Like any other solitary stroller looking for peace and quiet, he’d wandered down to the shoreline and paddled in the water, allowing it to pool around his legs and splash up his pants. By the time he’d wandered back up the beach, his gait a little unsteady, Harry had become a rumpled beach bum, hazy-eyed after too much booze and sun, one of the invisible injured spirits with nowhere special to go.
He squatted down in the shadow of the trailer, pulling an old tyre beneath his head and adjusting the baseball cap over his eyes. The position gave him a good view of the alleyway between the Tex-Mex restaurant and Bikovsky’s apartment block. If he lifted himself carefully, he could see down the alley to the road at the far end. With the exception of one or two food stalls and the weightlifting area, which was now deserted save for a solitary figure doing stretching exercises, he had an uninterrupted field of vision for a hundred yards each way.
He took out a small radio handset borrowed from the security office at El Segundo and inserted the earpiece, then keyed the button.
‘Very fetching look, dude.’ It was Rik Ferris in the weightlifting pen. ‘Wait ’til I tell Jean you’ve gone native.’
Harry smiled. ‘Watch and learn, junior. Don’t go pulling a muscle.’
‘It’s about the only thing I will pull down here. If the local talent isn’t doing a ton on blades, they’ve got a dog in tow. How’s a guy supposed to strike up a conversation like that?’
‘You’re not. You’re here to work. You set?’
‘I’m set. You think he’ll come?’
‘Depends when he flies in. But he’ll come. Don’t count on spotting him too easily, though.’ The photo of a young Kassim received from Koslov had been almost useless, and no amount of enhancing by Rik or the FBI’s own attempts had made the face any more recognizable than a hundred others in the area.
‘No problem, boss. Hey, does the budget allow me to buy some of those fancy leather weightlifting gloves? These bars are really rough on the hands.’
‘Dream on, sunshine – and keep your eyes open.’ Harry cut the connection and used his mobile to check in with Deane. Earlier, he’d had to fight off the security man’s suggestions to flood the beach with LAPD SWAT teams and FBI special agents. At any other time it would have made sense; right now they would have stood out like a marching band. Kassim would smell armed men as soon as he came anywhere near.
Deane had given in reluctantly, conceding that an open firefight within sight of the beach would be a public relations disaster. He had settled instead with getting them the use of radios to keep in touch.
‘How’s it looking down there?’ he asked.
‘Clear,’ Harry told him. The nearest person was a tiny old woman in a long, shapeless shift and worn tennis shoes, shuffling along the sand twenty yards away.
‘Good. The LAPD have got Bikovsky under guard in a safe place. And we think we’ve got the name Kassim’s been using. It’s Zef Haxhi. The FBI used one of their fancy algorithms to pull up name repeats related to all the airports and places where the kills have been made.’
‘Good work,’ said Harry.
‘Well, he’s not trying too hard to hide, as you said. He’s used the same passport all the way, into the US from Brussels, down to Columbus, then to Moscow and London, now back to LA. His entry form describes him as a student of agriculture from Rawalpindi University. The trip was arranged under their student overseas study programme, and we’re re-checking the details down to the last dot and comma. But it could take time.’
‘Who arranged the visas?’
Deane gave a humourless chuckle. ‘There’s the irony: the field study programme he’s travelling on is funded jointly with the American University of Kosovo. Can you believe that? I suspect that’s where the paper trail began.’
Harry sympathized with his mood. They had been clever. Any student travelling from Pakistan would have many hoops to jump through; one linked to an American university based in Europe, however, might have an easier ride. ‘The name’s not Pakistani, though, is it?’
‘No. It’s Albanian. Another neat trick: there are a few eastern Europeans and Pakistani nationals on exchange programmes with both campuses, and I’m betting we’ll find a Zef Haxhi on the roll somewhere. They’d have needed something that stood up to a cursory check, at the very least.’
Another indicator, thought Harry, of the planning behind this. He sat up, trying to read what was going on here. ‘This isn’t a terrorist exercise.’
‘What?’ Deane sounded surprised.
