‘And you sent in Saul.’
‘Yes.’
‘Pity.’
‘Why?’ Asim said, instantly alert.
‘He’s dead.’
If Asim was shocked he didn’t let it show. Tallis did a quick body count in his head: three intelligence officers down and innumerable civilians. Didn’t look great.
‘What happened?’ Asim said.
‘One of the women killed him.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Because it’s the truth.’
Asim’s expression darkened, his delivery when he spoke slow and suspicious. ‘You didn’t kill him?’
‘Why would I?’
‘Revenge.’
Tallis stared at him quizzically.
‘For Charlie,’ Asim said. ‘You were close.’
‘I’m a professional,’ Tallis spat coldly. ‘I don’t do revenge.’
Asim smiled as though Tallis had answered a trick question correctly. ‘I’m not entirely sure Beckett would see it that way,’ he said.
‘Fuck Beckett.’ And fuck you, too, Tallis thought. He expected a chill rebuke. But Asim worked to his own schedule. He asked for more detail on Saul’s murder.
‘No idea,’ Tallis said. ‘I arrived too late.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’ Tallis glanced away to conceal his exasperation. ‘I don’t work for you any more. If, on the other hand, you want to trade,’ he said, glancing back, deciding to play him a little, ‘I’m a reasonable man.’
Asim’s laugh was easy. Tallis could almost believe they were on the same page. Almost. ‘Why did you sell me out?’ he said softly.
Asim looked taken aback, a little hurt even. ‘I didn’t. I’m not Beckett, Paul.’
‘Really?’ Tallis said. ‘So Beckett calls the shots?’
‘I wouldn’t put it…’
‘What’s he got on you?’ A pulse ticked in Asim’s neck. Tallis gave him a long hard stare. ‘Chechnya?’ he ventured.
Asim held Tallis’s gaze and twitched a smile. ‘Berlin.’ Meaning Fazan, Tallis thought. Yes, that fitted. ‘In spite of Fazan’s treachery, Beckett didn’t care for me screwing with one of his own,’ Asim continued, uncharacteristically profane.
‘Strange. For all Beckett’s failings you have to admire his loyalty.’ He eyed Asim, let the power of his words and meaning sink in. ‘You know I never had you down for a guy only interested in number one.’
Asim flinched, yet the burn in his eyes exposed a ruthlessness that Tallis had never seen before. ‘I am trying my best to help you.’
‘Help me, or yourself?’
A cold smile touched Asim’s lips. ‘I’m beginning to think you have a death wish, Paul.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
‘An observation.’
And why I’m more use to you than you to me, Tallis thought.
‘You know about Chatelle?’ Asim said, adopting, Tallis thought, an oblique approach.
‘I know she was abducted. I know you gave the impression of acquiescing to the terrorists’ demands and fooled the world into believing the United Nations used lethal force.’
‘The UN is not averse to a little deception,’ Asim countered.
Tallis slow-blinked. ‘When are you going to come clean?’
‘When the time is right.’
‘The revelation of the truth could cost them their credibility.’ As soon as he said it he tumbled to what the men in grey had wanted all along. To be certain, he said, ‘What about the Alliance? In the final analysis, they saved the day, not the UN. Shouldn’t they take the credit?’
‘One hundred and ninety-one member states united, the secretary general released, I don’t think so. It’s quite the talking point. The world wants hope. It seeks change. We delivered.’
‘And all because of a bunch of female terrorists.’
Asim cast Tallis a withering look. ‘The woman,’ he began. ‘The one who got away. Where is she?’
Tallis wagged a finger at Asim. ‘Before I answer any more of your questions, what’s in it for me?’
‘Your life and freedom.’
‘You can guarantee it?’ He looked very hard into Asim’s eyes.
‘Yes.’
Other men would consider whether Asim could be trusted. Other men would wonder whether he was powerful enough to hold off Beckett’s dogs. Tallis gave no energy to such thoughts. Asim and Beckett were playing an incredibly clever game. They’d had him lined up from the start. It indicated that he was deemed expendable.
‘So?’ Asim said, giving the impression of a poker-player revealing his trump card.
‘Saul shot dead Sabina Kulas,’ Tallis explained. ‘In revenge, Anna, or rather Alma Sehic, murdered Saul. Sehic then took her own life.’ Tallis further described the events at Lukomir.
‘Looks like we’ve hit a brick wall,’ Asim said, the expression in his eyes failing to match the words.
‘Yes,’ Tallis lied. ‘Unless Chatelle was able to reveal anything. I presume she’s been debriefed?’
Asim nodded. ‘According to her account, two masked women entered the property, fired warning shots, blindfolded her and bundled her into the boot of a car.’
‘Shell casings found?’
Asim shook his head. ‘Obviously tidy people.’
‘Where was she kept?’
‘She had no idea.’
‘Where was she found?’
‘Wandering along a beach on the Black Sea.’
Tallis didn’t point out that it was the other side of the country from Bodrum, the place from where she’d been allegedly taken. ‘Attacks on UN staff began after Chatelle took office, right?’
‘And why she ordered an investigation.’
