Resolution to Kill

by E. V. Seymour

‘And, yes,’ the woman continued to speak to the camera, ‘in revenge for the United Nations programme of appeasement, we have attacked and executed UN staff. We took firm and decisive action against the warlord Afrah and his men in the Sudan. It is hoped that you will learn by our actions.

  ‘As well as the kidnap of General Everett and his wife, we also claim responsibility for the abduction of Bruce Fitz, an American citizen, in Berlin and, in Paris, Jules Belgrand, a former major serving in Bosnia. Other events are planned. We victims have a voice even though we are stateless, without country, without identity, without anywhere to call home. Our common bond is the suffering inflicted on us by you.’

  The screen flickered and went blank.

  Everyone in the room was temporarily silent. Tallis struggled to contain a mass of conflicting thoughts. What had taken place before his eyes was, indeed, terrible. What had occurred in the 1990s, with a helpless world looking on, was also terrible. And yet there were consequences for those who’d perpetrated the cruellest of acts, evidenced by the number of men currently awaiting trial in The Hague. Justice was, if a little belatedly, being done and seen to be done. So why act now? He felt caught up in someone else’s cycle of violence, only this time it was a little too close to home. And yet Bosnia and Garich’s cool execution had not been mentioned, he realised. Was this an idle slip-up, or simply because there was no connection?

  ‘For your information,’ Beckett said, ‘Jules Belgrand, a fifty-five-year-old major who had rather close dealings with Radovan Karadzic, was last seen in a Paris street three days ago. Unfortunately, the French police are all over it after his wife alerted them to his missing status. If this gets out it will be only a matter of time before the French security services get stuck in.’

  ‘Why?’ Clay said. ‘Should be a gig for the cops.’

  ‘Not when the victim was supplying information about an Algerian cell.’

  ‘And if the DGSE are all over it, that could seal the fate of the other hostages.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You mentioned Belgrand had close dealings with Karadzic,’ Tallis said.

  ‘He fancied bagging him as a war criminal for the French. Unfortunately, because of Belgrand’s lust for glory, he took it upon himself to send the Americans off in the wrong direction the moment they started closing in ahead of his own schedule. Karadzic took advantage of the ensuing chaos and escaped.’

  Clay gave a snort of derision. ‘Apart from his so-called misdemeanours, how come the General’s in the picture?’

  ‘Even worse, his poor wife?’ Tallis said.

  ‘Simple,’ Asim said. ‘They were soft targets. They’ve lived in the capital for the past eight years. As you probably gathered, he’s in pretty poor health.’

  ‘Still think they’re in London?’ Clay said.

  Everyone looked to Tallis. ‘No clues from the film footage. London’s vast. They could be anywhere.’

  ‘Experience tells me kidnappers rarely travel far from the scene of the crime,’ Clay said.

  ‘Can we find where the newspaper was bought?’ Even as he said it, Tallis realised that the kidnappers had possibly made a very basic and elementary mistake.

  Asim tilted his chin, giving an imperceptible nod. ‘Now take a look at this.’ He indicated the laptop. ‘This is CCTV footage of the road outside the café where Shenton was having coffee. We’ve applied the latest face recognition software to the tape.’

  Another break in the rules, Tallis thought, although he didn’t say anything. If Asim and Beckett followed standard procedure, both copies of film footage would be handed over to analysts. With the type of cutting-edge technology at their disposal, an awful lot of significant detail could be gleaned, including clues that might identify where the Everetts were held. He was starting to feel surplus to requirements. Simple enough to put official intelligence officers on the trail; he was wasted here.

  ‘Paul,’ Asim said, spotting his inattention.

  Tallis forced himself to view the screen. Typical scene, trendy London street: families out in force, couples, women lugging shopping bags, single blokes, lone females…‘Pause,’ he said. ‘Run it back.’

  Asim complied. Tallis examined the tape more closely, his gaze following the progress of a tall, slim-built woman with jet-black hair and sallow skin colouring, who could best be described as a looker. She wore jeans and a black zip-up top with a hood, a white T-shirt underneath. Definitely went in and out in all the right places. Walking with an easy gait, her right arm was bent slightly at the elbow, as though pinning something to her body inside the jacket. The CD, Tallis realised. As she disappeared inside the café, she looked up briefly, an anxious expression in her eyes, then she was gone. Less than a minute later she walked back on to the street, lifted the hood on her jacket with both hands and set off along the Old Brompton Road.

