Battling Brexit

by Andrew Anzur Clement

  “You mean, you know the attackers?” Lucija asks.

  “You don’t? You’re supposed to be in counter- terror.”

  “No, I’m sorry to admit it, I don’t.” She draws her gun, like she’s both frustrated and eager. “Finally, something I can get my head around. It looks like stopping them will be up to us.”

  “Wait.” Elena puts a hand on Lucija’s arm. “They have machine guns. There’s no way we can go up against them unarmed, with most of us being half-drunk. Think about it. They’re probably expecting resistance.”

  Lucija puts her gun down. “As much as I don’t like it, you’re right. It looks like we lost this one, guys.”

  The attackers make it across the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, taking a few potshots at the Iranian embassy as they disappear into the woods, past the villas. Just as fast as it began, the attack is over. Elena turns to me. “Drago, what about you, are you all right?”

  I look around and feel a mixture of anger and déjà vu. I take in the carnage around me, bearing witness to it like I used to in Kosovo. I wanted to leave that life behind. It’s followed me even here. Behind me Tone is lifted onto a stretcher as more ambulances start to arrive along with the police.

  “I’m fine,” I say as I look at the blood and bodies on the cobbled sidewalk. “The problem is that it looks like dozens aren’t. We screwed up because we were too inexperienced, too stubborn. We’ve got to set things right.”

  Lucija frowns. “You’re right. We all are at fault here.” She drives a fist into the brick wall of the building we’re hiding next to and looks over at Elena. “To hell with trusting the official channels. I was never really qualified to do this anyway. We are going to get to the bottom of this in a way I understand. As of now I resign as Croatia’s counterterrorism chief. We’re going to do it the old-fashioned way, with some old-school detective work and a few brimming cans of kickass. It turns out that Europe might need the Maršal of Yugoslavia and her team, after all.”

  Thirteen:

  Out-Hacked

  Elena

  I run down the half-chipped concrete of the Gare Maritime’s main terminal, and then down the hall that has the one room that Drago and Afrim fixed up. The floor is bare concrete. Except for a table in the corner with a bucket on it that I guess is a washbasin, the only other furnishings are two old mattresses on the floor and a wire where I guess they hang their clothes. On the far side, there is this big window with multiple panes of glass. Some of them are plugged up with cardboard or plywood. The only heat comes from a small fire in the corner, fueled with what looks like scrap wood or packaging.

  Drago looks up from where he’s packing his few possessions into an old box.

  “Oh, hey, Elena,” he greets me.

  “I’m sorry. I came as soon as I heard about Brussels’ plans to renovate this place.”

  Afrim stands from where he is packing his stuff. “Yeah, I know. It’s a real shame. I get that this place must not look like much to you, but for over a decade this has been home.”

  “I know how you feel. Actually, it’s not much more primitive than the old manor I was raised in. Don’t worry, Lucija and I smoothed everything over with Hristijan. You don’t have to worry about going out on the street, or going back into the clutches of the guy who brought you to Brussels. You can come stay in the residence with us, while we look for a place for you.”

  I expect them to leap at the offer. Instead, Drago hesitates and looks over at Afrim.

  Eventually Afrim starts, “Thanks for offering but…”

  “Oh, hey, Elena.” I turn around to see Emilija climbing down from the level above where Drago and Afrim have their room.

  “We already found a place,” Drago says.

  “Emilija offered for us to come and stay at the place her dad is renting for her here in Brussels,” Afrim explains.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt at Emilija. “I didn’t think you’d touch a place like this with a three-meter pole.”

  “Actually, I love abandoned buildings. I even have a blog about them. I wanted to see this place before they fix it up.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to go back to Sweden at the end of January?” I ask, convinced that this can’t possibly be a sustainable arrangement.

  “Not anymore. I officially enrolled in a computer programming course at the ULB a few days ago.” She walks over to Drago and puts her arm around his shoulders.

