Sorting the fish into two baskets, he lowered them into the dinghy and climbed in. Idris, his oldest friend, owned a car and most days he’d drive Temel along the narrow, winding roads on a two-hour drive to the market at Safranbolu. Afterwards, the friends would sneak off to a café to drink coffee, smoke and talk.
Temel rowed with slow easy strokes, his eyes crinkled at the edges, narrowed against a soaring summer sun. When the oars touched sand, he jumped into the cold dark water and dragged the dinghy across the shingle and on to the beach. Lost in thought, enjoying the simple pleasure of the sun on his back and the smell of salt in his nostrils, he almost missed the plaintive sound of a woman’s voice. He stopped, looked to left and right, his dark eyes searching the rocky landscape. The cry came again, closer now. Puzzled, he set down the dinghy and gaped in amazement as a woman in tattered clothing staggered exhausted towards him. She wasn’t a Turk. He could understand nothing she said. Her face, a picture of misery, told its own grim story. Although not educated, Temel nevertheless recognised that a crime had taken place.
Gesticulating wildly for her to stay exactly where she was, he ran barefoot over the warm sand to raise the alarm.
Tallis plunged through the sun-starved woods, noise and speed over grace and stealth. The soldiers had a twenty-minute advantage. With prisoners in tow, that advantage shrank a little, not a lot.
Branches whipped across his face, catching his clothes. The woods, speckled with uneven light, made it difficult to focus. The rugged yet soft ground sucked at his boots.
Either lazy or desperate, the soldiers had made no effort to conceal their tracks. By calculating the stride and length of travel, Tallis estimated from the number of fresh bootmarks that a party of six soldiers and four civilians had passed that way. Nobody carried anything heavy. A freshly discarded cigarette pack and several pieces of cloth impaled on trees and bushes, mementos from those taken captive, provided further evidence of human activity. Despite these encouraging clues, his overriding fear was the sound of gunshots. It would signal the deaths of the prisoners. And if Fikret was among them…
Again he was taunted by the failure of his last mission, his inability to save another young man, a Chechen called Ruslan.
The sky turned milk-white. Light grew muted and indistinct. Dense foliage slowed his pace. He stayed doggedly to the path. The rest was no man’s land. Deviation could trigger a mine. Small comfort that the same held true for the enemy.
On the upside, he could clearly see where scrub had been moved and pushed aside, twigs and branches fractured by the fleeing soldiers. A strong smell of sap and sweat hung in the air. One set of prints suggested that one of the soldiers had fallen behind, a heavier indentation left by one leg favouring the other, the earth around it splattered with blood. Tallis moved on as quickly as he could, trying to muffle the sound of his flight through the forest, eyes scanning the mass of rolling green. Chances were the injured man was near. However gravely injured, he’d still be armed and a noisy exchange of gunfire could not be risked.
The track opened up, revealing a steep descent to a wooden bridge and stream, the ground on either side carpeted with wild flowers. Sliding down scree, he crossed to the other side and ascended a short bank that led to a makeshift stile and field. Vaulting the rungs, he had an unrestricted view of cows and pasture bordered by more woods and forest. Open ground offered no cover or respite for fleeing men, but there was neither sign of the soldiers nor prisoners.
Tallis crouched and ran his hand through the grass, fingers striking a stone that had been knocked out of its natural depression in the earth. Following the stone’s trajectory, he glanced to his left, spotted a remnant of yellow clothing snagged on barbed wire. That way, he thought, grabbing a low branch of a tree and swinging himself over the fence, the shot fired from less than fifteen metres ahead singeing his cheek. He dropped down, awkwardly rolling his ankle, and lay flat against the earth. Raising his head slightly, he pinpointed a grey-faced soldier, head lolled over a shirt soaked in blood, legs splayed, torso slumped against the gnarled bark of an oak tree, a pistol in his hand clutched with the same tenacity as a child clings to a comfort blanket.
One shot was allowable; the others might reasonably presume the injured man had either taken his own life or the life of their pursuer, Tallis reasoned. More than one would sound the alarm.
