Retribution (22 page)

As he packed his things away, Harry listened with half an ear to the reporter giving a bland account of talks between the UN Special Envoy and members of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Beijing. The studio was evidently using a collage of the Macedonia footage and other short extracts to show Kleeman's versatile role in the organization over a number of years and his increasing prominence in its affairs, including snaps of his college days when he showed great promise as a collegiate wrestler and rower.

He shook his head at the envoy's posturing and turned off the set, sceptical of the ease with which Kleeman had donned the DPM jacket for the cameras and wondering if it was on his own initiative or that of Walters, his assistant.

At a dismal, rain-soaked truck stop outside Moscow, where the city's vast ring road joined the intersection of the M7 at Reutov, Kassim was eating a cheap meal of stew and potatoes, his eye on a television bolted to the wall in one corner. Around him was a mêlée of drivers and travellers, the air of the cafeteria thick with pungent tobacco smoke and a misting of steam rising from damp clothes.

The sound on the television was drowned out by the volume of talk around him, but the picture was clear enough. What had drawn his attention was the sight of a British military helicopter, and a man talking to a clutch of news reporters. The face looked familiar, and Kassim quickly dug out the small binder from his pocket and rifled through the pages until he found the one he wanted.

Anton Kleeman. UN Special Envoy.

Kassim took his plate and edged nearer the television, peering over the shoulders of lorry drivers at the counter. He still couldn't hear anything, and the language would have made it unlikely he'd have understood in any case, but the same reporter's voice continued talking when the picture changed to a shot of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, followed immediately by Big Ben in London.

At the end of the bulletin Kassim returned to his seat with a thoughtful expression and finished his meal. Even when an enormous trucker, clearly overcome by an excess of cheap vodka, lurched against his table and mumbled an apology, he continued staring into the distance.

He needed to get to a computer.

T
he young woman named Maria was again serving when Harry and Rik entered the Tex-Mex restaurant the following morning. The first crush of customers had gone, leaving a few late risers and one or two even later finishers from the previous night. Most had their hands clasped around mugs of strong coffee as they fought to shake off the effects of insomnia, hangovers or non-prescription drugs.

Outside, the day's parade of the Venice Beach beautiful people had not yet begun in earnest. A few early sun-worshippers eager to stake a place on the sands were there, along with the more serious athletes, joggers and bladers, and on a patch of sandy grass, a clutch of t'ai chi exponents were going through their paces, ages ranging from teens to the elderly. Harry suspected it was the only sane time of the day.

They took a table away from the other diners, and when Maria came over, ordered breakfast. If she recognized Harry from the previous evening, she gave no sign, but nodded once and went away to get their food order.

‘You dog,' Rik said neutrally, eyeing Maria's departing back. ‘You've been schmoozing with the hired help.'

‘Shmoozing isn't in my armoury,' Harry muttered. ‘But I'm certain she knows Bikovsky.'

A man in a Fred Perry sports shirt and tan slacks put their breakfasts before them. He was about sixty, with dyed hair, a tanned face and deep lines either side of his mouth. His hands were covered in gold rings. ‘I'm Jerry – I own this place. Maria said you was askin' about Bikovsky.'

Harry nodded. ‘Yes. You know where he is?'

Jerry gave a minute shake of his head, eyes assessing them both. ‘He ain't been around for a few days. He owes rent for his place across the alley, so I'm kinda keen to see the big mutt myself. You're British, right?'

‘That's right.'

‘Thought I recognized the accent. He owe you money, too?'

‘Nothing like that.' Harry decided to stick close to the truth, which would sound more believable than if he told Jerry that Bikovsky's life was in danger. ‘I met him some years ago in the army – in Kosovo. I was in the area for a couple of days, so I thought it would be nice to meet up.'

‘Yeah, Don was in the Marines out there. He told me about it. Rough place.' Jerry flicked a crumb off the table. ‘Sometimes he gets work at the studios and stays on location, you know? Easier than travelling up and down the canyons every day.'