  ‘Her,’ Tallis said. ‘She’s our courier, and I wouldn’t mind betting she’s Bosnian.’

  ‘We’re not in the betting business,’ Beckett said, his terse remark putting the smile back into Clay’s eyes.

  Who are you kidding? Tallis thought. The spy business was like working in a supersize casino: high stakes, gambling, bluff and counter-bluff. He ignored the remark, addressed his next to Asim. ‘I understand about no bristling techno-backup, but we really…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Asim said with a big smile. ‘The dynamics have changed. We’ll let the techs loose on this.’

  ‘And on the hostages,’ Tallis said. ‘Full profile, every bit of data, personal, finance, relationships, the works.’ If only his job was this easy. Something inside made him suspect a catch.

  ‘Same goes for our lady of the sisterhood,’ Clay said with a voice as dry as tinder. ‘She may believe she’s faceless and without ID, but in the real world there’s no such thing. These people know other people even if theirs are only low-level ties.’

  ‘I agree,’ Tallis said. ‘And that includes the person who sold the newspaper the general was holding.’

  ‘And the overview?’ Asim looked to Tallis.

  ‘Three hostages in three European capitals thousands of miles apart is a logistical nightmare. We start showing too much interest in any one place and we’ll condemn the others to certain death. As the lady said, they want revenge. To release the hostages requires more resources, especially in the area of surveillance. Frankly, it needs to be planned like a military operation.’

  ‘Right up the Alliance’s street,’ Clay said, straightening up, chin jutting out, as if he was about to salute the President. ‘We need to ascertain the power base so that we talk to the organ grinder, not his monkey. Imperative we work out a command structure.’

  Asim blinked, refrained from comment. Beckett, likewise, remained unaccountably silent. The atmosphere in the room grew uncomfortable. It was as if someone had broken wind. Tallis had spent years of his former professional life in meetings like this. He’d hated them then and he hated them now. It’s why he’d been happy to work off the books, be his own man. In spite of Asim’s assurances to the contrary, he’d sensed with this operation he’d never get beyond the office talk. And now?

  ‘Threat assessment,’ Asim said, breaking the silence. ‘Any thoughts on the hostage-takers?’

  ‘Ideological and reckless,’ Clay said. ‘Should make a mistake sooner rather than later.’

  Asim looked again to Tallis.

  ‘Theirs is a broad church. In fact, their differences are what make them unique. You could say they’re multi-denominational. No ethnic boundaries, no cultural divisions.’

  ‘Yeah, the Serbs kicked the shit out of the Muslims,’ Clay said.

  ‘And vice versa,’ Tallis said. ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend?’

  Tallis nodded. ‘The UN and, by default, America.’

  Clay let out a low whistle. ‘Kind of strange. Lots of Republicans would like nothing better than to pull out of the UN.’

  ‘Thank God they
’re not in power, then,’ Beckett said with a condescending smile.

  ‘Should we keep Chatelle informed?’ Tallis said.

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ Asim said, ignoring a sharp look from Beckett.

  ‘One other thing,’ Tallis said. ‘For a group with allegedly hundreds of members across the world, they run a highly organised and slick operation. Doesn’t compute. These are women who’ve come out of war zones, with few, if any, resources, and rank possibly below even refugee status. Yes, they’re survivors. My guess is that somebody’s running the show.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Clay said, ‘but it’s as possible there’s no internal command structure. Just a group of disgruntled women talking and plotting, the strategy evolving more or less haphazardly.’

  ‘Don’t buy it,’ Tallis said, giving Clay a level look. ‘What about the speech? You really think she wrote it? More likely, someone higher up the food chain penned it for her. Someone with a very clear agenda.’

  At this, Clay’s features sharpened, his eyes assuming the beady look of a magpie about to peck at roadkill. ‘So it isn’t a normal hostage-rescue situation,’ he said, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. ‘We still have to get these people back, what’s left of them,’ he said, vigorously chewing.

