Retribution by Adrian Magson Page A

early days in Wall Street, when he had used his father’s fortune to make an even bigger one. Back then, the general motto was, when your back’s to the wall, come out fighting.
    The hubbub died down, and he addressed the woman from
The Times.
‘
Mz
Henson,’ he said with deliberate emphasis, his handsome face set in a smile, ‘I’m not sure where you get your information from, but there have been no confirmed “brutalities” by any KFOR personnel in Kosovo. The “rumours” as you so correctly call them, are unfounded and unsubstantiated, based on enmity towards the UN and NATO in general. There may have been some incidents by untrained NATO personnel, but—’
    â€˜You don’t call bar-fights and the shooting dead of an unarmed civilian brutal?’ called another voice from the back of the room. ‘That was in Gornji Livoc.’
    â€˜And the young men beaten up outside a bar in Lausa by so-called NATO Special Forces?’
    â€˜What about the shooting of two medical workers by UN peacekeepers in Mitrovica?’
    The volley of voices grew as the reporters sensed blood in the air, citing stories of serious behaviour by, among others, Russian, African, Pakistani and Polish troops, and a British soldier sent home in disgrace.
    Karen Walters moved swiftly from her position at the back of the room, her arm raised in an attempt to draw attention away from Kleeman, who looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Suddenly Dorrie Henson’s voice cut through the room with the precision of a surgeon’s knife.
    â€˜What about the rape and murder of a young Muslim girl by a KFOR soldier at a UN compound in 1999, Mr Special Envoy? That seems pretty darned brutal to me!’

TEN
    F or several seconds there was stunned silence. Then the room erupted in frantic questioning, some of it directed at Henson by press colleagues desperate to share what she knew.
    Kleeman resisted the powerful temptation to rush from the room, and waved his hand until everyone fell silent.
    â€˜That is as yet unconfirmed,’ he said forcefully. ‘We do not have full details of that alleged incident. However, what I—’
    â€˜These
alleged
stories are coming out of Kosovo day after day,’ Henson said cuttingly, ‘and have been for weeks. Some of them through the aid agencies. Surely they’re being investigated, Mr Special Envoy?’
    â€˜What I
do
know,’ Kleeman ploughed on, visibly stung by the heavy irony in Henson’s use of his official title, ‘is that we are hearing this story – not
stories
, Ms Henson – the same time as you. We have to look into the claims, the same way we look into
all
alleged incidents involving UN personnel. That takes time. I think it does no one any good to jump to conclusions at this early stage.’ He looked around for support from the more UN-friendly people present. ‘And it does no good for those members of the peacekeeping forces still in Kosovo today to have their role besmirched without – I repeat, Ms Henson –
without
foundation. They already have a difficult enough job as it is.’
    â€˜But it will be investigated?’ an elderly, grey-suited Reuters man in the front row prompted with quiet courtesy.
    Kleeman fastened gratefully on him and said, ‘It will be investigated fully.’ He put on his most earnest expression and turned to look Henson straight in the eye. ‘And I can promise you this: the trooper responsible
will
be brought to justice, and
will
pay for his crimes.’
    â€˜Trooper?’ Henson looked startled. ‘So you know the rank of this person? What else do you know that you’re not telling us, Mr Kleeman?’
    It was a mistake and he knew it. But before he could reply, Karen Walters stepped in, planting herself firmly between the press and her boss. If it got up Kleeman’s nose, her stance said, she couldn’t care less; this