Retribution
Authors: Adrian Magson
Table of Contents
A Selection of Recent Titles by Adrian Magson
The Harry Tate Thrillers
RED STATION *
TRACERS *
DECEPTION *
RETRIBUTION *
The Riley Gavin and Frank Palmer Series
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED
NO HELP FOR THE DYING
NO SLEEP FOR THE DEAD
NO TEARS FOR THE LOST
NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL
RETRIBUTION
A Harry Tate Thriller
Adrian Magson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain 2012 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9â15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
First published in the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
110 East 59
th
Street, New York, N.Y. 10022
eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2012 by Adrian Magson.
The right of Adrian Magson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Magson, Adrian.
Retribution.
1. Tate, Harry (Fictitious character)âFiction.
2. Intelligence officersâFiction. 3. Great Britain. MI5â
Fiction. 4. Kosovo War, 1998-1999âAtrocitiesâFiction.
5. AssassinsâFiction. 6. Suspense fiction.
I. Title
823.9´2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-350-1 (epub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8222-6 (cased)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
As always, this is for Ann, once described as my roadie. Without her help and support, it wouldn't be fun.
In this, the fourth book, I would like to thank a few industry people who have helped along the way in bringing Harry Tate out of the shadows:
Mike Stotter and Ali Karim, of the Shots Collective, for being such stalwart supporters ever since my first book; Matt Hilton, for his help and friendship; Adrian Muller, who always believed in Harry; Myles Allfrey for his knowledge of âstuff' and things that go bang; Edwin Buckhalter, Kate Lyall Grant and the team at Severn House Publishers, for making it all happen; and finally but not least, David Headley and Roberto Carballeiro of the DHH Literary Agency, for their constant help, input and encouragement.
Kosovo, Autumn 1999
T
he girl slithered over the wire like a silver fish, her thin cotton dress plastered to her body by the driving rain. Globules of water shook loose from the mesh as she climbed, plummeting to the earth around her, a contrasting flicker of tiny jewels against the mud, gravel and coarse grass.
Thirty metres behind her lay a dense treeline of spiky conifers. Beyond that, high in the hills, her brother was in hiding, close to death after a severe beating by a drunken Serb militiaman. She didn't dare approach the hospital for help, didn't trust the international military mission called KFOR that was supposed to be keeping the peace, or any of the local residents.
All she could do was come down here and climb the fence, to see what she could find to help make his last few days bearable.
She crouched, scanning the compound. It was lit by a tall gantry mounted with six floodlights, the glare pushing back the encircling gloom and highlighting the curtain of solid rain that had been falling relentlessly for over an hour. To one side stood a clump of low, interconnected huts, dimly lit. Across the way a clutch of shipping containers formed a tall barrier against the cold, barren hills half a mile away. Mitrovica, the nearest town, was out of sight, a forbidding place of whispers and certain danger.
A flicker of movement made her freeze. A stocky figure stepped out from one of the huts and paced across the yard, footsteps echoing on the puddled tarmac. The girl noted the waterproof cape, camouflage uniform, jump boots and assault rifle. American, she thought automatically.
She knew about soldiers and their weapons; she had seen too many in her young years not to have learned something about them, the main thing being that they represented danger and death, no matter whose side they were on.
As the soldier disappeared among the shadows thrown by the containers, the girl moved quickly towards the huts. This was where the Kosovo Force (KFOR) troopers ate and slept. There was always something lying around.
Food was her priority: powdered milk, sugar, tea, tins of meat, army rations â especially chocolate if she was lucky. It was never going to be enough, but it might keep her and her brother going for another day or two in their hiding place. Anything was better than falling victim to the Serb killer squads roaming the villages.
A brief flare of a match showed from between the containers. It was the chance she had been waiting for. The guard's night-vision would be gone for a few moments. She ran for the nearest hut, light-footed, almost ephemeral in the glitter of rainfall against the lights.
