Johnson knew that the prosecuting authorities, originally the International Criminal Tribunal in The Hague, and then, since 2005, the local courts in Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia, and other countries of the former Yugoslavia, had taken their responsibility to prosecute war crimes very seriously. So if he could come up with evidence, the prosecutors would use it. But the question was, should he simply tip off local police and let them handle it.
Johnson was due to head to Istanbul on Monday. Perhaps he could look into it until then and make a decision based on what he could find out.
Clearly, his best bet now would be to get in touch with Petar’s brother Filip. But he was in jail, Petar had said, without indicating which jail or when he might be released.
Then there was the father, for whom there was a phone number stored but no address. That might be a good starting point, but Johnson doubted whether a cold call to an old man who might not speak very good English would work well. Johnson could try speaking Croatian, but it wouldn’t be an easy conversation, especially if the man had been informed about his son’s death, which Johnson estimated would happen quite quickly.
Johnson felt somewhat at a dead end.
Then he thought of Jayne Robinson. Jayne was a long-standing friend, and for a brief period in the late 1980s, when they were both stationed in Pakistan—she for the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, and he for the CIA—they had been more than just friends.
Jayne had also helped Johnson with his most recent job, at the end of the previous year, tracking down a Nazi war criminal, and she was priceless as a partner on that type of investigation.
He knew, too, that Jayne had also done a four-year posting in the Balkans in the early 2000s, where she helped collect information to prosecute war criminals across the former Yugoslavia and fed back intelligence on political and economic issues to London.
That had come to an end when her cover, along with that of several of her colleagues, had been blown by a leak to local media in 2004.
But she might be able to put some context around everything Petar had said and help him out. Given her longer experience in the region, she would probably have a better idea than him about how to navigate her way through the labyrinth of government bodies and sources of information in these parts. It was certainly worth a try.
Johnson got off the bus when it stopped outside the Valamar Lacroma hotel. Instead of going to his room, he turned left down a road, past two other large tourist hotels, the Neptun and Royal Palm, and onto a pathway running along the rocky coastline. After a few hundred yards he came to the Cave Bar. Tucked underneath the cliff, the bar was built into a cave that extended deep into the cliff face and had an outdoor seating area right next to the water.
He sat down well away from the few other customers and ordered a beer, still feeling spooked by the shooting.
Johnson waited until the beer arrived, then checked carefully around him for possible eavesdroppers, pulled out his phone and placed an encrypted call to Jayne, as was his habit with her.
She answered almost immediately. “Joe! Hello, good to hear from you. Where are you? What are you up to?”
Johnson pictured Jayne, her shortish dark hair and slim figure. She sounded excited to hear from him.
“I’m in Dubrovnik—work, not holiday,” Johnson said. “I flew over earlier in the week to speak at a war crimes conference.”
“Sounds good. Beautiful spot there. I miss it sometimes. How’s it going?”
“It was going all right—but I’ve just come from drinking coffee with a guy who was shot dead outside the men’s room of the café we were at, in the Old Town.”
There was a pause as Jayne digested what he had said.
“What was that all about then?” It was a typically low-key response from her.
Johnson explained the background to the morning’s events and the information Petar had given him; he also told her about the visit from Vic Walter and what he had asked him to find.
“So,” Jayne said, “you’ve had Vic asking you to go look for some lost Bosnian government documents, which obviously must be highly critical if the Americans need them after twenty years. And then this guy Petar comes and tells you about a couple of war criminals who have evaded prosecution for two decades. Then he’s shot dead, after receiving warning messages. Sounds like something of an odd coincidence to me.”
“Yes, that just about sums it up,” Johnson said.
“It might be worth investigating then,” Jayne said. “You could take the money from your friend Vic, do that job, and then, while he’s paying your expenses, have a look at this other situation at the same time.”
“Maybe, but it’s difficult to know the significance of Petar’s story,” Johnson said. “Yes, he was murdered, but whether it’s worth chasing from a war crimes perspective—and whether there’s any evidence that could be used in a court to prosecute them—that’s the hard question. Maybe I should just leave his murder to local police and drop the rest of it. What do you think?”
“If evidence does emerge of something that war crimes investigators weren’t aware of before, then yes, it’s worth pursuing. I know the Bosnian prosecutors are still pressing new charges all the time, having people extradited from various countries, including the US,” Jayne said. “Another problem is, if you just hand it to local police, you can’t be certain how seriously they’ll pursue it or how capable they are. The bottom line is, how strongly do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know, honestly,” Johnson said. “But I was thinking of going to Split over the next two days to visit anyway, while I’m in Croatia, so I thought I could try and track down Petar’s father, if I have time. I don’t want to put you to a lot of trouble, but I was wondering if your technical guys at GCHQ might be able to track down the address registered against the father’s cell phone number? Otherwise I can get Vic to try the NSA.”
The Government Communications Headquarters was the British signals intelligence agency, responsible for a huge range of activities, including monitoring internet, telephone and email traffic for the SIS and other government functions, as required. Johnson knew that, as a member of the SIS, Jayne would have any number of contacts within the agency whom she could call on for a favor.
