The Old Bridge

by Andrew Turpin

  “Not bad for a civil servant. It would definitely require a salary supplement of some kind,” Johnson said. He stopped and studied the large three-story stone house, which sat on a landscaped plot, fifty yards wide, that ran from the road right down to the water’s edge.

  The property stood less than a mile west of Split’s marina and not far from Antun’s far more modest house.

  “Yes, perhaps it’s old money. He’s left Bosnia and taken the Croatian waterfront option for his retirement. Ironic, isn’t it,” Jayne said. The property, flanked by pine trees, looked slightly in need of some love and care, as many older people’s homes do.

  Johnson glanced over his shoulder toward the road. He had taken extensive measures to ensure he hadn’t been tailed on his way to the property, including a stop-start journey with detours through various parts of Split, down side streets and around the perimeter of the Old Town. It wasn’t quite as elaborate as one of the surveillance detection routes he had run in his CIA days, but it wasn’t far off. He had then parked out of sight of the road, in a recess behind some bushes, down a narrow alley at the side of Hasanović’s property.

  A set of curved stone steps rose from the path to a decorative oak front door. Johnson pushed the old brass door bell.

  The silver-haired man who answered the door opened it no more than a third and peered at Johnson from behind metal-framed glasses.

  “Mr. Hasanović?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m Joe Johnson, an American war crimes investigator. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I was hoping you might be able to help with something I’m working on. I was directed to you by the family of one of your former colleagues years ago. I was wondering if you can spare a few minutes.”

  Hasanović gazed at Johnson. “War crimes? I thought they were being handled locally, not by overseas investigators. What is it you’re working on?”

  “I’m searching for someone who’s suspected of mass murders of Muslims in your Bosnia, twenty years ago, and who stole important Foreign Ministry documents that originally came from Alija Izetbegović’s office.”

  Hasanović straightened his shoulders slowly, his dark eyes now gazing steadily at Johnson. “Documents? From Alija’s office?” He furrowed his brow at Jayne. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Jayne Robinson, from London. Also an investigator. I’m working with Joe.”

  Hasanović stood still for a few seconds. His thick glasses lenses magnified his eyes and gave them a slightly surreal look.

  “So who sent you to me?” Hasanović asked.

  “I’d rather not say while standing on your doorstep,” Johnson said. “It’s quite sensitive.” He checked over his shoulder.

  Get a move on.

  “I understand. Come this way,” Hasanović said. He led the way through a wood-paneled hallway into a library lined with oak bookshelves, its leaded window looking up the garden path toward the road. He pointed Johnson and Jayne to a pair of leather armchairs and sat himself down behind a large polished wooden desk.

  “I can tell you that intelligence sources sent me to you,” Johnson said, hoping that a little frankness on his part might help pry open Hasanović’s defenses.

  “But you can’t say exactly who?”

  “No.”

  Hasanović sighed. “Okay. Tell me more about those documents. Are you looking for the person who stole them from Alija’s office?” Hasanović asked.

  “No, they were taken from Izetbegović’s office by someone, and the person I’m looking for stole them from that person,” Johnson said.

  Hasanović paused. “You know, you may be confusing me with someone who still cares about this sort of thing. Twenty years ago I did, but now I’m enjoying my retirement. However, just tell me, these documents, is there a Mostar link involved?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Would it have anything to do with a man called Erol Delić, by any chance?” he asked.

  “Kind of. I think he was the man who removed them from Izetbegović’s office in Sarajevo.”

  “Okay, I know what you’re talking about,” Hasanovic said. “A lot of documents went missing at various times, but this particular bundle was especially sensitive. I remember them clearly. I’d stamped them for shredding because we couldn’t afford for them to get out. It would have wrecked things for the Bosnian government in Sarajevo. For a while, I dreaded waking up every morning in case the headlines were suddenly all about Iran delivering a load of arms to Izetbegović despite the arms embargo that the cowardly European governments had put in place. Thankfully that didn’t happen. But it would also have seriously upset certain people from outside Bosnia if those details had been made public at the time . . . including some from the other side of the Atlantic, I might add.”

