As he burst out of the alley, he nearly collided with a trail bike wheeling away with its engine screaming, the rider casting a glance over his shoulder. His face was thin and his eyes burning, and Harry knew without a doubt that this was the man they were looking for.
Kassim was heading across a patch of open ground towards Pacific Avenue, where Harry guessed there would be a hundred and one ways for him to disappear. For a brief second he considered trying for a shot at the killer, but two kids on bikes appeared in the background and he lowered his gun.
In the distance he heard the wail of police sirens, and thumbed the safety catch, slipping the Ruger under his shirt. This was no time to be caught waving a handgun in the middle of Los Angeles by a nervous and trigger-happy cop who might shoot first and ask questions later.
‘It wasn’t Bikovsky,’ he told Deane twenty minutes later. He was watching a paramedic drape a green sheet over the body in Bikovsky’s apartment. The dead man was Eddie, the batter. It explained why Maria had shown no signs of recognition when the man had walked by.
Further along the corridor other officers were questioning the woman whose screams had alerted them to Kassim’s presence. She had been fortunate to survive with nothing more damaging than a jolt to her system and a small cut from flying glass when Kassim had made his exit through the window.
Harry handed his mobile to a crime scene officer so that Deane could vouch for his and Rik’s presence. The detective listened and handed it back with a nod, and Harry promised to call Deane later when they were cleared to leave.
It took only a few minutes, with the arrival of an LAPD crime squad lieutenant named McKenzie, to add a surname and occupation to the dead man.
‘It’s Eddie Cruz, professional scumbag,’ the cop muttered coldly. ‘He finally got his true and just deserts.’ He bent and peered with professional interest at the knife wound, then into Eddie’s sightless eyes. ‘I guess it’s true: there is a God up there.’
‘You know him, then?’ said Harry. The cop probably knew all the local names on his territory, right down to their shoe sizes.
McKenzie looked sour. ‘Yeah, more’s the pity. He was a strong-arm guy for a local organization and reputedly moonlighting for one or two others. He breaks things for people . . . arms and legs, mostly. We figured him for a recent murder up in Bel Air. Some kid making porno movies was getting too big a share of the market. The established guys didn’t like it and they warned him off. He kept working. Next thing was we found him in a dumpster with his head caved in. We couldn’t prove it was Cruz who did it, but the signs looked right.’
‘Do you know his friend Marty?’
The cop looked surprised. ‘For someone who’s only visiting, you get around the nicest people. Yeah, we know Bell. Him and Cruz are two of a kind, like evil twins. How come you know them?’
Harry explained briefly about his encounter with the men, drawing a fresh look of appraisal from McKenzie, who looked as if he would like to have seen it.
‘When that news gets round,’ he said shortly, ‘you’ll make a lot of new friends – mostly in the porno business.’
A few minutes later, Harry and Rik were walking down the stairs.
‘Where are we going?’ Rik asked.
Harry had got away from McKenzie by using the excuse that he needed to confer with Deane in New York. What he really wanted was to talk to Bikovsky before the LAPD and the FBI put the ex-Marine off-limits.
‘I’ve got a feeling Bikovsky knows more than he thinks . . . or more than he’s letting on.’
They were met outside by a crowd of onlookers being pushed back behind a police cordon. Among them were Jerry, concerned about the apartment he let to Bikovsky, and Maria. She was hugging her arms around her, face creased with concern.
‘It’s not Bikovsky,’ Harry explained to Maria. ‘Just a man who was unlucky enough to look like him.’
Maria nodded, relief flickering briefly across her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and turned away, disappearing into the crowd, anxious to distance herself from the presence of so many police officers.
‘Hey – what about my apartment?’ Jerry demanded, pushing forward. ‘Did they tear the place up? Am I gonna have to get the place cleaned or what, huh? That no-hoper, Bikovsky . . . he’s nothing but trouble!’
