Retribution

by Adrian Magson

  He peered through a crack in the front of the building, watching and listening for signs of movement. He had counted five security patrols during the few hours he had been here, checking papers and people, but they had no regularity or set pattern. The last one had passed by just five minutes ago, and he had lain still, waiting for it to pass. So far there had been no attempt to check the building. That might happen at daylight.

  Now he had to move.

  The rain was like a cold slap in the face, making his skin itch. He pulled his coat around him and slid along the street. His destination was the National Library. He had scouted it out late last night, studying the building and the ground around it.

  It was here that Kleeman was due to come in just a few hours.

  Kassim slid across the street known as Agim Ramadani and worked his way around the edge of the open area encompassing the library complex to the rear of the building, watching for patrols. The security here seemed lax, but he guessed the bulk of the effort would be reserved for later, in the two hours before Kleeman’s visit. By then it would be as tight as a drum.

  By then he would be inside.

  He sat for a few minutes, tuning in to the dark and allowing his breathing to settle. When he’d got his bearings he reached down and felt for a large section of prefabricated aluminium casing, part of an abandoned central heating system which had never been cleared away. By chance, his earlier foray had shown a maintenance plate on the wall revealing what lay underneath. He eased the aluminium carefully to one side to reveal a square inspection panel set in the ground. It had a lifting ring in one side. A faint grinding noise and the panel came up, bringing with it a gust of foul air. Kassim ignored it; he’d been in worse and could live with whatever was down there. He felt for the rungs of a ladder and stepped down carefully until his shoulders were level with the ground. Then he pulled a paper package from his coat pocket. As he unwrapped it, the pungent smell of human excrement rose to his nose. He dropped part of it on the ground at the lip of the hatch, and some on the lid itself. The paper he discarded on the ground nearby. It would be enough to confuse any patrol dogs.

  His final move was to tug the aluminium casing over the panel, then lower both to the ground, concealing his point of entry.

  At the base of the ladder he squatted in a pool of water and took a slim torch from his pocket. He flicked it on, illuminating a small tunnel, the light reflecting off curved walls glistening with damp and hung with wet, viscous strands of cobwebs. The atmosphere here was musty and heavy. Halfway along the tunnel walls were two openings, each the size of a man’s head. They were the out pipes from the library sewage system. Beneath them was an area of crusted sludge. He knew enough about buildings to realize that there would soon be another panel above his head, this one set in the boiler-room or maintenance-room floor of the library. From there he would have access to all areas of the building.

  Kassim gritted his teeth as his stomach threatened to empty itself, ignoring the slime beneath his feet and the skittering sound of small creatures just beyond the glow of his flashlight. He began to make his way forward along the tunnel.

  FIFTY-ONE

  ‘I think Kassim’s made a move.’ Lubeszki on the phone, sounding tense.

  It was nine o’clock the following morning and Harry and Rik were sitting in a borrowed Mitsubishi four-by-four watching the close protection team assigned to Anton Kleeman comb the area around the National Library. Sniffer dogs ran excitedly around the structure seeking traces of explosives, while technicians with electronic equipment scanned for radio emissions that might betray a remote detonator. Elsewhere members of the UN police supported by military patrols made a floor-by-floor check of all the surrounding buildings to a distance of 500 yards where a sniper might gain a line-of-sight advantage. This included the art gallery, the radio station and several university buildings, all of which had virtual open access.

  ‘Three local arms and drug dealers were found shot dead yesterday evening,’ Lubeszki continued. ‘They were in a cellar in the Old Town. The police had been keeping them under surveillance, but lost contact late yesterday.’

  ‘Could it have been a turf war?’ Harry didn’t want to start chasing the shadows of a local gang feud gone bad.

  ‘Unlikely. Rivals would have made it messy – as a message to others. These guys were taken out professionally, one shot each. A kid who worked as a gofer said they had a visit from a guy wanting to buy a gun. Tall, thin, looked sick, like he was burning up. Spoke the language fluently but with an accent. A second kid took the guy in, then left them to haggle. When he went back to check but didn’t show up again, the gofer went in and found the bodies.’

