Resolution to Kill

by E. V. Seymour

  Asim elevated an eyebrow.

  ‘And an enquiry about the post of housekeeper from a Miss Sterne,’ Clay drawled. ‘Maintained she was German. She’s the broad in the vid.’

  ‘Our Miss Sterne is, in fact, Senka Martinovic,’ Beckett said. ‘Hails originally from the Krajina region of Bosnia.’

  Tallis digested the information. The place had been hell on earth during the war, with kidnappings and shootings commonplace. Its real claim to fame, however, were the Serb-controlled concentration camps. Images of despairing-looking men, their bodies emaciated, flashed through his mind.

  ‘What about the other woman, the courier?’

  ‘We have nothing,’ Asim said.

  ‘What is she, a ghost?’ Clay cut in with cynicism. ‘You gotta have something.’

  Tallis didn’t say a word, the fact she had no traceable identity significant.

  Beckett was still speaking about Martinovic. ‘In July 1995 the Croats staged an all-out attack to reclaim territory. Martinovic’s family were caught up in the ensuing carnage,’ Beckett continued. ‘She was the only survivor.’

  ‘There’s our motive,’ Tallis butted in, taking a bite out of a sandwich and realising he hadn’t eaten anything for the past six hours.

  ‘We have a little more than that,’ Beckett added with a gleam of satisfaction. ‘Using false papers, Martinovic entered Britain as a tourist from Germany two months ago. She is wanted in connection with the murder of Dieter Mann, a former official in the German Foreign Ministry. Mann, a vigorous supporter of Croatian independence, threw spanners in a British plan to bring peace to Bosnia because he asserted that it allowed Serb attempts to overrun Croatian territory go unchallenged.’

  Buzzing white noise, Tallis frowned. ‘This is way too complicated and political. How the hell do these women possess that level of detail about specific individuals? It’s not possible.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Clay agreed. ‘Someone give them a hit list?’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Asim said softly, an elusive light in his eyes.

  ‘Then we need more people on the ground.’ Clay didn’t say it, but Tallis knew he was rooting again for Alliance involvement. ‘Three European capitals…’

  ‘Two,’ Beckett glowered, his face pale and possibly the reason for his cold mood, Tallis surmised. ‘Belgrand was found dead earlier this evening at the home of his mistress. Unfortunately, the girl, who was young enough to be his daughter, was also found - with her throat cut. As predicted, the French security services are all over it.’

  Clay visibly suppressed a groan. ‘So when Martinovic said abduction, she meant execution.’

  To keep us in play, Tallis thought. ‘Bearing in mind Belgrand was supplying information regarding an Algerian cell, we can always hope that the French automatically link it to his death.’

  ‘Slant the information in that direction?’ Beckett said, looking at Asim.

  ‘It would reveal our interest.’

  ‘We could get round it. Use your contact in the DST.’ Beckett was referring to the French Domestic security service, the MI5 equivalent.

  Tallis wondered how Asim felt about being an errand boy. It didn’t stack up. He thought Asim had the upper hand in the relationship. Looked like he was wrong.

  ‘Could be our way to get the low-down on Belgrand’s murder,’ Beckett said.

  ‘And buy us time,’ Asim pointed out, taking no visible offence.

  ‘Time for what, to go find some more bodies?’ Clay jutted his chin in the direction of the window. ‘You need to start using us guys. Weneed to get out there.’

  Tallis nodded vigorously in agreement. Important though they were, the sitting around, the working out motives and the general jawing were starting to get him down. They didn’t play to his strengths at all and they were making him restless.

  ‘We start shaking the trees, talking to every goddamn asset we have,’ Clay continued.

  Beckett cast Clay a hawkish look over his spectacles. ‘We will handle this with discretion and care, John le Carre as opposed to Tom Clancy,’ he said, trying to soften his remark with humour and failing miserably, Tallis thought.

  ‘You gonna persuade the kidnappers to give up their hostages with literary phrases?’ Clay slow-blinked.

  ‘Newspapers,’ Tallis burst out.

