At Hartsfield-Jackson airport, Atlanta, Kassim waited patiently while his passport was examined by a female officer. Her plump fingers were cluttered with rings and her fingernails each a different, vivid colour, a stark contrast to her shiny black skin and hair. She looked at him twice while turning the pages, and was fingering the paper of the passport and flexing the covers, looking for signs of tampering. He decided that her carefully contrived outward appearance did not reflect the person within. He kept his face blank; being over-friendly would probably irritate her just as would showing impatience at what was an unavoidable procedure.
She turned away and used a keyboard below the level of the counter, her nails clack-clacking like distant machine-gun fire. Behind the booth an armed security guard watched her working, then glanced at Kassim.
He felt his heart rate increasing and forced himself to breathe easily. He had to remain calm. He was still using the Haxhi documents, but beginning to feel exposed. How long could he continue to rely on them? But to risk using another set of ID presented the same danger: that someone somewhere had made a simple mistake and he would end up being called aside by a vigilant security officer. If that happened, he might never see the light of day again.
‘Thank you, Mr Haxhi. Have a good trip.’ She pronounced it like ‘taxi’ with the ‘h’ in the middle and slapped the passport down on the counter, her attention switching to the next in line.
Kassim walked away, feeling the eyes of the security guard on his back. He didn’t look back, concentrating instead on not giving way to a powerful feeling of nausea washing over him. He looked for a sign to the rest rooms. He had a long trip ahead of him, and if he was going to be ill, better to get it over and done here rather than on the plane to Moscow.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The sun was setting low over Venice Beach, Los Angeles, as Harry walked down a paved footpath between two sets of condominiums, leaving behind the busier area of Speedway and the shops and restaurants along Ocean Front Walk. The atmosphere was heavy and still, in spite of the proximity of the ocean, but there were crowds out enjoying the evening air and the sights.
After finally being given permission to leave Columbus yesterday evening, he’d told Rik to meet him in LA, and to make sure he hadn’t picked up a tail on the way. There were further delays in the military flight from the airport, with a diversion to collect some senior staff officers, a reminder to Harry that he was being accorded the use of one of the biggest air taxi companies in the world.
After landing at El Segundo air force base, he’d been ferried to a hotel near LA’s International Airport. The Rugers he’d checked in at Columbus security had been handed back without comment, and he’d locked them in the room safe. On the way to the hotel, he called Deane to use his influence and get the nearest LAPD precinct house to send an officer to run an eye over Bikovsky’s address. The officer’s report came straight back; there was no sign of the man and none of his neighbours had been able to venture any comments about his whereabouts.
A meandering cycle path was busy with roller bladers, boarders and cyclists, a moving tide of cut-off jeans, halter tops and open shirts, testimony to the attitude that if you were going to be fit, why not look good, too? A juggler strolled in their midst, keeping five balls in the air and talking on a mobile phone. He looked bored. Harry passed a bronze statue of a cowboy, frozen on a plinth until a girl came too close, then he came to life. The girl shrieked and the cowboy froze again, waiting for the next mark.
A young woman carrying a large tabby cat swept smoothly past, her long, blonde hair flowing like a Norse goddess, her sun-bronzed body encased in a minute, sequin-studded bikini. She gave Harry a brief smile and was gone, drawing little more than a passing glance from any of the men nearby.
Harry soon understood why. Another Baywatch lookalike cruised by, followed by others, either singly or in small groups. Men too were in the parade, using rollerblades to carry them along at near Olympic speeds, muscular, bronzed bodies swaying elegantly around pedestrians and other bladers. Most seemed intent on their progress, eyes concealed behind sunglasses and ears plugged with stereo earphones.
In lightweight slacks and a cotton shirt, Harry felt distinctly overdressed.
He came to the area known as Muscle Beach, where men with huge chests and hands dusted with chalk powder were pumping iron, like a scene from a prison movie. Seeing them reminded Harry of his comment to Deane: what if the girl’s body had been tossed over the wire at the compound? It would have taken explosive power to do it, not sculptured muscle. Worryingly, of the men in the CP team, more than one would have had the means.
He veered back on to Ocean Front Walk. More shops, restaurants and small apartment blocks, a wash of varied pastel shades in contrast to the uniformity of the sand. A throbbing salsa beat echoed from one door, an old Beach Boys number from another, and his nose twitched at the smell of pizza, coffee and soul food. He was beginning to see why Bikovsky was living here.
He drew level with a narrow alleyway between a Tex-Mex restaurant and a souvenir shop, and turned in, stepping carefully past a stack of plastic delivery pallets. The air here was cool after the heat along the front. A black cat watched him, eyes glinting nervously before it swished its tail and slid into an open doorway. Further down a skeletal figure in a cook’s apron leaned against a wall, sucking on a cigarette. He returned Harry’s nod with a blank look, then snapped the cigarette and walked away.
Harry followed the cat.
He found himself in a corridor smelling of fried food and toffee. Two doors facing each other, and at the end a narrow flight of bare steps disappearing upwards. In here the noise of the beachfront was muffled. The cat had disappeared.
