Retribution (24 page)

‘Did he explain how he got it?'

‘He was happy to,' said Deane. ‘Russian Military Intelligence kept close tabs on the various
mujahedin
factions during the Second Chechen War, especially when they noticed how many foreigners were turning up in the region. They recorded thousands of fingerprints, names, some photos – and ethnic groupings. They fingerprinted every male they came across, active or not. Even if there was no evidence of them being in one of the rebel factions they sent the details back to Moscow. Kassim was kept in a lock-up for a couple of days, then the local rebels staged a breakout. He killed a militiaman and his prints later came up on a captured RPG-7 which brought down a Russian helicopter. According to Koslov this would have put him on a search-and-kill list, but they never found him. He was probably a volunteer and left the country for Afghanistan or Pakistan when things got hot. Kassim's probably an Uzbek . . . they're mostly nomadic types, according to my researchers, so moving around the hills wouldn't have been a problem. And they get used to staying out of the way from the moment they're born. That might explain how he was able to sneak up on the Marine sniper so easily.'

‘Is there a photo?'

‘Yeah. It's lousy quality, according to Koslov, taken under what he calls battlefield conditions. He's getting it scanned and sent over. I'll email it you and send copies to the FBI office in LA. They might be able to match it with the cameras at the airport.'

‘But why an Afghan if the rumours are about Kosovo? And how can a hill tribesman be moving around like he is?'

‘I don't know. Maybe he's not just a tribesman. Some
mujahedin
are incomers educated in the west. They only went over to fight against the common enemy, like in Chechnya and Iraq. I'll start making enquiries through the FBI about Aeroflot flights to Moscow. Most of them go out of New York, so he'd have had to come through here from Columbus to make a connection. If he's travelling on a non-Russian passport, there can't be too many names to look through.'

‘Why Aeroflot? Aren't there US flights to Moscow?'

‘Sure there are, but I figured getting on an Aeroflot flight would be easier – and cheaper.'

‘If you say so. What about tickets and visas? You can't pick those up on a whim.'

‘Must have been pre-arranged. I'll get on to that, too. I'll leave you to speak to Koslov – see if you can get him to dig around at his end on the immigration and arrivals register. They might be able to come up with something. Have you tracked down Bikovsky yet?'

‘I have, but he's reluctant to speak. I'm meeting him tonight.'

‘Uh-huh. What's he doing?'

Harry explained what the waitress Maria had told him about Bikovsky's work.

Deane was silent for a moment. ‘Any young girls involved?'

‘No idea. That's something the FBI will have to address.'

He hung up and dialled Koslov's number, but was told the Russian FSB officer had gone home and would be back later. He told the operator he needed some urgent information and would call back. The man recognized Harry's name and said he would get the captain to ring when he came in.

While he waited he went over what he knew, trying to make a connection which would make sense. If the rape and murder in Kosovo was the linking factor, it still didn't tell him why an Afghan would be tracking down members of the UN. More importantly, how was the man getting the resources to accomplish what he was doing? Flights didn't come cheap and neither did local transport. And if he was using cars supplied by helpers, it would still cost money. Stealing vehicles was a possibility, but risky. On the other hand, renting a car from an official agency was impossible without a driver's licence. Which meant, unless he had forged documents, which was possible, he would be using backstreet dealers. As far as tracing cars would go, that was a dead end.

The phone rang, startling him, and he realized with surprise he'd been sitting there for nearly forty minutes, turning things over in his mind.

‘Harry Tate?' It was Koslov. ‘You have the information – the Afghan?'

‘That's good work, Alexandr,' Harry congratulated him. ‘Now all we've got to do is find him. Ken Deane's got the FBI trawling through flight records to Moscow; could you ask your immigration people to do the same? Our guess is he's travelling on a non-Russian passport. But that's all it is – a guess.'

