He arrived at a perimeter road, on the other side of which were the terminal buildings and public car parks. He remembered belatedly that Americans never walked if they could ride, and that he could have used the bike without standing out. He’d been careless, but he put it down to not feeling well. Even so, it was a lesson for the next few hours.
He arrived at the nearest terminal building and found a deserted washroom where he was able to clean himself up and change his shirt. He was covered in a film of perspiration and dust from his ride across the patch of rough ground, and had some minor cuts on his hands where he had burst through the window of the apartment block into the alleyway.
He glanced down and saw a patch of blood on the thigh of his pants from where he had shoved the knife before jumping from the building. He pulled the blade out and rinsed it under the tap, then wrapped it in some paper towels and put it in his rucksack. He would have to dispose of it later. For now, though, he felt safer having it within reach.
As he was holding his leg under a hot-air dryer, he felt a shock penetrate his gut. Something was missing.
The fragment of blue cloth. He’d dropped it!
He searched everywhere, but knew it was no good. He felt as if a piece of him had been ripped away. This was bad. Very bad. He walked up and down, shaking his head, trying to figure out what to do. It was pointless going back; he’d be seen and locked up — or worse, shot dead. Yet it represented a major part of why he was here. . why he was doing this. How could he have been so careless? It must have happened after he’d killed the American, on his way out of the building.
He forced himself to remain calm and took a deep breath, then drank some cold water. It was time to let go. He could still complete his task. But first he needed to change his profile.
The men chasing him back at the apartment buildings would have got a partial look at him at least. One in particular, who had emerged from the alleyway just as he was leaving on the motorcycle: the Englishman, Tate. It had been close — too close — and he was amazed Tate had not used a weapon. Had it been him, Kassim would not have hesitated.
The outer door rattled and Kassim ducked his face into a basin. A man came in and used one of the cubicles, then stepped across to the basins to wash his hands. He was carrying a sports bag in one hand and in the other a lightweight tan windcheater with a dark blue lining. Kassim went into a cubicle, noisily locking the door, then counted to five before silently slipping the catch and stepping out again.
The man had his head down, soaping his face. His windcheater lay on top of the sports bag at his feet. As Kassim stepped past him, he reached down and scooped up the garment, and was out the door before the man even knew it had gone.
Ten minutes later, having reversed the windcheater and flung it across his shoulders, Kassim found a cafeteria and took a spare seat at a table of Spanish tourists, nodding gratefully as they made room for him.
As he drank a glass of iced coke, allowing his nerves to settle, he noticed a Herald Tribune lying on a chair. On the front was a picture of a war-torn building, scarred by fire and pockmarked by shell holes. The photo looked dated, with a woman standing in the centre of the shot, staring in shock at a body lying twisted and burned among the bricks and dust. Kassim was about to look away when he noticed a familiar name in a side column. He picked up the paper and followed the page reference.
UN SPECIAL ENVOY KLEEMAN RETURNING TO KOSOVO.
Inside was a large photo of Anton Kleeman.
FORTY-ONE
Harry also noticed the headline as Rik was scrolling for news on his laptop. They were in an airport hotel, waiting for Deane to call back. Harry had asked him to use his influence to gain access to Bikovsky. He would have to go through the FBI and the LAPD, both of whom were probably claiming primary control over him; the police for questioning about events at his apartment and the FBI for the wider investigation into the UN team murders.
‘This can’t be good,’ Rik commented. He clicked on a link and brought up the picture of Kleeman in a camouflage jacket, smiling into the cameras. It was not a current picture and Kleeman had put on a little weight since 1999.
‘It’s not.’ Harry immediately saw the significance and rang Deane. This couldn’t wait.
‘When was Kleeman’s Kosovo trip planned?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Deane admitted. ‘I’d have to check. Karen Walters is right here.’
‘Ask her. It’s important.’
Deane turned away and there was a rumbling of voices before he came back on. ‘It’s been on his itinerary for a while, arranged over four months ago. I think it’s part of his schedule for worldwide domination.’
