Retribution

by Adrian Magson

  Eventually, however, on the heels of UN Special Envoy Anton Kleeman’s announcement that the man responsible would be punished, the story had finally been teased out by the relentless probing of reporters desperate for some kind of truth. What they had not included, however, was a verbal addendum by Lubeszki over a scrambled telephone line ten minutes ago.

  ‘I’ve talked to a woman who knew the girl,’ Lubeszki had said, during a follow-up phone call. He sounded tired and angry, the distortion on the line unable to conceal the emotion he was feeling. ‘When they found her, she’d been gagged to stop her crying out.’

  ‘Gagged how?’

  ‘The woman who found her says she’d had some cloth jammed into her mouth. Part of a UN beret.’

  ‘Give me strength.’ Deane felt a wave of despair. So it was true – they had something.

  ‘The killer must have tried to remove it,’ Lubeszki continued, ‘but the girl’s teeth had clamped around it and it tore off in her mouth. From the position of the body, it looks like she was dumped over from the inside.’

  ‘He threw her over?’ It was just as Harry Tate had suggested. He kicked a drawer shut in frustration. The last thing the UN needed was confirmation of this kind of news. Overstretched already, the agency was struggling to retain credibility in its day-to-day operations. It didn’t need the world to know that one of its number, chosen to give help to the needy, had sunk to the lowest of atrocities.

  He thought about the discovery of a fragment of a beret at the scene of the killing in Venice Beach. It tied in with what Lubeszki was saying. But was it the same fragment? If so, who had it belonged to?

  ‘Do they still have the cloth?’ He almost didn’t want to ask the question.

  ‘No. It disappeared. When the translator pressed the woman, the shutters came down.’

  ‘Why didn’t the locals complain to the authorities when they found the girl?’

  ‘Maybe they did. It’s not easy getting anything out of these people. The translator asked about the brother of the dead girl, but he disappeared shortly afterwards. He was most likely taken by the Serbs.’

  ‘I hear you. Christ, what a mess.’ He sighed. ‘Are you ready for Kleeman’s visit?’

  Lubeszki gave a disgruntled snort. ‘About the same as if my mother-in-law was coming to stay. Hasn’t someone told him this might not be a good idea right now?’

  Deane didn’t want to get into that. Lubeszki was right, though; Special Envoy or not, Kleeman was poking his toe into a tender spot by returning to Kosovo. What they didn’t need was another high-profile desk-jockey turning up on a white charger promising the world just so he could score some media points – especially if it became known that he had been in the compound the night of the murder.

  After telling Lubeszki he’d be in touch again, he called Bob Dosario of the FBI.

  The special agent confirmed that the fragment of cloth found at the crime scene was on its way to be analysed at the LAPD forensics laboratory. ‘What are you looking for, exactly?’

  ‘Blood,’ said Deane. ‘Blood and saliva . . .’

  FORTY-FIVE

  On second shift the following morning, in a ground-floor washroom of Terminal 1 at Los Angeles International Airport, Norm Perrell, the deputy shift superintendent, was cursing roundly and emptying overflowing trash cans. Two members of the cleaning staff had failed to turn up for work and he was having to fill in while a replacement was found. By Christ, he’d have something to say to them if they ever bothered to haul their asses in, the lazy sonzabitches!

  He upended the last can and shook his head at the things people threw out when they visited the washrooms in LA International. A pair of boxers? And what looked like a bedroom slipper? Jesus . . . why come to an airport to dump their crap?

  He frowned as the last few items floated down into the reinforced garbage bag. Looked like a passport photo. He bent and retrieved it and saw it was indeed attached to a page from a torn passport. Further down was another page and the pasteboard cover. Hey – what kind of idiot throws away a passport?

  Seconds later Norm was scuttling along the corridor towards the airport security office, his chest buzzing with excitement. He’d found a driver’s licence as well, and knew some of the security guys might be interested in this stuff. Could be from a mugging, of course, but who knew? The owner’s name was weird, though. Haxhi. Zef Haxhi. What kinda name was that? Sounded like a Klingon. Sure as hell wasn’t American, he’d bet his last paycheck on that . . .