  Kassim. It had to be. ‘Any idea what he got?’

  ‘Difficult to say. There was a rifle box containing a couple of used handguns and some ammo, but no rifle. Is he the sort to go for a long shot?’

  ‘Not from what we’ve seen. He likes to work up close. But I wouldn’t put it past him.’

  ‘Do you want to see the bodies?’

  ‘No. We’ll stay loose.’ It wouldn’t help, Harry decided. They were better off staying out here and trying to figure out what Kassim would do next. Much of that would depend on Kleeman’s movements, which they wouldn’t see for a while yet.

  He shifted the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun across his body. It felt awkward carrying the weapon after so long, as did the bulk of the armoured vest he, like Rik, was wearing. They had been issued with sets of borrowed combat gear so as to blend in; it seemed a contradiction, but among the many security personnel present, two civilians would stand out immediately.

  Already a substantial number of journalists had gathered, with camera crews and commentators and their portable units and satellite dishes which would transmit Kleeman’s words on to television screens around the world. They were currently being kept behind a safety cordon while a security sweep was made of the building, before being admitted into the main hall of the library.

  The Dutch UNMIK officer responsible for Kleeman’s protection team approached the car. Captain Rekker was tall and slim, his cheeks pinched white with cold. He carried a submachine gun and wore a camouflage smock over a bulletproof vest.

  ‘This is our second sweep,’ he told Harry. ‘Nothing found so far. We’ve checked the surrounding buildings out to three hundred metres, but it’s a spoiling exercise. All a gunman has to do is wait for our men to leave, then slip back in behind them. We plan to go into the library one more time, then we seal it until Kleeman arrives. Everyone here has been briefed about this Kassim and told to expect something.’

  Harry nodded, relieved the Dutchman didn’t feel his toes were being trodden on and clearly knew his job. They had made contact through Lubeszki the previous evening, and had agreed to stay clear of the building while the security checks were in progress.

  ‘What’s his likely exposure time?’ Because Kleeman’s vehicle would not be able to get right up to the building, there would be a dash of some six or seven yards to reach the door, surrounded by members of the CP team.

  ‘Ten seconds – fifteen at most. We asked him to practise, but . . .’ Rekker shrugged, his face blank but the meaning clear; Kleeman was being difficult. It was the biggest problem facing protection teams; some VIPs are oblivious to danger, others prefer to face it with equanimity in the pursuit of their jobs. Harry wasn’t sure what drove Kleeman, but suspected it had more to do with ego than courage. Whatever, it spelled danger for everyone around him if he so much as slowed down a fraction on his way from the car to the library entrance. If Kassim was out there with a rifle and had a clear field of fire, he would nail the UN envoy the moment an opportunity presented itself.

  He looked at Rekker. ‘If you want my advice, grab him by both arms and lift him inside if you have to. Deal with the hassle later. At least there’s a good chance you’ll be alive to do it.’

  ‘You think this Kassim is really here?’ The Dutchman looked concerned, not fearful. He was e
xperienced and had been in similar circumstances before.

  ‘It’s what he’s been working towards. He wouldn’t miss it.’

  ‘I’ve seen the reports.’ The captain stood away from the car as his second-in-command, a French lieutenant, signalled the all-clear. ‘OK. We are going inside. You wish to join us?’

  They walked up the mound and stepped past the clutch of security men through the entrance. The air smelled damp and musty, overlaid with a hint of coffee and spicy cooking. They could see through some swing doors into a large hall, where chairs were being laid out in rows against tables. At the far end was a small dais where technicians were setting up a batch of microphones.

  Ahead of them two sniffer dogs darted in and out of every corner and crevice, urged on by their handlers. Behind each handler stood an armed man. They were taking no chances.

  ‘They have brought in lunch,’ Rekker told them, nodding towards two women carrying plates. ‘Everything has been checked and sealed. The dogs will make a sweep, then my men will go through one more time.’