  Afrim chimes back in. “Yeah and she also invited us up to Gothenburg, to her dad’s spread for winter break. This is going to be amazing.”

  I look at the ground, feeling thoroughly inadequate. “Yeah, amazing.”

  Emilija says something that shocks me and pisses me off. “We’ve been talking and we want you to come, too.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Oh, come on,” says Afrim. “After all that’s happened, you deserve some R & R. Do you have anything else planned over break?”

  “Um…? No.”

  “Then you may as well come.”

  “I’ll even pay for your plane ticket,” says Emilija.

  “We’d be happy if you joined us,” Drago tells me.

  “Besides,” Emilija smiles slyly, “I’ve got something big planned while we’re up there, and, as the Maršal of Yugoslavia in training, it would be good if you were in on it.”

  I mull it over for a moment. Maybe it’s because I officially have to remain a secret, but what can I say, I like secret plans. “Well, I guess that I’m outgunned and outflanked. I’d be happy to go with you.”

  Drago

  “Welcome!” A rotund, graying man stands imperiously in the entry hall of his house on the outskirts of Gothenburg, just after the car he sent for us dropped us on the covered portico of the semi-circular driveway, snow shoveled on either side of it. He stands on the marble floor in front of twin curving stairways that lead up to the first and second floors of the house.

  Emilija steps forward to the man. They hug briefly. She stands next to him. “This is my dad, Ranko Stanić.”

  He holds out pogača bread and salt to us—a Serb sign of hospitality. Each of us takes a piece of bread, touches it to the salt and then eats it. He sets the bread down and picks up a tray with five small glasses of clear liquid. I pick one up and take a sip, making eye contact with him. The Šlijvovica burns down my throat. He puts the tray down on a credenza between the staircases.

  Afrim shakes hands as he gives his name. Then Mr. Stanić steps over to me and extends his hand.

  “So, this must be the famous Drago. Emilija has told me so much about you.”

  “It’s an honor, sir,” I say, hardly able to believe that I’m meeting one of the most powerful members of the Bosnian-Serb diaspora. “I’m sorry, sir, but I think you’re the one with the reputation to precede you.”

  He makes a guffawing sound. “Please, I was once a refugee just like you. Call me Ranko.”

  “Yes, sir, I mean Ranko, of course. Thank you so much for sponsoring our guild for Saint V’s.”

  “It was my pleasure. My daughter was excited about it when she learned that she’d be spending her Erasmus exchange in Belgium. It was a shame to hear about the terror attack, though.”

  He steps over to Elena. “And this must be Maršal Elena Marković, Tito’s successor. It is my honor to have you as my guest while my daughter is on break.”

  “Thank you for having us, Ranko.” Elena shakes his hand.

  “Make yourselves at home. If you need anything, I’ll be in my office on the first floor until dinner.”

  Emilija motions for us to go up the stairs. I follow right behind her.

  “Come on. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  She grabs my arm. I notice that she shows Elena to a corner at the other end of the hall. I’m shown to my room and get settled into more luxury than I’ve ever known, feeling somehow guilty that I am letting myself enjoy it.

  Elena

  Emilija’s dad’s place
is really impressive, even more so than the Croatian residence. Apparently he’s one of the most successful Bosnian refugees out there, according to Drago. I’ve never heard of him, but his house can sure make me believe it. One of the things it has is an indoor tennis court, which Afrim and Drago seem to like playing on. Afrim is just plain wide-eyed at how big and decked out the place is. I can’t quite judge Drago’s reaction. Probably ‘just whatever’ like it is to everything else.

  Emilija walks onto the court just as Drago serves to his brother, who dives for the ball, toward the red clay surface, sending it back.

  She stands next to me watching them. “Got any plans for the day?” she asks casually.

  I shake my head. “I got nothing.” Frankly, I’m bored and not really sure what I’m going to do with myself here for the next two weeks. For most of my life, things have been pretty structured for me by the people around me.

  “Good, because I do.”

