This time the call was answered in rapid-fire Russian.
THIRTY
As Koslov turned his head he caught a glimpse of a tall, lean figure in a nondescript tracksuit coming very close. At the same time he heard a loud burst of laughter from the two officers he’d passed earlier. The other runner seemed to stutter and swerve at this, as if his concentration had been spoiled. Then he accelerated and sped past, flowing along with the easy loping stride of a born runner. The man didn’t look at Koslov, and soon rounded a bend in the path and was gone.
Koslov increased his pace for a while, trying to match the other man. But he’d allowed himself to get too cold and felt the beginnings of a stomach cramp. He eased off to a slower jog.
Five minutes later, within half a kilometre of the apartment block and his mind on the day ahead, he saw a tall figure standing by a tree two hundred metres ahead. The man was leaning against the trunk, rubbing his thigh.
It was the runner who had passed him earlier. Koslov guessed he had overdone it in the cold air and developed a muscle cramp.
As Koslov approached, the man straightened and turned, standing full on in the centre of the path. His face was expressionless and he was no longer rubbing his leg.
Koslov felt a sudden quickening of the pulse. What was this idiot playing at? Why block the path? Surely he didn’t expect Koslov to stop for a chat.
Then the man brought up his hand from behind his body. There was a gleam of metal and Koslov’s inner alarm bells went off. He didn’t question what was happening, nor did he even think of trying to disarm the man. He was in no fit state for a fight, and whatever had brought the man here, it wasn’t a random mugging.
He swerved off the track and plunged into the trees, his feet crunching on the thick layer of dead twigs and branches covering the ground. If he followed his present course and did not deviate too much, he would reach the apartment block. He’d have to work harder than he would following the running track, but at least he might get there in one piece.
A flash of movement to his left showed the other man running parallel to him. He was keeping a steady station barely twenty metres away without apparent effort. If Koslov kept going as he was, the man would intercept him easily before he reached the apartment block. If he swerved away to his right, however, it would take him deeper into the trees and the untamed undergrowth. And eventually, unless he managed by an amazing stroke of luck to outrun the other man, he would be caught.
An inner voice told him that outrunning his pursuer wasn’t going to happen.
Koslov crashed through a small thicket of thorns, his breathing harsher as his body demanded more oxygen. His trainers were beginning to sink in the softer ground and his calf muscles starting to ache with the extra effort required. The other man, however, was showing no signs of distress.
Koslov crossed a section of pathway connecting with the main circuit. With nobody else in sight he was beginning to feel the first signs of desperation. The feeling was worsened by being isolated among these trees, barely two hundred metres from safety. Damn it, this was crazy! Why didn’t he just stop and ask the man what he wanted? Or even stand and fight, if that’s what the maniac was after?
Yet everything about the runner’s demeanour told him discussion was not part of his agenda, and neither was defeat. Besides, if the man was carrying a knife, Koslov knew his own limitations. A pair of hands softened by desk work were no match for a blade.
He staggered through a hollow, tripping on hidden branches, and felt a pain building in his side and burning up through his chest. His legs, good for two or three circuits on a good day, were now hurting badly with the effort of dragging him over the rough terrain. When he glanced to his left, the other man was jogging, now barely ten metres away and moving closer.
Suddenly Koslov glimpsed space and light ahead, and called on his last reserves of energy. He pushed through some low-hanging branches and out into the open, where he startled the two army officers he’d passed earlier. They were enjoying a breather and a quiet cigarette.
Koslov skidded to a stop, his mouth working frantically, and pointed behind him, his body braced for the inevitable surge of movement and the blow which would surely follow.
But the other runner was nowhere to be seen.
‘You on a camouflage and concealment course, Koslov?’ asked one of the officers, glancing at the swaying branches where the FSB officer had burst from the trees. ‘I think you just failed.’ He grinned slyly at his colleague and they both laughed before turning and walking towards the apartments. The army rarely had an opportunity to make fun of the FSB, and took it gleefully whenever it was offered.
