Retribution (9 page)

‘In that case, you'd better throw in a spare.'

If Deane wondered why he wanted a second weapon, he saw no reason to argue. ‘Will do. You OK with this?'

‘I'm fine.' Harry didn't mind being a sacrificial goat – as long as the goat could show some teeth. ‘How many people can you throw at this on the research side?'

‘As many as I've got. Why?'

‘You're going to need them. Get them trawling through airline schedules. Look for single male travellers coming out of Afghanistan, Pakistan and India, and moving on across to Europe.'

‘Why not two? It would look more natural. And how do we know it's a man?'

‘Two would stand out and increase the likelihood of mistakes. This person took out two experienced soldiers; a woman wouldn't have the strength.' The exception, he thought, was Clare Jardine, who had guile and speed instead. ‘A woman would have to get close first, to gain their confidence. He's not doing that – he's going for it.'

‘OK, so one man. He could have a change of ID for each flight.'

‘He may well have. But changes of documentation take more planning and increase the risk of getting caught. I think he'll keep it to the minimum.'

‘Shit. Thanks a bunch, Harry. You've just made this thing ten times – pardon my French – fucking worse.'

‘It's a crunching exercise. You might get lucky.'

‘Yeah, I can hope. Maybe if he's an Afghan, he'll stand out.'

‘I wouldn't bet on that. Look at Hamid Karzai: take away his cloak and hat and he'd pass as French, Italian or Spanish.'

‘Ah, shit, Harry, do you give lectures in this kind of stuff?' Deane sounded depressed.

‘It's elementary. Hear a man's name and you stop thinking about what he looks like.'

‘Thanks, Sherlock. Anything else you want to hit me with?'

‘Just one thing. Assuming this business is connected with Kosovo, neither Orti nor Broms was still assigned to the UN.'

‘Right. So?'

‘So how did the killer know where to find them?'

It was a second or two before Deane grasped the implications. When he spoke, it was softly, a realization that there was a leak in the bucket. ‘Oh, shit.'

At Brussels airport, Kassim boarded his flight at the earliest opportunity, to avoid being too long under the scrutiny of the other passengers, and took his seat at a window. He buckled himself in and pulled down the blind, then closed his eyes and settled back. He had no desire to engage in pointless conversation, as his English was sufficient but not fluent. People noticed and remembered accents, his trainers had pointed out. Especially around international flights.

There had been no element of irony in the speaker's voice at this statement.

The rucksack was on the floor behind his legs. He'd regretted having to get rid of the gun and hunting knife, but he could replace both and more on arrival in New York. Until then, he had to remain as unobtrusive as possible. He'd made a point of eating beforehand, so he would not need to be disturbed by the flight attendants.

He thought momentarily about the Swede. Another one who had appeared not to know what was happening. It puzzled him. Unless the man's mind had rejected all memory of the past. In any event, he had died well, if too quickly. Kassim shook off the image and tried to focus on the next task ahead. But he couldn't help the thoughts crowding in, as they always did. He had seen too much over the years.

It was going to be a long flight.

H
arry rolled out of bed in response to a repeated knocking, only recognizing where he was by the hotel room décor. His head felt stuffed with cotton wool after the flight from Northolt, and his talk with Deane at Marble Arch seemed a long time ago. The security chief had booked him into a small hotel on East 36th Street, just a few blocks from the UN headquarters.

The visitor was a suited messenger holding up a UN pass for Harry to check, and a black canvas bag with a combination lock. Harry signed an electronic receipt pad and thanked the messenger, then called for an all-day breakfast to be sent up to his room. He functioned better on a full stomach.

After a quick shower he got dressed and opened the bag. It contained several sheets of printed paper and a typed note from Deane, two 9mm Ruger SR9 semi-automatics with four magazines, and two electronic swipe cards.

The note was brief.