  ‘Dear God, the last thing we…’ Beckett began.

  ‘The place Martinovic bought the newspaper.’ He looked at Asim. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Patel’s, 159A, North Circular Road, Neasden.’

  Tallis wondered why the hell Asim had not mentioned this before. The worst thing about meetings was that the important bits got swallowed up in minutiae.

  ‘Neasden?’ Clay repeated, looking to Tallis for guidance

  ‘Multicultural melting pot, vision of suburban facelessness, the perfect place in which to disappear.’

  Clay issued a smile to Tallis. ‘Ideas?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tallis said, brightening up considerably.

  Dirk Schroder worked as a tour guide on the many boats travelling along the River Spree and Landwehrkanal. The trip was a popular boating activity in summer, and there was no shortage of tourists prepared to undertake the three-hour journey along some of the prettiest stretches of waterside scenery. The nationalities varied, but Dirk was specifically hired for his skill at speaking English. Today was no exception.

  The Traumerei had an open upper deck with a bar that also served food. The group of mostly British holidaymakers were taking advantage of the facilities while the boat made its slow soothing journey from Treptow to Kopenick in the south-east, an old town with a palace and town hall and plenty of eighteenth-century character.

  With his dark hair, greying at the temples, aristocratic features and baritone voice, Dirk regarded himself as an actor, the crew bit-players, the deck his stage. He knew precisely how to work his audience of holidaymakers, how to create and set a scene. He took pride in it. As the boat journeyed through impossibly green water, a reflection of the climbing banks of trees and plants, Dirk pointed out industrial monuments and the many quaint country inns and landmarks. In conspiratorial tones, he revealed that Berlin had more bridges than Vienna. This was the point at which he stopped, puffed out his chest a little, and paused for effect, waiting for the routine gasp of surprise. Delighted by the response, Dirk smiled, narrowed his eyes against the bright June sunshine and inhaled a deep draught of fresh air. At that moment in time he thought there was no better job in the world.

  With Germanic timing, the boat lined up to pass underneath a particularly fine ornamental cast-iron bridge. Sticking to the script, Dirk prepared to impart another nugget of information. As he was about to open his mouth, something caught his eye. The something was unidentifiable; it floated in the water, caught in one of the struts. As he peered to get a better look, a shout went up. Everyone, crew and day-trippers alike, pitched towards the starboard side of the vessel, concentrating on the bloated thing in front of them. The captain had seen it, too, and cut the engine. As they drifted closer, a woman let out a chill nerve-tingling scream. At some primitive level, Dirk’s brain processed clothes, flesh and - God in Heaven - the mutilated remnants of a human being. For all his actor’s pretensions, he missed his cue, forgetting his words completely.

  The general’s wife stretched out a hand and laid it on her husband’s forehead. Pallid, lying on a filthy blanket, his breathing shallow, he let out a low moan. Forced out of their home at gunpoint, they’d left behind the general’s prescription pills.

  Mrs Everett tried to meet the eye of the one called Bina. ‘Please, my husband has a heart condition. He needs a doctor.’

  ‘And you expect us to get one?’ Martinovic said. She had taken up her habitual stance, leaning against the wall, one foot resting lightly on the damp brickwork, pale eyes studying her

  chewed nails.

  ‘Please, I beg you…’

  ‘He needs no one.’

  They had been in the cellar for four days. To Ma
rtinovic it felt like old times, except she was the one now in control. According to the plan, in forty-eight hours they would kill the captives and move out.

  ‘He’ll die without medication,’ Mrs Everett implored.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Have you no compassion?’

  Martinovic glared at the general’s wife. Hatred came off her in waves. Bina appeared not to notice, perhaps because she was inured to it. Sitting down, her chin resting in her hands, she had a dull faraway look on her beautiful face.

  Dry sobs broke from Mrs Everett, the hysteria of the early days replaced by gnawing desperation.

  ‘We have aspirin,’ Bina said at last, stirring.

  ‘Oh thank you, my dear,’ Mrs Everett burst out, her voice constricted and expectant. ‘That would help. That would be something.’

