He ran the last few paces, silent even in the western shoes. At the last second Broms heard him. The man turned, his mouth open, but too late. Kassim hit him full on and plunged the knife with all his strength into the Swede’s ribs. There was a popping sound followed by a groan, then the momentum of Kassim’s attack carried both men tumbling through the nearest section of boarding on to the building site. The knife was wrenched aside by the Swede’s body falling away from him, but Kassim followed him down, landing on top of the other man with a grunt, dropping his rucksack to the ground nearby. He drove his knees either side of Broms’ chest, pinning him down, then thrust a hand in his pocket and took out the piece of blue cloth he had shown to Orti.
The Swede was still alive, stunned, a faint spot of pink froth bubbling at his mouth. His eyes rolling in pain and shock, he focussed on Kassim. ‘What-?’ he muttered, uncomprehending. He flapped his arms, trying to dislodge his attacker, but his strength was fading quickly. ‘What?’
Suddenly Kassim wanted done with it. He shoved the piece of cloth under Broms’ nose, waiting until the man’s eyes rolled round to look at it. Just for a second, there was a sign of something, a dim light deep in the pupils. Then nothing.
‘I don’t. .’ Broms sighed and tried one more time to lift himself off the ground. Then the life force drained out of him in a rush.
Kassim twisted his wrist and pulled the blade from the dead Swede’s side. A small gout of blood leaked on to the soil beneath. He slid the knife point under the edge of the windcheater and sliced open the man’s clothing, exposing his chest.
When he was finished he jumped up and wiped the blade on the dead man’s uniform, before stuffing it into his rucksack. As he turned to leave, he saw an old woman standing across the street. She was staring at him, then at the body of Broms on the ground.
For an old woman she had a scream like a banshee, the noise echoing off the buildings and raising the hairs on the back of Kassim’s neck. It was too late to stop her, so he stepped through the broken boarding and walked away quickly down the street.
Two minutes later, he was among shoppers and homeward-bound workers, just one face among many.
THIRTEEN
‘Harry?’ It was Ken Deane, later that evening. Harry had his television on with the sound off, thinking about what he had to do. Deane sounded angry. ‘I’m on a secure line. Another man’s down.’
‘Who?’
‘Arne Broms. He was stabbed in Brussels this afternoon, near the Swedish Embassy. Word just came through.’
Harry felt a tightening in his stomach. Broms the driver. Big, solid, careful. Not an easy man to take down.
‘What are the locals saying?’ He was sure Deane’s office would already have been in touch with the Belgian police, no doubt pushing as discreetly but as firmly as possible for the basic details.
‘They’re playing wise monkeys. They think it must have been a political act. Do you believe that? I mean, who the hell gets snitty with the Swedes, for Chrissakes?’
‘You think it was the same as Orti?’
A long sigh filtered down the line. ‘Yeah, pretty much. There was a witness to the killing: an old lady who freaked out with the shock. Kept shouting about “a man with dark eyes. . a man with dark eyes”. They haven’t got a useful word out of her since.’ He coughed. ‘It chimes with something the Paris police said. A couple of barflies where Orti had his last drink said there was a man with dark eyes in the cafe.’
‘What was Broms doing in Brussels?’
‘He was on secondment to the embassy, Two I/C of their security section. The embassy’s closed down but they had a skeleton staff packing up and needed a security presence. Broms rotated shifts with two other guards, and lived in a section house nearby. He died of a single stab to the side. The cops say his chest had been mutilated. I asked for pictures, but they haven’t sent them through yet.’
Harry thought about what kind of man could kill two experienced soldiers with such apparent ease. First Orti, who would know every possible move of rough-house fighting going, then Broms, big enough to shrug off most men with little effort. Whoever the killer was, he had used the element of surprise backed up with lethal skill.
Deane said, ‘You remember Anton Kleeman?’
‘How could I forget?’ Harry almost had, until now. He vaguely recalled a handsome man in his early forties, smooth and urbane, with the healthy glow of the outdoors common to many Americans; a professional politician but not one you would necessarily like unless he wanted it.
‘Well, he’s moved up the UN totem pole since Kosovo. He’s now a Special Envoy and nobody’s taking bets that he doesn’t try for one of the top jobs one day. He’s got the clout and influence to get his hat in the ring; he just needs something to propel him the last few rungs of the ladder.’
Harry wondered where this was leading. He soon found out.
‘He called a press conference earlier today in New York. It was supposed to be a follow-up briefing dealing with reports about brutalities committed by UN forces in Africa. Word is, he was using it to beef himself up prior to a number of Security Council meetings. There was certainly no need for any briefing on the subject today. Unfortunately, he got sandbagged about the alleged rape and murder in Kosovo.’
‘Which he discounted?’
‘Which he did not. He actually said the matter would be fully investigated and the guilty trooper, even if no longer serving, would be charged and punished.’
‘But it was twelve years ago.’
‘Some other allegations are even older — the accusations against the British in Kenya. . against the US in Vietnam and Cambodia, the UN in Haiti and Somalia. Memories are long when it comes to injustices.’
It wasn’t what Harry had meant; he’d been thinking of the time span compared with more recent allegations. But Deane was right: there was no statute of limitations for accusations against nation states. ‘What happened?’
‘You can imagine. When he said “trooper”, the Times reporter nearly had an orgasm.’ Deane huffed down the line. ‘Man, what an asshole.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ said Harry, sensing it was his turn.
Deane didn’t even express surprise. ‘Ideally, find the rest of the team. Go talk to them. . Koslov, Bikovsky, Pendry. . see if they’ve got anything to hide. Oh, and the compound guard, too. See what they say, did they have any scams going on the side involving girls in the compounds — that kind of thing.’
‘Why should they tell me anything?’
‘You’re one of them. They’ll talk to you. They won’t give me Jack shit.’
‘They’ll know what I’m doing, though — who I’m reporting to.’
Deane came straight back. ‘Listen, we’ve got two ex-KFOR guys who’ve been hit and I need to find out why. We wouldn’t want this to become a habit.’
‘You still think the killings are connected with the rumours about the girl?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ Deane sounded exasperated. ‘You know how it works: make enough noise and people start to believe you, no matter how wild or how far back it goes. Piggyback on the shoulders of fresh reports about the same organization doing stuff it shouldn’t, and it gets easier to take at face value.’
‘Have the two murders been reported?’
‘Only locally. But not the full details — and nothing about the links to the UN. So far we’re managing to keep a lid on it. Just two soldiers murdered. It happens all the time.’
Harry felt a momentary doubt. He was still adjusting to life after leaving MI5, building up contacts and getting himself known. In a crowded security field, with a lot of Special Forces people also out there looking for work, he couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.