A few miles away, on the outskirts of Los Angeles International, Kassim pulled out of the heavy evening traffic and turned in to a block of cargo warehouses. Satisfied he was unobserved, he killed the engine and dumped the trail bike behind a garbage skip, retrieving his rucksack and throwing it over his shoulder. He could see the airport buildings in the distance, and quickly made his way on foot towards them. He was beginning to shake from the kill and the subsequent chase, and was experiencing dizziness again and loss of vision. He badly needed to get cleaned up and to rest, to let the reaction pass before showing up at the Marriott to collect his new passport and travel vouchers.
He arrived at a perimeter road, on the other side of which were the terminal buildings and public car parks. He remembered belatedly that Americans never walked if they could ride, and that he could have used the bike without standing out. He’d been careless, but he put it down to not feeling well. Even so, it was a lesson for the next few hours.
He arrived at the nearest terminal building and found a deserted washroom where he was able to clean himself up and change his shirt. He was covered in a film of perspiration and dust from his ride across the patch of rough ground, and had some minor cuts on his hands where he had burst through the window of the apartment block into the alleyway.
He glanced down and saw a patch of blood on the thigh of his pants from where he had shoved the knife before jumping from the building. He pulled the blade out and rinsed it under the tap, then wrapped it in some paper towels and put it in his rucksack. He would have to dispose of it later. For now, though, he felt safer having it within reach.
As he was holding his leg under a hot-air dryer, he felt a shock penetrate his gut. Something was missing.
The fragment of blue cloth. He’d dropped it!
He searched everywhere, but knew it was no good. He felt as if a piece of him had been ripped away. This was bad. Very bad. He walked up and down, shaking his head, trying to figure out what to do. It was pointless going back; he’d be seen and locked up – or worse, shot dead. Yet it represented a major part of why he was here . . . why he was doing this. How could he have been so careless? It must have happened after he’d killed the American, on his way out of the building.
He forced himself to remain calm and took a deep breath, then drank some cold water. It was time to let go. He could still complete his task. But first he needed to change his profile.
The men chasing him back at the apartment buildings would have got a partial look at him at least. One in particular, who had emerged from the alleyway just as he was leaving on the motorcycle: the Englishman, Tate. It had been close – too close – and he was amazed Tate had not used a weapon. Had it been him, Kassim would not have hesitated.
The outer door rattled and Kassim ducked his face into a basin. A man came in and used one of the cubicles, then stepped across to the basins to wash his hands. He was carrying a sports bag in one hand and in the other a lightweight tan windcheater with a dark blue lining. Kassim went into a cubicle, noisily locking the door, then counted to five before silently slipping the catch and stepping out again.
The man had his head down, soaping his face. His windcheater lay on top of the sports bag at his feet. As Kassim stepped past him, he reached down and scooped up the garment, and was out the door before the man even knew it had gone.
Ten minutes later, having reversed the windcheater and flung it across his shoulders, Kassim found a cafeteria and took a spare seat at a table of Spanish tourists, nodding gratefully as they made room for him.
As he drank a glass of iced coke, allowing his nerves to settle, he noticed a Herald Tribune lying on a chair. On the front was a picture of a war
-torn building, scarred by fire and pockmarked by shell holes. The photo looked dated, with a woman standing in the centre of the shot, staring in shock at a body lying twisted and burned among the bricks and dust. Kassim was about to look away when he noticed a familiar name in a side column. He picked up the paper and followed the page reference.
UN SPECIAL ENVOY KLEEMAN RETURNING TO KOSOVO.
Inside was a large photo of Anton Kleeman.
FORTY-ONE
Harry also noticed the headline as Rik was scrolling for news on his laptop. They were in an airport hotel, waiting for Deane to call back. Harry had asked him to use his influence to gain access to Bikovsky. He would have to go through the FBI and the LAPD, both of whom were probably claiming primary control over him; the police for questioning about events at his apartment and the FBI for the wider investigation into the UN team murders.
‘This can’t be good,’ Rik commented. He clicked on a link and brought up the picture of Kleeman in a camouflage jacket, smiling into the cameras. It was not a current picture and Kleeman had put on a little weight since 1999.
‘It’s not.’ Harry immediately saw the significance and rang Deane. This couldn’t wait.