Jacking himself up on his hands and knees, ignoring the stinging pain in his ankle, Tallis moved at a half crouch, zigzagging, the man’s groans of pain masking the noise of the ground crackling as he drew close. Doubling back on his tracks, he slipped a Swiss army knife from his jacket and prepared to pounce. Then a branch snapped underneath his boots. Immediately the man raised one arm, preparing to fire the pistol for a second time. Darting out, Tallis kicked the pistol aside and clasped one hand over the injured soldier’s mouth, the other pressing the blade to his throat, slicing down and across.
The sound of barked orders from somewhere deeper in the forest drew him up short. With no visual contact, he stood still, body tensed, ears keening. Another sound, crying, travelled on the breeze. Tallis crept slowly forward. The wood was mostly shadow. Ahead, he glimpsed a clearing, figures on the move: soldiers and boys.
Kicking off the back foot, muzzling the pain from his injured ankle, Tallis sprang through the forest as if he were the hunted. The soldiers were shouting now, yelling at the prisoners, hitting and prodding them with the barrels of their weapons. At some primitive level, Tallis wondered what was stopping the soldiers from simply killing their captives. Why not shoot the young men now? Why the reluctance?
He gained ground, every leap and jump agonising, the gap between him and the soldiers closing so that he was almost within range. With their backs to him, they were oblivious to Tallis’s presence, the youths also too intent on survival to notice.
One lad dropped to his knees, begging to live. As one of the soldiers kicked the lad hard in the chest, sending him flying, Tallis recognised Fikret.
One more step, two, Tallis counted, his finger dancing on the trigger. Now, he thought, opening fire, punching holes in the soldiers with devastating accuracy. Too late, one swung round, discharging his weapon and harmlessly peppering the scenery with steel.
A deathly calm descended. The air shimmered with silence. Spent, Tallis collapsed on the ground, the smell of earth in his nostrils, his ankle throbbing with pain. Narrowing his eyes, he spotted a line of beech trees, each marked with red ticker tape, indicating an infestation of unexploded mines buried in the ground beyond, and suddenly understood why the soldiers had held their fire.
As four young faces emerged nervously from a line of trees, Tallis staggered to his feet and hobbled over towards them. Looking into Fikret’s frightened eyes, his face etched with fear, Tallis said, ‘I’ve come to take you home.’
Asim and Beckett, wired from coffee, the heat of conversation and lack of sleep, had spent the intervening hours in the eye of the media storm. Both men stood with arms crossed watching a high-definition television screen tuned to ‘News 24’. This was not a usual method of gauging international reaction, certainly not a common means for monitoring political fallout, but the alleged use of deadly force by United Nations peacekeepers was a rare event, indeed. By factoring in news coverage, the two men were more able to form a picture of how the world was reacting, and whether or not they were destined to keep their jobs.
With representatives of members of the Security Council in hiding, heads of state unavailable for comment and Foreign Secretaries huffing and puffing, a frenzy of political debate had enveloped every station across the globe. Talking media heads went mental. Pundits on every channel slavishly debated every pro and con. The buzzword was change.
‘Christ, these people talk such claptrap,’ Beckett grumbled. ‘As for those damned peace protesters,’ he scoffed, ‘don’t they have anything better to do?’
Asim was more concerned by the lack of comment from either Belgrade or their Russian allies. Certa
in quarters in the American administration had also imposed the equivalent of a news blackout. ‘I think the Pentagon’s our biggest problem.’
‘Not for us - for the President, perhaps. Good idea of his to deny the activity of the Alliance. Defence chiefs might be bellyaching but, to be scrupulously fair, they’re more muted than I expected. Can’t complain about the uselessness of the UN and then moan when they apparently unite and actually do something. For God’s sake, half the media are congratulating the Security Council for putting national interests aside and taking decisive action.’
And how will the media and, indeed, the world react to the biggest con in history? Asim wondered with deep unease. ‘The interviews with rescued Muslims certainly helped,’ he admitted.