Neither of the doors was numbered. He walked up the steps at the end, shoes crunching softly on sand grains. Three turns to the right took him on to a small landing and a corridor leading off to other doors. The caramel smell of toffee was stronger, clinging to the walls. Two more doors, numbered this time. He found the right one and knocked. Silence. It was fitted with a heavy-duty lock. He pushed it but it remained firm. Bikovsky was still out or had flown.
He left the building and stood in the alleyway, thinking about his next move. It had been a long way to come on a hunch, but he knew that trying to talk to the big Marine on the phone about Kosovo would have got him nowhere. Since learning a little of the man’s history, he was even more convinced of that.
He walked out to the beachfront and turned into the Tex-Mex restaurant. A slim young woman nodded a welcome and handed him a plastic menu. She wore a smiley badge on her apron, bearing the name Maria. He sat and ordered coffee and a slice of cake.
When it came he smiled and said neutrally, ‘I’m looking for Don Bikovsky. Any idea when he’s due back?’
The young woman shook her head, a reflex action. ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know him.’ Her accent carried a lilt from a long way south of LA.
When she next passed by, Harry scribbled his name on the back of the bill and put down a $20 note. As she picked it up he murmured, ‘I’m an ex-army buddy. It’d be good to see him again, that’s all.’ Then he left. This time the girl said nothing.
He rang Ken Deane, bringing him up to date. ‘I’ll keep at it until I find him. Any prints on the knife left at the base?’
Deane grunted sourly. ‘They’re still working on it. They keep telling me any time now. On CSI they do it in seconds and in high heels.’ Paper rustled in the background. ‘Just gotten word from Brussels. The old woman who witnessed Broms’ murder? She said the killer waved a blue handkerchief after stabbing him.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all. A local shrink’s trying to get through to her, but it doesn’t look hopeful. Severe mental trauma, they think.’
‘A handkerchief? Probably to wipe the blade.’
‘Yeah . . . could be. Anyway, keep in touch.’
Harry rang off and got a cab out to the airport. Rik would be here soon and they could try
Bikovsky again in the morning. He had an uneasy feeling that he was missing something. He just hoped the ex-Marine didn’t get a visit from the killer before they found him.
Over 6,000 miles away, in the Chaoyang district of Beijing, UN Special Envoy Anton Kleeman was sitting in the appropriately named Hall for Negotiations in the People’s Republic of China Ministry of Foreign Affairs, smiling across the table at the PRC representatives with a deep sense of satisfaction. The talks had been useful, if protracted and unbearably formal, and he was sure Li Xian, the senior Chinese speaker and a man with a surprisingly commercial outlook, was firmly onside. The subtle promise of extra help in penetrating even further into the valuable US markets had seen to that, as had his decision, he felt sure, to come here rather than simply drive to the offices of the PRC Permanent Mission in Manhattan.
While many American businesses and politicians still viewed China with deep suspicion, especially in these troubled economic times, Kleeman did not. Setting aside his UN hat, which he did with great care so as not to be seen fronting his own business interests and investments, he viewed the commercial potential as bordering on the unimaginable. And if a little two-way talking could help along the way while he was nominally here on UN business, so be it. The main thing was, having the Chinese on his side for his eventual elevation within the UN was well worthwhile. For that, supping their drink and pressing their flesh in endless meetings was a small price to pay. With the Chinese in the bag, so to speak, the Euroblok countries, encompassing the French, German and British, would quickly see the advantages of coming round to his way of thinking.
‘Mr Kleeman?’ It was one of his aides, whispering in his ear. ‘The press conference is arranged. The studio have the footage you asked for – of you in Macedonia – to segue into the release tonight.’
Kleeman wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief and gave a small sigh of satisfaction. Thank God for the modern media. This kind of exposure on the world stage represented a level of PR that no amount of money could buy, and no kind of energy-sapping, time-wasting lobbying could equal. While of little interest to the majority of public viewers, it would serve to propel him up the UN ladder in the eyes of all but the old turkey necks of that crusty institution. Given time and careful handling, he would soon bypass the slower, more conservative and less forward-thinking candidates.
His time was coming.
TWENTY-NINE
The air was sharp and cold in the restricted park when Russian Federal Security Service Captain Alexandr Koslov set out on his morning run. From the clawing warmth of the military apartment block three kilometres into Moscow’s southern suburbs, he trotted gingerly down the frosty front steps and headed for the path he always took through the trees. It was a favoured jogging track for any officers who believed in keeping moderately fit, offering a few minutes’ brief isolation from the demands of office or, providing one made it obvious enough, the mindless chatter of colleagues.
Not that many of Koslov’s colleagues were into running. Even he, at thirty-eight and the youngest in his department, was beginning to feel soft, thanks to the sedentary nature of his largely desk-bound job. But you had to make some effort, he told himself, with an eye to promotional prospects and a coveted foreign posting. Although the FSB was responsible for domestic security, it held a support brief for the conduct of electronic surveillance abroad and watching over nationals on overseas placements suspected of not toeing the line. London might be nice, or Paris.
There were few others out at this early hour. He could hear traffic building up on the ring road towards the city centre, and beyond the trees the sound of a commuter train clacking along the line. Sound carried easily in this thin, cold atmosphere, bringing distant noises much closer.