‘When was Kleeman’s Kosovo trip planned?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Deane admitted. ‘I’d have to check. Karen Walters is right here.’
‘Ask her. It’s important.’
Deane turned away and there was a rumbling of voices before he came back on. ‘It’s been on his itinerary for a while, arranged over four months ago. I think it’s part of his schedule for worldwide domination.’
‘Then that’s when the planning began.’
‘What planning?’
‘The plan to kill him.’
‘What?’ Deane yelped.
‘You’ve got to call it off.’
‘Can’t be done. What are you talking about, kill him?’
Harry took a deep breath. He didn’t know if Deane was being deliberately obtuse or simply in denial. ‘Don’t you see this is a set-up? The whole thing: the killings, the timing of the rumours, the drip-feed of details to the media, the talk of a “spectacular” – and now Kleeman going to visit Kosovo. It’s all linked.’
‘Harry, you’re— Are you serious?’
‘Think about it. Kleeman’s on the kill list with everyone else. He might not be the guilty party, but that hasn’t mattered to Kassim. What better way to give the UN a bloody nose than by knocking off personnel who were in Kosovo at the time and gaining major headlines by rounding it off with the assassination of the Special Envoy they were guarding at the time?’
‘But . . . why would they?’
‘Because it’s not the team they’re after – it’s Kleeman. He’s the “spectacular”. Kassim’s going to be waiting for him.’
There was a stunned silence on the line, then Deane said, ‘I still don’t see it.’ But now he didn’t sound quite so sure. ‘I mean, this guy’s proved he can go anywhere he likes – even Moscow – so why not make the hit in New York? Jesus, Kleeman’s an assassin’s wet dream: he even strolls down the street to get a lunchtime hot dog. Why wait until he’s in Kosovo?’
‘Because in New York his death would be meaningless; just another random murder eclipsed by the latest economic recovery forecasts. In Kosovo it would have resonance. This has been their plan all along; and since hearing he’s going to Kosovo, it’s fallen right into their lap.’
‘I hear you.’ Deane sounded conflicted. ‘OK, say you’re right, how do we keep him safe?’
‘There’s only one way: by stopping Kassim. Have you got approval for me to speak to Bikovsky?’
‘I’ll call you back. Give me five minutes.’
While Harry was talking to Deane, Rik Ferris contacted Ripper, using the Hotmail account he had used to set up their meeting in Phenix. He kept it short and sharp.
Another job – urgent. Airline flight details. Can do? Blackjack.
He waited three minutes before a reply came.
Airlines easy. Name me the names and dates. Rate? Ripper.
Rik typed, Passenger: Haxhi, Zef. M. 28 yrs. Euro p’port. Travelled orig Pakistan – Paris – Brussels – NY – Columbus – Moscow – UK, poss now LAX + others + future bookings. Need name of ticket source. $2000 to any account U name. Has to be quick.
He waited only a minute this time. Consider it max priority. Account will follow. Thnx for contact w Stick. Major grats.
Rik made sure his mobile was fully charged, then sat back. Ripper was a happy bunny. That would help. He could have done the airlines search himself, but it would have taken time and patience. And something told him they would be on the move shortly. Ripper was better placed to do the job, and fast in his field. Anyone who could get inside the Department of Justice servers and ferret around undetected would find the airlines easy meat. The UN and FBI were probably working on digging out the same information, too, but he knew how they worked. Rulebooks and precious lines of delineation aside, they would give out only what information they thought necessary, and at a speed far below that of pro hackers like Ripper.
FORTY-TWO
Thirty minutes later, in the foyer of the Comfort Inn on West Century Boulevard in Inglewood, Harry and Rik showed their details to two LAPD officers. They were escorted to a room on the first floor with two uniformed guards stationed outside.
Bikovsky was watching television and sucking on a beer. The bedside table held the mangled remains of a meal, and judging by the number of crushed cans in the waste bin, he’d been drinking most of the day. He was unshaven and looked a mess, and Harry wondered what else he had taken to keep himself going.
