‘Good,’ Skender said without looking at him. He wore an expression of approval at everything he saw until his gaze fell on several workers huddled around a square hole in the centre of the white marble concourse. Skender glanced at the main doors to the building, then back at the hole in the ground, gauging the distance and positioning of it. With the look of approval gone from his face, he headed towards the group.
‘Hey! What are you guys doing?’ he growled as he approached the workers.
They looked around and straightened immediately on seeing who it was.
‘This is where the statue’s gonna go, Mr Skender,’ the foreman said, somewhat nervously, wondering why Skender was looking so pissed off.
‘The hell it is,’ Skender growled.
‘We’re going exactly by the plans, sir,’ an engineer said, suddenly checking the papers in his hands, fearing he had got it wrong.
‘I don’t give a damn what the plans say. I want it here,’ Skender said as he turned around and paced closer towards the entrance until he stood squarely fifty feet in front of the doors. ‘Here,’ he repeated as he faced them, feet wide apart and hands outstretched as if doing an impersonation of Moses parting the Dead Sea. ‘Like this. You got that?!’
The foreman hurried over to Skender, pulled a spray can from a pouch, and scurried around him, spraying a thin red line on the marble.
Skender lowered his hands, looked at the square drawn around him and nodded. ‘It arrives today?’ he asked, although it sounded more like a statement of fact.
The foreman looked instantly worried again. ‘No, sir. It’ll be in place by the opening ceremony. I assure you.’
Skender looked at him coldly, decidedly unsatisfied with the answer.
‘They’re pouring the mould by the end of the week,’ the foreman hurriedly added. ‘I’m told it looks pretty damn good, Mr Skender.’
‘I want it in place no later than the day before the opening ceremony. You understand me?’
‘It’ll be in, sir.’
Skender studied the man for a few seconds before a thin smile grew on his lips. It had far more sinister qualities than the unsmiling look.
Skender disconnected from the foreman who was only too relieved and headed towards the main entrance, Cano alongside him. As they reached the doors Skender paused to look at his head of security. ‘Don’t be so down, Dren,’ he said, using Cano’s real name which he sometimes did but only when they were outside
and there was no one within earshot. ‘We will find who killed your brother.’
Whenever Skender addressed Cano by his real name Cano never took it as a sign of affection since he knew that the man did not possess a scrap of any such. He saw the usage as a subtle reminder of who he really was and that Skender had control of his life. On the day when Cano had joined the ranks and given Skender the Besa – a solemn pledge to keep one’s word on pain of death – Skender had warned him that he would pay the ultim -ate price for any form of disobedience.
Skender had a special punishment for those in his employ who crossed him. The technique varied but the purpose was always the same: to keep the victim alive for as long as possible but in a condition of utter agony. This might mean amputating as much of the person as possible, cauterising each removal or applying a tourniquet and adding salt to the wounds. Another method was to direct a blowtorch onto various body parts at intervals, while another involved injecting into the bloodstream various chem -icals that caused unimaginable headaches and burning pains throughout the body, reviving the victim if their heart ceased to beat due to the pain or the chemical poisoning. The methods were limited only by the imagination of the torturer.
And just in case anyone hoped to escape such an end by killing the master himself it was well known that Skender had deposited a large sum of money with a family of infamous assassins, ironic -ally Croatians rather than Albanians, who would carry out such executions of any persons found responsible for Skender’s death, even if it was an accident. The sum was considerable and apparently allowed for the execution of up to twenty persons so that if, say, only one person was involved in the incident, the other nineteen slots would be filled by that person’s most immedi ate family members. The assassins were entirely reliable since they had many such contracts with powerful underworld figures and
it would not be good for their business to leave an obligation unfulfilled. The bottom line was that Skender was a deadly man to cross – in any direction.
Cano had not been promoted to the position of Skender’s head of security just because he was as ruthless as he was intelligent. Cano also displayed qualities of initiative whereas other subordin -ates were afraid to make any decision without first clearing it with the master. Allowing a level of free thinking from an indiv -idual within the ranks had its dangers but Skender appreciated its advantages and in any case Cano had proved his loyalty as well as an intuitive understanding of Skender’s methods over the years. It was the greatest single display of trust that Skender had bestowed on any individual but he was aware that such traumatic events as losing an eye and a brother in one afternoon and then to have the killer walk free might put a strain on Cano’s single-minded dedication to Skender. He would wait and see how things developed.
‘I think we have already found him,’ Cano said.
‘You have him?’ Skender asked curiously. A small warning bell went off in his head.
‘No,’ Cano said. ‘Not yet.’
Skender could not have cared less about the death of Cano’s brother or the loss of his eye. He was more concerned with the possible wider consequences of the recent deaths. He was confident of the position he had carved out for himself with the Federal government by turning in some old enemies, providing carefully selected snippets of information on some weapons-supply networks used by terrorists and dangling a big carrot in front of them with the promise of delivering up an al-Qaeda leader. But the stupid killing of the Englishwoman and then the deaths of Bufi and Ardian were problems he could do without.
If Ardian had not been Dren’s brother Skender would have had him and his moronic sidekick Bufi executed after they had killed
the Englishwoman. It would have been a lesson to others. But if he had killed Ardian he would have had to kill Cano too since he would then have become an enemy. Skender had made that one concession to Cano but he would not allow another. Cano was possibly signing his own death warrant by pursuing his brother’s killer. Skender wondered if Cano understood that. Or was his anger and depression so great that he could think of nothing else but retribution?
‘You say you only
think
you know who was responsible?’ Skender asked.
‘Yes, but I will make sure.’