  ‘And take at least one of the kidnappers alive,’ Tallis said, looking to Asim for guidance.

  ‘Agreed’.

  ‘The general and his wife were abducted from their home,’ Beckett said. ‘We should be able to get a positive identity on the hostage-takers from visuals and from DNA left at the crime scene. Get over there. Check it out. In the meantime we’ll pass this,’ he said, pointing to the CD, ‘to the technicians. Reconvene here at 2200 hours. If we’re going to save these people, we’re going to have to move fast.’

  The Boxster prowled down Chalk Farm Road. Lights from cafés and bars sprinkled the dusk.

  ‘So, big boy, what now?’ Clay offered Tallis some gum. Tallis helped himself.

  ‘We follow the plan.’

  ‘There is no plan.’ Clay scowled.

  ‘You’re only sore because your suggestion about using the Alliance didn’t meet with ringing and universal approval.’ Tallis changed up a gear, eyes strained for evidence of speed cameras.

  ‘You mean you agreed with me?’

  ‘I think there might be merit in the argument.’

  ‘Merit in the argument,’ Clay said, pulling off a passable English accent. ‘The Alliance is the expert in hostage retrieval. What’s not to like?’

  A lack of subtlety perhaps, Tallis thought. ‘We want people alive, not dead.’

  Clay gave a snort and looked out of the window. ‘You can’t negotiate with terrorists.’

  ‘Primarily because we have nothing they want, nothing with which to trade,’ Tallis pointed out darkly.

  ‘Last time I checked, we don’t do deals. If the kidnappers wanna kick ass, bring it on.’

  Tallis shook his head. ‘You really think that’s what this is all about: direct action?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Tallis glanced across at Clay. ‘This isn’t about a lot of pissy women getting their own back.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I haven’t worked it out yet.’ Tallis indicated and turned right, trying to assemble his thoughts. ‘If the kidnappers truly want to court publicity, to get their message across, they could have uploaded the tape on to the Internet. Mass publicity. Mass coverage. They didn’t. I get the feeling that the information was meant for our eyes only.’

  ‘Like Fitz’s arm?’ Clay said.

  ‘Yes,’ Tallis said, an unexpected chill attacking his spine.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Depends whether you think an amputated limb constitutes proof of life.’

  Clay stretched both his hands out in front of him and cracked his knuckles. ‘Hell of a thing doing that to a man. Think these broads took a leaf out of the Al Qaeda manual?’

  As Middle Eastern expert, Clay seemed unable to think in any other terms. Tallis shrugged.

  ‘Not traditionally renowned for their negotiating tactics, are they?’ Clay mused. ‘Far rather chop a guy’s head off and hold it up to a shocked world than talk the talk. More theatrical,’ he snickered.

  Tallis drove on, feeling weary. Global gore and violence seemed to be the twenty-first century’s new spectator sport. ‘That remark of yours about the Republicans wanting to pull out,’ he said. ‘Were you serious?’

  Clay gave a low laugh. ‘You don’t have to be Republican to hold that kind of view. Most Americans think the UN is a waste of oxygen.’

  Most Americans haven’t travelled outside God’s own country, Tallis thought, pulling up at a set of traffic lights. ‘Supposing the Alliance did get involved. How would that work?’

  Clay rolled his large shoulders and settled himself in the seat like an actor about to deliver a masterclass to a group of young hopefuls. ‘Take the Middle East as an example. When a series of car bombs goes off we study the locations, find out where Mr Terrorist lived, which buildings he frequented, people he talked to. Most important of all, we determine who is connected to whom. We find out where he’s trained, who funds him…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Tallis interjected, accelerating and pulling away, slipping up the gears. ‘Believe it or not, I’m familiar with low-grade intelligence leading to high grade.’

  ‘Then we go after his family and kick the fuck out of them.’

  Tallis glanced at Clay, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Works every time.’ Clay shrugged. ‘Cut their balls off if you have to.’

  ‘Our terrorists don’t have balls,’ Tallis said with dry humour, ‘or family.’ Because the world stood by and watched while they were slaughtered in their beds.

  ‘But you get my drift?’

