Retribution (19 page)

‘Include any who were reported missing due to ethnic cleansing. Concentrate on young girls.'

‘OK. I'll get him to try again. It's tough, though, like opening old wounds. The press have been in there, too, stirring up the dust.'

‘Well, somebody must know something,' Harry countered. ‘Memories go back a long way in that region.'

‘Leave it with me.'

‘Something else,' Harry continued, remembering the photos. ‘Get him to check the wire, will you? See if there's any way of getting out of the compound near the point where the girl's body was dumped.'

‘Like a back gate?'

‘Anything. If it really happened, whoever did this had to get the body outside the wire. He wouldn't have been able to risk carrying her out because of the guard patrol.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘If she didn't go round, she went over the top.'

There was a shocked silence as Deane digested the words. ‘He
threw
her over? Christ. Would that have been possible?'

‘If he was desperate enough.' And strong enough, he decided.

After the call, Harry prowled the room while Rik continued scouring the net for any mention of Mitrovica, missing girls or references to UN atrocities. But there were too many links, most eventually proving unhelpful and time-consuming. In a region where so much death and violence, so many unexplained disappearances had happened over the years, including whole communities in some cases, it would have taken a vast team of researchers several days to follow up and eliminate each one.

‘It's too fragmented,' was Rik's conclusion. He sat back and stared at the screen in frustration. ‘If the name hasn't surfaced by now, it probably won't unless the people behind it let it out. That's if they've got one.'

‘They've got one,' said Harry with certainty. The closer he got to this, the less he felt it was an elaborate bluff. ‘What puzzles me is why now?'

Rik looked at him. ‘You think they've been sitting on it?'

‘Maybe. Or someone knew but didn't talk about it.'

‘How do you keep that sort of thing quiet?'

Harry picked up his key and jacket. He needed a change of scenery. The room was beginning to close in around him. ‘Unless the person who knew couldn't talk.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I don't know,' he admitted, and shrugged on his jacket. ‘But I will, given time.' He picked up Rik's jacket and threw it across to him.

‘What's this for?' Rik looked puzzled.

Harry had been thinking that Rik needed reacquainting with some live firing. They hadn't been to a gun range recently, and he was worried that Rik had been too quick to wave his gun at the men who'd approached him outside the bar in Phenix. Rik's memories of being shot would be vivid, still, and Harry didn't want him to rely too much on showing a gun to get out of trouble.

‘We're going to get some gun practice.'

He led the way out to the car and drove to an indoor range recommended by Pendry. He could have asked to use the facilities at Fort Benning, but that would have brought Rik under the suspicious eye of the military. And he still wasn't ready to broadcast their connection to anyone he wasn't absolutely sure of.

The range was an anonymous, low building at the back of an industrial estate, with nothing to show what function it performed. The foyer was utilitarian in appearance, save for a wallboard behind the counter holding an impressive collection of guns. The man behind the counter had the lean, fit look of a former soldier. After checking their passports and getting them to sign waivers, he called a colleague, who checked in the Rugers and led them through a rear door to the range, where giant fans clearing the air did not entirely reduce the familiar smell of gunpowder.

At Hartsfield-Jackson airport, Atlanta, Kassim waited patiently while his passport was examined by a female officer. Her plump fingers were cluttered with rings and her fingernails each a different, vivid colour, a stark contrast to her shiny black skin and hair. She looked at him twice while turning the pages, and was fingering the paper of the passport and flexing the covers, looking for signs of tampering. He decided that her carefully contrived outward appearance did not reflect the person within. He kept his face blank; being over-friendly would probably irritate her just as would showing impatience at what was an unavoidable procedure.

She turned away and used a keyboard below the level of the counter, her nails clack-clacking like distant machine-gun fire. Behind the booth an armed security guard watched her working, then glanced at Kassim.

He felt his heart rate increasing and forced himself to breathe easily. He had to remain calm. He was still using the Haxhi documents, but beginning to feel exposed. How long could he continue to rely on them? But to risk using another set of ID presented the same danger: that someone somewhere had made a simple mistake and he would end up being called aside by a vigilant security officer. If that happened, he might never see the light of day again.