“I’ll have a go,” Jayne said. “E-mail me the details and I’ll see what I can do. My friend Alice at GCHQ should be able to help.”
Johnson also asked her to request from GCHQ a trace on the cell phone number from which the warning text message to Petar had been received.
She agreed, then paused. “You seem keen on this, Joe.”
“No, really, I haven’t decided that yet,” Johnson said. “I’ve got other jobs I’m looking at. And anyway, I need to get home. I’m meant to be flying to Istanbul on Monday morning for a meeting, then home Monday night from there. What about you, what are you up to?”
Jayne paused. “Actually, I’m leaving Six. I’ve had enough. I’ve done twenty-six years. They’re just taking costs out all the time, flogging us senseless, and with these London Olympics kicking off at the end of this month and all the security stuff flying around, it’s just gone nuts. I’ve paid off the mortgage on my little apartment, so I handed my notice in some time back. You might remember I was getting close to quitting last year?”
Johnson remembered very well. But now he was surprised that she had actually taken such a bold step—and that he was learning of it only now. He thought they were closer than that.
It must be nice, in some ways, to be single, child-free, and footloose like Jayne, he thought. “So what are you planning to do when you leave?”
“I was thinking maybe something like you do,” Jayne said. “Some private investigation work for corporates, governments, or intelligence agencies, maybe looking for wanted people who have removed themselves from the radar. There’s plenty of work like that once you start looking around internationally. Actually . . . how about if I come and give you a hand now? It’s a vipers’ nest down ther
e, Joe. You might need a little assistance and some extra local experience. And I’ll get to explore the job that way, figure out if I like the reality as much as the idea.”
Johnson laughed. “Really? You would? If I were going to do this job, then absolutely, but I don’t think I will end up on it.” But something in the back of his mind made him ask, “When could you do that, anyway?”
“Next week. Tuesday probably. I finish here on Monday afternoon.”
For a second Johnson really considered it, but then reality hit him. “The kids would kill me, I’m afraid. We’re meant to be going on a short break in northern Maine for a few days next weekend with my sister and her husband. I can’t possibly miss that. So I’ll be heading home Monday as planned.”
“Okay, but if anything comes up, you know where to find me.”
Chapter Four
Thursday, July 5, 2012
London
The British Foreign Secretary Ian Owen wagged his finger at the Wolff Live studio audience to emphasize his point and raised his voice a couple of tones.
“What I would like to see, what most people in the Western world would like to see,” he said, “is for democracy to thrive in the Islamic countries of the world. We’ve seen over the past decades, centuries, millennia even, a democratic culture evolve across much of the globe that is based very much on Christian principles. By that I mean Westernized countries have put in place the real building blocks of democracy, chiefly the independence of the judiciary, the rule of law, a free media and rights of individuals, and strong and diverse political parties. I’d like to see that kind of democracy spread to Islamic countries as well.”
He took a sip of water, then leaned forward in his black armchair once again.
The interviewer, Boris Wolff, nodded. “That’s fine, foreign secretary, but these systems have evolved over centuries. You’re now saying to countries that have gone down the dictatorship route—just change overnight?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Owen said. “It’s not an overnight process. But people bring about change from within. Strong, peaceful pressure for change can make a real difference.”
“Okay,” Boris said, running a hand through his clipped dark hair, “but in some ways you’re seeing the tide go the other way, away from inclusion and diversity. Look at the United States, where we’ve seen Patrick Spencer, the Republican speaker of the House, trumpeting his anti-Muslim rhetoric, calling for bans on Muslims and getting huge support from various corners of the population.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Owen said. “There are groups even in Western countries who are fighting to defeat us and our values. Spencer and his like are a threat to our vision of democracy because they want to exclude people who don’t, say, have the right ethnic background or family group.”
Boris leaned forward. “Foreign secretary, thank you for taking the time to be with us this afternoon. Strong views as always and much food for thought.”
Owen nodded in acknowledgement, adjusted his tie, and sat back with a self-satisfied smile, clearly believing the interview had gone according to plan.
As the credits rolled and the show closed, Owen got to his feet and shook hands with Boris before his public relations staff swiftly ushered him out of the SRTV studios.
As the audience exited the building, in London’s Paddington Basin, Boris wandered over to the program’s editor, David Rowlands, who stood at the side of the set.
“I thought that mainly went very well,” David said, looking up at Boris. “You did a good job. You pushed him just about hard enough on his points about internal change and Spencer and so on, without being too aggressive.”
“Yes, hopefully I got the balance about right,” Boris said, fingering the side of his face, which he had carefully shaved that morning, prior to the interview.
David smiled. “You’ve come a long way in the past few years. Amazing how you’ve grown into this role.”
Boris nodded his thanks. David was right. It had been a long, sometimes hard journey from a junior subeditor, working shifts through dark winter nights on the BBC World Service, to a top TV political interviewer.