  A bunch of possibilities that I’m none too enthused about go through my head: checking out a few museums, going shopping, going to an opera…”

  “Remember what I said in Brussels about not having the tech setup that I have here?”

  I hunch my shoulders. “Sure.”

  “I think it’s high time I showed you guys what it can do.”

  She motions for Afrim and Drago to come over from their pick-up tennis match. “Come on, guys. It’s time to get down to business.”

  Afrim sends the ball right past Drago’s head. They put down their racquets and walk over.

  Emilija leads us back through the gym complex and past the indoor pool, then into a breakfast room that looks out on the Göta River. We’re led into the main entry hall and then up to the top floor of what’s much too big to be called a house.

  She goes to a rather unassuming door, which she unlocks with her fingerprint.

  “Feast your eyes.” Emilija pulls the door open, to reveal a room with about ten of what I think are computer servers, though I’ve never actually seen one before. At the front of them is this console with three computer monitors.

  “Wow,” says Afrim.

  Her setup earns a “pretty cool” from Drago.

  I hunch my shoulders. “It does look pretty cool, but what are you planning on doing with it?”

  “That’s part of the reason I wanted you all to come up here for winter break,” Emilija answers. “You know how we keep running into the problem that there’s no proof of a connection between UKIP and Daesh? My dad has this old saying: follow the money. We’re going to hack their accounts.”

  “You can do that? Awesome,” I blurt, impressed in spite of myself.

  Drago arches an eyebrow. “It’s also illegal. What if you get caught?”

  “Relax. I won’t. Just sit back and watch how it’s done.”

  We all take seats in these beanbag chairs that I don’t find too comfortable. She sits down in a really high-tech-looking swivel chair and starts the servers. The three screens wink to life. They show the same desktop display.

  “Let’s get this party started.” Her hands start flying over the keys and soon all three screens are alive with little windows, some with code that I don’t understand. Emilija types faster than I thought was humanly possible. She drags some of the boxes of text from screen to screen with this touch pad she has under her right hand.

  Eventually bank account statements start to show up, lots of them. “Got them, the bank statements of the UK Independence Party, and all of its leaders, including Mr. Farage. But it’s odd; none of the searches I run on them are coming up with anything suspicious. There’s no mention of Sir Jonathan, either.”

  She puts the statements up on the screens, one right next to the other. “We’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Pull up your beanbags and start combing through the statements manually.”

  We do. I hope that I’ll find something that the technology Emilija is so proud of has overlooked, something that could finally give me some real evidence that UKIP and Daesh are in bed together.

  I don’t find anything. “Did anyone else come up with something?” I finally ask.

  Afrim shakes his head.

  “Nope,” says Emilija.

  I tilt my head over to Drago.

  “Don’t look at me.”

  “Great. So it looks like UKIP is clean. But then why would Farage claim that they’re funding Daesh?” I wonder out loud. “There isn’t any good reason for him to do that, if it isn’t true.” I sit there and think it over for a minute. Then the wording that Farage used when he abducted me clicks. “Wait a minute, Farage never said that he was funding Daesh, he said that UKIP has arranged funding for them. That could mean it’s coming through a third party. In fact he basically told me as much, come to think of it.”

  Emilija responds from where she’s sitting in front of her console. “Yeah, if Daesh isn’t getting their money directly from UKIP, or one of its leaders, then they have to be getting it from somewhere, an intermediary of some kind. I can try and hack accounts that are suspected of being connected with Daesh. It will be a little harder, but I think I’m up to the task.”

  Her hands start to fly over the keyboard again. More coding windows show up on the screens, then lists of suspected accounts.

  It’s about twenty more minutes before she speaks again. “Okay. So here is a list of all the suspicious accounts that I compiled out of classified documents from the American, German and British intelligence services.”

  “Hold on,” says Drago. “You hacked the CIA and MI6? Just now?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who taught you all this?” I ask, partially awed.

