Retribution ht-4

by Adrian Magson

  ‘But the way Lloyd’s lying,’ Pendry argued. ‘He was moving forward. He didn’t look like he even saw him.’

  ‘He’s not facing the right way, though.’

  ‘What?’ Pendry checked the body position again, then looked towards the juniper bush. The direction Lloyd was facing was off by a good forty-five degrees. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘My guess is he crossed the killer’s trail or saw him and followed to see what he was up to. Then the killer turned the tables.’

  ‘That means he’s combat trained. Christ, who is this guy?’

  ‘A professional. One who isn’t afraid of penetrating a top military base to get what he’s after.’

  One of the MPs laying out the white tape called out to them. He was fifty yards away, pointing into some brushwood. They hurried across and looked down. A large knife with a roughened bone handle and a serrated back ridge was lying on the ground.

  The blade was red in blood.

  ‘A hunting knife,’ Pendry said. ‘He must have dropped it when he took off through the bushes.’

  Harry looked at the MP. ‘I suggest you bag that carefully and get it to the forensics people,’ he said. ‘This might be the only evidence we get.’

  The policeman nodded and began talking urgently into his radio. Pendry squatted and examined the knife where it lay.

  ‘It’s just a knife,’ he said. ‘Around here you’ll find a thousand just like it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Harry. ‘But there might be prints.’

  Pendry shook his head and stood up. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We let the investigation team do their thing. He may have left more evidence behind. If so, they’ll find it.’ He looked up at the helicopter circling overhead a couple of hundred yards away, the down-draught swaying the branches of the trees.

  Half a mile away, under cover of a line of scrubby bushes, Kassim watched through binoculars as the activity continued around the site where he had killed the American soldier. He could not see the black Ranger he had come looking for, but he knew he was there somewhere. Unfortunately, he was now untouchable, surrounded by heavily armed military personnel.

  He regretted losing the knife, which had been ripped from his hand by a branch whipping back against his thumb. No doubt it would soon be picked up by the investigators and subjected to careful examination. It was inconvenient but hardly a disaster; he had no record in the United States, so any traces on the weapon would lead nowhere.

  Now he had to get away from here and get cleaned up. There would be other chances to deal with Pendry, but not right now. Better to move on and come back another time. There was also the presence of the Englishman, Tate. He too would be fully alert, and any chance he had of approaching him was now gone.

  He was thinking about money. He was going to have to call on the travel agent, Remzi, again, before he left America. He had enough cash for his immediate needs and his tickets, but the payment for the car had been more than he’d anticipated. After the cab driver had dropped him off the night before near a tired-looking backstreet workshop, he had found himself under scrutiny from three large, silent men in grubby overalls. A fourth man was using an oxyacetylene cutter on the wing of a beaten-up Chevrolet.

  The haggling had been brief; take it or leave it. He had taken an aged Ford, victim of countless bruises and scrapes, but sound. They had thrown in directions for a cheap hotel and the location of a hunting store with flexible opening hours.

  No doubt Remzi wouldn’t be pleased to hear from him again, but there was no other way. He slid out from his cover and wormed his way deeper into a belt of trees stretching away into the distance. It meant a long trek back to his car, but he was in no hurry. If they found it in the meantime, it would lead them nowhere.

  It was early evening before Harry arrived back at the Holiday Inn. He was tired and tense, anxious to climb into the shower for an hour or so to wash off the dust of the training ground. By the time he and Carl Pendry had been through a lengthy grilling by the US Army investigators and local FBI special agents, called in on the advice of the base commander, the morning had turned into late afternoon. Harry had finally been allowed off the base, and knew it was so that they could shunt him out of the way. He had been helpful but was an outsider. Before leaving, Pendry had given him a direct number in case he needed to call.

  He saw Rik in the doorway to the bar. He was holding a beer and fanning himself with a hotel brochure. Harry walked past him and ordered a beer; the shower could wait.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, as Rik sidled up alongside him and put his glass on the bar. The barman was out of earshot.

  ‘I’ve been monitoring the news channels. The local networks are going nuts. The most accurate is a soldier killed in a training accident, the worst is an entire platoon mown down by a crazed terrorist gunman. How bad was it?’

  Harry gave him the basic facts. ‘If it wasn’t an attempt on Pendry, I’ll eat my feet.’

  ‘How did the killer find him? I checked the satellite photos — it’s a hell of a big area.’

  ‘Common knowledge. Most of the population here is either military, ex-military or knows someone employed on the base. And I hear there are army freaks who like to sneak in and watch the training. If our man knows what Pendry’s job is, it wouldn’t be too hard to find someone keen to brag about what was going on where, and pin down the location.’

  Rik sipped at his beer. ‘He couldn’t have driven in; he’d have been spotted. He must have walked.’

  ‘And back out.’

  Harry thought about Pendry’s comment about the man wearing camouflage jacket and pants. A place like Fort Benning was buzzing with security patrols and troop movements. But that would have worked to the killer’s advantage: who would question a man in combat clothing in the middle of a military training area? ‘At least we now know something else about him: he’s good at infiltration. Did you find anything else?’

