Adrian Magson - Retribution

Harry nodded in agreement and thanked him, then signalled for Rik to follow him outside. He needed to think. Everything had happened so quickly it was beginning to feel like a film on fast-forward, and he was in danger of missing something.

They were halfway down the beach when he had a thought. Every man in the CP team had been issued with a UN beret. It was something Kleeman had requested, to show a united front. Most chose not to wear it, preferring their own regimental headgear. Some occasions, however, demanded it, especially when the UN had to be seen and identified quickly. He dialled Carl Pendry’s number. The Ranger answered immediately.

‘What did you do with your UN beret after your tour?’

Pendry was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Handed it in, I guess, along with everything else that wasn’t my own kit.’ He paused. ‘Why you asking?’

‘Just checking something.’ He gave Pendry a brief run-down of what had happened in LA and Moscow, and with a cautionary note to keep his eyes open, cut the connection. Then he rang Deane and told him about the fragment of UN beret.

Deane recognized it as the final piece of the jigsaw — the proof the rumours had been hinting at. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need. OK, I’ll check to see if we still have the inventories for that time. But people lose equipment. It doesn’t prove this fragment came from a beret in Kosovo. It could have been picked up anywhere.’

‘I know. But what are the odds?’ The only way to prove it would be by forensic examination of the cloth. . and the stains.

Deane agreed to call back as soon as he had something, then disconnected. When Harry looked up, Rik was frowning.

‘What?’ Harry had learned to recognize the look.

‘Back at that hotel: Bikovsky was watching a news report from Kosovo.’

‘I know. What about it?’

‘It was old footage from when you were over there. He saw himself and Kleeman. . and the rest of the team. Wasn’t that across the border?’

‘Yes. We’d crossed into Macedonia after leaving the compound. The cameras were waiting for Kleeman to do his piece.’

‘What headgear were you wearing?’

Harry thought back. Rik was right: they should all have been wearing blue UN berets. Karen Walters had been there to manage the press briefing, to reinforce the UN’s image. He called Bob Dosario at the FBI office on Wilshire Boulevard and explained what he wanted. The special agent was immediately helpful.

‘Come on round and I’ll have it sent in. I think I know which station it was.’

They drove over to Wilshire and were shown into a conference room with a large flatscreen display. A young female technician in a crisp white shirt was running through a section of film on a DVD player. Dosario welcomed the two men and gestured them to seats.

‘Should be there any second. I heard about the killing down at Venice Beach. How’s this going to help with your investigation?’

Harry started to explain, then was interrupted by a scene of Anton Kleeman walking away from a Sea King helicopter, his shoulders hunched under the down-draught. He was wearing a DPM smock and flanked by the security team, with Karen Walters fussing in close attendance like a mother hen.

Pendry was big and hard to miss. Behind him was Broms, scoping the crowd of press representatives with a brooding stare. Both wore blue berets. He saw himself stride into picture, signalling to someone to move position, also wearing his beret. Then Orti, the Frenchman moving in a sideways stance just behind him, and further back was Koslov’s slim figure turning like a dancer, checking his back. Blue beret.

‘Bikovsky,’ Rik murmured. ‘I don’t see him.’

The picture changed, showing a smiling Anton Kleeman in front of the press corps. He was playing them like the experienced politician, lifting the collar of the camouflage smock and pulling a wry face, evidently in response to a comment by one of the reporters. The security team had moved out of the frame, forming a cordon around him but leaving him room to manoeuvre.

When the report ended, Harry turned to the young technician. ‘Can you wind it right back to where we exit the helicopter?’

She did and Harry waited while the film ran again. After a few seconds he told her to stop and freeze-frame. On the very edge of the screen a familiar figure was staring off to one side, eyes in shadow.

Bikovsky.

He was wearing his Marine-issue green beret.

Harry turned to Dosario, and moments later the special agent was through to the agent-in-charge at the Comfort Inn. Bikovsky came on, his speech even more slurred.

‘C’mon, Tate,’ he protested. ‘Leave me alone or get me outta here, will you? This place is driving me nuts. They won’t even let me use my phone.’

‘You’ll get out when we’re ready,’ Harry told him. ‘What did you do with your UN beret after your tour in Kosovo?’

‘What?’ Silence filled the line as Bikovsky tried to work out if it was a trick question. ‘Shit, man. . my beret ? What you gonna do — bill me for some cruddy piece of military equipment ? Is that what they pay you guys to do? I thought you was chasin’ some freakin’ killer.’

‘Answer the question,’ Harry said harshly, ‘or I’ll turn you out on the street and let Marty and his friends know where you are.’

‘Hey, man. . c’mon,’ Bikovsky said quickly. ‘Lemme think. . it was a long time ago.’ The line hummed for a moment. ‘Hey — I remember: the beret, yeah. I handed it over, but I never got it back. They gave me a hard time about that. But you tell me who hands in everything? It was a war zone, for Chrissake!’

‘What do you mean you handed it over?’

‘Like I was told to. When the convoy left, Pendry said to find spare jackets and stuff for the two civilians, ’cos they stood out like tits on a bull. I found two DPM jackets but only one helmet, so I handed over my blue beret. No way was I going to wear that pussy’s colour. I was a Marine.’ He laughed and gave the US Marine battle cry: ‘ Hoo-agh! ’

‘Who did you give it to?’ Harry was holding his breath, although he already knew the answer.

‘Who’d ya think?’ Bikovsky’s voice contained outrage. ‘To UN-Special-fuckin’-Rapporteur Kleeman.’

Kassim stood in front of the Marriott Hotel on West Century Boulevard and checked the area for signs of police activity. It was nearly nine thirty and the eighteen-floor building was a blaze of lights. So far he had seen nothing to alarm him, save for a couple of hotel security guards checking cars in the main car park.

In spite of the late hour, the traffic entering and leaving was considerable: cars, shuttle buses and cabs streaming in and out in a constant flow, passengers mixing with aircrew. The sheer bustle of activity made Kassim feel momentarily secure, but he didn’t relax his guard. If there were any police about, they were showing unusual patience; but if they were good, that was what police did the world over.

He finally stepped through the glass entrance, latching on to a group of European travellers from an airport shuttle. He felt nervous at the sheer size of the place and the surroundings, but he’d been trained for this; all he had to do was look bored — or tired. Either would do. And not catch anyone’s eye. He felt uneasy about approaching the desk to check in. He didn’t want to stay here, so what was the point? Then he spotted an internal phone and veered towards it.

‘Concierge.’

Kassim asked if a package had arrived for him. A knot built in his gut while the man went to check. He came back and confirmed that it had.

A few minutes later, among another influx of arrivals, he approached the desk and asked for the package in the name of Roberto Lucchini. The concierge, too busy to care, barely looked at him before handing it over. Two minutes later Kassim was out of the hotel and climbing into a cab. He needed to be on the move again.