  ‘I took the last yesterday,’ Martinovic said, sly-eyed, triumphant. ‘Hehas his guilt,’ she added, staring in the direction of the sick man. ‘I have my headaches. And you, Bina?’

  Perplexed, Bina tilted her head, her dark hair falling like a skein of black silk. Martinovic clicked her tongue as though addressing a simpleton. ‘What wounds of war do you sustain?’

  Straightening up, Bina fastened her large dark eyes on the captive couple and placed a hand over her heart. When she spoke it sounded as if she’d had a long time to consider it. ‘There was a boy in a neighbouring village. He was born with a rare condition that meant he felt no pain. He could put his hand in fire and watch the skin blister and burn. He could slice his legs with a sharp-bladed knife and feel nothing. I think I am like that boy.’

  Silence, compressed and heavy, cloaked the room, stifling the occupants. Mrs Everett finally broke, speaking directly to the one called Bina.

  ‘That’s not true. You are kind. You offered help.’ She swivelled her gaze to Martinovic. Not like her, the cruel one, her eyes conveyed.

  ‘I told you to shut up,’ Martinovic snapped.

  ‘You won’t get away with it. Our people will be looking for us…’

  Martinovic moved like a coiled spring, an arm swung back, baring the flat of her hand. Bina jumped to her feet, stood between the Serb and the cowering woman. Her eyes bored into her fellow kidnapper, facing her down. The air shifted and crackled with pent-up hostility. Martinovic wavered, slowly lowered her arm, was first to look away, first to break. ‘Her voice makes my head hurt.’ She touched her temple and winced.

  ‘Then I will get you something to kill the pain,’ Bina said.

  Martinovic shook her head. ‘It is not safe. Remember what Anna told us.’

  Bina paled, looked anxiously towards the doomed couple, conflicted. For a moment she thought she saw a fleeting flicker of awareness in the general’s glassy eyes. Not that it mattered. ‘I will not be long.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Anna would understand,’ she said, making for the cellar steps.

  Clay was disguised as a pavement artist. He had long blond dreads and wore baggy combat trousers. The dreads covered his earpiece. The combat trousers concealed his map and radio. His sleeveless tunic did nothing other than reveal an impressive set of tattoos.

  Squatting on his haunches, his aged greyhound at his side, Clay stretched out over the slabs and pretended to put a final flourish to the wings of a golden eagle. The real artist responsible for the kerbside creation was sitting in a diner, five fresh ten-pound notes in his pocket, drinking a cup of tea and eating a full English.

  Remarking on the artist’s skill, a middle-aged woman dropped a two-pound coin into the beret he’d strategically positioned near his left foot. As a matter of principle, he didn’t want some wisecrack kid running off with his takings.

  Time for a break, he leant back against the boarded-up shop window and took out his smoking kit, a pack of Rizlers and a pouch of tobacco. From his vantage point he had a clear view of the snaking main road, a huge Hindu temple and Patel’s newsagents.

  Deftly rolling a cigarette, Clay gave every appearance of nonchalance. Nobody, except perhaps another professional, would recognise that he was watching every face, every detail, and that he was on the lookout for a particular young woman. He mentally went through the checklist again: thirty-two years of age, slim build, five seven in height, jeans, hoodie, sneakers, dark features, good-looking, long black hair that might be tied back in a ponytail. Might carry a rucksack. Jeez, they all carried rucksacks.

  Most of what he did was doing nothing. He avoided eye contact. He did not strike up a conversation. He did not fall prey to boredom or disillusionment; difficult when the minutes turned to hours, the hours turned to days. It took skill. It took experience. Something he had in spades.