‘Then that’s when the planning began.’
‘What planning?’
‘The plan to kill him.’
‘What?’ Deane yelped.
‘You’ve got to call it off.’
‘Can’t be done. What are you talking about, kill him?’
Harry took a deep breath. He didn’t know if Deane was being deliberately obtuse or simply in denial. ‘Don’t you see this is a set-up? The whole thing: the killings, the timing of the rumours, the drip-feed of details to the media, the talk of a “spectacular” — and now Kleeman going to visit Kosovo. It’s all linked.’
‘Harry, you’re- Are you serious?’
‘Think about it. Kleeman’s on the kill list with everyone else. He might not be the guilty party, but that hasn’t mattered to Kassim. What better way to give the UN a bloody nose than by knocking off personnel who were in Kosovo at the time and gaining major headlines by rounding it off with the assassination of the Special Envoy they were guarding at the time?’
‘But. . why would they?’
‘Because it’s not the team they’re after — it’s Kleeman. He’s the “spectacular”. Kassim’s going to be waiting for him.’
There was a stunned silence on the line, then Deane said, ‘I still don’t see it.’ But now he didn’t sound quite so sure. ‘I mean, this guy’s proved he can go anywhere he likes — even Moscow — so why not make the hit in New York? Jesus, Kleeman’s an assassin’s wet dream: he even strolls down the street to get a lunchtime hot dog. Why wait until he’s in Kosovo?’
‘Because in New York his death would be meaningless; just another random murder eclipsed by the latest economic recovery forecasts. In Kosovo it would have resonance. This has been their plan all along; and since hearing he’s going to Kosovo, it’s fallen right into their lap.’
‘I hear you.’ Deane sounded conflicted. ‘OK, say you’re right, how do we keep him safe?’
‘There’s only one way: by stopping Kassim. Have you got approval for me to speak to Bikovsky?’
‘I’ll call you back. Give me five minutes.’
While Harry was talking to Deane, Rik Ferris contacted Ripper, using the Hotmail account he had used to set up their meeting in Phenix. He kept it short and sharp.
Another job — urgent. Airline flight details. Can do? Blackjack.
He waited three minutes before a reply came.
Airlines easy. Name me the names and dates. Rate? Ripper.
Rik typed, Passenger: Haxhi, Zef. M. 28 yrs. Euro p’port. Travelled orig Pakistan — Paris — Brussels — NY — Columbus — Moscow — UK, poss now LAX + others + future bookings. Need name of ticket source. $2000 to any account U name. Has to be quick.
He waited only a minute this time. Consider it max priority. Account will follow. Thnx for contact w Stick. Major grats.
Rik made sure his mobile was fully charged, then sat back. Ripper was a happy bunny. That would help. He could have done the airlines search himself, but it would have taken time and patience. And something told him they would be on the move shortly. Ripper was better placed to do the job, and fast in his field. Anyone who could get inside the Department of Justice servers and ferret around undetected would find the airlines easy meat. The UN and FBI were probably working on digging out the same information, too, but he knew how
they worked. Rulebooks and precious lines of delineation aside, they would give out only what information they thought necessary, and at a speed far below that of pro hackers like Ripper.
FORTY-TWO
Thirty minutes later, in the foyer of the Comfort Inn on West Century Boulevard in Inglewood, Harry and Rik showed their details to two LAPD officers. They were escorted to a room on the first floor with two uniformed guards stationed outside.
Bikovsky was watching television and sucking on a beer. The bedside table held the mangled remains of a meal, and judging by the number of crushed cans in the waste bin, he’d been drinking most of the day. He was unshaven and looked a mess, and Harry wondered what else he had taken to keep himself going.
The ex-Marine showed no surprise at seeing them. When Harry picked up the remote and muted the television, he started to protest, but thought better of it. Instead he pointed at the screen.