‘Acting work?' Harry couldn't imagine Bikovsky as a thespian.

The man's smile became lopsided. ‘Hell, no. Not what I'd call acting, anyway. More like stunt work, if you know what I mean.' He laughed coarsely, and when Harry looked blank, rolled his eyes and bent near, his voice dropping. ‘Skin flicks. Porno movies. The guy's got the pecs, see . . . he looks good in the flesh. It pays pretty good, too, but personally, I don't think it's all that healthy.'

Harry wondered if things had been tough for Bikovsky after leaving the Marines, and whether his history in San Diego had followed him rather more closely than he'd liked. After what Deane had told him about the rape charge, perhaps it wasn't so surprising that he'd gravitated to the sex industry.

‘Do you have an address for this studio?'

Jerry raised his shoulders. ‘Who knows? These guys, they move around a lot. Plus Don's been hanging with a strange crowd recently. I think maybe he's in trouble and he's gone to let things cool down.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

The man turned away as another customer began to get impatient and a crash came from the kitchen. ‘What other kind is there?' he said simply. ‘Girls, of course . . . or drugs.' He stopped and put out a finger. ‘But if you see him, tell him he's gotta pay me the rent or I let the place to someone else. I gotta make a living, too.' He walked away and disappeared through a door at the back.

They finished their meals, and Harry led Rik out on to Ocean Front Walk. As they drew level with the alleyway alongside the building housing Bikovsky's flat, he glanced around and saw an LAPD patrol car drifting towards the County Lifeguard station a hundred yards away.

‘I'll go in,' he said. ‘You keep an eye out.'

Rik looked at him. ‘You think Jerry was telling whoppers?'

‘He probably thought we were. If Bikovsky owes him rent money, he's not likely to let someone else walk in and get first bite.'

‘How do you want to do this?'

Harry nodded towards the police car. ‘Keep an eye on them, just in case. I'll try Bikovsky's door again.'

Rik nodded and walked away, while Harry climbed the stairs to Bikovsky's apartment. The same sweet smell was in the air, overlaid by a powerful aroma of aftershave. Music came from behind one of the doors downstairs, but there was little sign of life. He knocked at Bikovsky's door and waited.

Nothing. He tried the handle. Locked. He tested the door with his shoulder. It might give but it would make some noise.

A faint scuffling noise sounded from the stairway behind him. When he turned round two men were stepping on to the landing, watching him. One was holding a baseball bat, swinging it loosely between his thumb and forefinger.

Harry stepped away from the door. Years of dealing with threatening situations had given him the ability to read people and their body language. Whoever these two were, they hadn't come here to talk. And he doubted they were looking for a third for a knockabout on the beach. Both were dressed in slacks and sports shirts and baseball caps. The nearest was a hulk, with massive biceps and shoulders straining against the fabric of his shirt. His hands were empty and looked like miniature grabs from a mechanical digger.

The man with the bat was slimmer, although the difference was marginal. He had a spread of designer stubble across his face and his eyes looked oddly slack and dulled. Harry wondered whether he'd overdone the steroids. Both men bore a passing resemblance to Bikovsky, although it could have been the similarity in size and the stance of muscular solidity.

‘You got business in there?' the first man asked softly.

Harry flicked a glance along the corridor, where a glow from the sun was reflecting off the walls from a window at the end. He hadn't checked to see if there was another exit, but he recalled seeing a series of outside fire escape ladders. Getting to one, however, before these two were all over him like a heavy rash, was doubtful.

‘I'm looking for the tenant,' he replied, non-committal. ‘Would you know where he is?'

‘Christ, ain't he polite, Marty?' the batter said to his companion, and sniggered. His voice was reedy and nasal. He smiled and took a deep breath as if he was winding himself up. ‘So who are you, pal? What's your business?' He slapped the bat against the wall, dislodging a fragment of plaster. ‘'Cos we got a prior call on the
tenant's
time, see.'

Marty said nothing, but brought his hands together and cracked a knuckle, shifting his weight forward on his toes. It was a signal that he was about to move. A doer, thought Harry, not a talker.

