Retribution ht-4

by Adrian Magson

  Retribution

  ( Harry Tate - 4 )

  Adrian Magson

  Adrian Magson

  Retribution

  ONE

  Kosovo, Autumn 1999

  The 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 — 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 saw-

  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.

  TWO

  Afghanistan/Pakistan border, 2012

  The 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.

  The thought drew his eyes back to the valley slopes. He surveyed the trail either side, searching for dust where there should be none, for the darting flight of a hare in panic or the telltale flare of a fox’s bushy tail. He was well aware of enemy Special Forces operating in the region, of the heavily whiskered and grubby Taliban hunters, like cave dwellers with sniper scopes and long-range rifles. Up here, this close to the border region, a lone man was viewed with suspicion on all sides, a person to be stopped and examined.

  Or killed.

  Half a mile away the burned-out, rotting hulk of a Russian helicopter rested on its side where it had crashed years before. Long since stripped of anything useful, it was now a wind-burnished
resting place for the birds to perch, a relic of another war in a long list of so many conflicts in the region.

  He plucked at his shirt and waistcoat, flapping the warm air around him, and scratched at the beard covering his lower face. He felt a gritty sheen of sweat-soaked dust among the hairs. He needed a bath, and could feel in his mind the embrace of soft, soapy water and the touch of a rough towel.

  He shook away the daydream and stood, relieving the tightness in his thighs and calves, then swung his arms wide to loosen his shoulders. He was tall and lean, with no spare meat on his bones after so long in the hills. His hands were powerful, yet with the long fingers of a musician, which his mother had hoped he would one day be. Cruelly, those hopes had died years ago with the death of so many other things, and he had not given the idea another thought since leaving the hills above the shattered village where he had been born. Later, through the madrasas where he had been schooled by those who had taken him in; then in Chechnya and the desert camps where he had been trained and tested; in the many weeks with specialist ‘tutors’, who had taught him so much, there had been no time for music.

  All he had now was the mission.

  He dipped a hand into the bag across his shoulder and took out a water bottle. It was nearly empty. He trickled the few tepid drops on to his tongue, rinsing out the dust and spitting it on to a rock nearby. The moisture sizzled for a moment, and was gone.

  He chewed slowly on a piece of dried meat, stomach growling for more. He had used a great deal of energy coming down from the hills, and would have to find something soon, before he became too weak. But for now he ignored his body’s demands. There would be time for food later.

  He stood and set off at the same ground-eating shuffle, the slap of his sandals the only sound to accompany his breathing. He followed a steep path, knees feeling the strain of the descent, and crossed a small wooden bridge over a dried river bed strewn with large boulders the size of cars. There would be water in this area again when the snows melted high in the mountains and gushed down the passes into the valleys below. Until then, it would remain as dry as a biscuit.

  He paused briefly on the other side, sniffing the air. He was right on the border with Pakistan, and although patrols were irregular, there were occasional watchers on the high ground, monitoring illegal crossings.

  Continuing on down, he passed a herd of scruffy, fat-tailed sheep picking at meagre grazing on the steep slopes. There was no sign of a herder but he wasn’t surprised; only the foolhardy trusted strangers on the trails in this area.

  An hour later he skirted a tiny collection of dwellings, arousing a frantic barking from a mangy dog. In the distance the cry of a small child was abruptly silenced, testifying that adults here chose to stay out of sight, incurious about the passing stranger and his intentions.

  After another hour he reached a track clinging to the side of a hill.

  A Mitsubishi truck was waiting, four emaciated-looking goats in the back. The driver was standing by the front, tinkering with the engine. The moment he saw Kassim, he dropped the hood and gestured to him to climb aboard. There was no exchange of words. Kassim got in and dropped his bag between his feet.

  After forty minutes they emerged from a narrow valley into Torkham, the official border crossing point. The air was thick with noise and dust and colour, and Kassim felt a spike of anxiety at the crush of people in the streets.

  The driver sensed his mood and looked at the bag on the floor. ‘You have a weapon?’ When Kassim nodded, the driver pulled over and stopped alongside an open drain. ‘A pistol?’

  ‘A Makarov.’

  ‘The make is not important. You get caught with it and we might as well cut our own throats. Drop it in the hole.’

  Kassim didn’t argue. He took out the semi-automatic and dropped it, along with the spare clip, into the mouth of the drain.

  The driver laughed as they drove away. ‘Don’t look so sad, my friend. Someone will take it out later and clean it. It will go to a good home, I promise.’

  They passed two American army Humvees at the side of the road, loaded with soldiers. Inscrutable behind their dark glasses and bristling with weaponry, they stood out among the mountain people. His driver waved a vague hand as they drove by, the goats in the back protesting uneasily at the noise, and Kassim felt a burn of irritation at the man’s cavalier attitude. Maybe down here things were different; where he had just come from, if you saw American soldiers, you didn’t wave — you shot them.