‘Kassim hasn’t just come down from the hills to knock off a few UN soldiers. This is something bigger. What did that blogger call it?’
‘A spectacular. But there was no connection that we could find. It could have meant anything or nothing. You know how these nut jobs build up the chatter to get air time and headlines.’
Nut jobs. Harry’s experience of nut jobs was that they were never dangerous, but neither were they this organized or focussed.
‘There’s something else,’ Deane added. ‘Ehrlich, the IT nerd who was helping Demescu? He’s dropped out of sight. Ditched the watchers we put on him and vanished. We’ve changed all the access security codes, so Kassim or Haxhi or whatever the hell he calls himself is now running blind.’
Harry didn’t think that would slow Kassim down. He’d proved himself to be a careful operator so far, creating mayhem at will. If he found he couldn’t raise a response from Demescu or Ehrlich, he would almost certainly drop right off the grid and abandon any other contacts as no longer safe.
Then something Deane had said earlier hit him. ‘Wait . . . You said back to LA? Was that supposition or is Kassim back already?’
‘You mean the FBI didn’t tell you?’ Deane swore softly. ‘An unaccompanied male named Zef Haxhi travelling on a European passport flew in from London Heathrow two hours ago. He’s probably already somewhere in the greater Los Angeles area.’
THIRTY-NINE
Harry’s neck stirred uneasily at the knowledge that Kassim was already here. With the airport just a few miles away, and even allowing for lengthy delays at immigration, it meant he could now be sitting somewhere very close, watching. With his kill record so far, it was an uncomfortable sensation.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ he told Deane, and cut him off in mid-sentence. He looked across to where Rik was doing some lazy stretches, and hit the transmit button on the radio. ‘Our man’s already here. He landed two hours ago.’
‘What? You kidding me?’ Rik muttered something obscene and stopped what he was doing. ‘Do they know who he is?’
‘He’s down as a student, using the name Zef Haxhi. Eyes wide open, you hear?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
Harry cut the connection and went back to studying the area in front of the shops and apartment blocks. The evening visitors were already beginning to show themselves along the sidewalk, a colourful mix of after-work strollers, ancient hippies, pairs and singles, moving aimlessly in their own world, content to be in the cool anonymity of the evening shadows. Among them was a new breed of bladers and riders, their outfits even more garish than their daytime counterparts as they swooped and glided along the pathway.
There was an increase in traffic, along with one or two police patrols and the occasional delivery van. A sanitation truck rumbled along the edge of the sand, emptying garbage cans, while a sweeper buzzed along the cycle path, damping down the day’s dust with a fine spray of water.
A yellow pizza van nosed into the alleyway from the far end and stopped outside Bikovsky’s apartment block. A young man in whites leapt from the cab and disappeared inside bearing a flat box, and re-appeared moments later folding something into his trouser pocket. He reversed the van with smooth skill and disappeared out the far side.
Harry relaxed; even if it had been Kassim, he wouldn’t have had time to get to the first floor and back down.
‘Boss.’ It was Rik, sounding puzzled. ‘Two hundred yards at nine o’clock . . . guy in a y
ellow shirt, jacket and jeans. Isn’t he supposed to be somewhere else?’
Harry shifted his weight and focussed on a knot of strollers in front of a café and an ethnic jeweller’s. At first he saw nobody he recognized. Then he felt a jolt of surprise. A large, muscular figure was ambling along the path, hands in his pockets. He appeared unhurried and relaxed, nothing like a man whose life might be hanging in the balance.
Harry rang Deane. It was quicker than fighting his way through the LAPD network. ‘I thought you said Bikovsky was in a safe place under guard?’
‘He is.’
‘Not from where I’m sitting. Right now he’s walking towards his apartment.’
‘Christ . . . can you stop him?’
Bikovsky was just passing the Tex-Mex. As he did so, Maria appeared in the restaurant doorway. She glanced at him without reacting, then turned and walked back inside.
‘No to that,’ said Harry. ‘Not without breaking cover.’ He cut the connection and rang Bikovsky’s mobile, hoping he had the sense to pick up. It rang a dozen times. No answer. He keyed the radio and said to Rik, ‘There’s nothing we can do. Hold your position. He’ll have to take his chances.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Rik.