  “My dad. Self-taught after he became a refugee. He’s the best there is.”

  Drago jerks his head back. “You’ll get no argument from me on that front.”

  Emilija goes about getting the statements for the suspicious accounts. According to the searches she runs on them, there’s no smoking gun there, either. Then I notice something that she was about to scroll right past with her trackpad: a multi-million-euro payment from the Trepča mining complex in Kosovo. I know from my training back at the Elenov winery compound that it’s supposed to be closed and the ownership is murky.

  I point it out. “What’s with this? Why would a defunct factory in Kosovo be willing or able to pay millions of euros to Daesh?”

  Emilija hunches her shoulders. She makes a three-tone ‘I don’t know’ sound. “Thanks for catching that. I’d have never thought to search along those lines; hell, I didn’t even know about the mine. But you’re right, now that you’ve told me what it is, that is weird.”

  Drago leans forward. “Which accounts, specifically, were the payments made to?”

  Her hands start to fly over the keyboard again. “Let me see…here.”

  Drago leans forward and looks at the statements. Then he flops back and blows out a breath.

  “Drago, what is it?” I ask.

  “There are several recipient accounts, but one of the largest ones is—and this is through a few shell names—Abd al-Qadir’s. The guy who made us fight in Kosovo. It figures. He knows Kosovo and the region. It’s like I just can’t get away from the guy. I’ll bet he masterminded whatever we’ve uncovered.”

  Afrim pipes up, worry creeping into his voice. “And that means Avdi is probably still involved in it, somehow.”

  Emilija purses her lips. “Okay, so now we know who is running things on the Daesh side in Brussels.”

  “Yeah. Good luck finding him, though,” Drago grumbles.

  Emilija goes on. “Let’s see if I can pull the information on that mine’s accounts, see where it’s getting the money. A few more minutes go by. “Got it. Downloading in three, two…” Emilija lets out a yelp.

  “What? What is it?” Drago stands.

  “Someone is onto me. They’re good, like really good. They shouldn’t have even realized I was there. Now they’re after me. I’m trying to get out but whoever this is, is
faster and…”

  Sparks start to fly out of the servers. The screens and the room go dark.

  I open the door so we have some light. “What just happened?”

  Emilija’s mouth opens and shuts a few times before she says. “Whatever we found connected with that factory, it’s got to be some kind of a smoking gun. Someone in cyberspace has their eyes on the mine’s account and they really know what they’re doing. They got past my security and they sent a command to my servers to overload. That shouldn’t be possible. They’re all encoded. The only person I know who might be able to pull it off is my dad.”

  “So, in other words, whatever we found, Daesh has people working for them who are as good as or better than your father to protect it?” I ask.

  She nods, gravely.

  “Great,” Afrim wheezes.

  I purse my lips. “Whatever we found, someone might be after us now. I’m going to call Lucija. Maybe she could fly up and take a look at all this. She did say she wanted to help us out now.”

  “Right, let’s do that,” Emilija says.

  We all get up to leave. Emilija looks back sullenly at her broken servers.

  I walk up to her. “I just wanted to say sorry if I gave you the cold shoulder, when we first met. I thought you were just a pampered rich girl. For what it’s worth, we work pretty well together.”

  She smirks. “Yeah, old-school girl, I think so too.”

  I head back to my room to get my smartphone and call Lucija.

  For whatever reason, the missing link between UKIP and Daesh seems to be what was once one of the largest mining complexes in all of Yugoslavia. We have a smoking gun. Now the questions are: who is pulling the trigger and why?

  ***

  Mr. Stanić, Emilija’s dad, said that if we needed anything to just ask. I decided, now that Lucija is on her way here, that it’s only right to let him know she’s coming.

  I’m almost at Ranko’s office, which is halfway down a dark corridor on the first floor. I can hear him talking on the phone, speaking English. The door has been left barely cracked. I don’t want to disturb him—Hristijan always yells at me when I barge into his office while he is on the phone—so I wait outside.