Retribution (20 page)

His time was coming.

T
he air was sharp and cold in the restricted park when Russian Federal Security Service Captain Alexandr Koslov set out on his morning run. From the clawing warmth of the military apartment block three kilometres into Moscow's southern suburbs, he trotted gingerly down the frosty front steps and headed for the path he always took through the trees. It was a favoured jogging track for any officers who believed in keeping moderately fit, offering a few minutes' brief isolation from the demands of office or, providing one made it obvious enough, the mindless chatter of colleagues.

Not that many of Koslov's colleagues were into running. Even he, at thirty-eight and the youngest in his department, was beginning to feel soft, thanks to the sedentary nature of his largely desk-bound job. But you had to make some effort, he told himself, with an eye to promotional prospects and a coveted foreign posting. Although the FSB was responsible for domestic security, it held a support brief for the conduct of electronic surveillance abroad and watching over nationals on overseas placements suspected of not toeing the line. London might be nice, or Paris.

There were few others out at this early hour. He could hear traffic building up on the ring road towards the city centre, and beyond the trees the sound of a commuter train clacking along the line. Sound carried easily in this thin, cold atmosphere, bringing distant noises much closer.

Ahead of him two senior officers from a mechanized rifle regiment shuffled along like a pair of marshmallows, dressed in black market trainers and enormous American quilted coats. Their brief verbal exchanges fired puffs of vapour into the air, and no doubt much of the talk was seditious, Koslov guessed. Probably complaining about their superiors or why they hadn't received a recent pay increase. Dream on, comrades, he thought cynically. Welcome to the brave new world of economic austerity.

He accelerated past them, his feet flicking lightly on the cold surface, in contrast to their lumbering shuffle. Koslov had always been slim, and in spite of his job, weighed no more now than he had as a teenager. In fact, there were some colleagues who frequently joked that the FSB were now taking boys into their ranks, a jibe at his lack of inches and boyish features. He lifted a hand in greeting as he passed the two men. He didn't expect a response and wasn't disappointed; Russian army officers did not trust members of the FSB. Koslov had long ago given up worrying about it. Their loss, he told himself. One day they might realize the FSB was a replacement for the old KGB, not a carbon copy, and men like him were a reflection of modern times and not out to haunt the daylights out of anyone who coveted a pair of American jeans or the latest iPod.

Koslov had been in the army himself once, on attachment from a rifle regiment with the United Nations forces in Kosovo – a rare show of Moscow's understanding and unity for the common good. Not that anyone had really believed him to be a mere soldier; almost without exception, his multinational colleagues had walked around him as if he were an improvised explosive device waiting to explode, some making silly jests about the KGB in ludicrously bad Russian accents. But he didn't care: it had been a breath of fresh air for him, even if the air in Kosovo had been far from clean or pure.

Finding himself working as part of a close protection team had been an eye-opener for the young sergeant. Although he had undergone special training before going to Kosovo, his experience of bodyguards in the Russian army came from either the GRU – Russian military intelligence – or the various security units attached to each regiment. Not that too many officers needed guarding unless it was from their own men. Any physical threats were largely reserved for the staff officers who spent their time in comfortable postings in Moscow or St Petersburg, cordially loathed for their lack of teeth when supporting their men, and by civilians because it was an ingrained habit to distrust the military anyway.

The Americans he had found surprisingly generous and easygoing, eager to share whatever they had. It seemed they had largely forgotten the Cold War – or were perhaps bored with it – while the British captain treated him no differently to anyone else, an attitude Koslov guessed was entirely normal for the man.

It was his tour in Kosovo which had led to Koslov's early promotion and the desk job which went with it. Boosted by a favourable report from the UN Field Security Division, he had been rewarded with enhanced training courses and the promise of a bright future. Without it, he would have been yet another low-ranking FSB grunt for the rest of his days, serving out his time.

He approached a series of obstacles built into the path. Low wooden hurdles for the most part, placed to interrupt the rhythm and increase the heart rate. But jumping them required care to avoid the inevitable icy patches. There were others too, such as pole hurdles and lines of rubber tyres, but they were best tackled when fully warm or when the ground was softer. A broken ankle while training would not be well-regarded and was a fast track to nowhere.

Behind him, he heard the
slap-slap
of another man coming up on his outside. He moved over, wondering who could possibly be running faster than him.

While waiting for Rik to clear arrivals, Harry checked in with Deane. The UN man would probably be at home by now, but he'd impressed on Harry the urgency of maintaining contact no matter what the time.

He answered immediately. There were still no developments on the knife found at Fort Benning. ‘They got some prints,' Deane told him, ‘but they haven't yet found a match on any of the obvious databases. They've now switched to broaden the search, but it takes time.'

‘He's from outside the US,' Harry said.

‘Looks like it – or he's Snow White, which I don't buy.'

Harry didn't, either. The killer was too efficient and skilled. To have overcome three soldiers so easily, he had to have received some intensive military training somewhere. If official, it meant a high probability that his prints were recorded. Unless, like Bikovsky, there was a more sinister reason why no database was coming up with a match.

‘What about the ATM machines? Any pictures?'

‘I'm waiting on that. Carvalho's card was used five blocks from the apartment where he was killed, and maxed out. They're analysing the film now to match the withdrawals.' He paused. ‘You get any sense of our guy being around?'

‘Not yet.' Harry had thought about it ever since arriving in LA. He claimed no special talent for locating the enemy, but like most hunters, he had an inbuilt antenna when it came to sensing atmosphere, such as a tickle on the back of his neck when he felt he was being watched. So far that had not happened. He didn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

‘All right. Give me a call if anything . . . well, you know.'