‘Why you? Why not go straight to the Americans?’
‘Perhaps because she felt they have too much power already,’ Asim said delicately.
‘And the UN doesn’t have an intelligence capability?’
‘It did some time back, but it was disbanded.’
‘How did Chatelle feel about that?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Asim said, giving a good impression of a puzzled man, Tallis thought. ‘She was an advocate for reform, I know that much.’
‘You mean a standing army?’
‘Yes, I…’
‘Which is precisely what she got.’
‘But she didn’t,’ Asim pointed out gamely. ‘Not a single shot was fired by peacekeepers. The UN didn’t come to the rescue.’
‘But the perception of it doing so has rocketed the debate to the head of the agenda.’
‘Some may consider it not a moment too soon,’ Asim said, coolly analysing Tallis’s logic.
‘If it were true, perhaps. But it isn’t. Perception,’ Tallis insisted. ‘That’s all it is. Once the world knows the truth, once it’s had a chance to reflect, it will decide the UN is morally bankrupt, discredited and worthless. Exactly what Chatelle desires.’
‘I don’t follow. Why would she be happy about that?’
‘Because she wants to destroy it.’
Asim drummed his manicured fingers on the table. He didn’t protest at such an outlandish accusation, Tallis noticed. He was tempted to ask whether Chatelle’s desire chimed with Asim’s and those of certain people in high places. ‘You suspected her right from the beginning, didn’t you?’
‘We suspect many things,’ Asim said with a sly smile. ‘What we need is hard evidence.’
Tallis pushed Alma Sehic’s diary across the table. ‘That should give you everything you need.’
Asim was long gone. Before he took his leave, he pressed a large sum of cash in US dollars upon Tallis to cover immediate expenses and handed him an airline ticket. He assured Tallis that more money would be available, waiting in an account in Jersey after the completion of the job.
Fikret refilled Tallis’s glass with sljivovicaand asked him for a second time whether he was all right. Tallis nodded a distant smile and looked loosel
y out of the window on to a street lit with warm summer sun. He longed for human contact, for friendship, for the banality of ordinary conversation, yet very much feared that nothing would be commonplace again. He wished he could say goodbye to Stella Diamond. Afraid his face would betray the conflict in his head, he realised that he couldn’t risk seeing her. Neither would it be fair to Diamond. It might even put her life in danger.
Like a child reciting verse, he went through his instructions one more time. He was to catch a flight that evening to London. There, he was to lie low at a secret address and wait for the call that would redefine his life. It might be days, weeks or a month, time in which to change his mind. It was an unlikely prospect. Deep inside, he knew he was committed, yet Asim’s certainty had shaken him. It was as if Asim knew him better than he knew himself.
‘How did you know I’d agree?’ he’d asked as Asim stood up to leave.
‘Because you value the dead more than the living.’
Tallis drained his drink, left some coins on the table. Fikret picked them up and handed them back, gratitude in his expression. As he got up, Tallis patted Fikret on the shoulder, the lad half hugging him in return. That’s when Tallis realised that he had saved more lives than he’d ever taken away. He clung to the thought as though it were the only constant and immutable value in his life.
Perhaps, he thought, Asim was not quite as astute as he believed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Standing in for Chatelle, Ingmar Seastrom issued a statement denying the use of force and asserting that international law had not been broken. Any Alliance involvement was happenstance, not premeditated malice, he asserted.
In minutes, the ‘new’ news, aided by the power of the Internet, beamed around the world. Editors and armchair philosophers, seized by a weird collective madness, got down on their knees and gave thanks to God. August, normally a media non-event, suddenly got sexy.
Pursued by journalists, frightened witnesses gave conflicting accounts, fact and denial, claim and counter-claim only serving to create a confusing picture. Grandstanding assumed epic international proportions. In most quarters the truth revealed was not believed. Those who’d cheered booed. Those who’d booed were baffled. Many felt they’d fallen for the biggest con in history. Sore from the memory of dodgy dossiers, and fifteen-minute warnings, the British electorate was particularly rattled. The populace did not care for perception over facts. They were tired of spin. Eager to avert a crisis, politicians who preferred the spotlight to the dreariness of summer holidays with wives and children fell over themselves to comment. Ignorant of a darker truth, style presided over substance. Nothing much had changed.
Behind the scenes, a different, more subtle narrative played out. Crisis talks were held in Belgrade, assurances given, deals done, coffers filled and egos smoothed. Paramilitaries of all persuasions laid down their weapons. Officially, Alliance and IJO members agreed to discreetly withdraw from Bosnia and Herzegovina. Unofficially, some remained. The United Nations, in turmoil it was admitted, might not survive in its current form. But the people engaged in high-level meetings were sophisticated individuals. Mostly history took its course irrespective of human meddling, it was conceded. The world still turned. Sun and moon rose and set in the sky. In the light of this thinking, a moratorium was agreed. Chatelle, it was fervently hoped, had suffered no long-term effects and would return to her post with all speed. Only then would a more considered approach to the recent spate of events be adopted. With nothing taken for granted, the terrorist network, it was assumed, had been neutralised.