The passes carried a small square on one side. Harry's name and photo was on one, Rik Ferris's photo on the other, but with the name James Morrison. Deane showing his age and a liking for dead rock stars, Harry decided. The shots were official – culled, he guessed, courtesy of someone in Thames House, the headquarters of MI5 in London. The passes described them as representatives of the United Nations Field Security Office, and requested all help be given to the bearer, followed by a 24-hour international telephone number for verification.

Room service interrupted his reading of the biographical sheets and he settled down to eat. Half an hour later, over a second cup of coffee, he had a rough plan of action worked out. He would contact the rest of the CP team – Pendry, Bikovsky and Koslov – in that order. The two Americans because they were closest, the Russian last. With a bit of luck he might not need to go all the way to Moscow, Koslov's last listed posting. All he could remember of the man was a thin figure, pale of face and colouring, almost delicate compared with the other members of the team. But tough, if he was in the Russian army.

According to Deane's notes, Carl Pendry was now a ‘black hat' instructor at the Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Don Bikovsky had left the US Marines and gone back to civilian life. His last recorded address was Venice Beach, California.

He tried Bikovsky first, but got no answer. Next he tried Pendry's number. The phone was picked up on the second ring by a man with the threat of a drill-sergeant's eye on his back.

‘Sorry, sir,' he replied in rapid-fire speech. ‘I'm afraid Sergeant Pendry's on the range, sir. He should be back late this afternoon. I'm Specialist Cantrell, sir. Can I take a message, sir?'

Harry had to remind himself that most American soldiers spoke as if they were permanently on parade and addressing a senior officer. The energized-sounding individual on the other end was therefore behaving normally.

‘Just a friend calling, that's all, Cantrell,' he told the soldier in an effort to slow him down. ‘My name's Harry Tate. I'm in the Fort Benning area tomorrow and I'd like to call by and stand him a beer. Where does he hang out when he's not shouting at trainees?'

There was an audible sigh of relaxation and Cantrell laughed. ‘Well, sir, there's only one place Carl hangs out right now, and that's the Holiday Inn North near Columbus airport. He's there most evenings when he's off free.' Cantrell seemed to find the idea amusing for some reason.

‘Is there something I should know about the Holiday Inn, Mr Cantrell?'

‘Well, it's no secret, I guess,' Cantrell chuckled again. ‘The sergeant's gone and got hisself a lady, sir. She's a vice president there, I think. Shall I tell him you called, sir?'

‘Why not?' It sounded as if Pendry was a popular man, which said something about his character. ‘Tell him I'll see him at eighteen hundred hours at the Holiday Inn.'

He replaced the phone and tried to picture the huge Ranger alongside any woman and gave up. He just hoped Pendry got the message and didn't decide to make himself scarce. He wanted to keep their meeting as low key as possible.

He tried Bikovsky's number again but still with no answer. It looked as though he was going to have to go out to Venice Beach after he'd seen Pendry. For now, it was time to get moving.

He was about to call the front desk for a cab when the phone rang. It was Ken Deane.

‘What you said about how the killer knew where to find Orti and Broms,' he said without preamble. ‘It looks like we had a bug in the works. You need to be in on this. A car will be with you any minute.' He rang off without asking if it was convenient.

By the time Harry got downstairs, a suited driver was standing outside with a black Suburban at the kerb. The man ushered him inside and closed the door, then climbed in and took off along the street. They stopped outside a plain, concrete building a stone's throw from UN Plaza, and the driver told Harry he should go to the fifteenth floor, conference room 1217, where Deane was waiting for him.

‘Harry. Come in.' Ken Deane greeted him at the door of a small lobby opening into a conference room overlooking the East River. Harry could see two other people already seated at the long table, a large man with receding sandy hair and a woman who looked vaguely familiar.

Before leading Harry through, Deane took his elbow and said softly, ‘You got the ID cards and stuff?'

‘Yes, thanks. I didn't know you were a fan of The Doors.'

