‘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 stab 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.
‘The Afghan,’ Dobrev stuttered. ‘He was here!’ Then he turned and threw up.
By the time Koslov was being grilled by military security investigators, Kassim was on his way to Moscow’s Domodedovo airport. He flung the knife he’d almost used on the Russian driver through the car window at the first opportunity, and straightened his clothing. He was breathing fast, as if he’d run a race, and he felt light-headed. Tiredness, undoubtedly, catching up on him. Yet he’d been awake for much longer in the past, and under far more stressful circumstances. Perhaps it was a sign that he wasn’t eating properly. He drank water from a plastic bottle and spat some out of the window. Water was purity; purity was strength. It would have to do for now.
His instructors had warned him that operating at peak effort, whether in a war zone or not, could very quickly drain his mental and physical resources. The only way to sustain himself, they had told him, was by eating at every opportunity, and by observing his daily devotions. He wondered if these men with their wise words had ever done what he was doing, or carried the burden he was carrying. In any case, serving his devotions had never been high on his list of priorities, although he had not dared let them know that. Some things were best left unsaid, when surrounded by zealots; even those who had helped him and brought him to this point.
He couldn’t tell what had stopped him killing the driver. The stupid man’s challenge had unnerved him. A couple more minutes and he could have been inside the building and looking for Koslov. But the driver had spotted him and was surely about to raise the alarm.
His response had been automatic, the ingrained need to protect himself. But he’d stopped and turned away. Why? He shook his head, seeing the young Russian’s face, an unshaven fuzz on his lip and the look of abject fear in his eyes.
Perhaps it had just been his lucky day.
He stayed alert for signs of police activity, and eventually joined a stream of traffic heading into the airport perimeter road. He left the car unlocked in a long-term car park next to the Airhotel. From what he had been told about this place, it would be gone before the day was out. Then he made straight for the check-in desk for flights to London, and to meet the man who would provide him with what he needed for the next stage of his journey. He wouldn’t mention that he hadn’t killed the Russian, though.
By midday UK time, he would be landing in Heathrow.
THIRTY-FIVE
The Dolphin coffee shop and restaurant on Pacific Avenue was a single-storey building with its own car park, set between an apartment block on one side and a golfing store on the other. There were few cars in evidence, and only a handful of heads visible inside when Harry arrived just before five. He parked across the other side of the road with a clear view of the entrance, and wondered if Bikovsky would turn up. The ex-Marine’s attitude at the house in the hills hadn’t been exactly helpful, and Harry was half expecting to have been sent on a wild-goose chase just to get him out of the way.
Beside him on the seat was an envelope he’d collected earlier from the local FBI office on Wilshire. It contained copies of the Russian Intelligence file on Kassim and mug shots of the mujahedin fighter from C
hechnya, taken when he was scooped up in a random raid on a warehouse in Grozny.
The photo was a face-on shot taken against a rough brick backdrop, the overhead lighting casting shadows beneath Kassim’s eyes and across his gaunt cheeks. He looked too young to be any kind of fighter, his beard wispy and thin, the early attempts of a teenager trying to look tough and grown-up. But the colour of the hair matched the darkness in his eyes, which were staring into the camera in sullen defiance. Harry could only speculate about how much he had changed since then.
‘We’ve put this out to all our field agents,’ Bob Dosario, one of the Bureau’s special agents, had told Harry when he was admitted to the LA office. ‘And I’m arranging for copies to go out on the streets and to our office at the airport. I can’t promise anything, but if he comes here we stand a chance of eyeballing him. Pity is, we don’t know what he looks like now, but we might be able to get our guys to build up a facial projection from this photo.’
With Kassim’s record so far, Harry had serious doubts about the FBI’s chances of catching him unless he made a mistake. And apart from killing Lloyd, which he would have seen as unavoidable, he hadn’t shown any signs yet of doing that. He left Dosario and drove down to Pacific Avenue to meet Bikovsky.