‘And do you think you know who he works for?’
‘I think he is working alone.’
‘Alone?’
‘You have seen him. At the district attorney’s office in Santa Monica. He was the man at the bottom of the stairs who attacked Vlen.’
Skender shook his head as if he did not remember although he had a vague image of the man in his head.
‘He was in the restaurant when Ardian was killed,’ Cano went on. ‘He ran off seconds before the explosion. He’s an Englishman. A secretary in the DA’s office remembered an Englishman asking about an English woman’s death in Venice a week ago. And one of our cops, Draper, down at the Santa Monica Police Depart -ment, described the same guy asking about the case.’
Skender remembered the Englishman who had telephoned him. ‘This cop, Draper, he told this Englishman it was Ardian and Leka?’
‘No. He told him nothing.’
‘Then how’d he find out?’
‘I don’t know.’
Skender thought on that for a moment as he stared into Cano’s eyes. The Englishman had no doubt got Skender’s phone number
from the same source who had given him the names. That had to be a pretty high-up source. ‘Why do you think he isn’t connected to anyone?’
‘This was a revenge killing.’
‘How would he know it was your brother who killed that Englishwoman if he’s not connected with someone who would know?’
‘I’ve no idea. But he ain’t business. He don’t even live in this country. He came over because the Englishwoman was killed and the next thing is Bufi gets taken out and then my brother.’
‘And so he just happens to find out and marches into the Santa Monica courts, through a dozen cops, kills Bufi in his cell, escapes, then kills your brother right in front of you – and you think he’s just an ordin ary guy.’
‘Okay, so maybe he’s got talent. My point is, he’s not connected to us. This wasn’t about business. Look, boss, I know how sensitive things are right now. I’m not about to do anything stupid. Let me find out who he is, then I’ll come to you with what I’ve got.’
‘You know where he is?’
‘No, but I have an idea how to find out. I want this guy, boss. I’ve never asked you for anything before, but I’m asking now. It’s the Kanun of our
fis
. It’s the Kanun.’
Skender walked away and stood looking into space while Cano watched him. Skender’s immediate impulse was to have Cano killed as soon as possible and end it there. But deep down he knew only too well the meaning of retribution for wrongs committed against one’s family. The Kanun was a set of norms that constituted the Albanian syndicate’s common law, a code that had been in place for centuries and was used by all the
fis
or tribes. It was the blood-bond that held the Albanians together and made them so much more dangerously different from other nationalities in the same business. Skender could not ignore it for it was in his own blood.
Strangely, while listening to Cano, especially the part about his new nemesis being an Englishman, Skender had been reminded of his own youth, for it was a man from that country who had been responsible for the destruction of his entire family. Skender was from the Geg tribe who occupied the mountainous regions of Northern Albania. Unlike most of his current peers, Skender’s family had not been linked to crime but were strongly political. They’d been followers of Zog, the ousted King of the Albanians.
When Mussolini invaded Albania in 1939 the King had fled to England. Geg chieftains, one of whom was Skender’s father, organised an anti-communist royalist group and in 1952, a few years after Skender was born, the King, whose son Skender was named after, joined a plot organised by the US and Britain to help the loyalists overthrow the Albanian communist government that had by then taken power.
Hundreds of Albanian émigrés and refugees were recruited, many by Skender’s father, and infiltrated back into Albania for the coming fight. However, the plot was revealed to the commun -ists by the infamous British double agent Kim Philby. Practically every Albanian infiltrator and many of the Geg tribe, including Skender’s parents, were brutally murdered.
Skender was barely six years old on the morning when the killers came to his village. There had been no warning. No one was to escape death, no matter what their sex or age. Skender remembered waking up to the noise of screams and gunfire. He climbed out of the bed he shared with his older brother and two sisters and ran to the window to see what was happening. The first sight he saw was the woman who lived across the road being dragged outside with her three children after her husband had already been shot. Skender watched in horror as they were killed by a combination of rifle fire and sword thrusts.
Seconds later the front door to his own house was kicked open
and more gunfire erupted. They killed Skender’s mother first and as his father rushed out of the back room with his gun raised he was cut down by a volley of fire from several government soldiers. Then came the sound of someone running up the stairs. Skender reacted instinctively. He jumped up onto the windowsill and pulled himself over it. As he hung on to the window frame the bedroom door burst open and shots rang out. A bullet smashed through the window and Skender let go to land hard on the small roof along the front of the house before rolling off and hitting the dirt road.
A soldier immediately saw the little boy but instead of shooting he raised his sword and ran at him. Skender scrambled to his feet and sprinted around the side of the building with all the strength he could muster. The soldier followed but Skender knew his own backyard and, being a fraction of his pursuer’s size, was able to dart through a hole in a wooden fence as the sword swung down. He rolled down the steep slope in between the houses. Skender was free from that pursuer but there were many more soldiers in the village and the sound of wholesale slaughter had risen to a frenzy.
Skender continued to run, not knowing where to go other than downhill since it gave him the greatest speed. He paused between two buildings to consider his options. The sounds of screams and shooting surrounded him and all he could think of was continu ing on to the bottom of the village, across the road and into the river.
A bullet hit a wall inches away from Skender, painfully splattering his cheek with plaster. He looked up to see a soldier aiming a rifle at him from a window. The next bullet hit the ground between his feet and he was off running again, ducking between houses and sheds, pushing through flimsy fences that corralled various livestock and on until he reached a road. He ran across it without a glance in either direction. As he leaped up onto a
bank on the other side a hand grabbed him by the neck, twisted him round as if he was a doll, and raised him off the ground.