‘Thank you, Mr Haxhi. Have a good trip.' She pronounced it like ‘taxi' with the ‘h' in the middle and slapped the passport down on the counter, her attention switching to the next in line.

Kassim walked away, feeling the eyes of the security guard on his back. He didn't look back, concentrating instead on not giving way to a powerful feeling of nausea washing over him. He looked for a sign to the rest rooms. He had a long trip ahead of him, and if he was going to be ill, better to get it over and done here rather than on the plane to Moscow.

T
he sun was setting low over Venice Beach, Los Angeles, as Harry walked down a paved footpath between two sets of condominiums, leaving behind the busier area of Speedway and the shops and restaurants along Ocean Front Walk. The atmosphere was heavy and still, in spite of the proximity of the ocean, but there were crowds out enjoying the evening air and the sights.

After finally being given permission to leave Columbus yesterday evening, he'd told Rik to meet him in LA, and to make sure he hadn't picked up a tail on the way. There were further delays in the military flight from the airport, with a diversion to collect some senior staff officers, a reminder to Harry that he was being accorded the use of one of the biggest air taxi companies in the world.

After landing at El Segundo air force base, he'd been ferried to a hotel near LA's International Airport. The Rugers he'd checked in at Columbus security had been handed back without comment, and he'd locked them in the room safe. On the way to the hotel, he called Deane to use his influence and get the nearest LAPD precinct house to send an officer to run an eye over Bikovsky's address. The officer's report came straight back; there was no sign of the man and none of his neighbours had been able to venture any comments about his whereabouts.

A meandering cycle path was busy with roller bladers, boarders and cyclists, a moving tide of cut-off jeans, halter tops and open shirts, testimony to the attitude that if you were going to be fit, why not look good, too? A juggler strolled in their midst, keeping five balls in the air and talking on a mobile phone. He looked bored. Harry passed a bronze statue of a cowboy, frozen on a plinth until a girl came too close, then he came to life. The girl shrieked and the cowboy froze again, waiting for the next mark.

A young woman carrying a large tabby cat swept smoothly past, her long, blonde hair flowing like a Norse goddess, her sun-bronzed body encased in a minute, sequin-studded bikini. She gave Harry a brief smile and was gone, drawing little more than a passing glance from any of the men nearby.

Harry soon understood why. Another
Baywatch
lookalike cruised by, followed by others, either singly or in small groups. Men too were in the parade, using rollerblades to carry them along at near Olympic speeds, muscular, bronzed bodies swaying elegantly around pedestrians and other bladers. Most seemed intent on their progress, eyes concealed behind sunglasses and ears plugged with stereo earphones.

In lightweight slacks and a cotton shirt, Harry felt distinctly overdressed.

He came to the area known as Muscle Beach, where men with huge chests and hands dusted with chalk powder were pumping iron, like a scene from a prison movie. Seeing them reminded Harry of his comment to Deane: what if the girl's body
had
been tossed over the wire at the compound? It would have taken explosive power to do it, not sculptured muscle. Worryingly, of the men in the CP team, more than one would have had the means.

He veered back on to Ocean Front Walk. More shops, restaurants and small apartment blocks, a wash of varied pastel shades in contrast to the uniformity of the sand. A throbbing salsa beat echoed from one door, an old Beach Boys number from another, and his nose twitched at the smell of pizza, coffee and soul food. He was beginning to see why Bikovsky was living here.

He drew level with a narrow alleyway between a Tex-Mex restaurant and a souvenir shop, and turned in, stepping carefully past a stack of plastic delivery pallets. The air here was cool after the heat along the front. A black cat watched him, eyes glinting nervously before it swished its tail and slid into an open doorway. Further down a skeletal figure in a cook's apron leaned against a wall, sucking on a cigarette. He returned Harry's nod with a blank look, then snapped the cigarette and walked away.

Harry followed the cat.

He found himself in a corridor smelling of fried food and toffee. Two doors facing each other, and at the end a narrow flight of bare steps disappearing upwards. In here the noise of the beachfront was muffled. The cat had disappeared.