A faded, open-topped Suzuki four-by-four turned off Pacific Avenue and bumped the gulley into the Dolphin’s car park, narrowly missing a tourist fighting with a folding map. A large figure in jeans and T-shirt climbed out. It was Bikovsky. He stomped across the car park and disappeared through the doors of the Dolphin.
Harry drove into the car park and followed him inside.
Bikovsky was seated at a back table, sipping at a glass of iced water and looking sour. He said nothing when Harry greeted him, but signalled for the waitress to bring a coffee and Danish.
Harry ordered the same and sat down.
‘I just got word from a friend about Eddie and Marty,’ Bikovsky said briefly. ‘Those two guys you met at my place?’
Harry nodded. It was time for the other to lead the way. He might learn far more by letting the man talk.
‘You really riled them,’ Bikovsky continued, rubbing his knuckles together. ‘Eddie, especially – the one you threw down the stairs. Now they’re really pissed and looking for payback. The people I’m with, they don’t need this kind of shit. They’re trying to run a smooth operation, and this kinda noise pulls in too much static from the cops. The people Eddie and Marty work for don’t play nice, neither.’ He sneered. ‘I could have made some decent side money selling this meeting to them, let me tell you.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ Harry resisted taking a look out the window. It wouldn’t do any good now, anyway, and he was relying on Rik playing the tourist outside to watch his back for such eventualities.
‘I don’t trust them even more than I don’t trust you.’
Harry ignored the insult. ‘Rival operators?’
‘Yeah, kinda.’ A nervous tone had crept into Bikovsky’s voice, and Harry guessed he’d been sent down by his bosses with orders to sort things out.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you help me and I’ll be out of your hair.’
Bikovsky nodded and took another sip of water. ‘Sounds good.’
In a few terse sentences Harry told him everything he knew so far, other than the rumours about the rape and murder at the compound. He doubted Bikovsky would have seen anything on the news reports, and if he was the man responsible, he didn’t want to tip the ex-Marine’s hand and risk him clamming up or disappearing altogether.
‘If this Kassim is tracking members of the team,’ he said, ‘he’s not doing it because someone’s feelings got bruised. Something serious must have happened at the compound. I’m trying to find out what that might be.’
Bikovsky looked defensive, his eyes flicking towards the door as if seeking an avenue of escape. ‘What – and you think it may have been something I did? Like what? Man – I was wasted that night, same as everybody else.’ He sat back, making the seat creak, and swept a large hand through the air. ‘You know what it was like; it was in, bed down and out again. Anyway, the compound guards could’ve been doing stuff before we even got there. With nothing to do all day except pound the wire and keep out the camp rats, who could blame them? Maybe they got some of the local girls in there for a party and the locals got pissed.’
‘You might be right, except that Carvalho was rotated out of the convoy to stay with us. He arrived and left when we did, and the other compound guards went on to Pristina. So far they’ve been left alone.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘If something happened, it was the night we were there. Nothing else makes sense.’
The waitress arrived with their orders and Bikovsky shrugged, then took a large bite of his Danish. ‘Well, I can’t help you. Wish I could, you know?’ He finished off the pastry in a few swallows and gulped down his coffee. ‘So where to next, huh?’ His tone was suddenly relaxed, seeing the meeting as done.
Harry sipped his coffee and pulled a face. ‘Moscow, probably. How about you – are you managing to make a living from the films?’ He kept his voice casual.
Bikovsky smirked, his manner easier now the talk was no longer of any possible misdemeanours. ‘Pretty good. It ain’t what my mother wanted me to do, but doin’ what comes natural and being paid for it . . . well, it’s OK until something better comes along, right?’
Harry glanced around, then edged forward, his manner conspiratorial. ‘So what kind of girls do you work with, then?’ he asked, in what he hoped was a guy-to-guy manner.
Bikovsky laughed. ‘The people I work with, they’re at the top end. They distribute right across the States – even Europe. And the chicks, well, they have to be a certain standard.’ He smirked, eyes hooded. ‘I tell you, some of them, they ain’t gonna make it in Hollywood, but, man, they’re still classy. If I wasn’t in the business, there’s no way I’d ever get to party with them. As it is, though . . . well, I get to play with some of the finest ass you’ll ever see, let me tell you.’