‘God bless them.’ Beckett beamed. ‘Those poor grateful sods have put the UN on the same level as the Second Coming.’
‘Will it be enough to save Chatelle?’
Beckett’s mobile phone rang. Sliding it out of his jacket in the same smooth and practised manner an assassin reaches for a knife, he said, ‘Yes? My God, where? Is she all right?’ He beamed at Asim. ‘Good. We’ll need to talk to her, of course. Fine, you’ll keep me informed…?’ Beckett made to cut the call. ‘What’s that you said?’ He stopped, his features a mass of sharp lines. ‘I see…Thank you.’
‘Chatelle?’ Asim said.
‘Found wandering on a beach on the Black Sea.’
‘Is she fit enough for a debrief?’
‘Hard to say. She’s being airlifted to a hospital in Geneva.’
Asim took a long moment to deliberate. ‘Time to come clean to the media?’ he said finally.
‘Good grief. Not yet.’
‘There’ll be a backlash.’
‘Manageable.’ It was said as if it were of no consequence. ‘Our main priority is to talk to Chatelle and obtain as much information from her as possible. This could be our big break.’
‘And what was the other news?’ Asim’s eyes locked on to Beckett.
‘Your man Tallis was seen in the target area. Certainly gets around in his tea break,’ Beckett said, droll.
‘I told you he was good.’
‘Think he’ll play ball?’
‘Depends on what you have in mind.’
‘Whoever tried to hold us to ransom has to be buried.’
‘And you want Tallis to take charge of the funeral arrangements?’
‘Makes sense.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘We close him down.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The journey back to Sarajevo was more straightforward than the journey there. No checkpoints, no gatherings of paramilitary of any ethnic persuasion. It was as if men with murder in mind had melted back into the darkness. News of the averted massacre had travelled like a forest fire.
Fikret sat in the front, the three lads crushed in the rear. There were no celebrations, no laughter or jubilation, no chatter. Friends had died alongside strangers, memories of grim events that had unfolded over a day scored in a mind for a lifetime.
Focusing on the road and the two spots of light illuminating his way, Tallis was consumed by his own private dilemma. He was thinking of Isolde Chatelle. He was thinking of the girls, Sabina and Anna. He was thinking about Asim and Beckett and the gaps in the commentary. He was thinking about highs and lows and his addiction to danger. Most of all, he was thinking about the human thirst for revenge and the disturbing sense that something elemental inside him had shifted.
After dropping his passengers at various locations across the city, he delivered Fikret to his grandmother’s apartment, the look of relief and gratitude on the old woman’s deeply fissured face all the thanks Tallis needed.
Intent on reaching Lukomir before dawn, he felt insanely drawn towards Stella Diamond. He hoped that, in some small way, good news of Fikret’s rescue would make him feel valued despite his cold-blooded killing of an unarmed man.
Pulling up in the quiet street, he stepped out of the car and looked up at Diamond’s bedroom window. A soft glow flickered through the curtains. She was awake, and he felt a ridiculous surge of pleasure. Diamond, he realised, was the first friend he’d made since on the run.
He tapped at the door, listened for her soft tread. It finally opened ajar, resistant against the security chain.
‘It’s me, Paul,’ he said, keeping his voice low.
The chain rattled and the door flew open, Diamond standing there worried and dishevelled in a pair of silk pyjamas.
‘Fikret is safe and sound at his grandmother’s,’ he announced.
A wide smile broke across Diamond’s full lips. ‘Come in.’ She beamed, touching his arm. Tallis wanted to scoop her up and spin her around. Something deep inside prevented him. Instead, he walked into the small kitchen and sat down at the table while Diamond set about making coffee. ‘And he’s OK?’ she asked, her voice breathy with excitement.
‘I expect Fikret will tell you all about it,’ he said, scratching an ear, enigmatic. Her pyjama top, he noticed, was loosely buttoned and he could see the soft and sensuous curve of her breasts.
Diamond pulled a face. ‘Tell me what exactly?’
‘Stuff,’ he said, non-committal. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Was he at Banovici?’ she said, suspicion darkening her eyes.