  He tapped the wooden desk with his forefinger and then continued, “I’d have killed Erol if I’d known at the time that he’d taken them. But he covered his tracks, and actually, I think the Croatian army, the HVO, did the job for me. Killed him I mean. What I don’t know is where the documents ended up. Not that it matters now.”

  Johnson tugged at the hole in his right ear. “Well, that’s the issue. After a long struggle we got the documents from two Bosnian Croats, both from Mostar. One was Franjo Vuković, the other Marco Lukić. And we wanted the documents for the reason you said. They’re sensitive. Explosive even. But then things went wrong and those two got them back again. It’s not just the documents—they are both men that I want to nail for the war crimes I mentioned.”

  Hasanović shrugged. “From what I recall of those documents, if they found their way into the press now they’d be a lot more damaging to certain American politicians and other officials than they would be to low-level Croatian army guys. That’s where I would focus. I mean, unless you’ve got cast-iron proof about war crimes, trying to get convictions is going to be a tall order. If not, I’d forget it.”

  Johnson couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows. “No, I disagree. Wrongdoing is wrongdoing, no matter where the person is on the seniority ladder. Justice should be done, whether it’s war crimes or corruption.”

  “I’m not sure where this is taking us,” Hasanović said. “Is there anything else I can help you with? I’m not going to be able to somehow conjure these documents back for you, unfortunately.”

  “There are a couple of things,” Johnson said. “Some of the documents referred to a Mr. B. They talked about him being given a Bosnian passport, and they also said he was involved with mujahideen training camps in Bosnia, and CIA and Pentagon advisers were not expected to raise objections. Who is this Mr. B?”

  A faint smile crossed Hasanović’s face. “You’re telling me you haven’t worked that one out?”

  “No.”

  “I can tell you now that he’s dead.”

  “Who was it?”

  “It was Osama bin Laden.”

  Johnson fell back in his chair. “Bin Laden?”

  “Yes, it was him. For us in Sarajevo, hmm, I have to admit, it wasn’t our finest hour. And I told Izetbegović so at the time—I warned him. But he would have none of it. He thought having Bin Laden in the tent pissing out at the rest of the Western hemisphere, the Catholics and the Orthodox Christians would be a good thing. He said it would help us hold our own against the sadists from Serbia who were massacring every Muslim they could find, and it would help promote Islam in this region.”

  Hasanović’s face had turned from a grayish white to a healthier-looking pink. He seemed energized again. Then in a lower voice he continued, “But for your all-knowing CIA, for your Pentagon military advisers, and for your former president Clinton, the decision to look the other way when Bin Laden arrived and set up camp in Western Europe was in a different class altogether. It was a goddamned disaster. It put Bin Laden on a launchpad. It armed him. When the Americans finally killed him last year in Pakistan, they were eighteen years too late. They let the horse out of the stable doors in ’93.”

  Johnso
n took a minute or two to process what he was being told. There were the other names he needed too.

  Come on Joe, think this through.

  “There was also a CIA operative mentioned in the papers, but not named. Do you remember who that was?”

  Hasanović pursed his lips. “It was a man called Robert Watson. Yes, that was him, Watson. I met him a few times—didn’t like him.”

  “Watson?” For the second time in a couple of minutes Johnson felt utterly incredulous.

  “Yes, Watson. Arrogant man, treated us all like shit. I remember him well.

  Johnson nodded. “Now it makes sense,” he said quietly.

  “Makes sense? What does?” Hasanović said.

  “Nothing, he’s someone I know, that’s all.”

  “Another thing you should check out is arms smuggling out of Croatia to the Syrian rebels,” Hasanović said. “The weapons being exported now are mainly the same ones that were imported twenty years ago and skimmed off from the plane loads that came in from Iran. I’ve heard they’re shipping them out of Sinj, on night flights, they’ve got the local police in their pockets.”