‘I've asked them already. They will let me know as soon as they have something.' Koslov sounded excited, the reaction of an investigator close to the conclusion of a hunt, when he could smell the quarry. ‘There was something about this man that was familiar – I told you, huh? I have seen the type before. There was something about the way he moved. And the face: he is pale, like many Afghans, and could pass easily for a European. But there was a power in his face . . . you will know what I mean when you see him.'

‘I understand. If he's a
mujahedin
, he's superb at adapting to his surroundings and blending in.'

Koslov was silent for a moment, then, ‘You have taught young soldiers how to fight – how to defend, yes?'

‘Of course.'

‘Also you have put yourself against them . . . like in competition. They try to be better than you, but they never do. You know why?'

‘I'm more experienced.'

‘Is true,' Koslov agreed. ‘But more than that, is because you do not think – ever – that you will be beaten by trainee. Is not possible. You are senior . . . so does not enter your thinking.
Mujahedin
are the same, Harry. Not better, but never think of failing. To fail is to die. To die is to lose.'

‘You sound as if you admire them.'

‘Admire, no. Respect, why not? This Kassim has decided he will win. To win, he does not see obstacles. They do not exist.'

‘It's all in the mind.'

‘Damn right, my friend. All in the mind.'

Harry thanked the Russian for his help and disconnected. He felt suddenly infected as much by Koslov's enthusiasm for the hunt as daunted by his reading of the
mujahedin
mind. He wondered what the Afghan's next move would be.

Private Anton Dobrev pulled up outside the apartment block to pick up Captain Koslov, and switched off the engine. He had a few minutes yet, and decided he'd enjoy the time while he could, in the warmth of the car. He'd been on his feet since clocking on this morning, and was feeling tired. He yawned, and watched as a man with a broom and cleaner's cart entered the courtyard and began sweeping the ground around the edge of the main building. He decided there were definitely worse jobs than his own. Doing anything outside in this crappy weather was no joke. Probably another conscript on punishment duties.

He tilted his head back, then thought better of it. Wouldn't do for Captain Koslov to come down and find him asleep on the job. Especially with a killer around.

He sat up, wondering if the good captain had been pulling his leg. Why would an Afghan come to Moscow, anyway? He'd be crazy. Although, maybe they were a crazy people and did stuff like that – like the Chechens and some of those other people further east.

He gave a start, realizing that the cleaner had moved closer, and was digging his broom into a corner, teasing at a grating in the ground but not really accomplishing anything. The man was gaunt and wearing a rough padded coat, but surprisingly, ordinary walking shoes. And civilian pants, rather than work trousers.

Dobrev sat up. The man had looked across at him, then ducked his head quickly. What the hell was he—?

Suddenly he felt a shock like a physical blow.
It was him. The Afghan!
He looked to his front, chest pounding. No. It couldn't be. He was mistaken, daydreaming. Koslov would have his balls if he sounded the alarm and the cleaner was innocent.

He looked again. The man was older than in the photo – but Koslov had said it was taken twelve years ago, according to the document . . . which he wasn't supposed to have read, but what else do you do to brighten your day?

He clicked open the door and stepped out of the car. The cleaner looked up. Face blank, hands gripping the broom. Just a cleaner, surely.

‘How's it going?' Dobrev meant to sound friendly, casual, but his nerves made his voice come out as a bark.

The effect was instantaneous, and frightening. The cleaner dropped his broom and crossed the space between them in three quick strides. Before Dobrev could move, the man was on him, a knife blade gleaming in his hand. His eyes looked mad and his teeth were bared, like a dog. Dobrev scrabbled with his hand and managed to hit the car's horn. The blare sounded uncommonly loud in the enclosed courtyard, startling them both. At the same time, he waited for the first stab of pain that was surely going to follow.

But it didn't happen.

Suddenly the man backed off, looking around. The mad look in his eye seemed to fade, and he shook his head with apparent annoyance.

Then he turned and ran.

Dobrev hit the horn again, and felt horribly sick.

