Read Online Retribution by Adrian Magson - Free Book Online

could snowball. If the story is true, we have to let it be seen that we’re eager to keep our house in order. Ethics are only worth possessing, Miss Walters, if they are seen to be upheld.’
    Walters blinked at the absurd pomposity of this statement. ‘You realize,’ she said, ‘this could be close to that base we had to use when we were over there?’
    â€˜So?’ He seemed indifferent to the connection, and not for the first time, Walters wondered if he was all that bright.
    â€˜It would not be good publicity, that’s all.’
    He almost sneered. ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity. If the story’s true, there’s a soldier out there somewhere who has committed a heinous crime. He must pay for it.’ He flicked open a folder on his desk, signalling the end of the discussion. ‘Now, let’s get on, shall we?’
    Karen Walters returned to her own office feeling deeply unsettled. There was, as Kleeman had said, no point in denying the story was out there. But letting the press know the way he had, that a UN soldier
was
involved, even before confirmation of the facts, was like throwing the press a big, juicy bone and telling them to gnaw away. What the hell was he playing at? Was it inexperience that had pushed him to say more than was wise, or was he, as rumours had it in the washrooms of the UN, simply eager to grab the headlines as a means of promoting his own platform?
    The briefing had been a mistake. Kleeman was accustomed to the social wolf pack, a cocktail in one hand and a clutch of patron-acquired opera tickets in the other. He had certainly never been exposed before to the kind of bearpit atmosphere he had volunteered himself for today. And she had been powerless to stop him. She should have known better. Putting himself out there had been an act of pure vanity – a way of signalling his career intentions. Unfortunately, the rest of the organization – herself included – was going to have to pick up the pieces.
    She shivered, remembering the way he’d sneaked a look at her legs. He’d never tried it on with her, thank God. He was married to a social butterfly with old, New England money, although he had plenty of his own, by all accounts. But that had never stopped men like him in the past. She picked up the phone and put out a call for Ken Deane. He was in the UK on unspecified business. She needed to speak to him directly. There were some things you simply couldn’t put in writing.

ELEVEN
    T he Major Trauma Centre at King’s College Hospital in Camberwell, south London, was unusually quiet when Harry walked through the front entrance and checked in at the front desk. The receptionist smiled in recognition but still checked his details and logged him in before nodding him through.
    He knew where to go.
    He walked up two flights of stairs and made his way to a corridor lined with side wards. A security guard sat at the end behind a small desk. He checked Harry’s details again and nodded him through. The air was cool and smelled faintly of lemons. There was none of the medical detritus common to many hospitals; the better, he had decided, to hurry patients out of their rooms to emergency theatres without having to run the obstacle course of trolleys, unused wheelchairs and spare equipment.
    In this place, speed was essential and taken as read.
    His footsteps echoed along the corridor. Each room had specialist monitors bleeping quietly or displaying figures Harry didn’t pretend to understand, each linked to a person who had suffered gunshot or similar trauma. Each room was its own small universe, but one where survival was not a given.
    He stopped outside the second door from the end just as a nurse came out carrying a tray covered by a cloth. She smiled sympathetically and closed the door behind her. It was a signal to him to wait.
    â€˜Any change?’ he asked. The last time he’d been here a few days