  Harry was collecting his stuff together from the bathroom when the phone rang. He went through to the bedroom and picked it up.

  It was Bob Dosario calling from FBI headquarters on Wilshire.

  ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ Harry asked politely.

  ‘No. They hang me in a closet each night,’ Dosario muttered. ‘Looks like your man Kassim-stroke-Haxhi got out through LAX this morning.’

  Harry swore silently. Still one step ahead of them. ‘Do we know the flight?’

  ‘Not yet, but we’re on it. A cleaning supervisor found a torn passport in a trash can this morning, in the name of Haxhi. A driver’s licence went with it, complete with photos. Both were good but false. It’ll take time to check all the passenger lists, but I’m putting extra people on it. Since we don’t know what name he’s using, we can’t tell which flight he took. I’ve got some of my team checking security cameras in case they can spot him.’

  ‘He might have stayed somewhere local last night. Could you get the photos shown around the hotels? I doubt he’d have wanted to risk hanging round the airport all night.’

  ‘We’re on to that too, but with the shift changeovers, it’s going to take time. It’s an odd thing, trashing the photos. He must know they could’ve been found. You think he’s had a change of face?’

  Harry felt a flutter of certainty growing in him. What had been an unthinkable possibility the previous evening was now solidifying. It was as if the game was being played out to its end, and was about to spin off into another dimension. Now, with the discarding of Kassim’s Haxhi documents, there seemed no other reasonable option to consider. ‘I don’t think it’s that complicated. Kassim knows it doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘He’s leaving the country for good.’

  ‘But what about Pendry and Bikovsky? I thought he was after them, too.’

  ‘He was – at first. As far as he knew – as far as we all knew – that piece of cloth came from a UN beret used by one of several men. He’s been working on the basis all along of one down, all down, just to be sure.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I think he’s given up on that. Pendry and Koslov are obvious outsiders.’ He explained about the variance in size and colour which were the only things that set them apart from the others as the possible murderer of the girl, and how he suspected Kassim had seen him, albeit not clearly.

  ‘So where does he go now?’ Dosario asked. Harry noted that he had made no reference to the fact that Harry was one of the targets, too.

  ‘He’s adapting and going after bigger game. I think you should check all international flights going to Europe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Our focus in this has been on the CP team members – me included. But we were missing someone obvious. Someone we probably didn’t want to consider. That person’s now on his way to Kosovo. I think that’s where Kassim’s going.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Dosario’s voice was flat. ‘You mean . . .?’

  ‘Kleeman.’

  Harry put the phone down and walked along to Rik’s room. He got him to do a search into Kleeman’s background. He was remembering what Dosario had said about Kleeman being an all-state college sports champ. But a champ at what? He’d forgotten.

  He soon had his answer.

  ‘Interesting.’ Rik found a page from a résumé about the Special Envoy. Anton Kleeman had shown a particular talent for contact sports, rising swiftly through the ranks in judo and collegiate wres
tling, then switching to Greco-Roman style. One photo showed him hoisting an opponent off the floor, and in another he was slamming a fighter down on to his back. In both pictures he was grinning triumphantly, showing little apparent effort. Harry read further and saw that following a leg injury, Kleeman had switched to rowing, where he had quickly won a place in the college first team, helping them to two successive state championships.

  ‘Strong,’ Rik commented. He knew what Harry was thinking and added, ‘Stronger than he looks.’

  Harry nodded. ‘It’s him.’

  Two hours later, as he was studying the photo of the man at the ATM machine near Carvalho’s place, Dosario called again.

  ‘Bingo.’ The FBI man sounded purposeful. ‘It looks like Kassim took a direct shuttle to Chicago. One of the airport security officers spotted his face on a tape, filmed on the boarding ramp. A bit grainy, but it matches the photo found in the trash can. I’ve alerted Chicago to check the security footage for everyone coming off that shuttle.’