Koslov, rarely happier to see anyone else, even if they were enjoying his discomfort, trotted closely in their wake, his back prickling with tension. If he tried to tell these buffoons what he had seen, they’d think he was mad. What he should be doing was getting on to the security office and having the place searched. That would be the sensible thing.
At heart, though, he could already picture the reaction of his colleagues – and worse – his superiors, who had expressed great faith in a man who was going places. A man with a knife? Chasing you through the woods? Are you sure? What have you been up to, you young dog – playing with another man’s property? He could imagine their coarse laughter and raised eyebrows. Greater careers than his had been ruined on such trivial evidence.
‘Captain?’ It was one of the support staff from the office, a thin-faced young gofer/driver named Dobrev who spent his days chasing around with messages or ferrying officers about the capital. ‘A telephone call came in for you, sir. Urgent priority.’
Koslov threw a final look towards the woods and ducked into the apartment building. ‘At the office? Why didn’t they put it through to my apartment?’ He ran lightly up the stairs to his quarters on the second floor, stripping off his tracksuit top as he went. Calls were routinely fed through to officers’ living quarters if they were not in the office, in case of priority requests. Such a call usually meant he was about to travel somewhere on an investigation. He would change quickly and should be in the office within twenty minutes.
‘I couldn’t, sir.’ Dobrev panted up the stairs behind him and followed him into the small apartment. ‘Your line is not working. Also, it’s against regulations to give staff numbers to foreigners, sir.’
Koslov stopped in the middle of pulling on a clean shirt. A shower would have to wait. ‘Foreigners?’
‘Yes, sir. The call came from –’ Dobrev sneaked a look at a slip of paper in the palm of his hand – ‘from a man named Harry Tate, sir.’ He pronounced it phonetically, then looked up with a frown. ‘At least, that’s how it sounded. He was an American, I think – calling from somewhere I cannot spell. It sounded like Veniss Bitch, sir.’ He shrugged. ‘The line was not good.’
‘Venice Beach,’ Koslov corrected him. His memory ticked over, matching the name to a face. Several years ago now, the British officer in charge of the protection squad in Kosovo.
‘You know him?’ Dobrev sounded impressed.
‘Yes. His name’s Harry Tate, he’s British and he was calling from Venice Beach near Los Angeles in the United States. It’s like a Black Sea resort only a lot more fun – or so I’ve heard.’ He finished pulling on his shirt and wondered what Tate could possibly want. Odd that the man’s name should pop up the same day he had been thinking of him. ‘What was the message?’
‘None left, sir. He said that he would call again in two hours. He was travelling, I think. I heard a Tannoy in the background . . . like an airport or a train station.’
‘Good work, Dobrev. Very perceptive of you.’ He picked up an orange from a bowl on the table and tossed it across the room. Dobrev caught it adeptly. ‘You should eat more fruit. Is the car outside?’
Dobrev backed towards the door, stuffing the orange in his pocket. He was smiling. He was accustomed to officers in the FSB leaving on the run, but not to any kind of praise.
&nbs
p; Koslov followed, pausing only to pick up the landline phone. It was dead. He replaced it, making a mental note to get it checked. After what he’d just experienced, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy.
Phone lines to this building were never faulty.
Out of sight among the trees, and beginning to feel the cold, Kassim quickly retraced his steps towards the ring road where he had left his car parked in a service entrance to the woods. He felt oddly elated rather than annoyed at not hitting his prey. The contact would have worried the Russian, so accustomed to being safe here in Moscow, and seriously upset his equilibrium. If it had not been for the two other men, he would have had him.
But that did not matter now. He had seen Koslov up close, had looked into his eyes and sensed his feeling of vulnerability. Yet that had also brought its own revelation: seeing the Russian in the flesh had surprised him. He was smaller than the description in the binder had suggested, with a slim body and the fine, pale features of a girl, almost. Strange how history and rumour somehow made Russians seem so much bigger and more threatening than they really were.