‘We just been on the TV with that prick Kleeman. He looked a jerk, but we looked cool as hell.’ He sank another mouthful of beer. ‘You can put a prick in a uniform, but no way can you put the uniform in a prick.’
The flickering image on the television was the tail end of an evening news item about ongoing international development plans in Kosovo and Bosnia. Old footage of shell-torn houses swam into view, overlaid with white block titles of the location and a scrolling text beneath.
‘You and Eddie Cruz,’ said Harry, dragging Bikovsky’s attention back into the room. ‘You look pretty similar, did you ever notice?’ A close-up of Anton Kleeman sprang into view, a politician’s smile on his smooth face, against the backdrop of the UN building in New York. It looked recent.
‘Can’t say I did,’ said Bikovsky. ‘Why?’
‘Because he was waiting for you at your apartment.’ The news report changed to commercials, and Harry switched off the television. ‘Then along came Kassim.’
Bikovsky showed no emotion, and Harry guessed the man was too far gone for the information to penetrate.
Rik shook his head and went over to the window, checking the car park.
‘Eddie’s now got his own drawer at the city morgue. He took the knife that was intended for you. He was standing in the doorway to your apartment at the time.’
Something finally seemed to reach Bikovsky’s beer-soaked brain, and he rubbed his face. He started to get up to move towards the light.
‘I’d stay away from the windows,’ Rik told him. ‘If Kassim doesn’t have another try, Marty Bell might.’
‘Wha-?’ Bikovsky blinked and sat down again. ‘What’re you sayin’? I didn’t kill Eddie Cruz.’
‘You know that and so do we. But his friends don’t. Look at it from their point of view; Eddie sits in your apartment waiting for you to turn up. He opens the door to a knock and ends up sliced and diced. Pretty easy to jump to conclusions about who might have done it, don’t you think? Especially since Eddie’s friends don’t even know Kassim exists.’ Rik smiled coldly. ‘But they know you do.’
Bikovsky looked alarmed as the information sank in. ‘Hey — that ain’t right!’
‘Scary, isn’t it?’ Harry said coldly. ‘Let’s talk about the compound at Mitrovica, shall we?’
‘Aw, man,’ Bikovsky protested, waving his hand. ‘How many times I gotta tell you. . I don’t know shit about that place. I told you, the compound guards musta had somethin’ going — or maybe this Kassim’s just a twisted fuck who likes cuttin’ people. I wasn’t into nothin’, I didn’t do nothin’, ’cos I didn’t have time!’
A knock at the door had Harry and Rik reaching for their weapons. It was one of the officers from outside.
‘It’s Lieutenant McKenzie at Venice Beach,’ he announced. ‘Says there’s something you have to see.’
Telling Bikovsky they’d be back, they left the hotel and drove back to the apartment building. When they arrived at the alleyway the crowd had gone, with only a few curious latecomers craning their necks to see what was happening.
They found Lieutenant McKenzie standing at the end of the corridor where Kassim had made his exit through the window into the alley. Portable lights had been erected, highlighting the area round the smashed glass, which was dusted in forensic powder. McKenzie was holding a plastic evidence bag.
‘We found this snagged on the brickwork outside the window,’ he said, holding up the bag for them to see. ‘It didn’t get there by accident.’ He studied both men with serious eyes. ‘You two are with the UN, right? This should interest you.’
Harry didn’t explain their precise relationship with the organization, but took the bag. Inside was a piece of blue fabric, stained with dirt or rust. One edge was trimmed with leather.
Rik said, ‘It’s part of a beret.’
‘Bingo,’ McKenzie muttered, eyes glittering. ‘So he does speak.’
Harry recalled what Deane had told him about the old woman’s words after seeing Broms killed in Brussels. She said the killer had waved a blue handkerchief. Was this what she had seen? If so, why was Kassim carrying it? And did he wave it at his victims — always assuming he’d done the same to the others — as a kind of talisman or trophy? Or was it a symbol of whatever was driving him on?