“Actually, on the subject of Spencer, I recently put in a pitch to interview him in New York,” Boris said. “I thought it would make a good follow-up to the Owen interview. You know, he’s got such a different viewpoint than Owen does, and he’s coming from the other side of the Atlantic. It would make a great contrast and give a different perspective on the same issues. Also, Spencer’s going to come across as a real thug, a mindless idiot, really, on some things. He’s bound to say something strong—probably anti-Muslim or something—that will make a big headline and get us some great publicity. Management will love it.”
“Great idea,” David said. “The commercial boys will sell a ton of airtime on the back of that. We’ll make a killing. You never mentioned that before.”
“No, I wanted to see if it would get any traction with Spencer’s publicity people first. But his main guy came back this morning and said they like the idea and could do it at quite short notice. Spencer’s very publicity-keen at the moment and we basically just need to find a studio that could handle it and fix it up. If the timing is right, we could do it as a live show, rather than a pre-record.”
“When are you looking at?” David asked.
“I asked if Friday the twenty-seventh was doable.”
David smiled. “Okay. Let’s hope they bite, then. Nice one, Boris. We’re on a roll at the moment, but we need to keep it up. The bosses upstairs are breathing down our necks, given that the ratings are slipping.”
Thursday, July 5, 2012
London
Later that afternoon, Boris steered his Porsche out of the SRTV studios parking lot, through London’s Hyde Park, past the Royal Albert Hall and Imperial College, then onto Ennismore Mews, a quiet cobbled road tucked away just off Knightsbridge.
He felt a quiet sense of satisfaction as he drove; the Owen interview had been a job well done.
Boris pulled up outside his broad-fronted two-story house, a white-painted property with sky-blue doors and window frames, and glanced up at the bell tower of the Russian Orthodox church standing at the northern end of the street like a sentry on duty.
He pressed a remote control button attached to his car key, and his double garage door began to rise. When it was fully open, he drove in, closed it behind him, and let himself into the house through an interior door.
“Hayley, are you in?” he called up the polished mahogany staircase.
“Of course,” Hayley said. Her long blonde hair swung a little as she appeared at the top of the stairs. She wore a thin silk robe that fell slightly open, betraying the fact that she had nothing on underneath it. “Of course,” she said. “Champagne’s on ice down there. How did the interview go?”
“It was good,” Boris said. “I gave Owen a good grilling. He started going on about the need for democracy in Islamic states, so I probed him quite strongly on that.”
“Excellent,” Hayley said. “When we’ve had a little champagne, I don’t mind if you’d like to probe me too.” She smiled and walked down the stairs, letting her garment slip a little further to reveal her long legs.
Boris laughed. “That’ll definitely be a lot more enjoyable than probing Owen, and certainly a lot more enjoyable than probing the next person I’m lining up—Patrick Spencer.”
“Ooh, Spencer. That’s in the States then, not here?”
“Yes, it’ll probably be in New York, and hopefully very soon.”
“I can’t stand him, but just make sure you wangle me onto that trip. Perhaps we can do a little shopping at the same time?” Hayley asked.
“Yes, sure. We can probably stay with Edvin and do a little partying as well.” Edvin Matić was an old HVO army friend from Mostar, who had moved to New York in the mid-1990s. The two men kept in fairly close touch.
Hayley reached the bottom of the stairs, then walked over to Boris, her ro
be now fully open. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body into his, then began to kiss him. After a few minutes, she broke it off. “Hmm, I think you’re definitely ready for the interview now.”
“I am, but I just need to make a Skype call first. I fixed it for half past, and I’m already late, so I’d better get on,” Boris said. “I’ll do it in the office, then come down and join you for the champagne, okay?”
Hayley put on an exaggerated pout and theatrically closed her robe at the front again, then tied the belt to hold it in place. “I’ll be waiting,” she said.
Boris kissed her, then climbed the stairs, two steps at a time, walked around a set of weights in a recess on the landing that he used for a workout most mornings, and removed a key from his jacket pocket that he used to open his soundproof first-floor office. He closed the door behind him and locked it again.
Hayley knew she wasn’t to disturb him when he was making work-related calls, but nevertheless, he didn’t want to take any chances. There was no way he would be able to explain to her the rationale for what happened in the other parts of his compartmentalized life, and when their relationship came to an end, as it undoubtedly would sooner rather than later, he didn’t want any loose ends left behind.
Boris brought his desk computer out of sleep mode, entered a password, and clicked onto Skype, which he knew would automatically encrypt the call he was about to make.
He scrolled down his list of contacts until he came to a certain name, then pressed the call button.
After a couple of rings, the video screen opened, and gradually, the flickering picture stabilized. Boris could see a man with short dark hair wearing a pair of sunglasses. The sound came on and Boris could hear background noise.
“Marco, sorry, I’m a little late,” Boris said in Croatian. “We’ve just had Ian Owen on our Sunday program—not that that’s an excuse. How are things?”
Marco Lukić shook his head. “So the British foreign secretary comes before your old friend, does he? How things change.”
The Old Bridge Page 4