what?’
‘The tone of the reference, maybe?’
‘It was just banter, I think. At least, it was until they found out I understood Russian. Even then the atmosphere was relaxed.’
‘Russian speakers but not Russian …’
‘My Russian was better than theirs.’
‘And you told them you hadn’t heard of Inter Milan.’
‘As I understand it, Inter Milan is an Italian football club. What does this have to do with Mostovoi?’
Alexander slid a selection of photographs down the table to Stephanie. There were a dozen, five in black-and-white, none of great quality. She flicked through and saw versions of a younger Lars Andersen: climbing out of a Mercedes with Dutch plates, wearing a leather jacket, faded jeans and trainers; exiting a glass office-block in a suit that was too tight; hunched over a plate in a crowded pizzeria, the photo taken through the window. In three shots his hair was collar-length, in the rest it was shorter. She stopped at the final photograph. He was standing in front of a dark forest in dirty camouflage combats, heavy boots caked in mud, webbing, with an AK-47 in his right hand. His scalp had been shaved more recently than his jaw; he was grinning through a week of stubble. The grain and crop of the image suggested it had once formed part of a larger picture. The irony was not lost on Stephanie.
Alexander said, ‘Ever heard of a man named Milan Savic?’
‘No.’
‘You’re looking at him. He was a Serb. During the Balkans conflict he was a paramilitary warlord. Before that he was a gangster, a black-marketeer in Belgrade.’
‘You said Savic “was” a Serb.’
‘Correct. He was shot dead by the Kosovo Liberation Army during an ambush outside Pristina on 13 February 1999. Three other members of his paramilitary unit were killed. The deaths were confirmed by two UNHCR representatives on a fact-finding mission to Kosovo. Before Kosovo, Savic and his paramilitaries were active in Croatia and Bosnia. Which means he was involved at the start and nearly made it to the end. That’s almost a decade. This photo was taken in woods not far from Banja Luka.’
‘How does Lars Andersen fit into this?’
‘Rumours have persisted suggesting Savic is still alive. We know that Lars Andersen is one of the aliases Savic is supposed to have used since 1999.’
‘And Inter Milan?’
‘It’s the nickname for the paramilitary unit he ran. The true title of Inter Milan – the Italian football club – is actually Internazionale. Savic’s paramilitary unit had an unusually high number of non-Serbs in it. He actively recruited foreigners – mercenaries, mostly – hence the name. Internationals became Inter Milan, Milan Savic’s private armed militia. They even took to wearing the club colours, black and blue.’
Stephanie re-examined the photograph from the woods. Wrapped around Savic’s throat and tucked into the top of his camouflage jacket was a black and blue football scarf.
‘Savic was a real bastard. Not that he was alone in that. There were plenty of others. Some of them have been indicted by the International War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague while others haven’t and never will be. Some died, some disappeared. At the time, Savic’s death was greeted with relief not only because of what he did but because of what he knew.’
‘Like what?’
‘In this matter, the International War Crimes Tribunal operates two types of indictment: the declared indictment, like those issued against Slobodan Milosevic or Radovan Karadzic, and the “sealed” or “secret” indictment, like the one used to bring General Momir Talic to justice. But there’s also a third list. Completely unofficial, it contains names of those war criminals who can never be permitted to see the inside of a courtroom. It’s not a long list, but Savic’s name is on it.’
Stephanie understood the nature of such lists. ‘I can see where this is heading. It sounds like a face-saving exercise.’
‘It doesn’t really matter what you think.’
He pressed a button on the console in front of him. The overhead lights dimmed and the wall-screen to her left flickered to life.
Alexander said, ‘Our arrangement has always been a hideous thing, I’m sure you’ll agree. Then again, we’re hideous people. Ever since New York, you and I have coexisted under the terms of an uneasy truce. As you know, the contract on Komarov was never rescinded. It was merely suspended. Consequently, we left our file on him open, amending it from time to time, when S3 came into possession of relevant material. Such as this …’
An unfamiliar black-and-white face formed on the wall: puffy cheeks, clipped hair, a neat goatee beard, rectangular glasses.
‘This is David Pearson. One of ours, Section 5, Support. In January, under S3 guidance, he went to Turkmenistan to make preparations for an Ether Division contract on Yuri Paskin, a Russian smuggler whose network is particularly strong through Central Asia. For the right fee Paskin will transport anything. Guns, drugs, prostitutes. Or Islamic terrorists. Out of Afghanistan, for instance. Which was what brought him to our attention and earned him a well-deserved contract. Based in Ashgabat, he runs a network that stretches in the east from Pakistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan to the western shore of the Caspian Sea. And from Iran and Afghanistan in the south, up through Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan into Russia in the north. In the international scheme of things Paskin’s a nobody. Regionally he’s a giant. Which was why I took the decision to retire him discreetly, rather than the blunter approach.’
‘You mean, someone like me.’
‘Precisely. Anyway, Pearson went to Ashgabat. Paskin’s a heavy smoker and drinker – not to mention casual cocaine user – so we’d decided an induced heart attack would be best. Nobody who knew him would have been surprised. We had an Ether Division unit standing by in Baku, ready to cross the Caspian. But at the last minute Paskin was tipped off. He fled to Irkutsk, and Pearson was shot twice in the head in his room at the Hotel Oktyabrskaya. That crucial piece of information came from Komarov.’
Don’t say a word. Not now.
Alexander looked strangely weary, almost resigned. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Stephanie: in the past I’ve activated contracts for less, and I make no apology for it. My choices are based on hard, factual analysis. It can’t be any other way. Which is why Komarov should be dead. Twice, in fact. Once in New York, and once for Pearson.’
‘Killing him for Pearson would be revenge. That’s emotional.’
‘Not true. Revenge is an instrument. It sends a message: kill one of ours and we’ll kill one of yours. Take my word for it, as a policy it works.’
She opened her mouth to speak but he raised his hand to silence her. In the past she would have ignored such a gesture. But not now.
Alexander said, ‘I’m considering closing the file on Komarov.’
For a moment, she didn’t understand. Closing the file – it sounded terminal. But it wasn’t. On the contrary. Like a Caesar, Alexander was granting life. Gradually Stephanie realized what was happening. His tone made sense, the anecdote made sense: it was the carrot