Harry pushed his coffee away. He badly wanted to knock Bikovsky out of his seat. He had no real recollection of how good the man had been as a soldier, but guessed that underneath the uniform he had never been any different from when he was out of it.
‘Are they young?’ he asked.
Bikovsky frowned. ‘Man, I don’t know. Long as they’ve got the right equipment in the right condition, who cares? If it ain’t willing, ready and able, it don’t get the job, that’s the only rule.’
Harry suppressed his distaste. ‘Teenagers? Kids?’
‘Sure – I guess. Eighteen, maybe seventeen.’ He looked suddenly wary. ‘I ain’t never heard no one ask for their birth certificates, if that’s what you mean. As far as I’m concerned, they’re the same as me: do the job and take the money. We done?’
Harry nodded. He’d had enough. If Bikovsky was into young girls, he wasn’t about to admit it. He took a copy of Kassim’s photo from the envelope and slid it across the table so Bikovsky could see it. ‘This is Kassim – or was about ten years ago.’
Bikovsky frowned at the poor reprint. ‘He’s just a kid!’
‘He was. He’s grown up a lot since then.’
Bikovsky feigned indifference, but Harry guessed it was an act; his service in the Balkans would have given him a clear idea of what revenge attacks could be like. And age was no guarantee of inability to kill a man.
‘Looks a mean little asshole,’ was his only comment.
‘He’s worse. As well as killing the others, he got within thirty feet of Carl Pendry on a sniper training range – and Carl was expecting company. He makes Eddie and Marty seem like pussycats in comparison.’
‘So how come he didn’t try nailing Pendry again? And if he’s so freakin’ awesome, how is it he hasn’t come after me?’
Harry stood up. ‘He missed his chance with Pendry, so he moved on to take a shot at Koslov instead. He’s keeping us guessing. It doesn’
t mean he’s given up.’
Bikovsky looked sour. ‘What are you saying – that I should leave? Run away? I can’t do that.’
‘Fine. It’s your life.’ Harry glanced at Bikovsky’s mobile on the table. ‘Give me your number. I’ll try to warn you if he comes back.’
The Marine shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He read out the number and Harry keyed it into his own phone. ‘The sooner I can forget this shit, the better.’
‘Do that. But remember one thing: Kassim won’t forget you.’
THIRTY-SIX
Deep in the picturesque Cotswold hills of southern England, at a small helicopter flight base off the old Roman road, the Fosse Way, Corporal Malcolm Oakes of No. 51 Squadron RAF Regiment was watching the coming of dusk. The silhouette of one of the hangars was turning black against the sky, the vast roof curving down at the sides. As the light faded, the adjacent maintenance workshops would be swallowed too, followed by the admin block nearby and the perimeter fence three hundred yards away, leaving only the outer and inner security lights to push back the night.
Oakes shivered. It was only his third day here and it was a sight he hadn’t tired of, this coming of the evening. Yet he couldn’t explain even to himself why he found the sight so compelling. Maybe it was something deep in his psyche he’d never fully grasped, this small, low-key ending to the day.
He’d seen more dramatic moments over the years, in different places, especially on a posting to the Falklands, when the sun came up over the South Atlantic like a shock to the system. Then, he’d witnessed colours more intense than he’d ever seen before, an event he felt should have been accompanied by a swelling chorus of music to do it justice. Even on his last tour in Iraq, the sunset over the desert possessed a cold, ethereal beauty that touched the land as if trying to compensate for the ugliness and killing that had gone on over the generations.
He continued his patrol between the hangars, which housed a collection of training helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft, and spotted his colleague, Andy Killick, disappearing behind a vehicle garage near the admin block. Killick was slipping off for a quick smoke. One day he’d get caught and then wonder why the might of the RAF rulebook was descending on him like a ton of bricks.
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