Back in the alleyway, a small panel truck stopped alongside a pile of cardboard produce boxes stacked against the wall of the Tex-Mex restaurant. The driver climbed out and began throwing the boxes into the van. Behind him, a trail bike pulled up and the rider leaned it against a wall. He was wearing a white apron and took a pizza box from the pannier on the back.
Everything about the place was telling Kassim that this was wrong. His antennae were buzzing, a sure sign of trouble that had helped him avoid Russian forces in Chechnya and American Taliban hunters in Afghanistan. Yet there was nothing obvious to cause him concern. People were coming out for the evening, minds on their excesses, and everything about the decadent beach community seemed as normal as it ever could. Yet he felt an underlying movement in the air, like the buzz of night flies around his head.
He had retrieved the pizza box from a nearby garbage can, and a white towel tucked into his trousers gave the appearance of an apron. Pizza delivery boys in America were numerous and practically invisible. It made perfect cover.
Yet the memory of his trip through immigration at Los Angeles was making his head hurt. Three times he had been sick on the way here. He’d cursed himself for not thinking sooner of a change of passport. It was an unforgivable lapse. All it needed was for the Americans to have picked up on the frequent use of the Haxhi passport in the last few days, and they would have him.
In the immigration queue his heart had been thumping wildly, and the pulse in his temples seemed set to explode. When the uniformed immigration officer had queried his reasons for visiting, Kassim had not heard him. The officer, a muscular young man in crisp white shirt and dark pants, had peered hard at Kassim through steel spectacles.
‘Tough flight, huh?’ he’d said sympathetically. Then he’d repeated his question.
It had been too close for Kassim’s increasingly fragile peace of mind. Once he was clear he’d gone straight to the washroom and thrown up. He’d emerged feeling dizzy and nauseous, and realized he needed something to regenerate his energy. He’d found a cheap restaurant and forced down some food, fighting against his lack of appetite and an over-abundance of grease.
After eating, he’d located a phone box and called Remzi in New York.
The travel agent had not been pleased to hear from him. ‘You should not be calling me,’ he’d hissed. ‘What do you want?’
‘I need new papers,’ Kassim had said, brushing aside Remzi’s arguments. ‘Also a passport. Send them to the Marriott Hotel on West Century Boulevard near Los Angeles airport. I will collect them.’
‘I cannot—’ Remzi began, but Kassim interrupted him.
‘You can – you must!’ he snapped. ‘The Americans know I am here.’
‘What? But you must flee! What if you are caught?’ Remzi’s voice rose to a screech, and it was clear that he feared for his own freedom. If Kassim were picked up, his own situation was compromised.
‘That’s why I need new papers and tickets, you idiot! If I use the Haxhi papers again, they will take me.’ He overrode the agent’s protests by telling him where he was going next, and that it had to be soon.
It was enough to get Remzi to agree. ‘I will use a person in Los Angeles,’ he said, as if talking to himself. ‘Yes, that is what I will do. He is very good but very expensive . . . but the situation demands it. Absolutely, we will do that, I—’
‘When?’ Kassim finally cut him short. This cowardly idiot might go on for hours.
‘What?’
‘When will I have them?’
‘Oh. Yes. I should be able to get a passport to you by this evening. It will be enough to get you out of the country, but that is all. Wait one minute.’ The phone went down with a thump.
Kassim waited, knowing that Remzi was only doing it as a means for his own safety; the sooner he got Kassim out of his hair, the sooner he would be able to go back to his normal life.
Remzi came back moments later to explain that Kassim’s new name would be Roberto Lucchini, a third-generation Italian from New York. The paperwork would be good, Remzi warned, but might not stand close scrutiny.
‘It does not matter,’ Kassim told him. Just one more journey, he thought, and it would all be over.
‘I will also enclose travel vouchers for your next trip,’ Remzi added. ‘You must pick up the tickets at the airport using your new passport.’