  ‘Some basic background on the CP team members, but nothing specific to help us. Bikovsky’s the only one who jumps out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I picked up a couple of reports from newspaper archives. He was arrested once for drink driving as a kid, then for assault in San Diego, but released without charge. That’s all it said. When I tried to dig deeper, I hit a lot of empty space.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s like the records have been sanitized.’

  Harry looked at him. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought.’ Rik checked his watch. ‘I’m meeting a guy later who’s got a back door into state court and justice records. He might be able to find out more.’

  ‘You found someone here? How?’

  Rik gave a faint smirk. ‘I put out a call. There’s always someone around if you know who to ask.’ Rik had numerous friends and contacts in the shadowy world of computer hackers, most of them embracing anonymity and wary of coming out of their dark corners into the daylight. Harry had met a couple, pale-skinned and unhealthy specimens who would go through fire and water to breach a firewall or step into forbidden cyber territory just to prove that they could. A bit like Rik himself.

  But he didn’t like the idea of an outsider becoming involved. ‘Couldn’t you do it?’

  ‘Not like this guy. He’s got a rep for digging into Department of Justice files. He knows his way round.’ He tried to look modest and failed. ‘I could do it, but it would take me longer — and I’d probably trip over something.’

  ‘Can you trust him?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got something he wants.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘A name. A contact in the community.’

  Harry said nothing. If Rik was offering a name, it had to be someone the unknown hacker wanted to get to, someone higher up the ladder of IT geekdom.

  ‘You want me to come?’

  Rik rolled his eyes. ‘Get off. He’d shit a streak if he saw you.’

  ‘How quaint. What�
��s so scary about me?’

  ‘You look like you represent The Machine, that’s what.’ Rik did bunny ears with his fingers and drawled, ‘Like, Establishment, dude.’

  Rik was pulling his chain. He changed the subject. ‘What about Koslov — anything new?’

  ‘Other than the details Deane gave you, no. No photos, either. He’s either left the army and gone into private work, or he’s gone off the grid for other reasons.’

  Harry knew what that meant: Koslov was either using his military training and skills working for some rich oligarch, or was now employed by the Russian government in a quasi-military capacity. He’d already fed the number into his mobile along with Pendry’s and Bikovsky’s. He’d try him when he got a moment.

  ‘And anything out of Kosovo?’

  ‘Bits and pieces. Some repeat chatter about a dead girl from way back, but no specifics. The press are hinting at fresh claims against the UN, but it’s all being played down. I get the feeling they’re waiting for some hard evidence to come out. When it does, it’ll be gloves off.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re kept waiting.’

  ‘There’s something else.’ Rik scratched his head, a sign that he was nervous.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Did you know that every time you visit Clare, your name is sent to Six?’

  Harry didn’t rise to it. He had never told Rik about his visits to the Trauma Centre because he knew he didn’t care for Clare Jardine. But Rik had found out anyway.

  ‘You checking up on me?’ he muttered.

  ‘No. No. I just. . wondered how she was doing.’ Rik put his glass down. He looked sheepish.

  ‘You hacked into the records. Are you nuts? Ballatyne will skin you alive if he finds out.’

  ‘He won’t. The system’s wide open. Anyone could get in there — even you.’

  ‘Thanks. What else did you discover?’

  Rik cleared his throat. ‘It was scary reading.’

  ‘Gunshot wounds usually are. She was lucky, though; she should pull through.’ If she wants to, he thought, echoing the nurse’s comment. She’ll still be bloody dangerous.

  ‘I guess. There was a record of visitors. Well, one: you.’

  Harry wasn’t surprised that visits were recorded. Ballatyne would have requested it.

  ‘How come,’ Rik asked, ‘she’s not in a secure ward?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Where would she go?’ In reality, he knew the answer to that. He’d pressured Ballatyne into dropping any charges against Clare. She’d saved two lives and nearly lost her own in the process, and that, he’d argued, was on the plus side of the balance sheet.

  He left Rik in the bar and went to the reception desk for his key. The crowd had gone and the receptionist greeted him cheerfully, handing him his key and a message slip.

  ‘The earlier duty manager said someone was asking for you,’ she told him, ‘but the caller wouldn’t leave a name. With security here, she made a note.’

  The call was timed at 2 p.m. It was probably Ken Deane wanting to know how it was going. He’d called him from the base earlier that morning, to add grease to the wheels and update him on events. He went upstairs to put through a call to New York.

  Hovering by the hotel entrance under cover of a group of military family members, Kassim watched Tate take his key and a slip of paper from the receptionist and walk away. He noted the Englishman’s stocky build and the way he carried himself. Not a man to underestimate, he decided, but given the right circumstances, not a problem. Minutes earlier, he’d observed him enter the hotel bar and order a drink, where he’d been engaged in conversation by another man. This one was younger, with untidy hair and wearing the clothing common to so many Americans: jeans and a T-shirt. There had been no exchange of greetings and Tate had looked almost offhand. Tate had eventually walked back to the reception desk to get his key.