  He took another puff of his roll-up and narrowed his gaze through a blue-grey haze of smoke, his close-together eyes like a rolling camera. On his left, two Asian girls walking arm in arm, an old guy dragging a shopping trolley and muttering to himself, a group of gangly kids with their teacher, pinched-looking women, youths with their asses hanging out of their jeans. Two spindly lads were trying to manhandle a beast of an amplifier down a set of stone steps. He glanced away, took another drag, catching another image, this time from the right. A woman - it was definitely a woman - crossed away from him. She was dressed entirely in black: black top, black jeans, black sneakers. Her hands were thrust deep into her pockets, hoodie up in spite of the warm weather. A lock of raven-coloured hair protruded from the hood and hung down almost to her waist. Like a homing pigeon, she walked straight into Patel’s. Sweet fucking Jesus, he couldn’t believe she could be that dumb. Only went to prove that these were a ragtag bunch of nobodies.

  He returned to his art, going through the motions, let his highly developed sixth sense take over. Within minutes he was aware that the woman was back out on the street. He casually glanced up. This was the critical part. He did not want to trigger a response or transmit to her that she was being watched. On she walked. He saw that she was clutching a small paper bag containing maybe sweets or cigarettes.

  Part of an unseen two-man team, Clay spoke into the microphone clipped to his vest, alerting Tallis that the target was heading his way.

  Tallis looked up from his clipboard, adjusted his sunglasses and sauntered down the street. His face had the forced friendly smile beloved of salesmen and market researchers, people trying to elicit cash or confidences. For the past two hours he’d pretended he was carrying out a survey on behalf of a private health-care insurance company.

  Within seconds he had eyeball. It was as if the woman had a neon sign on her head. She betrayed herself with every gesture, by the way she moved with quick, panicked steps, by the manner in which she constantly flicked her head over her shoulder so that any effort to conceal her face was doomed to failure. As she trotted past he looked away, turning towards the window of a JobCentre, the adverts mainly for lorry drivers and kitchen staff.

  After fifteen precision-timed seconds he took off, keeping well back, but close enough to observe his quarry. He followed her past a hospital and school, all oblongs and squares, as if a maths teacher had designed it, over a canal bridge, then a steep-sided railway bridge, and skirted a street that looked as though it was being redeveloped only the developers had lost interest. With each step they were getting closer to what he would describe as residential suburbia, a warren of 1930s houses, the type seen from Handsworth to Hull.

  The sun was hot on his back. Sweat beaded his brow. A familiar lick of excitement coursed through his body. He was happiest when working with human geography, unimpeded by rules and regulations, and the obligation to conform.

  The woman slowed her pace, indicating that she was near her destination. She’d stopped looking over her shoulder. Past an area of waste ground cordoned off by wire mesh, she crossed into a street lined with a sea of letting boards. Tallis hung back, then followed, studying the house numbers as if he were looking for one in particular. A dog of indeterminate breed weaved towards him and peed up a nearby lamppost. Drifts of foreign lang
uages - Urdu, Bengali, Farsi - whispered in his ears, but there was no sense of community. It didn’t seem the kind of place where people knew their neighbours. Nobody shared a fag, exchanged banter or pushed a pram. Nobody twitched a curtain out of curiosity because nobody cared. And no wonder, he thought. Pavements fouled with dogshit, graffiti plastering every available piece of broken brickwork, rusting vehicles slung up half on the road and half on the pavement, it was like a vision of the world after the bomb had dropped. He also felt something inexplicable: as if he were the hunted instead of the hunter. Making a play of messing with the clipboard, he glanced around him, raking the mainly foreign-looking faces for clues that would explain why his intuition was in overdrive. Nothing connected. Nothing signalled outside the norm.

  The quarry was around two hundred metres ahead when she pulled out a set of keys from her jacket. He mentally quartered the street, working out the house numbers, how many between him and the girl, making judgements. As she finally disappeared inside, he continued slowly until, level with the building, he allowed himself a five-second glance. Number 65: front room with picture window, curtains drawn; to one side, a door painted toilet-green and peeling; one window above, no curtains; concrete garden bordered by low brick wall in poor repair. No sound. No signs of activity. No lights on.

  He continued to walk to the end of the street and called Clay. He told him they were in business.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Number 65 is rented from Saj Malik, currently in Pakistan visiting family,’ Tallis announced.