Adrian Magson - Retribution

‘Show me some photos,’ Harry said.

Rik hit the keys and a photo of the library sprang into view. It was a startling sight, resembling a space-age version of a beehive on heavy concrete blocks, a knobbly structure covered in a metal latticework, more a citadel than a place of information and learning. Paved footpaths approached from all sides, leading over open grass and sandy ground, with no obvious cover.

Any target being dropped off would have to be driven right up to the building, but would have to stop short because of the structure of the plinth-like base. From there a walk in the open was unavoidable. A helicopter would have to stand further out, presenting an even greater danger.

Either way, a sniper would have a clear shot.

Kassim had finally found what he was looking for. After leaving the airport, he’d cruised the city’s back streets until he found a group of young Albanians, aimless and angry through lack of jobs and direction. Here was where information could be bought for a packet of cigarettes. Carefully phrasing his questions, he was finally directed to a shell-torn bar where he sat over an apple drink for twenty minutes, watching the street. Eventually a nervous youth slipped through the door and beckoned him outside.

‘You want guns,’ the youth said. It wasn’t a question; people came here for two things: weapons and drugs.

Kassim nodded and showed the youth a ten-dollar bill, as a sign of good intent. He told him what he wanted. The youth nodded and used a cellphone to make a call. He spoke briefly, then beckoned Kassim to follow.

Two minutes later the youth stopped outside the ruins of a house in the Old Town and pointed to a sagging doorway leading to a cellar. When he held out his hand, Kassim gave him the ten dollars and watched him scuttle away down the street.

Before entering, Kassim picked up a short length of lead pipe. He knew better than to walk unprepared into a meeting place like this. He also had a wheel wrench tucked inside his coat, just in case. Stepping over a pile of rubble, he descended the stone steps, feet crunching on a scattering of gravel. At the bottom he passed through a door and found two men standing behind a heavy table in what had once been a kitchen, with a recess for a fire and a broken stone sink. The atmosphere was cold and damp and smelled like a pig farm.

One of the men had his hands behind his back. Kassim ignored him and dropped some money on the table. It was his opening bid or a deposit, depending on how they wished to play it. Their eyes told him nothing, not even bothering to check the money, and he guessed they were wondering if he had more money on him and whether they could take it. He was under no illusions about the danger of the situation, and guessed they were also dealers in drugs, petrol and whatever else they could trade. Killing him if they chose to was probably a matter of whim.

The men listened to his request without expression. In Afghanistan, Kassim reflected sadly, there would have been an offer of refreshment and talk before getting down to business. But not here. Maybe it was better this way. One of the men turned and disappeared through a brick archway at the rear of the room, and returned moments later lugging a heavy wooden box, which he placed on the table.

They could not have been prepared for his visit and he guessed their cache of supplies was not far away. They were stupid, he decided. And therefore dangerous.

The first price was exorbitantly high — enough to buy a car. Ridiculous, Kassim told them bluntly, in a country where you could get an AK47 for a few dollars. But he didn’t want an AK47. He added more notes to show willing, then clasped his hands in front of him, signifying his final offer. He had no time for playing games and did not trust these two for a moment.

As the two men consulted each other, he heard the scrape of footsteps on the stone stairs behind him.

It was a set-up.

He remained calm and nodded towards the box. One of the men flipped the lid open. Inside were three handguns: a.38 Browning, a Spanish Star and a Makarov with a damaged butt. Also a selection of loaded magazines. It was little better than scrap, but good enough. He indicated the Browning. The man took out the clip and showed it to have a full load, and without thinking, handed both items separately across the table for Kassim to inspect. He probably thought the gun being unloaded would be no threat.

It was a mistake.

Before the man could rectify his move, Kassim took the gun, slipped the clip in place and pointed it at the head of the second man in the space of a split second.

The second man still had his hands behind his back. He went very pale and stared down the barrel.

The atmosphere in the cellar suddenly became very still, and all Kassim could hear was the men’s breathing. He nodded at the table, and the man took his hands from behind his back and very carefully placed a semi-automatic pistol on the table. It was another Browning and looked in much better condition than the one Kassim was holding. It was fitted with a suppressor.

They had come prepared for this, he realized. Silenced pistols are not for show. He therefore felt no regrets about what he was about to do.

Smiling coldly, he picked up the gun and calmly shot both men. The noise was little more than a double snap of a twig in the closeness of the room. Then he stepped back across the cellar floor and fired once more, and watched as the youth who had brought him here dropped a revolver and tumbled down the steps in front of him.

‘Kassim was seen at the airport.’ It was Archie Lubeszki on the phone. ‘Three UN cops think they saw him but they only realized it was him after they saw the pictures we circulated. I told them to scour the airport buildings and surrounding area, but I think he’ll be long gone by now.’

Harry felt a tightening in his stomach. With it came a reluctant admiration for the man’s ability and commitment. Coming out of the mountains of Afghanistan, if that was where he’d been, he’d trailed across Europe and the US, picking off his targets along the way, and was now on his home turf and frighteningly close to his goal.

He switched the phone to loudspeaker so Rik could hear. ‘What was he doing?’

‘Drinking tea and panhandling. They said he looked rough, like he’d been sick. Unless he was faking it.’

‘Could be genuine. He must be living on adrenalin by now.’ He wondered what Kassim had been up to. If he was sticking to form, he would have arrived in Kosovo some time before being spotted, so he must have been hanging around the airport for a good reason.

Lubeszki unwittingly supplied the answer. ‘He was probably watching the press frenzy about Kleeman’s arrival. But he wouldn’t have found out much about his itinerary. Nothing’s been issued yet and won’t be. He might know he’s going to appear at the National Library, but he’ll be behind a wall of protection there. It’d be suicide for him to try anything.’

Harry said nothing. Seemingly suicidal moves were something of a speciality with Kassim, given his attempts on Pendry and Koslov.

‘How about tonight?’ Rik queried. ‘Where’s Kleeman staying?’

‘The Grand. It’s where all the VIPs stay. The place is wall-to-wall with security screenings, armed guards and even a few off-duty Special Forces heavies littering the place. Kleeman’s not the only big hoo-hah in town tonight. There’s someone from the German government, two representatives of the Dutch government and a few European Central Bank suits. The hotel staff are hand-picked and never replaced without a thorough vetting, so he won’t be able to suddenly turn up as a cleaner or a room service waiter.’

‘You’ve been watching too many films,’ said Harry. ‘If Kassim does anything, it will be what nobody expects.’