Resolution to Kill

by E. V. Seymour

  Grim, he pushed back the duvet, swung his legs out of bed and, naked, went through to the living room. The remaining third of a bottle of whisky, its cap on the floor, greeted him. In spite of drinking far more than he should have done, he felt no sickness, no headache, no dehydration. He felt vacant, as if his emotions had been stripped away and buried. He bent down, screwed the top back on and, crossing the floor, tweaked back the curtain. There had been a changeover. The Audi was back in place, this time with a male and female occupant. He wondered if they were really watching or simply messing with him. Undoubtedly the security services had more pressing matters with which to occupy its time. That they were wasting it on him made no sense.

  Retreating to the bathroom, he took a leak and splashed water over his hands and face. His reflection in the mirror spoke of a man who had struggled with making a difficult choice, but nevertheless had taken it. The violet shadows under his empty eyes told him so. Recoiling, he dragged on a towelling robe, headed for the kitchen, put on the kettle and, while it boiled, fired up his computer and booked a flight first to Berlin that afternoon and then from Berlin to Sarajevo via Vienna and Zagreb the following evening. Yes, they would know, he thought, but they couldn’t monitor him for ever. Wasn’t feasible. Wasn’t a good use of resources. At some stage, they’d make their move. When they did he’d be ready.

  He made a pot of tea, properly as his mother had taught him, thought of her ramping up the pain in his heart. It was one thing to walk out of his own life, how could he tell her that he was walking out of hers?

  Pushing the question aside, he went to the bedroom to pack. He’d always been good at throwing vital stuff together. This time was different. This time there would be no return. Not scared easily, a small, alien part of him registered fear: of the unknown, of the unquantifiable. Casting the destructive thought aside, he set his mind to dealing with the next ten minutes, then the next ten minutes after that. Within the hour he had showered, shaved, dressed, eaten, found his private stash of money, which looked untouched, his ‘dummy’ wallet with false ID, three forged passports, maps and two holdalls. These were now his sole possessions. The possibility that he would venture no further than the bus stop at the end of the road, his way blocked by the surveillance team, occurred to him, but it was a risk he was prepared to take.

  He took one last look at his surroundings. It seemed odd to be leaving his precious collection of CDs and books, his sole legacy, behind. He thought he would miss the birds in the back garden most, even the sodding cats from next door, he thought with a sad smile. Mostly, he mourned missed opportunities, missed possibilities, the ending of meaningful relationships. He couldn’t afford to consider what others might think of his disappearance, whether they would feel pain and anger at his absence. Even so, he ran the tips of his fingers along the wall near the living-room window for the final time then, keeping his gaze steady, opened and shut the front door behind him and walked down the path and on to the street.

  Sun swarmed over his back. Adjusting his sunglasses, he angled his head so that he had a good look at the team as he sauntered past. A smile flickering on his lips, he was letting them know that he knew. He expected the doors of the Audi to fly open, for him to be tackled, wrestled to the ground and arrested, or worse. Nothing happened. Not part of the plan, then.

  As far as he could be certain, he wasn’t followed as he caught a number nine bus to New Street Station and travelled to Birmingham International for the customary two-hour wait before his flight. There, using a payphone, he called his mother.

  ‘Paul, for goodness’ sake, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for weeks. Where have you been?’

  ‘Away on business. Sorry.’

  Normally his mother would have responded by quizzing him about the precise nature of the ‘business’ in which he was engaged. She had more pressing concerns. ‘Dario’s dead,’ she burst out. ‘Goran, too.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘You must have known?’

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘But you were there.’

  ‘I came back to the UK.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Have to check my diary,’ he said, knowing that he sounded vague and guilty. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh my God, you don’t know?’ she gabbled. ‘There was a police shootout, a case of mistaken identity, Jana said. She…’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘What?’

  He closed his eyes, knuckled his forehead with his free hand. ‘I’m going away,’ he began, his voice thick with emotion.

  ‘Away? You’ve just come back. Where are you going?’

  I can’t tell you. Blood coursed through his temple. It felt like a drum roll in his brain.