Harry disconnected. He saw a world datelines panel above the arrivals board. It was early morning in Moscow. He called up Alexandr Koslov's number. He had no idea if Koslov was still active in the military, but he owed him the courtesy of a warning. The number rang six times, and he was about to cut the call when there was a switch in the tone, as if it had been interrupted. Then it continued ringing. He gave it ten more rings.

No answer.

He hung up. It sounded as if the call had been transferred automatically. Was that to a landline or to another mobile? He had no way of telling. He gave it five minutes and dialled the number again and went through the same routine.

This time the call was answered in rapid-fire Russian.

A
s Koslov turned his head he caught a glimpse of a tall, lean figure in a nondescript tracksuit coming very close. At the same time he heard a loud burst of laughter from the two officers he'd passed earlier. The other runner seemed to stutter and swerve at this, as if his concentration had been spoiled. Then he accelerated and sped past, flowing along with the easy loping stride of a born runner. The man didn't look at Koslov, and soon rounded a bend in the path and was gone.

Koslov increased his pace for a while, trying to match the other man. But he'd allowed himself to get too cold and felt the beginnings of a stomach cramp. He eased off to a slower jog.

Five minutes later, within half a kilometre of the apartment block and his mind on the day ahead, he saw a tall figure standing by a tree two hundred metres ahead. The man was leaning against the trunk, rubbing his thigh.

It was the runner who had passed him earlier. Koslov guessed he had overdone it in the cold air and developed a muscle cramp.

As Koslov approached, the man straightened and turned, standing full on in the centre of the path. His face was expressionless and he was no longer rubbing his leg.

Koslov felt a sudden quickening of the pulse. What was this idiot playing at? Why block the path? Surely he didn't expect Koslov to stop for a chat.

Then the man brought up his hand from behind his body. There was a gleam of metal and Koslov's inner alarm bells went off. He didn't question what was happening, nor did he even think of trying to disarm the man. He was in no fit state for a fight, and whatever had brought the man here, it wasn't a random mugging.

He swerved off the track and plunged into the trees, his feet crunching on the thick layer of dead twigs and branches covering the ground. If he followed his present course and did not deviate too much, he would reach the apartment block. He'd have to work harder than he would following the running track, but at least he might get there in one piece.

A flash of movement to his left showed the other man running parallel to him. He was keeping a steady station barely twenty metres away without apparent effort. If Koslov kept going as he was, the man would intercept him easily before he reached the apartment block. If he swerved away to his right, however, it would take him deeper into the trees and the untamed undergrowth. And eventually, unless he managed by an amazing stroke of luck to outrun the other man, he would be caught.

An inner voice told him that outrunning his pursuer wasn't going to happen.

Koslov crashed through a small thicket of thorns, his breathing harsher as his body demanded more oxygen. His trainers were beginning to sink in the softer ground and his calf muscles starting to ache with the extra effort required. The other man, however, was showing no signs of distress.

Koslov crossed a section of pathway connecting with the main circuit. With nobody else in sight he was beginning to feel the first signs of desperation. The feeling was worsened by being isolated among these trees, barely two hundred metres from safety. Damn it, this was crazy! Why didn't he just stop and ask the man what he wanted? Or even stand and fight, if that's what the maniac was after?

Yet everything about the runner's demeanour told him discussion was not part of his agenda, and neither was defeat. Besides, if the man was carrying a knife, Koslov knew his own limitations. A pair of hands softened by desk work were no match for a blade.

He staggered through a hollow, tripping on hidden branches, and felt a pain building in his side and burning up through his chest. His legs, good for two or three circuits on a good day, were now hurting badly with the effort of dragging him over the rough terrain. When he glanced to his left, the other man was jogging, now barely ten metres away and moving closer.

Suddenly Koslov glimpsed space and light ahead, and called on his last reserves of energy. He pushed through some low-hanging branches and out into the open, where he startled the two army officers he'd passed earlier. They were enjoying a breather and a quiet cigarette.

Koslov skidded to a stop, his mouth working frantically, and pointed behind him, his body braced for the inevitable surge of movement and the blow which would surely follow.

But the other runner was nowhere to be seen.

‘You on a camouflage and concealment course, Koslov?' asked one of the officers, glancing at the swaying branches where the FSB officer had burst from the trees. ‘I think you just failed.' He grinned slyly at his colleague and they both laughed before turning and walking towards the apartments. The army rarely had an opportunity to make fun of the FSB, and took it gleefully whenever it was offered.

Koslov, rarely happier to see anyone else, even if they were enjoying his discomfort, trotted closely in their wake, his back prickling with tension. If he tried to tell these buffoons what he had seen, they'd think he was mad. What he should be doing was getting on to the security office and having the place searched. That would be the sensible thing.

At heart, though, he could already picture the reaction of his colleagues – and worse – his superiors, who had expressed great faith in a man who was going places.
A man with a knife? Chasing you through the woods? Are you sure? What have you been up to, you young dog – playing with another man's property?
He could imagine their coarse laughter and raised eyebrows. Greater careers than his had been ruined on such trivial evidence.

‘Captain?' It was one of the support staff from the office, a thin-faced young gofer/driver named Dobrev who spent his days chasing around with messages or ferrying officers about the capital. ‘A telephone call came in for you, sir. Urgent priority.'

Koslov threw a final look towards the woods and ducked into the apartment building. ‘At the office? Why didn't they put it through to my apartment?' He ran lightly up the stairs to his quarters on the second floor, stripping off his tracksuit top as he went. Calls were routinely fed through to officers' living quarters if they were not in the office, in case of priority requests. Such a call usually meant he was about to travel somewhere on an investigation. He would change quickly and should be in the office within twenty minutes.

‘I couldn't, sir.' Dobrev panted up the stairs behind him and followed him into the small apartment. ‘Your line is not working. Also, it's against regulations to give staff numbers to foreigners, sir.'