Koslov put down the phone with a feeling of satisfaction. It felt good to be working like this, instead of pursuing endless petty roads which led nowhere, or hunting down harmless dissidents who couldn't get together the means to set fire to a bottle of paraffin without burning themselves. The Americans – and Harry, too – were professionals. They had the means, of course, to buy the best facilities to help them with their work. Which was why he felt proud at having come up with the Afghan's identity so quickly. Just think what he could do with their massive computer resources . . . he'd be able to discard all the antiquated card-file systems still being used in so many corners of the Russian security apparatus.

He heard the blast of a car horn. Dobrev, waiting to take him to the office. Cheeky young bugger was getting above himself. Drivers were supposed to come up and knock, not sound the horn like a damned cab driver. He gathered his things together and thought he'd go out to Sheremetyevo instead and take a look at the immigration records and the camera hard drives. He might tread on some toes in the process, but since it had become an international manhunt, and the request from the UN and the FBI had been about as high-powered as it could get, he would have the backing of his superiors.

As he shrugged on his coat, there was another loud blast of the horn, this time longer.

‘Dobrev, you insubordinate little shit!' he shouted. ‘I'm coming!' He took a last look around, flicked a used shirt into a drawer, then picked up his pistol and went downstairs.

He walked across to the car, and saw Dobrev standing with one foot inside the vehicle. The young man looked terrified and was pointing at a cleaner's cart and broom lying on the ground.

‘The Afghan,' Dobrev stuttered. ‘He was here!' Then he turned and threw up.

By the time Koslov was being grilled by military security investigators, Kassim was on his way to Moscow's Domodedovo airport. He flung the knife he'd almost used on the Russian driver through the car window at the first opportunity, and straightened his clothing. He was breathing fast, as if he'd run a race, and he felt light-headed. Tiredness, undoubtedly, catching up on him. Yet he'd been awake for much longer in the past, and under far more stressful circumstances. Perhaps it was a sign that he wasn't eating properly. He drank water from a plastic bottle and spat some out of the window. Water was purity; purity was strength. It would have to do for now.

His instructors had warned him that operating at peak effort, whether in a war zone or not, could very quickly drain his mental and physical resources. The only way to sustain himself, they had told him, was by eating at every opportunity, and by observing his daily devotions. He wondered if these men with their wise words had ever done what he was doing, or carried the burden he was carrying. In any case, serving his devotions had never been high on his list of priorities, although he had not dared let them know that. Some things were best left unsaid, when surrounded by zealots; even those who had helped him and brought him to this point.

He couldn't tell what had stopped him killing the driver. The stupid man's challenge had unnerved him. A couple more minutes and he could have been inside the building and looking for Koslov. But the driver had spotted him and was surely about to raise the alarm.

His response had been automatic, the ingrained need to protect himself. But he'd stopped and turned away. Why? He shook his head, seeing the young Russian's face, an unshaven fuzz on his lip and the look of abject fear in his eyes.

Perhaps it had just been his lucky day.

He stayed alert for signs of police activity, and eventually joined a stream of traffic heading into the airport perimeter road. He left the car unlocked in a long-term car park next to the Airhotel. From what he had been told about this place, it would be gone before the day was out. Then he made straight for the check-in desk for flights to London, and to meet the man who would provide him with what he needed for the next stage of his journey. He wouldn't mention that he hadn't killed the Russian, though.

By midday UK time, he would be landing in Heathrow.

T
he Dolphin coffee shop and restaurant on Pacific Avenue was a single-storey building with its own car park, set between an apartment block on one side and a golfing store on the other. There were few cars in evidence, and only a handful of heads visible inside when Harry arrived just before five. He parked across the other side of the road with a clear view of the entrance, and wondered if Bikovsky would turn up. The ex-Marine's attitude at the house in the hills hadn't been exactly helpful, and Harry was half expecting to have been sent on a wild-goose chase just to get him out of the way.

Beside him on the seat was an envelope he'd collected earlier from the local FBI office on Wilshire. It contained copies of the Russian Intelligence file on Kassim and mug shots of the
mujahedin
fighter from Chechnya, taken when he was scooped up in a random raid on a warehouse in Grozny.