Kassim thanked him and cut the connection. Then he made a phone reservation at the Marriott, explaining that a package would be arriving and to hold it for his arrival later that evening. He had no intention of using the room, and he doubted the authorities would ever think of looking for him in such a prestigious establishment. As his trainers had explained, a hotel was an ideal post box.
Next he needed transportation. Walking out of the terminal, he had narrowly missed stepping in front of a courier on a weather-beaten trail bike with a noisy engine. Unbelievably, the young rider had left the bike at the kerb without taking the key. Like all mujahedin, Kassim had ridden mopeds and Japanese motorbikes extensively in the mountains, often loaded with weapons; LA traffic was easy by comparison.
Now, walking down the alleyway, Kassim noted the garbage collector out of the corner of his eye. He ignored the rumble of nerves in his stomach and kept walking. The man might be genuine or he could be a policeman waiting for Kassim to make an appearance. A young woman peering out of a side door across the alleyway shooed off a scavenging dog, then went back inside. Another police officer?
Then he was in the doorway on his left and walking down a gloomy corridor. A sweet smell hung in the air, and the faint sound of music came from behind one of the two doors on the ground floor. He walked up a flight of bare concrete stairs. He hesitated on the landing, sniffing at the air. A large window at the end of the corridor let in the dying light. No signs of anyone lying in wait.
He had already torn away the edge of the pizza box nearest to him, and slipped his hand inside, grasping the rubberized handle of the shark knife he’d bought earlier from a local dive shop. He muttered a faint prayer and glanced at the fragment of blue cloth in his other hand.
He knocked on Bikovsky’s door.
‘Pizza,’ he chanted, the way he’d heard the delivery boys do it. Here, his accent didn’t matter; most delivery boys were of foreign extraction.
There was a shuffling sound inside, and a grunt as Bikovsky approached the door. Kassim felt his stomach tighten and a buzzing began in his ears as the adrenalin kicked in. A glimmer of movement showed in the peep hole, then the door clicked and swung open.
Kassim had a momentary flash of recognition as the man in the doorway emerged from the gloom within the apartment, followed by a fleeting second of doubt. Then the hunting mechanism took over. He flung the pizza box to one side and lung
ed forward with the knife, his arm as rigid as an iron bar. The blade bit deep, ripping through flesh and vital organs, and Kassim used his free hand to palm-heel the stricken man in the chest, causing him to stagger backwards until his foot caught on a rug and pitched him over with a crash. He lay still, making a hollow keening sound, his eyes wide with shock.
Kassim followed him down, pinning his shoulders. The man’s heels drummed on the floor as shock crashed through his system, and his breathing became ragged.
Then Kassim stared at him with a sense of puzzlement and disbelief. Something was not right. He stood up and rolled the dying man on to his front. With the bloodied point of the knife he ripped open his rear pocket and took out his wallet, flipped it open to reveal a driver’s licence.
It wasn’t Bikovsky.
Then his nerves got the better of him and he was up and running, out of the room where death was hovering and along the corridor. He’d walked into a trap. Instead of Bikovsky, he had killed a police officer – maybe a member of the American FBI. It had been a close resemblance, but in the poor light of the apartment building, an understandable error.
As he ran past an open doorway, a woman stepping out saw the bloodied knife and screamed, a nerve-jangling wail which ran through the whole building.
FORTY
Harry and Rik heard the blood-curdling scream and were up and running together, scrabbling for purchase on the soft sand. Harry switched channels on his radio and called for backup from the LAPD, then concentrated on getting towards the alleyway through the groups of evening strollers.
As they entered the building, there was a crash of breaking glass from upstairs and the woman screamed again.
‘He’s outside,’ said Harry, and turned back towards the alleyway while Rik continued up the stairs. ‘Check Bikovsky – but be careful!’
Outside a cluster of curious onlookers had gathered, forming a barrier across the alley. Over their heads Harry saw Maria, backlit in the kitchen door of the Tex-Mex. She was gesturing towards the far end, where the alley opened into the back streets of Venice Beach. He drew his gun and forced his way through the crowd, instantly making progress once people caught sight of the Ruger.
Retribution Page 21