He climbed into the battered Saab he had hired from a black-market rental near the airport and threw the knife he’d bought from a street dealer into the glovebox. He would wait until the afternoon, when Koslov’s guard would be down, his attention on other matters.
He sat for a few moments, aware that he should move away from here, but remembering what had been drummed into him. For reasons completely unconnected with his main task, killing a Russian was always something to look forward to.
THIRTY-ONE
By the time Koslov had seen to some urgent paperwork and attended a briefing, the two hours since Tate’s message had flown by. In that time he had asked the maintenance manager in the apartment block to check his landline. The man had come back to say that overhead wires into the building had been severed by a falling branch. It was one of those things that happened occasionally, a freak of the weather and nature combined. The manager had assured him that communications would be returned to normal within the hour.
When the second call came in from Tate via the central switchboard, he was ready for it.
‘Alexandr,’ the Englishman greeted him. His voice sounded subdued, or maybe tired. Not a pleasure call, then.
‘What can I do for you, Harry?’ Koslov asked politely, responding readily to the use of his first name. Although he had got on well with the English officer in Kosovo, there was still enough caution in his nature to know he shouldn’t offer anything unless something came the other way first. Especially since a quick check had revealed that Tate had joined the British Security Service, MI5. Besides, he couldn’t be absolutely certain that this call wasn’t being recorded by one of his own more zealous colleagues somewhere in the depths of this very building.
He listened with growing unease as Tate described the three killings and the attempt on Pendry’s life. He also mentioned the possibility of a connection with a murder in Kosovo, although this was still unproven.
As he heard how Pendry’s man had met his death, Koslov felt a spider-crawl of movement up his back. He instantly saw vivid flashbacks of the silent runner among the trees that morning, the sunlight glinting on what must surely have been a knife blade. He knew without a shadow of doubt that he, like Pendry, had come dangerously close to the mysterious killer.
‘I believe he is already here,’ he said quietly. He described what had happened. Even in the telling it seemed unlikely, yet he knew it must have been the same man.
‘Did you get a look at him?’ asked Tate.
‘Regretfully, no,’ Koslov admitted. ‘I was not expecting to have to remember a face so early in the morning. He was tall, thin – very fit, of course – and . . .’ He paused. There was something else about the man that disturbed him, but remained stubbornly vague. A memory, perhaps – an impression of someone he knew?
‘And what?’
Koslov shook his head. The impression was gone. Maybe it would come back when he wasn’t thinking about it. ‘Sorry. For a moment I thought there was something.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tate told him. ‘In the meantime, you’d better get some cover. This man’s good. If he can penetrate a Ranger training base and get within a few feet of you in Moscow, he’s capable of popping up anywhere. I don’t suppose you have an office inside the Kremlin, do you?’
Koslov grinned at the remark but couldn’t help a quick glance at the doorway. He slid open his desk drawer. Inside was a holster and harness containing his service pistol. The SR-1 Vector was an ugly brute of a weapon in his opinion, but it had stopping power. He slid it out and checked the load. He’d better start carrying it from now on.
‘Thank you for the warning. I don’t understand how he could have found me here, though.’
‘He has information on all of us. Someone has hacked into systems in the UN and other databases to track us all down. Yours is no more secure than any others.’
Koslov grunted in agreement. For all their secrecy, the FSB and SVR – the intelligence directorate responsible for espionage outside the country – had both found their computer systems under repeated attack over recent years from foreign intelligence agencies, most latterly the Chinese Ministry of State Security or Guóānbù. But others were just as skilled, and the information was there if hackers knew where to look. ‘You have no clues about the killer from the murder scenes?’
‘Only the knife he used on the sniper trainee. It had some prints, but no matches have come up so far. If he’s from outside the US, he’ll be clean. He’s obviously well trained and resourceful.’