  “Sinj?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes, a small airfield over toward the Bosnian border.”

  “Who’s behind the shipments?”

  “I don’t know, exactly.”

  Johnson frowned. “Okay. I’ll take a look at that. Just to go back to the documents I saw, the other person who’s not identified is the Pentagon military adviser who also turned a blind eye to the Iran shipments, and effectively let it happen. The documents mentioned him a couple of times, but there was no name. Do you know who—”

  “Oh, yes, I know who it was all right,” Hasanović broke in. “He’s—”

  But then it was Hasanović’s turn to be interrupted.

  A loud, sharp double rap came at the front door. Not the sound of knuckles on wood, but rather, hard metal. It was a bang, not a knock.

  Hasanović stood and walked into the hallway. Johnson and Jayne followed. The old man stood still, watching the front door. There was another loud rap, then another, this time harder and louder.

  Johnson reached swiftly for Hasanović’s shoulder. “Wait, don’t. Just wait a minute. I’ve just got a feeling—”

  He was interrupted by another rap, followed by three loud bangs.

  Through the small frosted window in the door, Johnson could just about make out the opaque outline of two figures, both wearing black tops of some kind, both with black hair.

  “Don’t answer it,” Johnson said. “Can we move to a different part of the house?”

  Hasanović turned and walked stiffly down the hallway to the stairs, then began to climb. He beckoned Johnson and Jayne to follow.

  They had all reached the first-floor landing when the first bullet smashed through the front door, then came another immediately afterward. One of the bullets hit the wall at the far end of the hall, making a large hole in the plaster.

  Hasanović beckoned Johnson through a doorway to the left, which he shut and locked behind them. Now they were in another paneled room with a huge television in the corner, an array of DVDs and a couple of long sofas.

  The sound of more gunshots came from downstairs, then a series of loud thuds as if the door was being hit with a heavy implement. Finally, there was a louder blast, that sounded to Johnson like a shotgun, and a crunch as the door gave way. Shouts came from downstairs.

  Hasanović walked over to a drawer, opened it, and took out two identical pistols. “Have you got a gun?” he asked Johnson

  Johnson shook his head and glanced at Jayne, who had already removed her Walther from her linen jacket pocket.

  Hasanović gave one of the weapons to Johnson. “Zastava M70. It’s good to go. Follow me.”

  He looked over his shoulder as he strode through another door, which he again closed and locked behind him with a key.

  They passed through to a small landing from where a narrow staircase with uncarpeted wooden steps went up and down.

  “We go up here. Servants’ staircase,” Hasanović said. His voice sounded unsteady and Johnson could see the old man’s hands were trembling.

  “Let’s get out of here. You go up the stairs,” Hasanović said. “I’ll follow.”

  He waited until Johnson and Jayne had gone up a flight, and then followed.

  Hasanović had climbed a quarter of the way up when he swore loudly; there was a heavy thud and a clattering sound below him. Johnson looked down and saw the old man had somehow dropped his gun on the wooden stairs. The weapon bounced hard off two steps then fell between the banisters and down to the ground floor below.

  “I’ll go and fetch it, I’m sorry,” Hasanović said.

  Johnson held up his hand. “No, leave it, just leave it. I’ll—”

  But the old man ignored him and began walking down the stairs.

  “Shit. I said leave it. Come up here,” Johnson said, raising his voice sharply. Hasanović waved his hand dismissively and continued down.

  He had picked up the gun and was heading back up the stairs when two loud shotgun blasts in quick succession crunched through the TV room door, leaving splintered holes in the woodwork. Then came another two rounds.

  Johnson took careful aim and loosed two shots at the door, which were immediately followed by a shout and a low-pitched yell from the other side. He continued to aim at the door as he edged backward up the stairs to the top landing.

  “Quick, come up here,” Johnson shouted to Hasanović.

  The old man obeyed. He was halfway back up the stairs when a door crashed back against a wall on the ground floor below.