‘That's my business,' Harry replied, and stepped towards them.

They weren't expecting that. They hesitated for a second, but soon recovered. By then he was close enough to have caused confusion. They shuffled their feet, turning to attack, knowing that the advantage was heavily stacked in their favour if they could stay apart and block his way past. But the confines of the corridor worked against them, and the batter in particular was now standing so close to the wall he couldn't bring his weapon into play. It made the other man the more dangerous of the two.

‘And mine.'

The sound of another voice echoing along the corridor made them freeze. Harry glanced past the two men and saw a slim figure coming towards them, framed by the sun's reflection.

It was Rik. He must have come up the fire escape. He had his hand out and the Ruger was pointing at the batter's head.

Harry didn't wait for them to recover. They would soon realize that anyone opening fire here would attract instant attention from the police. He stepped in fast, knowing that if they got hold of him, he was in real trouble.

Marty was the first to react. He spun on one foot, drawing up his other foot to launch a side-kick, hands out ready to counter-attack. Harry changed direction at the last second, catching the man with the bat by surprise. Sliding in hard and low, he palmed his right fist in his left hand and rammed his elbow through the batter's guard. He felt a satisfying crunch as something gave which travelled all the way to his fist, and saw the batter stagger backwards. Unfortunately, he was too close to the top step; with a yelp of pain and surprise, he dropped his bat and crashed over backwards down the stairs.

Harry was already turning to face the man named Marty, but found to his surprise that he was frozen, his kicking leg cocked but unmoving. Instead, he was looking at his friend bowling down the stairs, leaving behind a smear of blood from his damaged nose.

Then Harry saw the reason for Marty's lack of movement: Rik had moved in very fast and touched the back of the big man's head with the tip of his gun barrel.

‘OK – I'm done,' Marty muttered, and lowered his foot. He was breathing heavily, and clearly knew when a fight was over.

‘
Eddie? Marty? You OK up there?
'

Harry stepped past Marty and walked quickly down the stairs until he reached the man called Eddie. He was staring up, eyes flickering on the edge of consciousness. His bat was lying further down the steps. Harry stepped over him and continued on down.

A third man was standing in the alleyway, peering anxiously through the doorway. He possessed neither the physical size nor the intimidating appearance of the other two, but was trying to look as if he was their equal. A car blocked the far end of the alley, the engine running.

‘Who the hell are you?' The man straightened his shoulders and made to step in Harry's way.

‘Public Health.' Harry walked directly at him, making him jump aside. ‘Your friends said to go on up.'

Across the alleyway at the rear of the Tex-Mex, Jerry was ducking back out of sight and pulling the kitchen door shut behind him.

Harry walked round to the front entrance and stepped inside, banging open the door unceremoniously. He walked straight past Maria, who put out a faint hand to stop him, and pushed open the door to the kitchen. Jerry was standing by a wall phone, muttering something. He took it from him, replacing it in its cradle, and the restaurant owner jumped back as if he'd been stung. A film of perspiration glittered across his face, but it wasn't from the kitchen.

‘Where is he?' Harry asked softly. ‘And who were those two musclemen? Are they part of the trouble you mentioned or did you call them?'

‘I can't tell you that!' Jerry babbled, his voice rising. ‘They're trouble. I was looking, that's all. It's my property – I didn't want the place trashed.'

‘If you don't tell me where he is,' said Harry evenly, ‘I'll have the public health people down here inside the hour. They'll close this place down pending analysis of the junk you call food, and close the apartments across the way because of the rats.'

Jerry's eyes widened. ‘Rats? What rats? I ain't got no—'

‘The ones on the stairs.' Harry stared at him. ‘Who do you think they'll believe – you or a tourist who's threatening to make a big noise to the city management?'

Maria entered the kitchen behind him, her dark eyes full of concern. Harry was guessing she had work permit issues and her words confirmed it. ‘Please. Don't do that,' she whispered. ‘I need this job. I will tell you where Don Bikovsky is.'