  After making his way back off the training area, Kassim had driven into Columbus and found a cyber-cafe. Remzi had not been pleased to hear from him. His responses were terse and poorly typed, the sign of a man in a hurry. . or on the edge of his nerves. But he had complied with Kassim’s request and told him that a courier would deliver the funds later that day. It had meant telling Remzi where he was staying, but there was no way round it. He would have to trust him.

  Next Kassim had purchased a change of clothing and returned to his hotel, a cheap commercial place near the station, and taken a shower to wash off the dust and grime of the previous night. Then he’d fallen asleep for a few hours.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when he was woken by a call from the front desk. A package to sign for. He drank some water, then went down and signed for a padded envelope. Next he found a local phone book and began dialling hotels near the airport. He was counting on Tate having booked one nearby rather than staying on the base, but it was a long shot. If that failed he would have to think again.

  He struck lucky on the seventh try. Tate had a room at the Holiday Inn, but had left before breakfast; on his way, the receptionist thought, to Fort Benning. The irony of how close he might have been to the man yet again didn’t escape Kassim. When the receptionist asked who was calling, Kassim had rung off.

  Next he’d called the training base and asked for Mr Tate, saying the call was from UN headquarters in New York. As he’d hoped, the Englishman’s presence was known and the answer had been immediate. ‘I’m sorry, sir — Mr Tate’s not available right now. Can I ask him to call you back?’

  Kassim had rung off with a satisfied smile. Perfect.

  He’d gone out to look for a replacement, no-questions-asked vehicle, and tried three backstreet garages before finding a ragged Toyota pickup in a chop shop. The owner had let it go for three hundred dollars. By the time he’d driven back out on to the road running past the training camp and crossed the extensive tract of countryside used by the military, news of the killing had spread to the outside world. It had pulled a gaggle of onlookers, press people and television crews to the area, and he’d found it easy to blend in with the crowd and watch for developments.

  When Tate had come out in the back of an army vehicle, Kassim had followed, biding his time.

  Now he decided to make his next move.

  A new group of arrivals had just entered the lobby and were crowding the desk. Kassim went over to a house phone on one wall and dialled reception. It took a while but a receptionist eventually excused herself to answer the phone.

  ‘Mr Tate, please.’

  ‘One moment, sir.’ As he’d hoped, the receptionist sounded rushed. ‘You can dial his extension direct.’ She gave him the room number with a prefix digit.

  Kassim made his way towards the rest rooms, where he found a room number locator. Tate’s room was on the ground floor at the rear. His stomach was tight with anticipation, and he felt for the reassuring weight of the hunting knife he’d been forced to buy to replace the lost one. He paused at the end of the corridor to consult the binder one last time, then snapped it shut and slipped it into his pocket.

  Soon it would be over.

  The air-conditioned quietness of his room did little to lift Harry’s sense of frustration, caused by all the pointless questions he’d faced earlier. In typical military fashion, things had gone in circles, accomplishing little and serving only to delay him getting off the base and in pursuit of the killer of Orti, Broms, Carvalho. . and now Lloyd.

  He dialled Deane’s number in New York. The phone rang twice before he answered. ‘Harry? What’s up — can’t sleep?’

  ‘Not yet. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. Things got a little hectic.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. The brass give you a hard time?’

  ‘Not too bad. Your call this morning helped smooth things over. I’m flying to LA in the morning to see Bikovsky. No point in hanging around here. . I think our man’s backed off for now.’

  ‘Good. How’s Pendry?’

  ‘He wants blood for whoever killed the trooper, but h
e’s dealing with it.’

  Deane grunted. ‘You think he’s clean?’

  Harry had already dismissed any idea of the Ranger being involved in anything in Kosovo. ‘As sure as I can be. He doesn’t feel right. I think the guilty man’s still out there.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I know who he isn’t.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It wasn’t Orti because the killer went after Broms too, then Carvalho. Now he’s tried Pendry. Unless he really is planning on wiping out the whole team, he hasn’t yet found his target. Do you have any information on the other two?’

  ‘No. Bikovsky’s dropped off the radar and Koslov’s somewhere in Moscow. Even our reach only extends so far. Keep in touch, Harry.’

  ‘Wait,’ Harry stopped him. ‘What was it you wanted?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You called me earlier.’

  ‘Not me, bud. I’ve been in back-to-back meetings.’

  Harry felt a chill crawl up his back. ‘You didn’t call at two p.m.?’

  ‘No. Pendry, perhaps?’

  ‘He was on the base with me.’

  Deane was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Jesus. He knows where you are.’

  Harry thought about the photo Deane had got from MI5. It would now be on the UN records. ‘And he knows what I look like.’

  Deane swore softly. ‘Do you need backup?’

  ‘No. I’ll be in touch.’ He clicked off and reached for the Ruger.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘You sure this is the place?’ The cab driver eyed Rik in the mirror. They were in Phenix City, Alabama, across the Chattahoochee River from its bigger neighbour, Columbus. ‘There are better places to eat, my friend.’ His tone suggested that passengers from England didn’t usually find their way to this part of town.

  ‘I’m positive, thanks.’ Rik peeled off some notes and passed them over. The man took the money with a nod and gave him a card with a cab company logo and a number in big, black not-drunk-enough-to-miss typeface.