Koslov thought for a second. Helping the Americans was not something he would normally have been anxious to do, but after this morning, the situation was too dangerous – and too personal. He took a deep breath; he would soon find out if his calls were being monitored or not. If they were, he’d hear the footsteps of the internal security men charging along the corridor before he even put the phone down.
‘Can you send me the prints?’ This was dangerous to him personally, opening communications with a member of a foreign security agency.
‘I think I can arrange it,’ Tate answered cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘Well, whatever you may have been told about our electronic systems,’ Koslov replied drily, ‘we have a very good database here in Moscow. It holds many thousands of prints.’
For a moment, Tate said nothing. Then he said, ‘Where do I send them – your old apartment on the third floor, or your office?’
‘My apartment?’ Koslov felt a momentary surprise that Harry knew where he lived when he wasn’t in his official quarters.
A laugh echoed down the line. ‘Our computer’s not bad either. Actually, I’m joking. It’ll be quicker to email them. Can you give me an address?’
‘Sure. Of course.’ Koslov read off the centre’s email address. ‘Mark it for my attention and I will get them examined immediately. What are you going to do next?’
‘I’ve got a man to find,’ replied Harry. ‘Take care, Alexandr.’
In the UN building in New York, Karen Walters sat across the desk from Ken Deane. The security man was studying an email he’d just received from their legal team. He looked annoyed and apprehensive.
‘I didn’t tell you about this before,’ he said cautiously, ‘but we’ve learned that one of the CP team in Kosovo, a Marine named Bikovsky, was accused of the rape of a minor in San Diego back in ’ninety-eight. It looks like it wasn’t his first and only.’
Walters’ mouth dropped open. ‘What?’ Her sense of shock was understandable; the implications for the UN were obvious, in light of the rumours coming out of Kosovo.
‘Yeah, me too.’ He gave her a brief summary of what his contact in the San Diego police had told him. ‘Unfortunately, we’re being denied access to Bikovsky’s records on the grounds that it threatens the privacy of the victim, then a minor. Although she’s grown up now, her father’s digging his heels in.’
‘Bikovsky got away with it? That’s appalling!’
He nodded, his expression sympathetically grim. ‘I hear you. Bikovsky skipped town before anything could be done and disappeared. Two months later he was in the Marines.’
‘Didn’t it get on to his military file?’
‘No reason why it should. No conviction, no record. And he’s not the first man to join the military to escape trouble.’ He flipped open the file showing Bikovsky’s photo, and stared at it as if it would provide some insight into the man’s character. It didn’t.
Karen Walters reached across so she could see it, and made a small noise of distaste. ‘Oh, him.’
‘You remember him?’ Deane was surprised; protectees and their CP teams spent periods in close proximity and got to know each other quite well. But he hadn’t expected Walters to remember any individuals, since she appeared so aloof much of the time.
‘He was difficult to miss,’ she replied. ‘He was a huge brute. He also had a bad attitude about the locals. As he was escorting us out to the helicopter the morning after the ambush, he made disparaging remarks about them; he said the moment we left they’d steal anything that wasn’t nailed down.’ She shrugged. ‘He was the only one who said anything like that. I was surprised, that’s all.’
Deane said nothing. She was naïve if she thought that all attached personnel – even those within the UN proper, given the events surrounding the theft of the data records – were as pure as driven snow. No matter what checks were made, some bad examples always slipped through. He knew of two middle-ranking staffers attached to the Secretary-General’s office who had been discovered engaged in illicit financial activities, and were shortly going to find their contracts swiftly terminated. Karen Walters, versed in the ways and intentions of the people in the building immediately associated with her, clearly had a lot to learn about those outside that close-knit circle.
‘Let’s keep this quiet for now,’ he told her. ‘If the press hears there was an accused rapist in KFOR colours serving in Kosovo, they’ll have Bikovsky and the entire UN wrapped up, judged and convicted before the day’s out.’
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