Deane grinned. ‘Long time ago. Listen, for reasons that will become clear, I got you on attachment easily enough – we drag in specialists all the time; but Ferris was later than I'd expected and would have been pushing it. I got him a genuine ID card but he's not on the books, although the name Morrison is. Just don't let him get caught in the spotlight. And if he gets shot, you'd better bury him before the press finds out.' He gave a lift of the eyebrows to show that he was aware of Rik's very public gunshot injury in central London a few months ago, and gestured towards the conference room. ‘Come on in. Let's get this started.'

‘You already met each other some years ago,' Deane said, indicating the woman. ‘Karen Walters, Special Assistant to Anton Kleeman.'

Walters was tall and slim, with the power-dressed appearance of the professional senior administrator. She was in her late forties, Harry judged, and if she remembered him, did not show it.

‘And Vince McKenna, my deputy.'

McKenna smiled and pumped his hand, but didn't speak.

Deane indicated chairs and said, ‘My apologies for the drama, Harry. We're meeting in this annexe because going through the security screens at UN Plaza would take up too much time. Vince?' He waved at McKenna to continue and sat back to listen.

‘Right.' McKenna cleared his throat. ‘Until yesterday afternoon, a woman named Irina Demescu was employed as an analyst in our IT department. She failed to report in today, which was out of character. Her supervisor tried to contact her at home, but without success. When they checked her workstation, they found her desk had been cleared. That automatically triggered an alert to the departmental security rep, who signalled the central security office.' He blinked as the words tumbled out, as if surprised. ‘We, uh . . . ordered an immediate check of any computers she'd been using. That check is still ongoing, but she appears to have downloaded a quantity of personnel data from our archives.'

Harry felt all eyes on him. ‘What sort of data?'

‘Names, addresses, service history . . . mostly from our DPKO records.' He blinked. ‘Sorry – that's our Department of Peacekeeping Operations. It was mostly military personnel, but there were a couple of civilian names, too, because they were all connected by circumstance.' He gave a brief flicker of his eyes at Karen Walters.

Harry did not miss the look. Wariness coupled with antipathy. ‘How many people are we talking about?'

McKenna consulted his notes. ‘About a dozen. Most were lifted a week, ten days ago, with one copied as late as yesterday afternoon just before she left.' He stopped speaking and glanced at Deane.

Harry wondered if all meetings in the UN were conducted at this pace, and was glad he hadn't taken up Deane's offer of a job all those years ago. He'd have probably thrown himself in the East River by now.

Deane leaned forward and said, ‘It seems Demescu volunteered to work late on several occasions over the last few weeks. That wasn't unusual; she was a conscientious worker, so nobody thought anything of it. It meant she had an office to herself.' He lifted his eyebrows. ‘There's a minimum staff ruling in the IT department of no less than two personnel at all times. It's been ramped up since nine-eleven. But there's been a flu virus going round and the department was hit pretty bad. It seems nobody told security and with the shortages there was no regular audit.'

‘Did she have the skills to search all the files she wanted to?' asked Karen Walters. She was looking strained.

‘Absolutely,' said Deane. ‘She came from Microdata after graduating from UCLA in computer sciences. Her supervisor says she was one of the best.'

Harry thought it odd that someone had come from Microdata to the UN; he didn't know the relevant salary levels, but he was willing to bet the UN paid less than a going commercial concern like the electronics giant.

McKenna said helpfully, ‘Although she left an audit trail.'

‘Audit trail?'

‘Right, ma'am – it's an electronic footprint showing who's been in the files. It tells us where she looked, dates, times . . . all that.'

‘She didn't erase it?' Deane looked surprised.

‘Not over the last two days. Early on it probably wouldn't have mattered. She could have come up with half a dozen reasons for being in there. Latterly, well, she probably knew her time was up, so why bother? I think she collated the information as she went, taking it out of the building piecemeal or on a memory stick.' He explained, ‘The terminal she was using was blind, with no access to the outside.'

Deane gave McKenna a pointed look as if reminded how susceptible they were to data theft. He said, ‘OK, let's move on. Where are we right now?'