Ahead of him two senior officers from a mechanized rifle regiment shuffled along like a pair of marshmallows, dressed in black market trainers and enormous American quilted coats. Their brief verbal exchanges fired puffs of vapour into the air, and no doubt much of the talk was seditious, Koslov guessed. Probably complaining about their superiors or why they hadn’t received a recent pay increase. Dream on, comrades, he thought cynically. Welcome to the brave new world of economic austerity.
He accelerated past them, his feet flicking lightly on the cold surface, in contrast to their lumbering shuffle. Koslov had always been slim, and in spite of his job, weighed no more now than he had as a teenager. In fact, there were some colleagues who frequently joked that the FSB were now taking boys into their ranks, a jibe at his lack of inches and boyish features. He lifted a hand in greeting as he passed the two men. He didn’t expect a response and wasn’t disappointed; Russian army officers did not trust members of the FSB. Koslov had long ago given up worrying about it. Their loss, he told himself. One day they might realize the FSB was a replacement for the old KGB, not a carbon copy, and men like him were a reflection of modern times and not out to haunt the daylights out of anyone who coveted a pair of American jeans or the latest iPod.
Koslov had been in the army himself once, on attachment from a rifle regiment with the United Nations forces in Kosovo – a rare show of Moscow’s understanding and unity for the common good. Not that anyone had really believed him to be a mere soldier; almost without exception, his multinational colleagues had walked around him as if he were an improvised explosive device waiting to explode, some making silly jests about the KGB in ludicrously bad Russian accents. But he didn’t care: it had been a breath of fresh air for him, even if the air in Kosovo had been far from clean or pure.
Finding himself working as part of a close protection team had been an eye-opener for the young sergeant. Although he had undergone special training before going to Kosovo, his experience of bodyguards in the Russian army came from either the GRU – Russian military intelligence – or the various security units attached to each regiment. Not that too many officers needed guarding unless it was from their own men. Any physical threats were largely reserved for the staff officers who spent their time in comfortable postings in Moscow or St Petersburg, cordially loathed for their lack of teeth when supporting their men, and by civilians because it was an ingrained habit to distrust the military anyway.
The Americans he had found surprisingly generous and easygoing, eager to share whatever they had. It seemed they had largely forgotten the Cold War – or were perhaps bored with it – while the British captain treated him no differently to anyone else, an attitude Koslov guessed was entirely normal for the man.
It was his tour in Kosovo which had led to Koslov’s early promotion and the desk job which went with it. Boosted by a favourable report from the UN Field Security Division, he had been rewarded with enhanced training courses and the promise of a bright future. Without it, he would have been yet another low-ranking FSB grunt for the rest of his days, serving out his time.
He approached a series of obstacles built into the path. Low wooden hurdles for the most part, placed to interrupt the rhythm and increase the heart rate. But jumping them required care to avoid the inevitable icy patches. There were others too, such as pole hurdles and lines of rubber tyres, but they were best tackled when fully warm or when the ground was softer. A broken ankle while training would not be well-regarded and was a fast track to nowhere.
Behind him, he heard the slap-slap of another man coming up on his outside. He moved over, wondering who could possibly be running faster than him.
While waiting for Rik to clear arrivals, Harry checked in with Deane. The UN man would probably be at home by now, but he’d impressed on Harry the urgency of maintaining contact no matter what the time.
He answered immediately. There were still no developments on the knife found at Fort Benning. ‘They got some prints,’ Deane told him, ‘but they haven’t yet found a match on any of the obvious databases. They’ve now switched to broaden the search, but it takes time.’
‘He’s from outside the US,’ Harry said.
‘Looks like it – or he’s Snow White, which I don’t buy.�
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Harry didn’t, either. The killer was too efficient and skilled. To have overcome three soldiers so easily, he had to have received some intensive military training somewhere. If official, it meant a high probability that his prints were recorded. Unless, like Bikovsky, there was a more sinister reason why no database was coming up with a match.
‘What about the ATM machines? Any pictures?’
‘I’m waiting on that. Carvalho’s card was used five blocks from the apartment where he was killed, and maxed out. They’re analysing the film now to match the withdrawals.’ He paused. ‘You get any sense of our guy being around?’
‘Not yet.’ Harry had thought about it ever since arriving in LA. He claimed no special talent for locating the enemy, but like most hunters, he had an inbuilt antenna when it came to sensing atmosphere, such as a tickle on the back of his neck when he felt he was being watched. So far that had not happened. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed.
‘All right. Give me a call if anything . . . well, you know.’
Harry disconnected. He saw a world datelines panel above the arrivals board. It was early morning in Moscow. He called up Alexandr Koslov’s number. He had no idea if Koslov was still active in the military, but he owed him the courtesy of a warning. The number rang six times, and he was about to cut the call when there was a switch in the tone, as if it had been interrupted. Then it continued ringing. He gave it ten more rings.
No answer.
He hung up. It sounded as if the call had been transferred automatically. Was that to a landline or to another mobile? He had no way of telling. He gave it five minutes and dialled the number again and went through the same routine.
Retribution Page 15