  ‘I do.’ He bet Clay was a firm believer in compulsory water boarding for detainees, too.

  ‘Good. Know something else?’ Clay said, a smile in his voice.

  ‘Surprise me,’ Tallis said, eyes on the house up ahead.

  ‘Contrary to the impression I gave earlier, I’m not a real fan of gadgets. They lack subtlety.’

  ‘At last, something we agree on.’ Tallis pulled into a car parking space.

  Clay looked across to Tallis, flashed an off-centre smile. ‘Apart from drones, that is.’

  Before I left, Sabina took me on a tour of the apartment. There were five rooms: a large bedroom with an en suite that led out to the narrow hallway, another large room equipped with a television and sofa bed, table and chairs, a modern kitchen and, at the other end, a small bedroom. Only the main bedroom and hall were carpeted, the rest of the apartment featuring pale wood flooring. It was bare and modern. No books, no ornaments. Sabina showed me a lovely view of the trees from the window.

  ‘What does Valmir do when you are with a client?’ I asked.

  ‘He sits next door watching television.’

  That night, Thomas went to the apartment as arranged. For the honour of sleeping with Sabina he had already handed over two hundred and fifty euros. I did not like to think of what she had to do to command so high a price. Perhaps Valmir was simply making a point: she belonged to him.

  Valmir was there to open the door. Security-conscious, he ordered Thomas to strip in the hallway before entering the bedroom. Valmir did this with all the clients, Sabina had already informed me.

  Once he was inside the room, Thomas and Sabina pretended to initiate sex. The television blasting into life from the other room was Sabina’s signal to creep out into the hallway via the en suite bathroom and let me in. This she did. I entered armed with a thin-bladed knife.

  I had never killed anyone before, yet I knew exactly what to do, how it would feel, what it would look and sound like, even how it would smell. Did I worry for my own safety? No. My only concern was Sabina and setting her free.

  Silently I followed Sabina back through the bathroom
and into the bedroom. Thomas was already dressed. Hollow-eyed and sweating, he looked a picture of terror. I touched his arm, encouraging him to take heart.

  We took up our positions: mine, behind the door; Thomas, the other side of the room near the blinds at the window; Sabina kneeling on the bed and facing the door to the sitting room. I looked at them in turn, met their worried gaze and willed them to be strong.

  Sabina let out a loud scream. The door flew open, Valmir’s hulking presence inhabiting first the doorway, then the room. Still yelling and screaming, Sabina gestured towards Thomas. As Valmir crossed the floor, I rushed and struck, the point of the blade entering his neck. He let out a roar. I struck again, aiming for a vein, then again. It was as if a switch had gone off inside my head. The only taste in my mouth was hatred.

  Valmir lashed out with one arm, spun me around, then hit me hard in the stomach. Extreme pain ricocheted through my body. More blows. My head tumbled with noise. Blood spattered my face – soft, like warm rain. He punched me again, this time dashing me to the floor. Then he was on top, his weight crushing and dissolving into me so that I could not breathe. I think then that Sabina flew at him, pounding his back with her fists, striking him on the side of his head, like someone trying to separate two mad fighting dogs. All I could remember was his yellow-rimmed eyes drilling into mine, willing me to die. With each blow, more blood flowed, his and mine, yet I would not release my grip on the knife, the blade still so firmly in my hand.

  I felt myself floating, barely able to move, memories of the night the soldiers came and slaughtered my family fusing with the present. I thought my time had come to join them. Part of me was ready. I tried to speak, but there was no air in my lungs. I heard Thomas shouting as if he were my voice. Valmir arched and shuddered, his skull smashing against my face. More shouting. Thomas pulling at me, transporting me from the brink. Sabina weeping. My bloodstained hand empty.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Beckett looked thunderous. Asim maintained his normal cool composure.

  They were back in the hotel room, pooling intelligence over a plate of curled-up cheese and tomato sandwiches and bitter-tasting coffee. Tallis and Clay had reported their findings at the general’s house: no sign of forced entry or exit; two letters applying for the post of housekeeper left on a table, suggesting this was how the kidnappers initially gained access; DNA not belonging to either of the Americans collected and examined – results pending; nothing on the general’s computer; message of interest left on the landline.