Retribution ht-4

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Because you’re next on the list.’

  Bikovsky blinked. Hard. Whatever his condition, he wasn’t so far gone that he could ignore such a statement. ‘Say what? How come? I never saw those guys after we left that shithole. If they were in a jam and got themselves hit, it don’t concern me.’

  The camera whirred again, and they both looked up. Someone in the house was getting impatient. Bikovsky cursed softly.

  Harry said, ‘Who says they were in trouble?’ There was no answer to that, so he added, ‘But I’m not talking about it here.’

  ‘Hey, man — I can’t get away just like that.’ Bikovsky’s voice was urgent, his face turned away from the camera. ‘And in case you didn’t notice, I left the military and I certainly ain’t in KFOR no more. So I don’t have to give you squat.’

  Harry shrugged and got back in his car. ‘Well, if you don’t, I’ll let Eddie and Marty know where you are. You know Eddie and Marty?’ The look on Bikovsky’s face confirmed that he did. ‘Well, how would your employers like that? It would look bad on film if you picked up a few bruises.’ He started the engine. ‘By the way, Eddie fell down the stairs outside your apartment. Now they think we’re friends. . and they’re not impressed.’

  ‘Shit, man!’ Bikovsky protested vehemently. ‘What have you done? You can’t jam me up like that!’

  ‘Then speak to me. Name a place and make it soon. Then we’ll be out of your hair.’

  Bikovsky swore again, but finally nodded. ‘OK. . you got it. But this better be worth it. There’s a coffee shop on Pacific called the Dolphin. I’ll be there about five this evening.’ He turned and walked through the gate without looking back.

  The camera swivelled to follow him all the way.

  ‘Damn,’ Rik said. ‘I was hoping for a look inside.’

  ‘Down, boy,’ Harry said. ‘You’re too young for that stuff and your mother would never forgive me.’

  The US Army Criminal Investigation Command (CID), assisted by the FBI and prodded by regular calls from Ken Deane, had moved extra quickly on lifting the prints from the knife used to kill Lloyd at Fort Benning. Second only to being sent nationwide to all FBI regions, copies were sent to Koslov at FSB headquarters in Moscow, as Harry Tate had requested.

  As soon as he was notified of their arrival, Koslov took the prints along to the forensic laboratory and flagged the job as ultra urgent, to include all databases. Nothing less would get anything moving, and since he had a vested interest in the information, he had no hesitation in pulling rank over several other jobs currently being dealt with. Even so, the civilian supervisor argued as a matter of course, claiming there were already far too many urgent jobs awaiting their turn.

  ‘Do you have proper justification for this taking precedence, Captain?’ the man enquired primly. Plainly, to him it meant nothing if the job was done now or next week, but he evidently felt the need to defend his corner, especially with newcomers like Koslov.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Koslov responded firmly, staring the man down. ‘If we do not find out who these prints belong to, I will probably die. After that, so will you, for allowing the murder of an officer through dereliction of your duty. Is that justification enough for you?’ He nodded at the man’s suddenly pale face and walked away.

  Fifty minutes later, to Koslov’s amazement, the supervisor rang to say they had a match.

  ‘You what?’ Holy God, it had been an outside chance, but it had worked. ‘Send Dobrev up to me with the details. Immediately.’

  Two minutes later Koslov was staring in bafflement at a sheet of printed paper. The details had been copied from Russian Army Intelligence files. After trying all current records, the computer had automatically switched to scanning deeper into the archives and had fastened on a name and prints. From the heading at the top of the sheet, Koslov saw the details had come originally from a specialist Intelligence unit operating in Chechnya. Their unit details had been blanked out, and he knew instantly what that meant: Spetsnaz — Special Forces. The date of 2001 told him more; it was during the period known as the Second Chechen War, which had begun two years before. Islamist separatists fighting for independence from Russia had been spreading their conflict into Dagestan and Ingushetia, drawing in Muslim volunteers from outside the area, some deliberately using the experience gained for training purposes before going to fight in Afghanistan and elsewhere. It had made identifying many of the fighters impossible, but Koslov knew the authorities had made a point of collating and recording thousands of faces, fingerprints and background details of known and suspected terrorists involved in the war. These had been fed into a database which had been kept up to date by security services archivists working for the FSB and SVR.

  This man had called himself Kassim. No other name. A notation said the address he’d given was false. His age was given as seventeen years, but that was just as doubtful. Picked up in a sweep of an underground camp outside Grozny, Kassim had been taken to a local militia barracks lock-up for processing along with twenty other suspected fighters. Two days later an explosion had breached the walls and Kassim had vanished, killing one of the guards on the way out. Because of that his file had been kept active for a while, until it was moved into the archives. He was thought to have gone to Afghanistan.

  The thumbprint photo told Koslov nothing. Devoid of character or detail like most police mugshots, this one must have been taken and processed by an idiot. It was just a face, nothing more, one he would find replicated outside this building a thousand times, if he cared to go out and look. He stared at the ceiling, seeing once more the face of the man in the trees. Now he knew what had been familiar. . what had been tugging at his memory. It wasn’t the man’s face, for he didn’t know him from a hole in the ground. It was his manner. . something in the way he moved and the stance of his body as he ran; the purposefulness of his gait. If this information was correct, the American soldier had been killed by an Afghan.

  And now Koslov was being stalked by the same man.

  He heard a cough and looked up. Dobrev was still standing there.

  ‘Haven’t you got things to do?’ Koslov asked.

  ‘Sir.’ Dobrev nodded. ‘Waiting for instructions, sir.’

  Koslov smiled. Dobrev was no fool; time spent waiting here was time away from running endless errands for other officers.

  ‘Have you ever seen an Afghan, Dobrev?’

  ‘Umm. . no, sir. Not up close, anyway.’

  Koslov spun the sheet of paper round so that Dobrev could see the photo, although he guessed he’d already read the text. ‘That man is in Moscow. Right now. He’s older now, of course. If you see him, let me know right away. Oh, and start running. Otherwise he’ll kill you.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  When Harry returned to his hotel, he found an urgent message waiting from Deane. He dialled the number and waited.

  The head of security sounded breathless, as if he’d run up a flight of stairs.

  ‘We have an ID on our killer,’ he announced. ‘Koslov fed in the prints and came up with a name. He’s a Muslim fighter named Kassim. . a mujahedin.’

  Harry digested the information and felt a tingle of interest in his gut. So, a terrorist connection after all? Time would tell. And while they didn’t yet know why this Kassim was intent on wiping out members of the UN, at least they could now begin working on possible motives.

  ‘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 sta
b 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.