  Hasanović turned momentarily to look below him, then tried to accelerate up the stairs, but he was far too slow. There was a sharp crack, the whine of a ricochet, and then another shot.

  Almost in slow motion, Hasanović’s head jerked forward. Johnson saw a plume of blood spray out from the front of his head and then he toppled, his arms and legs spread wide, down the flight of stairs he had just climbed.

  Instinctively, Johnson launched himself toward Jayne, who was standing in an alcove in front of another door. “Go,” he yelled.

  She opened the door behind her and went through. Johnson followed right behind. He whipped around, pulled a bolt across the door, then followed her along a narrow corridor that ran the length of the back of the house. On the left were doors leading off to other rooms, on the right were windows overlooking the garden.

  At the end was a white glazed door. Jayne sprinted toward it, pulled the handle down, and pushed it open. In front of them was an external metal spiral staircase, that led down to the garden.

  As Jayne clattered down the staircase, Johnson turned just as the men behind him pumped shots through the woodwork next to the bolt that secured the door at the other end of the corridor.

  Johnson jumped down the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the bottom, Jayne sprinted toward a brick wall around twenty yards away that marked the edge of the property, went around a tree, and through an arched black gate that stood slightly ajar.

  Johnson took off after her and threw himself through the gate just as a bullet zinged into the brickwork a few inches to his left.

  Now they were in the narrow alley, paved with concrete and lined by high brick walls on both sides, where they had parked the car earlier.

  Jayne ran hard up the single-track lane, Johnson just behind, his lungs aching, his legs pumping, and he cursed inwardly the number of cigarettes he had smoked in the past couple of weeks. He felt in his pocket for the car key as they reached the Golf, clicked the car open, and dove into the driver’s seat, while Jayne jumped into the passenger seat. Then he shoved the key into the ignition and started the engine, putting the Zastava on his lap.

  Johnson accelerated out of the recess where he had parked and up to the top of the alley, the tires squealing in protest on the concrete.

  In his rearview mirror, just as he was about to turn left from the alle
y into the street, Johnson glimpsed a dark-haired man—who he was certain wasn’t Franjo or Marco—emerging from the black gateway into the alley. A second later, there were two successive bangs as bullets flew into the bodywork at the rear of the Golf.

  Johnson flinched reflexively, but rammed the car into second and floored the accelerator as he turned, the engine screaming. In his mirror he noticed a silver Mercedes saloon further up the road. Then two dark-haired men appeared at the end of the alley; one of them leveled his gun toward the Golf.

  But Johnson was too far away by then and moving fast. He pushed into third gear, foot still hard on the pedal. His head was hunched over the steering wheel, and his hands gripped it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  Just before he turned right, Johnson checked the mirror again. He saw the two men open the doors of the Mercedes and jump in. The Zastava on Johnson’s lap fell to the floor and slid under the seat.

  After a couple of sharp turns, Johnson headed onto Marasovića Street and accelerated up the hill. He glanced in his mirror. There was no sign of the silver Mercedes.

  He reached Antun Simic’s house and again the tires squealed as he turned sharply off the street and down the sloping driveway behind the row of conifers that shielded the house from the road.

  Johnson braked hard to a halt just yards from the house, next to an azure Subaru Impreza with a large exhaust pipe, which was obviously Filip’s newly acquired car. He turned the engine off. It was then he realized he was sweating profusely after the escape from Hasanović’s house, his hands shaking. Jayne, also visibly sweating, sat still and momentarily leaned her head back against the headrest.

  Johnson bent down and grabbed the Zastava from under the seat, then got out and took cover behind the front wing of the Golf, from where he could see up the driveway. Jayne crouched behind a bush near the front door, from where she could also cover the entrance to the property, her Walther at the ready.

  Ten seconds later Johnson heard the deep whine of a high-powered engine coming fast up the road and glimpsed the silver Mercedes as it flew past on the other side of the conifers.