  ‘Paul, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Paul, for heaven’s sake, what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said wearily.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she screeched. She really didn’t sound like his mother at all.

  ‘I won’t be back for a long time,’ he forced himself to say.

  ‘How long?’ A note of fear crept into her voice.

  ‘Give my love to Hannah, the kids.’

  ‘Paul? What’s wrong? You sound strange. You…’

  ‘I love you, Mum. They’re calling my flight. Have to go.’

  ‘Paul,’ she cried again, his name the last word spoken.

  As soon as he’d cleared Customs, Tallis called Schwartz from a payphone. From the timbre of his voice, he knew nothing of Tallis’s fallen status; Schwartz had problems of his own.

  ‘That bastard Alia,’ he fumed. ‘Only got a burn notice slapped on him.’

  Meant he was not to be touched. Obviously, the powers that be had discovered something dodgy about Alia and had done the decent thing and informed Schwartz. Tallis could well understand Schwartz’s irritation. He was probably considering whether the information Alia had supplied was fabricated. Tallis thought back to the meeting, wondered whether Alia was really playing for the home team.

  ‘When did it kick in?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Harry, do you remember Alia mentioned a guy called Bilal?’

  ‘Bilal Zogu, the Albanian. What of him?’

  ‘I heard he hangs out in Charlottenburg.’

  ‘Joachimstaler Strasse, not the nicest part of town. He’s of no strategic interest to us, and the cops tend to leave him alone.’ That scary, Tallis thought, considering where he could get his hands on a firearm. ‘Do you want to hook up?’ Schwartz said.

  ‘Can’t, Harry. Literally passing through.’

  Tallis took a cab to Kurfurstendamm and stepped out near the Holiday Inn, where he booked in for one night only. Dropping his gear, he was back out on the street within half an hour. It was almost seven in the evening.

  Charlottenburg was an area in two parts: culture versus crime. Policed by the East during the cold war, and consequently of a grim and depressing demeanour, it was given a modern makeover some twenty years before. Sadly, bits of it had reverted to type. Any other part of town would have looked attractive in the evening sunshine. Not so the seedy set of streets populated by bars, clubs and strip joints that Tallis now found himself in. It wasn’t the type of area where you hung around asking for information, especially information about the current Albanian crime lord. This time he had to rely solely on what he could see and hear, which wasn’t much.

  An hour later he was still wandering the streets and feeling hungry. By now, some of the clubs were waking up. Loud disco music pumped out of open doorways at ear-bleeding volume. Ravenous, Tallis stopped at one of the many food stalls serving currywurst, a snack of bratwurst sausage smothered in curry sauce. In exchange for an exorbitant amount of euros, he took his dinner and set up camp on a street corner, munching and watching and munching some more. Finally licking his fingers and dumping the empty plastic tray in a litterbin, he wandered into the nearest squalid-looking bar. His knowledge of A
lbanian gangs was patchy but, in common with other outfits, the main man was usually closely guarded, the gangs run with military precision, drivers, contact men and safe-house keepers all having defined roles. The head honcho generally didn’t flaunt his wealth, yet money and its acquisition certainly made the blood course through his veins. The same could be said for many crime bosses, yet Tallis believed that the Albanians were in a class of their own. Hailing from a country that had been the least economically developed and most isolated in Europe, the average Albanian criminal was highly dysfunctional with something special, and usually psychopathic, to prove.

  Taking a quick look round, it didn’t take Tallis long to establish that there was nothing or nobody of interest, including anyone who had him under surveillance. He swiftly left and moved on to the next bar, then the one after that. It was after ten by the time he’d covered both sides of the street. He’d encountered hard men, drug pushers, addicts and winos, but nobody of an Albanian persuasion, or anyone who admitted to it. Not that it mattered. He’d had a better idea.

