Free Retribution by Adrian Magson

Broms was heading towards him. Kassim began to breathe faster, his heart thumping in his chest. He had already worked out what to do, and now the opportunity was here.
    He checked the street both ways. It was deserted. Broms was coming down this side, striding confidently, big arms swinging. He wouldn’t be an easy man to simply grab hold of as he went past.
    Kassim stepped out of the building site and walked diagonally across the street, his back to Broms. As the Swede came abreast of the empty plot, Kassim spun on his heel and slid the rucksack from his shoulder. The knife was resting point down on one side, next to the Makarov wrapped in the towel. But the gun would be too noisy. It had to be the knife.
    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.
    â€˜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
    â€˜H arry?’ 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.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜You think it was the same as Orti?’
    A