  They threaded their way through the crowded back streets, a stop-start journey, finally emerging on the main Torkham to Peshawar road. Here they joined vehicles of every size and description, most carrying bundles of goods of unknown origin, or overloaded with families heading who knew where. Signs of military activity were everywhere, and Kassim felt that he was being assessed and recorded by every pair of eyes he saw. They stopped once at the driver’s insistence, at a roadside eating place. Kassim wanted to continue to Peshawar, but the other man insisted it was for the best. He ordered meat and vegetables cooked in red chillies, and sat eating and watching the road, nodding to Kassim to do the same. ‘You will see,’ he murmured.

  Minutes later, a convoy of Pakistani army trucks roared by and set up a road block to the north of their position, stopping every vehicle going south.

  It was a signal for the driver to move. ‘Come,’ he said, wiping his hands and face. ‘We go now.’

  The traffic thickened and slowed noticeably as they neared Peshawar. Kassim was thinking about the chain of arrangements that had been made for him to come here, starting up in the Hindu Kush and ending wherever his journey might take him. This man, the driver, had not enquired as to his name nor given his own. For whatever reason, he was helping Kassim and that was enough. Kassim felt humbled by the risk the man was taking.

  On the outskirts of Peshawar, the man pointed to a bus stop. ‘From there a bus will take you to the airport,’ he said. ‘Your flight leaves in the morning, Insha’Allah, and you should use the time in Lahore to shake off anyone you think is watching you.’ He glanced at Kassim’s clothing, which was that of the hills, stiffened by dust and sweat, and pointed to the back of the truck. ‘There is a bag for you. It contains clothes. Find somewhere to change into them before you board the bus. And get your hair cut. The passengers are mostly airport workers and would not let you on the way you are.’

  ‘What is wrong with the way I am?’ Kassim had so far seen more people dressed the same as him on every street corner than in western clothing.

  ‘Because you look like a Talib, my brother — or a wild man.’ He tapped the side of his head with a stubby finger. ‘From now on, you have to think like the unbelievers and be one step ahead. And speak English, the universal language.’

  It was an indication that this man was no mere driver, but someone in the chain of command. The risk must have been judged worthwhile for such a person to come down here to see him off. He said nothing, merely nodded in understanding.

  Three hours later, Kassim was walking on board a Pakistan International Airlines flight to Lahore, with an onward connection to Paris Charles de Gaulle. He was carrying a sports bag and dressed in dark slacks, leather shoes and a white shirt, and had been shaved clean at a street corner barbershop, his hair washed and cut short with a side parting. He felt restricted in the new clothes, as if his body were encased in a tight sleeve from head to toe, and was convinced he was about to be stopped by security guards at any moment. But nobody paid him the slightest attention.

  As he took his seat, he put his hand in his pocket and felt for the piece of soft blue material that accompanied him everywhere he went. As he did so, he muttered a soft prayer and made a firm vow to succeed.

  All the talking, the schooling, the training and testing — and the years of fighting — had been aimed at this moment.

  He was on his way.

  THREE

  Harry Tate stared at the text on his mobile phone. It had bleeped seconds ago. He
was trying to ignore it; calls when he was on a job were a distraction. Calls from the person who’d been trying to contact him for two days now, leaving voicemail messages, were even more so than most.

  Harry. Plse make Grosvenor Square tomorrow at 18.30? Urgent. Remember Mitrovica. Ken Deane.

  For no good reason that he could determine, Harry felt a ripple in his gut. Ken Deane and Mitrovica; the combination wasn’t good. Nor was being asked to remember the things he’d seen there. And if Ken Deane was still working for the UN, as he had been when they first met, it was the last thing he wanted. Take on a contract with the UN and you could end up somewhere hot, remote and deeply unfriendly.

  He looked up at the door of the house they were watching as a thickset man with ginger hair stepped outside. His name was Terry de Witt. He was supposed to be in hiding.

  ‘He can’t be,’ Rik Ferris muttered in disbelief, and reached for the door latch of the Audi.

  Harry put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Forget it. We’re too late.’ He nodded towards the end of the street.

  A black Range Rover had appeared, ghosting along the line of empty cars. To outward appearances just another luxury Chelsea tractor looking for a parking slot, it was nothing of the sort. Three men and the driver, Harry noted.

  He knew what would happen next: the car would stop alongside de Witt, and the driver would ask for directions, friendly but puzzled. De Witt would pause and move closer, even though he knew this area of Primrose Hill in north London as well as he knew the far side of the moon. But his naive side, the side which had got him traced in the first place, would come to the fore in spite of several warnings to stay inside, no matter what.

  Sure enough, the two side doors opened and two of the men got out. They were big and moved swiftly, hauling de Witt inside. It took seconds, with no exchange of words. Give it an hour or two, Harry knew, and de Witt, South African numbers man to an Albanian arms dealer, would be overseas and gone for good. Or dead.