Buoyed up from her meeting with Beckett and Asim, Chatelle entered the hotel room and kicked off her shoes. Offered a security detail, she’d declined with a gracious smile. Only she knew such precautions were unnecessary. She hoped the two men from British intelligence were impressed by her courage.
In two days’ time she was scheduled to return to work. The process of finishing what she’d started would begin in earnest. With its credibility in tatters, she intended to dismantle the organisation that had ruined her life. Revenge had never felt so sweet.
Deciding to bathe before dinner, she entered the sumptuously appointed bathroom. Her feet treading lightly up the two steps to the white roll-top bath, she bent over and turned on the taps, the sound of gushing water loud in her ears. So loud she did not hear the sound of the assassin. Within seconds Chatelle was dead, although her heart continued beating for a short time longer.
Tallis stayed with Chatelle while she died. Considered it a duty. Dario Garich had ruined her life when he killed Izet Zukik. The least he could do was be with her now.
The smell of recent death pervaded the warm and steamy air. He felt faintly nauseous. In spite of a slight thrumming in his head, his thoughts were clear and lucid. He’d crossed a line and he knew it. And there was no return. He didn’t know what he’d expected. It wasn’t this.
He was not proud of what he’d done. Neither did he feel shame. He’d arrested hard men who killed for a living, those with cold and empty eyes whose only loyalty was to a pay cheque. He’d certainly not agreed to the job for the money, or to save his own skin. In fact, he no longer cared about his life because it was no longer his to own. Asim was right. He did value the dead over the living. As he’d pulled the trigger he remembered the girls and how they were betrayed again and again by organisations, but mostly by individuals. Chatelle, to his mind, was in certain respects as bad as Bilal. Like him, she had exploited the damaged and vulnerable for her own twisted desires.
He guessed that the official investigation into Chatelle’s death would be sanitised by the spooks. The papers would proclaim that the remains of the terrorist network, furious at being hoodwinked, had taken their final revenge. Neat irony, he thought, staring at Chatelle’s body. For the United Nations it would be business as usual. Nothing would change. Talk of reform would disappear and vanish into the mists of time. Seastrom, he thought, would be the best man to lead the way forward. In the meantime the world would hold Chatelle in high regard. No doubt she’d be buried with honour.
With one final glance around the room, he slipped out of the hotel suite and left through a fire escape exit to the street below. London bustled with vibrancy and colour. Couples strolled arm in arm. Kids careered along the pavements, laughing and without a care in the world. As he walked away, he felt a desperate longing to be a part of it and knew now that he never would.
END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In January 1993, I received a letter and photograph from the photojournalist Simon Townsley. Simon worked for the The Sunday Times back then and I’d written to him after being moved by one of his pictures. The shot was of a little boy crying in the arms of his sister at a refugee camp in Tuzla. The girl was probably no more than six or seven years old and I am still haunted by her expression even after all these years. According to Simon, the children’s father was missing, presumed dead. Their mother was also missing. Little did I know at the time how important those two children would be to me. Without exaggeration, the idea for this novel started a long time ago, in another life, and before I became a writer.
As with all my novels, ‘Resolution to Kill’ could not have been written without the generous support and help of others. Special thanks must go to Lucy Dickinson, Humanitarian Affairs Officer at the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (UN OCHA) Kenya. She was immensely patient with my struggle to understand the finer workings of the United Nations and it must be stated that the opinions and attitudes expressed in the novel are my take and no reflection of views held either by her or others. Mr Ed Andrewes, who served in Bosnia during the conflict, also helped me to understand the good work carried out by those involved in peacekeeping operations.
Healing Hands is a charity dedicated to supporting victims of the conflict in Bosnia and Herzegovina, former prisoners of war or people with serious war injuries. Sandra Griffiths, its Administrator, and Hazel Risdale, a member
, are truly inspirational individuals and they were both generous in giving up their time to talk to me about Sarajevo and the range and extent of the continuing problems faced by their clients. Thanks, also, to my brother Peter Isherwood. I couldn’t have written the scene in the steel factory without you refreshing my memory! As always, I’m indebted to Broo Doherty for her keen editorial eye and for supporting the project from beginning to end. Thanks also to Kim Young at MIRA for her enthusiasm for the story.
Way outside my comfort zone in terms of geography and politics, I read a number of books, which proved invaluable. These were Tim Clancy’s Bradt Guide to Bosnia and Herzegovina and the AA Guide to Croatia.
Misha Glenny’s ‘The Fall of Yugoslavia’ and Marcus Tanner’s ‘Croatia – A Nation Forged in War’ provided compelling insights into Europe’s most violent war since World War Two. For other aspects of the book, I was dependent upon Michael Smith’s ‘Killer Elite’ and Richard Baer’s ‘See No Evil’, a memorable account of his time as a top field officer with the Central Intelligence Agency. I knew very little about the United Nations when I started the novel. Thankfully, James Traub provides a fascinating description of its history in ‘The Best Intentions.’ Likewise, Linda Fasulo gives a great nuts and bolts account of the United Nations in her book ‘An Insider’s Guide to the UN.’
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