  Germany, like most European countries, had strict licensing laws with regard to firearms, not that this bothered the average criminal. It came down to contacts. Applying that same criteria, Tallis backtracked to one of the seedier bars, ordered a beer and struck up a conversation with the bartender. Twenty minutes later, and thirty euros lighter, Tallis was introduced to a

  reedy-looking German with a prominent chin and spiky blond hair called Klaus. Klaus was probably in his late twenties. He wore a striped navy and white T-shirt and cut-off denims, which gave him the appearance of an eighteenth-century cabin boy. Tallis offered him a beer. Klaus politely refused with a smile.

  ‘Not when I’m working.’

  Tallis nodded his approval. Guns and alcohol were never happy bedfellows. ‘You want a gun?’ Klaus said, coming straight to the point.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Guns are easy. Ammo is difficult.’

  ‘I need both.’

  ‘What exactly are you looking for?’

  ‘Nine-millimetre automatic, Glock would be good and I need it clean,’ Tallis added. He didn’t want a weapon with a dirty history to which he could be attached.

  ‘Will cost you more.’

  ‘I’m prepared to pay.’

  ‘Cool,’ Klaus said. ‘I will call my armourer.’

  Half an hour later Tallis stood jammed behind the locked door of a cubicle in the men’s room with Klaus and a guy called Wilhelm. Short, stocky and red-faced, Wilhelm, with his bag of tools as he referred to them, resembled your friendly neighbourhood plumber. As requested, he handed Tallis a Glock, type 17 with ammunition. Tallis took it, checked the chamber and loaded a magazine.

  ‘You like?’ Wilhelm beamed.

  ‘I do,’ Tallis said, peeling off a wad of notes, the asking price eight hundred euros for Wilhelm and two hundred for Klaus.

  Job done, Tallis exited the toilet and bar and headed for Bahnhof Zoo, or Zoo Railway Station. Immortalised by U2 in song, it remained notorious at night for its pushers, prostitutes and drug users. Where better place to find a connection to Bilal? he thought. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The simple mention of the name induced collective panic. Most shuffled off in the opposite direction, some told him to go screw himself; others warned him that if he valued his health he’d best forget the man built like an ox. The offer of easy money changed nothing. Bilal was off-limits. Dispirited, Tallis headed off, taking a circuitous route back towards the hotel.

  The streets were alive with people and noise. Illuminated signs veined the night sky with light. A strong smell of dope scented the air. Crossing a road near Joachim Strasse, Tallis noticed something odd. Free parking in side streets meant they were usually rammed with vehicles, particularly around the clubs. The brand-new black E500 Mercedes Sport Coupe parked a hundred metres away had the street to itself. He wondered to whom it belonged, who commanded that level of power. Then he looked at the number plate. In Germany personalised plates were forbidden. However, for a fee a driver could select certain personalised initials. The selection started with the name of the city followed by two of the owner’s initials, and a number of significance, for example a date of birth. The Mercedes registration read: B BZ 1963. Put another way: Berlin, Bilal Zogu, born in 1963.

  While wondering when to time his next move, the Mercedes suddenly started up and prowled down the street, its dark-tinted windows and shiny black paintwork giving it the appearance of a moving coffin. Showing respect, several young men with shaved heads turned, faces filled with awe.

  Tallis speeded up and criss-crossed through gaggles of club-goers and users looking to score when, without warning, he had the strong, unshakeable sensation that someone was watching him. That this was the perfect place for his elimination streaked through his mind.

  As naturally as possible he reached into his jacket and slipped out his phone. Making a play of answering a call, he took a long look behind him and scanned the sea of human faces. It cost him precious seconds. By the time he was satisfied that nobody lurked in the shadows, the Mercedes had disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sleep was patchy. When Tallis finally came to he felt as depressed as if he’d woken up in a wet tent with a hangover. Shaking himself out of it, he took a long hot shower, dressed, ate a European-style breakfast and quickly retraced his route of the previous night. Basted in sunshine, the area seemed less threatening, like a hellraising rock god past his prime.