  Harry glanced at his watch. By then it would be too late. He’d searched security tapes himself and knew how long it took. Kassim was still ahead of them. ‘He’ll be long gone by now.’

  ‘True. But we can still check the cameras. If he’s heading outside the US, he has to present his passport. If any names match up on two flights, we’re a step closer. We’ll follow this guy all the way across the world if we have to.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Harry heard the frustration in his own voice. They were all playing catch-up. ‘How about lab analysis of the beret fragment?’

  ‘Blood and saliva . . . some grease, too . . . probably sweat and hair gel. If we get matching substances, we can nail down the provenance. If we can get to the girl’s remains we might be able to run a DNA test and compare them. Same with Bikovsky. If either of them came near that piece of cloth, we’ll prove it. But it’ll take time.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Harry said drily. ‘Find Bikovsky before Eddie Cruz’s friends do, or you’ll be testing body parts.’

  ‘What about Kleeman? This could be FBI jurisdiction, you realize?’

  ‘I know. But I’d rather we argued over that later. Right now it’s a UN matter, especially as he’s in Europe. I’ve got to make sure Kassim doesn’t get near him.’

  He called Deane, filling him in on Bikovsky’s statement and the news of Kassim’s latest movements. As they were speaking on an open line, he avoided using Kleeman’s name directly.

  Deane’s voice came back dull with shock. ‘You think Bikovsky was telling the truth?’

  ‘I do, yes. But there’s no way of knowing until we have the DNA tests.’

  The line ticked as Deane digested the information, and Harry guessed he was picturing the compound, swept by wind and rain and threatened by the possibility of gunfire from the surrounding hills; of a young girl hiding inside the cabins. On one hand she’d have been terrified of discovery, on the other she would have surely felt she was safe among the friendly faces and uniforms of the peacekeepers . . . but finding that her situation was nothing of the sort. He was also likely to be picturing the girl in some dark and dirty corner of the Portakabins, a hand clamped over her mouth to prevent her calling out.

  ‘How was it possible?’ Deane asked finally. ‘I mean, you know the layout of the buildings there. Could he – anyone – have actually done this thing with all those people around?’

  ‘Apart from the guard detail,’ Harry replied calmly, ‘everyone was asleep. It had been a tough couple of days; nobody was volunteering to stay awake when they could get some shut-eye. There were a couple of rooms which weren’t used, so it’s possible the girl was hiding in one of them. But the rain was hard and making a lot of noise. Whoever did it would have been aware of the guard patrol and could have slipped out the back door without being seen.’

  ‘Lubeszki confirmed your thoughts: that she was probably thrown over the fence from the inside. That would have taken some strength.’

  ‘She weighed next to nothing,’ Harry replied. The thought made him feel sad, picturing the lifeless body being punted into the air like a sack of potatoes, to land with a sickening thud on the far side of the wire. He took a deep breath. This was where things could get difficult, but he had to say it. ‘But for a collegiate and Greco-Roman state wrestling champion, used to throwing men his own size around, how hard would an undernourished child have been?’

  ‘What?’ Deane sounded strangled. ‘Kleeman?’

  ‘Look at his background,’ said Harry, and cut the connection. It was brutal but he knew Deane would have no option but to run a check.

  He sat and waited.

  FORTY-SIX

  ‘You were right.’ The wait had been less than twenty minutes. ‘I should have noticed. I’ve seen Kleeman in the gym; he’s not big, but he’s strong. I hear he joined the in-house judo club until he found there was no one could match him on the mat. He was into wrestling and rowing in a big way at college, so, yeah . . . I guess.’

  Harry didn’t say anything. It must have been a shock for Deane to find out that Kleeman, a rising star of the UN, had feet of clay. But it had been necessary for him to discover it himself. Anything less would have been dismissed as speculation. Even so, he was surprised that he hadn’t had a fight on his hands.