The ex-Marine showed no surprise at seeing them. When Harry picked up the remote and muted the television, he started to protest, but thought better of it. Instead he pointed at the screen.
‘We just been on the TV with that prick Kleeman. He looked a jerk, but we looked cool as hell.’ He sank another mouthful of beer. ‘You can put a prick in a uniform, but no way can you put the uniform in a prick.’
The flickering image on the television was the tail end of an evening news item about ongoing international development plans in Kosovo and Bosnia. Old footage of shell-torn houses swam into view, overlaid with white block titles of the location and a scrolling text beneath.
‘You and Eddie Cruz,’ said Harry, dragging Bikovsky’s attention back into the room. ‘You look pretty similar, did you ever notice?’ A close-up of Anton Kleeman sprang into view, a politician’s smile on his smooth face, against the backdrop of the UN building in New York. It looked recent.
‘Can’t say I did,’ said Bikovsky. ‘Why?’
‘Because he was waiting for you at your apartment.’ The news report changed to commercials, and Harry switched off the television. ‘Then along came Kassim.’
Bikovsky showed no emotion, and Harry guessed the man was too far gone for the information to penetrate.
Rik shook his head and went over to the window, checking the car park.
‘Eddie’s now got his own drawer at the city morgue. He took the knife that was intended for you. He was standing in the doorway to your apartment at the time.’
Something finally seemed to reach Bikovsky’s beer-soaked brain, and he rubbed his face. He started to get up to move towards the light.
‘I’d stay away from the windows,’ Rik told him. ‘If Kassim doesn’t have another try, Marty Bell might.’
‘Wha—?’ Bikovsky blinked and sat down again. ‘What’re you sayin’? I didn’t kill Eddie Cruz.’
‘You know that and so do we. But his friends don’t. Look at it from their point of view; Eddie sits in your apartment waiting for you to turn up. He opens the door to a knock and ends up sliced and diced. Pretty easy to jump to conclusions about who might have done it, don’t you think? Especially since Eddie’s friends don’t even know Kassim exists.’ Rik smiled coldly. ‘But they know you do.’
Bikovsky looked alarmed as the information s
ank in. ‘Hey – that ain’t right!’
‘Scary, isn’t it?’ Harry said coldly. ‘Let’s talk about the compound at Mitrovica, shall we?’
‘Aw, man,’ Bikovsky protested, waving his hand. ‘How many times I gotta tell you . . . I don’t know shit about that place. I told you, the compound guards musta had somethin’ going – or maybe this Kassim’s just a twisted fuck who likes cuttin’ people. I wasn’t into nothin’, I didn’t do nothin’, ’cos I didn’t have time!’
A knock at the door had Harry and Rik reaching for their weapons. It was one of the officers from outside.
‘It’s Lieutenant McKenzie at Venice Beach,’ he announced. ‘Says there’s something you have to see.’
Telling Bikovsky they’d be back, they left the hotel and drove back to the apartment building. When they arrived at the alleyway the crowd had gone, with only a few curious latecomers craning their necks to see what was happening.
They found Lieutenant McKenzie standing at the end of the corridor where Kassim had made his exit through the window into the alley. Portable lights had been erected, highlighting the area round the smashed glass, which was dusted in forensic powder. McKenzie was holding a plastic evidence bag.
‘We found this snagged on the brickwork outside the window,’ he said, holding up the bag for them to see. ‘It didn’t get there by accident.’ He studied both men with serious eyes. ‘You two are with the UN, right? This should interest you.’
Harry didn’t explain their precise relationship with the organization, but took the bag. Inside was a piece of blue fabric, stained with dirt or rust. One edge was trimmed with leather.
Rik said, ‘It’s part of a beret.’
‘Bingo,’ McKenzie muttered, eyes glittering. ‘So he does speak.’
Harry recalled what Deane had told him about the old woman’s words after seeing Broms killed in Brussels. She said the killer had waved a blue handkerchief. Was this what she had seen? If so, why was Kassim carrying it? And did he wave it at his victims – always assuming he’d done the same to the others – as a kind of talisman or trophy? Or was it a symbol of whatever was driving him on?
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