Adrian Magson - Retribution

The library.

Three in the morning on a building site in Pristina and heavy rain was gusting on a cold wind coming down from the surrounding hills. Sheets of board across half-completed windows snapped like gunshots, and fires in open braziers made of oil drums hissed and spat as the rain hit the red embers, dusting the figures huddled around them in a swirl of vapour and damp ashes.

For Kassim the weather was a blessing. He eased himself from inside a sheet of corrugated cardboard and stretched his arms above his head, feeling the stiffness in muscle and sinew incurred by spending the night on a bare concrete floor. He performed a dozen squats, his thigh muscles protesting until they began to feel the warmth of blood circulating, followed by thirty quick press-ups. The exercise brought a renewed bite of hunger to his belly, but he dismissed it. It would not be the first day to have dawned without him eating, and given a safe outcome of his day here, would not be the last.

He peered through a crack in the front of the building, watching and listening for signs of movement. He had counted five security patrols during the few hours he had been here, checking papers and people, but they had no regularity or set pattern. The last one had passed by just five minutes ago, and he had lain still, waiting for it to pass. So far there had been no attempt to check the building. That might happen at daylight.

Now he had to move.

The rain was like a cold slap in the face, making his skin itch. He pulled his coat around him and slid along the street. His destination was the National Library. He had scouted it out late last night, studying the building and the ground around it.

It was here that Kleeman was due to come in just a few hours.

Kassim slid across the street known as Agim Ramadani and worked his way around the edge of the open area encompassing the library complex to the rear of the building, watching for patrols. The security here seemed lax, but he guessed the bulk of the effort would be reserved for later, in the two hours before Kleeman’s visit. By then it would be as tight as a drum.

By then he would be inside.

He sat for a few minutes, tuning in to the dark and allowing his breathing to settle. When he’d got his bearings he reached down and felt for a large section of prefabricated aluminium casing, part of an abandoned central heating system which had never been cleared away. By chance, his earlier foray had shown a maintenance plate on the wall revealing what lay underneath. He eased the aluminium carefully to one side to reveal a square inspection panel set in the ground. It had a lifting ring in one side. A faint grinding noise and the panel came up, bringing with it a gust of foul air. Kassim ignored it; he’d been in worse and could live with whatever was down there. He felt for the rungs of a ladder and stepped down carefully until his shoulders were level with the ground. Then he pulled a paper package from his coat pocket. As he unwrapped it, the pungent smell of human excrement rose to his nose. He dropped part of it on the ground at the lip of the hatch, and some on the lid itself. The paper he discarded on the ground nearby. It would be enough to confuse any patrol dogs.

His final move was to tug the aluminium casing over the panel, then lower both to the ground, concealing his point of entry.

At the base of the ladder he squatted in a pool of water and took a slim torch from his pocket. He flicked it on, illuminating a small tunnel, the light reflecting off curved walls glistening with damp and hung with wet, viscous strands of cobwebs. The atmosphere here was musty and heavy. Halfway along the tunnel walls were two openings, each the size of a man’s head. They were the out pipes from the library sewage system. Beneath them was an area of crusted sludge. He knew enough about buildings to realize that there would soon be another panel above his head, this one set in the boiler-room or maintenance-room floor of the library. From there he would have access to all areas of the building.

Kassim gritted his teeth as his stomach threatened to empty itself, ignoring the slime beneath his feet and the skittering sound of small creatures just beyond the glow of his flashlight. He began to make his way forward along the tunnel.

‘I think Kassim’s made a move.’ Lubeszki on the phone, sounding tense.

It was nine o’clock the following morning and Harry and Rik were sitting in a borrowed Mitsubishi four-by-four watching the close protection team assigned to Anton Kleeman comb the area around the National Library. Sniffer dogs ran excitedly around the structure seeking traces of explosives, while technicians with electronic equipment scanned for radio emissions that might betray a remote detonator. Elsewhere members of the UN police supported by military patrols made a floor-by-floor check of all the surrounding buildings to a distance of 500 yards where a sniper might gain a line-of-sight advantage. This included the art gallery, the radio station and several university buildings, all of which had virtual open access.

‘Three local arms and drug dealers were found shot dead yesterday evening,’ Lubeszki continued. ‘They were in a cellar in the Old Town. The police had been keeping them under surveillance, but lost contact late yesterday.’

‘Could it have been a turf war?’ Harry didn’t want to start chasing the shadows of a local gang feud gone bad.

‘Unlikely. Rivals would have made it messy — as a message to others. These guys were taken out professionally, one shot each. A kid who worked as a gofer said they had a visit from a guy wanting to buy a gun. Tall, thin, looked sick, like he was burning up. Spoke the language fluently but with an accent. A second kid took the guy in, then left them to haggle. When he went back to check but didn’t show up again, the gofer went in and found the bodies.’

Kassim. It had to be. ‘Any idea what he got?’

‘Difficult to say. There was a rifle box containing a couple of used handguns and some ammo, but no rifle. Is he the sort to go for a long shot?’

‘Not from what we’ve seen. He likes to work up close. But I wouldn’t put it past him.’

‘Do you want to see the bodies?’

‘No. We’ll stay loose.’ It wouldn’t help, Harry decided. They were better off staying out here and trying to figure out what Kassim would do next. Much of that would depend on Kleeman’s movements, which they wouldn’t see for a while yet.

He shifted the Heckler amp; Koch MP5 submachine gun across his body. It felt awkward carrying the weapon after so long, as did the bulk of the armoured vest he, like Rik, was wearing. They had been issued with sets of borrowed combat gear so as to blend in; it seemed a contradiction, but among the many security personnel present, two civilians would stand out immediately.

Already a substantial number of journalists had gathered, with camera crews and commentators and their portable units and satellite dishes which would transmit Kleeman’s words on to television screens around the world. They were currently being kept behind a safety cordon while a security sweep was made of the building, before being admitted into the main hall of the library.

The Dutch UNMIK officer responsible for Kleeman’s protection team approached the car. Captain Rekker was tall and slim, his cheeks pinched white with cold. He carried a submachine gun and wore a camouflage smock over a bulletproof vest.

‘This is our second sweep,’ he told Harry. ‘Nothing found so far. We’ve checked the surrounding buildings out to three hundred metres, but it’s a spoiling exercise. All a gunman has to do is wait for our men to leave, then slip back in behind them. We plan to go into the library one more time, then we seal it until Kleeman arrives. Everyone here has been briefed about this Kassim and told to expect something.’