  ‘Jesus, Harry, are we both saying we believe this? Have I got to ask a UN Special Envoy for a blood test?’ He sounded appalled at the notion, using Kleeman’s name and title openly now. ‘Have you any idea what that would do to us if it got out? That’s even assuming I’d be allowed to ask him.’

  Harry wondered if Deane was after some kind of approval to look the other way and pretend it was all beyond the realms of reason. Keep the name of the UN spotlessly clean no matter what. Then he realized he was being unfair; Ken Deane would no more sanction that than fly to the moon.

  ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘I guess. But that someone ain’t gonna be me. This is where my esteemed superior gets to earn his paycheck. However, before I go speak to him, I need your report – Dosario’s and Pendry’s, too – and the statement from Bikovsky. If the shit’s gonna hit the fan, I need as many people backing me up as I can find, otherwise I could find myself counting ice-floes in the Arctic Circle.’ What he meant was, the more people involved, the more difficult it would be for anyone to arrange a cover-up. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘We’re getting that flight to Pristina.’ It seemed many days since Deane had first arranged a military jet to the Slatina air base in Kosovo, so much had happened.

  ‘That reminds me, not so interesting but important. The FBI has been looking at the travel agency name you sent me.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘If it wasn’t before, it is now. Remzi’s been in the US for about twenty years. He came originally from – surprise, surprise – near Pristina in Kosovo.’

  ‘Anything known?’

  ‘Not a thing. He’s the original faceless man. No criminal record, clean bill with the IRS and he pays all his parking tickets on the nail. Model freaking citizen, in fact. If he gives up anything about Kassim, I’ll let you know.’

  Harry was surprised to hear Deane swear, and guessed the frustration of not being able to get ahead of Kassim was getting to him.

  ‘How real is the connection to HIG – Hezb-e-Islami?’ He’d been sceptical at first when Deane had sent him the breakdown of the inter-intelligence agency analyses. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to make a weird kind of sense. Presented with someone like Kassim and his thirst for revenge, any organization looking to make a tactical strike against the UN using the power of the press and the internet, both of which they could harness simply by releasing the news, could hardly fail to make an impact.

  ‘It’s real enough. The bigwigs’ thinking is that HIG is acting as a facilitator for a bunch of different groups – but mostly themselves. Anything that puts a dent in the UN right now is fine by them. And if they can put an end to the
career of a hotshot like Kleeman at the same time, all to the good.’

  ‘One hand washes the other.’

  ‘Exactly. And the ripples move outwards, causing a lot of turbulence. It’s win-win for them: they get to dictate what happens and gain the kudos, but at no great risk.’

  It was a different kind of war, thought Harry, but a war all the same.

  ‘It’ll soon be old hat,’ Deane continued. ‘You and I know that. But it’s already achieved what they wanted, which is to undermine us.’

  ‘And Kleeman.’

  ‘Yeah, Kleeman. Even if we find by some miracle that it’s all an elaborate put-up job and Kassim’s a fake, I think that asshole’s finished.’

  ‘That sounds definite.’

  ‘Well, this is for your consumption only. Five years ago, Kleeman’s wife, Rose, was admitted to a private clinic in Hyannis Port, Cape Cod. She and Kleeman had been staying on Nantucket Island. She claimed she’d choked on a piece of fish at a beach barbecue one evening, and had stopped breathing for a while. Kleeman used his UN muscle to get the US Coast Guard to fly her to the mainland.’ There was a soft rustle of paper. ‘The clinic recorded the treatment and passed a report to the local police department. During the examination they found severe bruising at the base of the throat, consistent, the ME said, with someone pressing the windpipe with both thumbs. She had related bruising to the back of the neck consistent with finger pressure, and a nurse noticed older bruising to her lower back, buttocks and legs.’

  ‘What did Kleeman say?’

  ‘Nothing. His wife said the neck thing had happened when her husband tried to dislodge the piece of fish, and the leg and back bruising was after a fall while out hiking.’

  ‘Could both be true?’

  ‘Yeah. But the clinic’s director does consultancy work with specialist medical teams. He’s seen similar lower-body injuries in rough-sex or rape victims.’