Adrian Magson - Retribution

Anton Kleeman yawned with relief as the armoured limousine that had carried him from the airport on a tour of the city, followed by a second vehicle carrying his staff and extra protection team, finally entered the high-security cordon around Pristina’s Grand Hotel. Military and UN police officers were everywhere, and even before the car stopped, the three members of the protection team riding with him were outside and clearing a path towards the entrance. Overhead a US Army helicopter clattered in a tight circle, a watchful figure leaning out of the fuselage with one booted foot swinging over the skid.

After a day of meetings with various government members, Kleeman was tired and snappy. He had been herded about like a child, pushed, pulled and virtually bullied from one point to another by officials and his close protection team, sparing little or no thought for his status. The bodyguards, increased on the recommendation of New York after some ludicrously over-egged threats against UN personnel, were sticking closer to him than yesterday’s sweat and filling the car with their silent presence. He wouldn’t have minded but there wasn’t a single spark of conversation among them, and they were as jumpy as two-day-old chicks.

The team leader beckoned him forward with what Kleeman considered a less than respectful gesture. He climbed from the car and allowed himself to be swept into the foyer of the hotel, where at least there was some semblance of warmth and comfort. The general decor was worn and in need of revitalization, but staying here had been a political move. At least the staff knew how to treat someone in his position.

As he walked across the well-trodden carpet through the bustle of VIPs, military and UN officials, he saw two men standing to one side, oblivious of the hubbub around them. Dressed in casual civilian clothes, they seemed out of place in this predominantly military setting. Yet there was about them something indefinably regimented and watchful.

He glanced at the leader of the protection team, but the man seemed unconcerned and continued past them towards the stairs.

Kleeman stopped, recognition slowly filtering into his mind. He remembered. That damned compound . He swallowed, feeling a vague twinge of unease that had begun at the airport that morning. It had started while he was preparing to address the press. Glancing over their heads for a moment, he had locked eyes with a tall, thin man staring at him from the back. He was poorly dressed and showed signs of malnourishment — not an unusual sight here. Kleeman was sure he had never set eyes on the man before, but the intensity of his gaze had crossed the room with an almost tangible power. It had left him momentarily shaken, until a question from the press had drawn him back. Next time he’d looked, the man was gone.

Now these two. One young, with a colourful shirt under a sports jacket and fashionably dishevelled hair. A stranger. The older man next to him, though, he recognized immediately. Kleeman had a memory for faces. This man had been the leader of the protection team last time he was here. What was his name? Stait? No, Tate . British, he recalled, and insubordinate. But efficient. Odd that he should be here. The thought added to his sense of unease, but he fought to suppress it.

He approached the men, causing the two bodyguards to swerve sharply.

‘Tate,’ Kleeman said warmly. It was a trick that served as well in politics as it did in commerce, especially with his recent visits to China and France. It was something the inhabitants of those two countries had in common; they liked to think they were important enough to be remembered after a single meeting.

Tate nodded without making a big deal of it and lifted a thumb at the bodyguard who had nearly fluffed his manoeuvre. ‘You should signal before you turn,’ he said. ‘It throws them off when you do something unexpected.’

Kleeman was piqued by Tate’s tone. Was the man laughing at him? ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ he said coolly. ‘Are you still in this business?’

‘I wasn’t. But the UN asked me back. Rik Ferris, my associate.’ Tate nodded towards the younger man beside him. ‘He’s helping out.’

Kleeman felt another twinge of unease. The two men were studying him as if they shared something, some secret. Suddenly he regretted having stopped. ‘Helping out with what?’

‘The business at the compound.’ It was Ferris this time, his voice as flat as gravel pouring into a bucket. ‘At Mitrovica. You know — the rumour you said was going to be investigated?’ Ferris’s eyes were cold and unfriendly.

‘Compound?’ Suddenly Kleeman felt a burst of panic. ‘I don’t think-’

‘You know. Where that little girl was raped and murdered back in ’ninety-nine. Then thrown over the wire like a sack of garbage. We’re here to pick up the man who did it.’

Kleeman felt as if Ferris had reached into his throat and pulled out his lungs. He stepped back momentarily, winded, looking at Tate. But the older man’s face was just as cold. Alongside him, Kleeman’s bodyguards shifted, puzzled by the change in tone.

Kleeman cleared his throat and wondered, if he were just to walk away, whether Tate would follow him. ‘Are you? That’s good. . very good. I expect to hear details as soon as you can release them. Do you have the man in custody? I seem to remember hearing it was a soldier.’

‘Not yet,’ Tate replied. ‘We’re looking at some new evidence. Then we’ll nail him.’

‘Evidence?’ The air around Kleeman’s head seemed suddenly very warm, and he had a desperate urge to run for the stairs and lock himself away somewhere dark and safe, away from these men of violence and their aggressive manners.

‘Blood samples. DNA. That sort of thing.’ Tate gave a half smile. ‘Amazing how long that stuff hangs around. Like a signature. Excuse us, won’t you?’

Kleeman watched the two men walk away, then allowed himself to be propelled up to his room, where he went straight to the bathroom and was violently sick.

‘You think we rattled his cage enough?’ Rik asked, as they left the Grand Hotel. They had talked it over on the way there, deciding to unsettle Kleeman and see how he reacted.

‘If we didn’t,’ Harry murmured, ‘nothing will. You’re getting good at the scary stuff.’

‘Well, I try my best. I hope we’re right about him.’

‘We’re right. I can feel it. Saw it in his eyes.’

‘And if we’re wrong?’

‘You’d better take my gun away, otherwise I might just go and shoot him for the hell of it.’

From a part-renovated building three hundred yards away, Kassim watched the front of the ten-storey Grand Hotel. He had seen Kleeman’s arrival, counting at least twenty armed security men around the UN envoy and on permanent station as part of the standard security cordon. He sat back, chewing his lip to fight the now permanent nausea he was feeling. He brushed it aside; he was sick, he knew that. But he couldn’t let it derail his plan.

Getting in the hotel would be impossible; it would be like throwing himself at the front door with the word ‘bomb’ strapped across his chest. So he had to think of somewhere else.

He thought back to a phone conversation he had overheard outside the airport terminal building earlier. A British journalist had been phoning in his report, listing to his editor a last-minute, press-eyes-only itinerary for Kleeman. It included a tour of Pristina University followed by a meeting at the National Library building at noon the following day.

So. Two possibilities: the university or the library. Kassim slid backwards from his observation point and made his way down the stairs, spilled plaster and brick-dust crunching under his feet. As he walked away, he made his choice. The chase was closing in, and time was fast running out. He had to do it.