She slipped inside. It smelled of coffee and stale food, making her stomach lurch. She listened. No sounds of snoring here; so this wasn't a sleeping area, which was good. Ghosting along a narrow corridor, she entered a small space on her right. A security lamp threw a dull glow over cupboards, chairs and tables, and sideboards with a kettle and a portable gas stove.
She checked the cupboards, found a tin of coffee and some powdered milk. No sugar but better than nothing. A packet of biscuits lay opened on a bottom shelf, and she took one, the temptation too much. The packet rustled loudly in the silence. She froze. Then she took a bite of the biscuit, followed by another, wolfing down the crumbly sweetness in a moment.
Moments later her stomach rebelled, and she sank to the floor, pain ripping through her. She'd been too long without decent food. She took deep breaths until the pain subsided. She clutched the tins of coffee and powdered milk close to her, trophies too valuable to leave behind, and a panacea. She blinked hard, feeling her eyelids beginning to droop, betraying her.
She had to get out. Selim was waiting
.
But warmed by the residual heat in the hut, it was a losing battle.
It seemed like hours later that she woke with a start. She'd been dreaming, of trucks and men and noise . . . except that it wasn't a dream. She could actually hear them: engines roaring and doors slamming and lots of shouting. She got to her knees and peered out of a window on to the compound.
Trucks. All bearing the white letters KFOR on their sides. Two four-by-four vehicles in their midst, followed by the bull shape of an armoured personnel carrier. Her heart sank. Where there had been quiet and shelter and the soft, measured tread of the guard, there was now a mass of movement. And the inevitable guns.
Some of them were close by, inside the huts. Instinctively, she scuttled inside a cupboard, curling her small body into the tight space and pulling the door to behind her. As a last thought, she reached up and placed the coffee tin on the worktop above her head. If they saw the tin, they might not bother checking the cupboards.
In the dark of her hiding place, she breathed softly, willing herself to relax, waiting for the men to settle down.
Silence fell at last. She slept. But it wasn't for long. Fear of discovery haunted her dreams. She uncurled herself and slowly stood upright, gritting her teeth against the cramp in her legs and stomach.
She turned and picked up the coffee tin. It was open. She glanced at the kettle, saw steam curling from the spout.
Someone had been in here and she hadn't heard a thing.
She replaced the lid on the tin and hugged it to her with the powdered milk. Moving to the door she peered out into the corridor. It was empty. Towards the end away from the entrance was a fire door. It faced out on to the fence.
Her only way out.
She padded softly towards it. It was dark outside, all in shadow, shielded from the compound lights. She could throw the tins over the wire, then follow before anyone sawâ
There came a whisper of movement behind her. A powerful hand was clamped over her mouth. She caught the mixed aromas of man-smell, of damp clothing, and the coarse texture of a camouflage jacket sleeve curling across her throat.
Then nothing.
Afghanistan/Pakistan border, 2012
T
he man named Kassim came down out of the hills at a steady pace, losing altitude quickly under the growing sun. He had been hustling along for nearly three hours now, raising spurts of dust off the narrow, rocky path. Sixty minutes on the move, ten motionless. For a newcomer to the region, it would have seemed suicidal travelling this way. But nobody strolled in these hills; you moved fast and with the utmost caution. It was a way of life. A way to continue living.
The pace was punishing. He was beginning to tire, his concentration dwindling. He had not eaten properly for two days and water had been scarce. He was beginning to feel the effects of dehydration, and the heat hung heavy like the inside of an oven, rasping his throat.
A buzzard soared overhead and he stopped, moving off the trail. He squatted by a large rock, watching the bird until it became a speck, indistinct against the blue of the sky. He wondered idly if it would encounter one of the many drones sent over by the Coalition forces. Bigger, faster, a bird infinitely more dangerous. Maybe they would soon train buzzards to carry their little cameras for them, filming everything as they floated on the thermals.
