Retribution

by Adrian Magson

  ‘I heard a noise,’ Pendry repeated. ‘Like he’d got hisself snagged . . . you know how it is when you’re crawling. Then there was this thumpin’ noise, like someone was beating the ground. Next thing this guy took off through the trees. I started after him. I mean, I thought it was a civilian . . . we get ’em comin’ through here from time to time, even though it’s off-limits. They get off on being near the action.’

  ‘Did you see the killer?’

  ‘Tall – about five ten – and wearin’ plain camo jacket and pants. Stuff you can buy from any surplus store.’

  ‘Hair? Skin?’

  ‘Dark hair . . . couldn’t see any skin. Pale, I think. He could sure run, though – like a jackrabbit.’

  A Ranger colonel appeared along the taped trail leading out of the area. A young lieutenant scurried along in his wake like a tug chasing a liner. The senior officer, lean, compact and grey-haired, scanned the area with cool blue eyes, then looked at Harry with flinty hostility. He evidently knew who Harry represented, but all he saw was a stranger – and a foreigner – with no US military credentials. His thoughts were obvious: the UN had no remit on Ranger turf and Harry should be kicked off as soon as he got word from HQ.

  ‘What have we got?’ he asked. He clearly knew enough about the workings of officialdom to preserve a sense of courtesy. He also needed to know what Harry had found out while he’d been here, to help his own investigations about this business. Then he could kick the Brit’s ass off the area with a clear conscience.

  Harry told him in simple and polite terms. ‘Your man Lloyd was lying up right here. The killer must have approached from the rear and killed him where he lay.’

  The colonel was sceptical. ‘You saying he didn’t hear the killer coming? I find that hard to believe; he was a highly trained soldier.’

  ‘I’m sure he was,’ Harry agreed. ‘But he would have been concentrating on his forward area. If he was as good as you and Sergeant Pendry say, he probably knew where Pendry was anyway, so why look anywhere else?’

  ‘Have you ever been in a live situation, mister?’ the young lieutenant demanded. He was as rigid as a tent-pole and looked tough and fit. But his eyes flickered too easily towards the colonel. Harry recognized the type: he was aiming at higher things, a future staffer in the making.

  ‘Several times, actually, Lieutenant,’ Harry replied. ‘Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Colombia, Africa and Kosovo. I’ve also been on a Special Forces sniper course, so I know what it’s like for a young trooper trying to score against the best there is.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ the colonel muttered briskly. ‘I think we can take it Mr Tate knows what he’s at.’ He said to Harry, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back and meet our public relations boys.’

  ‘The press have heard already?’

  The colonel nodded, his expression sour. ‘Unfortunately, there are people with nothing better to do than to spend their time monitoring military and police communication channels. Someone on the base mentioned the manner of Lloyd’s death and the world at large now knows we’ve lost a fine young soldier with his throat cut. No way can this be explained as a training accident.’ He began to turn away then paused. ‘I’ll be in my office if you want to share any ideas you might have.’

  ‘Ideas?’

  The blue eyes settled on him. ‘Yes. How and why can a tough, fit young Ranger in the middle of a US Army training ground get his throat cut without fighting back?’

  ‘He didn’t fight because he couldn’t.’ Harry pointed at twin depressions each side of the body. ‘The killer jumped on his back, pinning him face down. Caught in that position, Lloyd didn’t stand a chance.’

  The colonel flinched at such a stark summary, but didn’t argue. ‘But why him? And why does your presence here make the back of my neck itch?’

  Harry wanted to tell him, but couldn’t. He wouldn’t understand; the worlds of elite fighting troops like the Rangers and the murkier one in which Harry moved were too far apart. ‘All I can say is,’ he said finally, ‘I believe it was a case of mistaken identity.’

  The officer nodded curtly and walked away through the trees, closely followed by the lieutenant and the two escorts.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Harry glanced at Pendry. ‘It was meant to be you, Carl,’ he told him. It was brutal but necessary, if only to snap Pendry out of his anger and make him aware of his own safety. ‘If it was our killer, and not some lunatic with a personal grudge against Lloyd, he’ll be back for another try.’

  ‘I know.’ Pendry looked across at the body under the groundsheet, his jaw working furiously. ‘But why kill the kid? He didn’t have no enemies – it was pointless.’

  ‘Not to the killer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lloyd might have got a look at him. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk having his description broadcast, especially in an area surrounded by security patrols. Anyway, if it was the same man who killed Carvalho and the others, Lloyd would have been no match.’

  ‘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-café. 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.