  Intent on widening the search, he concentrated on the low-key three-and four-storey apartment blocks, the no-show pads that dotted August Platz. Some had designated parking lots, but there was no sign of the Mercedes in the street or otherwise. About to walk back towards the main drag, he caught a glint of black in the morning sun. Wired, he paused, ears tuned to the low engine note, a triumph of German engineering and modern technology, and watched as the vehicle stopped and parked metres away and three men climbed out: a thin-faced driver, roughly two hundred and fifty pounds of mean-faced muscle, and a bullet-headed guy built like a small ox. Bilal, Tallis realised from Schwartz’s description. He edged closer, caught a burst of spoken Albanian or ‘shqip’. The driver pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them round, each of them going through the ritual of lighting up. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Tallis moved off, ambling in the direction of an old man wearing an apron with a selection of rags tied round his portly middle. A window-cleaner, he had a bucket in one hand and squeegee mop in the other. Florid-faced, he appeared to be suffering in the heat. Tallis smiled and engaged him in conversation, ensuring that he had a clear view of the Albanians as they trooped into the apartment block. The driver, he noticed, pushed and held open the door for Bilal, a gesture confirming that Bilal was top of the food chain.

  The old guy prattled on about the difficulties of shinning up a ladder in such weather and at his age. Tallis mumbled sympathetic agreement, swiftly made his excuses and disappeared inside the white-painted entrance. Enveloped in a fug of nicotine, he followed the smoke trail up two flights of stairs, tracing it to a rear-facing apartment. Now what? With no doubt in his mind that he was outgunned and outnumbered, shock and awe was his only option.

  Scooting back down the stairs, he found the window-cleaner propping his ladder against the back of the apartment block. Rubbing his jaw, his fleshy brow creased with concentration, the old man looked as if he were preparing to ascend Mount Everest.

  ‘Here,’ Tallis said, handing him fifty euros. ‘I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘You pay me to do my job?’ The old man’s eyes rolled, mystified.

  ‘That’s right. Look, there’s a café round the corner. Why don’t you take a break, rest your feet a little?’

  The window cleaner frowned and took a step back, suspicious.

  Tallis persisted. ‘It’s way too hot. You might get dizzy.’

  ‘No,’ the old man said, shaking his head slowly. ‘I couldn’t allow it.’

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sp; ‘Why not?’ Tallis leant in close to the old man, lowered his voice, a big smile on his face. ‘Actually, I want to surprise someone.’

  The old man looked up, his expression softening.

  ‘My girlfriend,’ Tallis said, spreading his hands. ‘We had a row last night. I want to make it up to her.’

  ‘Ach, a woman.’ The old man gave a worldly chuckle.

  Tallis nodded. ‘You’d be doing me a big favour.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Out popped a grubby handkerchief with which the window-cleaner proceeded to mop his brow, surreptitiously eyeing the upper-floor windows. ‘I suppose I could have a cold drink and come back.’

  ‘You do that.’ Tallis seized the mop and ladder and went to walk away.

  ‘Wait, you’ll need these,’ the old man said, whipping off his apron and belt of rags. ‘Make it look like the real thing.’ He winked.

  Minutes later Tallis was suspended three-quarters of the way up a double-length ladder, bucket in one hand, mop in the other, going through the motions. He’d already clocked the ugly cast-iron balcony that flanked the Albanians’ apartment. With the weather so warm, he’d hoped that the sliding windows leading to the living quarters would be open. No such luck.

  Edging his way up, his eyes level with the top of the rail, he had seconds to assess the layout and the position of the players behind the glass. Bilal, back to him, seated on a sofa, chugging on a cigarette; the minder opposite, weapon clearly visible; driver absent. Tallis levered himself over the side, crossed the balcony and tapped boldly on the window.

  ‘Wasser,’ he cried, pointing at the bucket.

  Bilal swivelled his eyes, an extraordinary shade of green, almost yellow at the edges, and threw a gesture. At once the minder was on his feet, striding towards Tallis, shaking his huge head. Tallis hiked both shoulders, assumed an expression of addled incomprehension, and repeated his request. In response Bilal barked something to which muscleman opened his mouth, threw back his head and laughed, revealing several molars filled with gold. Like a fool, Tallis forced a smile, as if sharing the joke. The minder’s face darkened. The sliding doors wrenched open.