask her. It’s important.’

Deane turned away and there was a rumbling of voices before he came back on. ‘It’s been on his itinerary for a while, arranged over four months ago. I think it’s part of his schedule for worldwide domination.’

‘Then that’s when the planning began.’

‘What planning?’

‘The plan to kill him.’

‘ What? ’ Deane yelped.

‘You’ve got to call it off.’

‘Can’t be done. What are you talking about, kill him?’

Harry took a deep breath. He didn’t know if Deane was being deliberately obtuse or simply in denial. ‘Don’t you see this is a set-up? The whole thing: the killings, the timing of the rumours, the drip-feed of details to the media, the talk of a “spectacular” — and now Kleeman going to visit Kosovo. It’s all linked.’

‘Harry, you’re- Are you serious?’

‘Think about it. Kleeman’s on the kill list with everyone else. He might not be the guilty party, but that hasn’t mattered to Kassim. What better way to give the UN a bloody nose than by knocking off personnel who were in Kosovo at the time and gaining major headlines by rounding it off with the assassination of the Special Envoy they were guarding at the time?’