  They walked through the building, the captain pointing out obvious concealment areas such as wall cavities, cupboards, false ceilings and storerooms. Piles of books stood on vast tables, some damaged and torn, most covered in dust.

  ‘It got left when all the power went out,’ Rekker explained. ‘They’re trying to get it catalogued all over again but they can’t get the staff.’

  As they walked along a corridor between administration offices, Harry looked up at the ceiling. It was a latticework of struts supporting polystyrene tiles interspersed with neon lights.

  ‘Anything up there?’ he asked.

  The captain shook his head. ‘First place we checked. The struts won’t support a man’s weight. The whole thing is held by thin wires, so if anyone gets up there, the structure begins to move.’ He smiled grimly. ‘But we’ll check it again anyway.’

  They continued their inspection, more evidence plainly visible in the surrounding rooms of the previous searches made by the protection team. Cupboards had been left open, doors left at angles to prevent their use as blinds, inspection panels in the floor taped over with vivid yellow-and-black zebra markings, ceiling tiles removed and stacked on the floor. The skin of the building was too thin to provide concealment, and the windows were sealed shut and staked out by armed troops.

  Along the corridor from the main hall, a tiled washroom echoed with their footsteps, the air sharp with the tang of cleaning fluid and the softer scent of detergent. The cubicle doors hung open, and an inspection panel for the master cistern lay against the wall, revealing the crawl-space behind.

  Towards the rear of the building they arrived at an open door.

  ‘This leads to the basement,’ the captain explained. ‘Boiler room, storerooms – fuel storage area. There’s a single delivery chute from the outside which we’ve sealed shut.’ He led them down a flight of stairs to a series of chambers lit by single bulbs. The air smelled strongly of fuel oil and damp, and was gritty with the taste of disturbed dust.

  They passed a desk spread with yellowed papers and old, curled binders, and on the wall a line of hooks hung with grey uniform coats. Everywhere lay typical institutional evidence of a place used as a dumping ground: packing crates, scarred tables and damaged chairs, broken neon strip-lights, two ancient typewriters, old bookshelves, the detritus of used items set aside and forgotten.

  Harry walked through the rooms, passing first a huge boiler and in another a smaller one. Oil-fired, he assumed. This was confirmed by a fuel line running along the wall and disappearing through the brickwork towards the outside. The tank, he guessed – if it was still intact – was somewhere out there. He walked back to the first boiler, which was coal-fired. Sacks of solid fuel were stacked against one wall at the far end. Some had fallen over, scattering their contents across the concrete floor. Harry kicked one of the lumps, sending it skittering away into a puddle where weeks, maybe months of damp had gathered together in a scummy pool. A thin wisp of black dust rose around his ankles before settling down again in the still air. Two empty coal sacks lay crumpled nearby.

  Nothing big enough to hide a man, though.

  Back upstairs the security sweep was coming to an end and the building emptying ready for the event to begin.

  ‘How is he leaving afterwards?’ Harry asked the captain as they reached the front entrance. Something was tugging at his brain, demanding to be heard.

  The Dutchman pointed to an open stretch of ground next to the library, where a large ‘H’ had been marked off in thick white tape. ‘By air. From here he goes to the airport, gets on a flight to Frankfurt, then New York.’ He grinned. ‘I wish it was as easy for me.’ He excused himself and went to gather his team to return to the Grand Hotel to collect Kleeman, leaving Harry and Rik standing at the front entrance.

  ‘You feel anything?’ Harry asked. He was talking about that inner sense common to most security teams. He’d felt it in houses, offices – even out in the country. Sometimes he’d been proven right, others not. But he never ignored the feelings.

  And right now they were screaming out loud.

  Rik shook his head. ‘I thought I did – back there. Just for a moment. You?’

  Harry nodded. ‘He’s here. I can feel him. Something’s off but I can’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘What – inside? There’s no room for a cat to hide in there. Anyway, if he’s got a rifle . . .’

  Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Something was definitely wrong.