‘See this?’ McKenzie asked, pointing at the rust stain. ‘It’ll be analysed, but I don’t need no lab to tell me what it is. It’s dried blood.’
Harry nodded in agreement and thanked him, then signalled for Rik to follow him outside. He needed to think. Everything had happened so quickly it was beginning to feel like a film on fast-forward, and he was in danger of missing something.
They were halfway down the beach when he had a thought. Every man in the CP team had been issued with a UN beret. It was something Kleeman had requested, to show a united front. Most chose not to wear it, preferring their own regimental headgear. Some occasions, however, demanded it, especially when the UN had to be seen and identified quickly. He dialled Carl Pendry’s number. The Ranger answered immediately.
‘What did you do with your UN beret after your tour?’
Pendry was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Handed it in, I guess, along with everything else that wasn’t my own kit.’ He paused. ‘Why you asking?’
‘Just checking something.’ He gave Pendry a brief run-down of what had happened in LA and Moscow, and with a cautionary note to keep his eyes open, cut the connection. Then he rang Deane and told him about the fragment of UN beret.
Deane recognized it as the final piece of the jigsaw — the proof the rumours had been hinting at. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need. OK, I’ll check to see if we still have the inventories for that time. But people lose equipment. It doesn’t prove this fragment came from a beret in Kosovo. It could have been picked up anywhere.’
‘I know. But what are the odds?’ The only way to prove it would be by forensic examination of the cloth. . and the stains.
Deane agreed to call back as soon as he had something, then disconnected. When Harry looked up, Rik was frowning.
‘What?’ Harry had learned to recognize the look.
‘Back at that hotel: Bikovsky was watching a news report from Kosovo.’
‘I know. What about it?’
‘It was old footage from when you were over there. He saw himself and Kleeman. . and the rest of the team. Wasn’t that across the border?’
‘Yes. We’d crossed into Macedonia after leaving the compound. The cameras were waiting for Kleeman to do his piece.’
‘What headgear were you wearing?’
Harry thought back. Rik was right: they should all have been wearing blue UN berets. Karen Walters had been there to manage the press briefing, to reinforce the UN’s image. He called Bob Dosario at the FBI office on Wilshire Boulevard and explained what he wanted. The special agent was immediately helpful.
‘Come on round and I’ll have it sent in. I think I know which station it was.’
They drove over to Wilshire and were shown into a conference room with a large flatscreen display. A young female t
echnician in a crisp white shirt was running through a section of film on a DVD player. Dosario welcomed the two men and gestured them to seats.
‘Should be there any second. I heard about the killing down at Venice Beach. How’s this going to help with your investigation?’
Harry started to explain, then was interrupted by a scene of Anton Kleeman walking away from a Sea King helicopter, his shoulders hunched under the down-draught. He was wearing a DPM smock and flanked by the security team, with Karen Walters fussing in close attendance like a mother hen.
Pendry was big and hard to miss. Behind him was Broms, scoping the crowd of press representatives with a brooding stare. Both wore blue berets. He saw himself stride into picture, signalling to someone to move position, also wearing his beret. Then Orti, the Frenchman moving in a sideways stance just behind him, and further back was Koslov’s slim figure turning like a dancer, checking his back. Blue beret.
‘Bikovsky,’ Rik murmured. ‘I don’t see him.’
The picture changed, showing a smiling Anton Kleeman in front of the press corps. He was playing them like the experienced politician, lifting the collar of the camouflage smock and pulling a wry face, evidently in response to a comment by one of the reporters. The security team had moved out of the frame, forming a cordon around him but leaving him room to manoeuvre.
When the report ended, Harry turned to the young technician. ‘Can you wind it right back to where we exit the helicopter?’
She did and Harry waited while the film ran again. After a few seconds he told her to stop and freeze-frame. On the very edge of the screen a familiar figure was staring off to one side, eyes in shadow.
Bikovsky.
He was wearing his Marine-issue green beret.
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