Neither of the doors was numbered. He walked up the steps at the end, shoes crunching softly on sand grains. Three turns to the right took him on to a small landing and a corridor leading off to other doors. The caramel smell of toffee was stronger, clinging to the walls. Two more doors, numbered this time. He found the right one and knocked. Silence. It was fitted with a heavy-duty lock. He pushed it but it remained firm. Bikovsky was still out or had flown.

He left the building and stood in the alleyway, thinking about his next move. It had been a long way to come on a hunch, but he knew that trying to talk to the big Marine on the phone about Kosovo would have got him nowhere. Since learning a little of the man's history, he was even more convinced of that.

He walked out to the beachfront and turned into the Tex-Mex restaurant. A slim young woman nodded a welcome and handed him a plastic menu. She wore a smiley badge on her apron, bearing the name Maria. He sat and ordered coffee and a slice of cake.

When it came he smiled and said neutrally, ‘I'm looking for Don Bikovsky. Any idea when he's due back?'

The young woman shook her head, a reflex action. ‘Sorry, sir. I don't know him.' Her accent carried a lilt from a long way south of LA.

When she next passed by, Harry scribbled his name on the back of the bill and put down a $20 note. As she picked it up he murmured, ‘I'm an ex-army buddy. It'd be good to see him again, that's all.' Then he left. This time the girl said nothing.

He rang Ken Deane, bringing him up to date. ‘I'll keep at it until I find him. Any prints on the knife left at the base?'

Deane grunted sourly. ‘They're still working on it. They keep telling me any time now. On
CSI
they do it in seconds and in high heels.' Paper rustled in the background. ‘Just gotten word from Brussels. The old woman who witnessed Broms' murder? She said the killer waved a blue handkerchief after stabbing him.'

‘That's all?'

‘That's all. A local shrink's trying to get through to her, but it doesn't look hopeful. Severe mental trauma, they think.'

‘A handkerchief? Probably to wipe the blade.'

‘Yeah . . . could be. Anyway, keep in touch.'

Harry rang off and got a cab out to the airport. Rik would be here soon and they could try Bikovsky again in the morning. He had an uneasy feeling that he was missing something. He just hoped the ex-Marine didn't get a visit from the killer before they found him.

Over 6,000 miles away, in the Chaoyang district of Beijing, UN Special Envoy Anton Kleeman was sitting in the appropriately named Hall for Negotiations in the People's Republic of China Ministry of Foreign Affairs, smiling across the table at the PRC representatives with a deep sense of satisfaction. The talks had been useful, if protracted and unbearably formal, and he was sure Li Xian, the senior Chinese speaker and a man with a surprisingly commercial outlook, was firmly onside. The subtle promise of extra help in penetrating even further into the valuable US markets had seen to that, as had his decision, he felt sure, to come here rather than simply drive to the offices of the PRC Permanent Mission in Manhattan.

While many American businesses and politicians still viewed China with deep suspicion, especially in these troubled economic times, Kleeman did not. Setting aside his UN hat, which he did with great care so as not to be seen fronting his own business interests and investments, he viewed the commercial potential as bordering on the unimaginable. And if a little two-way talking could help along the way while he was nominally here on UN business, so be it. The main thing was, having the Chinese on his side for his eventual elevation within the UN was well worthwhile. For that, supping their drink and pressing their flesh in endless meetings was a small price to pay. With the Chinese in the bag, so to speak, the Euroblok countries, encompassing the French, German and British, would quickly see the advantages of coming round to his way of thinking.

‘Mr Kleeman?' It was one of his aides, whispering in his ear. ‘The press conference is arranged. The studio have the footage you asked for – of you in Macedonia – to segue into the release tonight.'

Kleeman wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief and gave a small sigh of satisfaction. Thank God for the modern media. This kind of exposure on the world stage represented a level of PR that no amount of money could buy, and no kind of energy-sapping, time-wasting lobbying could equal. While of little interest to the majority of public viewers, it would serve to propel him up the UN ladder in the eyes of all but the old turkey necks of that crusty institution. Given time and careful handling, he would soon bypass the slower, more conservative and less forward-thinking candidates.