  They walked around the outside of the building, fetching up at the rear where maintenance men and builders had turned it into a minor wasteland of aluminium ducting, assorted wood and building materials. None of it looked as if it had been disturbed recently, and it had about it the desolate air of things man-made rendered useless. Like an old quarry long fallen into disuse.

  An UNMIK dog handler conducting a final sweep among the refuse with a sniffer dog cursed and stepped back with an expression of distaste. A piece of soiled paper was attached to his boot and he scraped it off on the ground. The dog seemed uninterested and tugged at its lead.

  The dog handler’s radio crackled into life. He looked at Harry and Rik.

  ‘Kleeman’s on his way. ETA five minutes.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  Beneath the boiler-room floor, Kassim suppressed a cough as coal dust tickled his nose. He’d listened with nerves jangling as the security sweeps had come and gone. At one point a dog had whined just inches from his head, the thickness of the inspection hatch and some coal between them. He’d pulled back in alarm before telling himself the animal wouldn’t be able to sense his presence through the dust and oil from the boiler.

  Minutes later came footsteps and the sound of something skittering across the floor. Someone had kicked a loose piece of coal. He’d closed his eyes, imagination threatening to take over as he pictured the man above kicking the layer of coal aside and spotting the outline of the inspection hatch Kassim had covered during the night. He’d balanced bags of coal against the hatch, then let it drop after descending, and listened as the rumble of coal had covered it over. But the footsteps moved away and there was the thump of a door closing.

  Kassim flicked on his torch and checked the time. Thirty minutes to go. He doubted there would be another security sweep now. It would soon be time to move.

  Before doing so, he took a last look at some maintenance drawings he’d discovered in the boiler room. They showed a tracery of access ways and utility spaces in the building, and he memorized them carefully. His life might depend on it. Then he folded them away and braced his shoulders, pushing upwards. For a second there was solid resistance, and Kassim felt a momentary panic at the thought that he’d miscalculated. Then he heard a rumbling sound across the metal hatch and saw light through a shower of coal dust pouring around him.

  He pushed all the way up and stepped into the basement, tensed for the shout that would indicate he had been seen. All
his experience told him that if he was spotted, there would be no second chance.

  He tore off his clothes and stood naked on two empty coal sacks, rubbed the black powder from his hair, ears and eyes. A bucket of water stood nearby where he had placed it hours before, ready for this. He doused his head and face, careful not to splash the surrounding concrete floor.

  This was as close as he was going to get to the ritual cleansing his trainers had insisted on in their naïveté and lack of combat experience, but he had never held himself to be that committed to the ritual, anyway. He dried himself on an old blanket, then put his shoes, trousers and shirt back on, adding one of the grey uniform coats from the wall rack. A quick check of his hair and face in a piece of broken mirror, and he was ready. He stepped towards the stairs. In the coat pocket was the solid weight of the .38 Browning with the silencer.

  Harry glanced at his watch. The press lunch was in full swing and he could see Kleeman working the crowd of journalists and officials, patting shoulders as he moved among them. His speech had been measured and controlled, skipping delicately over the more sensitive points of UN involvement in the area, and settling on matters which, while at times controversial, were calculated to set him in a good light. Firm on the continuing bouts of violence in Kosovo, he had shown a reassuring mix of anger and regret at the delays in getting aid to the more remote areas of the country.

  Surprisingly, nobody had raised the thorny issue of the murder at Mitrovica. Agreeing on the need for sensitivity due to ongoing investigations, and the desire not to inflame local feelings, it was left to their colleagues at home to do that.

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Harry. They set off round the building, passing other men patrolling in pairs. Once away from the hubbub of the meeting, the library had a ghostly feel about it, like a school at half-term.

  In a large anteroom, two UN policemen were examining a pile of books and laughing. Behind them a figure in a grey cloth coat shuffled slowly along a line of shelves with a pile of heavy tomes, placing them one by one in empty slots. He moved with the slowness of age or infirmity, and the methodical care of the worker who has a lifetime to complete his tasks.