‘Ask him.’
Diamond gave him a sharp, reproving look. ‘You’re not a spy any more. Why do you have to keep your cards so close to your chest?’
He forced a smile. ‘Old habits die hard.’
She nodded a smile in return, said nothing more. He stretched out, watched her idly. Now that he was sitting down he felt overwhelmed. By fatigue for certain, but primarily by the knowledge of what he’d become. He was suddenly aware of the dirt and sweat on his body, suddenly conscious that he didn’t fit, couldn’t connect. That he never would. Anywhere or with anyone.
Diamond placed a cup in front of him and sat down. ‘Have you heard Isolde Chatelle’s been released?’
That got him. He sat up. ‘When?’
‘Some time today, I think. The UN met the demands of the hostage-takers. There’s a huge debate going on about the use of force.’
‘I bet.’ He marvelled at the sheer nerve of spinning such a lie. No shots had been fired by the peacekeepers. They’d left the heavy-duty stuff to the Alliance. He wondered how the hell it would play out. Even with Chatelle’s release, there was no guarantee that the terrorists would be appeased.
Diamond was still talking. ‘I met her once.’
‘Who?’ Tallis blinked.
‘Isolde Chatelle.’
‘Sorry, when?’
‘In the 1990s. She was at Tuzla.’ Dimly, Tallis remembered that Chatelle had mentioned something about the refugee camp. ‘A junior official,’ Diamond continued, ‘part of the UNHCR.’
‘What did you think of her?’
Diamond wrinkled her nose in thought. ‘The thing that struck me most was her passion. I liked that enormously. And she was very hands-on, got things done, admirable, really. She had amazing presence. Charismatic sums her up best.’
Yes, Tallis thought, that figured.
‘I’m not surprised she’s reached the dizzy heights even if it’s within an organisation I don’t exactly admire,’ she said with a dry smile.
‘How was she viewed by men?’
‘That’s a very odd question.’
‘I have a first-class honours degree in odd questions,’ he said, making light of it.
‘I don’t really know, except…’
He stayed quiet; let the silence guide her.
‘There was a rumour,’ she began, clearing her throat, obviously uncomfortable with gossip. ‘I don’t generally pay attention to such things, but it struck a personal chord.’
The failed love affair, Tallis thought, remembering the first time he’d met Diamond and the impression she gave.
‘It was rumoured that she’d had a romance with one of the inter
preters, a man by the name of Izet Zukik. I met him, too. Lovely guy, very handsome, always smiling.’
‘And the love affair went wrong?’
Diamond shook her head. ‘He was murdered.’
‘By whom?’
Diamond inclined her head in a pensive fashion, her big brown eyes luminous in the lamplight. ‘I should have mentioned it before. To be honest, I’ve only just remembered it.’
‘Mentioned what?’ His mind worked like quicksilver, making the connections. Foreboding nestled in the small of his back.
‘Remember when you first came to see me? You wanted to know about a certain war criminal.’
‘Dario Garich,’ he muttered dumbly.
‘Garich killed Zukik.’
Tallis borrowed Diamond’s car for a second time and set out on the fifty-kilometre journey to Lukomir, one of several highland villages and the highest and most isolated village in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Unable to travel the entire distance by car - the roads were steep, muddy and winding, challenging enough for a 4x4, let alone a small hatchback – he planned to get out and walk the last half-dozen kilometres through what would undoubtedly prove rugged terrain. He hoped his ankle would hold.
As he drove he thought about Diamond’s revelation and whether it pointed to a truth he’d refused to face. Revenge, that most potent of emotions and resistant of motives, ran like steel through the heart of the mission. He’d known it from the start, yet had been unable to unravel how it played out. Reluctant to think the unthinkable, that Chatelle had engineered a programme of destruction, he decided that it was at best a speculative theory based on nothing more than circumstantial evidence. Besides, Chatelle had herself been taken captive, and Garich in his time had killed a number of people, Zukik one unfortunate among many. There had to be another explanation.
Resolution to Kill Page 28
