“What would you have in mind?”
“Ideally another few inches and thirty pounds of muscle. But, there’s not enough time, so bring a big stick.”
Sandy twisted his ear. “You poor, baby. Stuck with a weak little female bobby, are you?”
“H-m-m-ph,” was his answer.
Chapter 11
“You have a beautiful University,” Chad said to Sonja Maric, as she walked up to the bench where he waited with Harry. Their seat looked across a fountain in the middle of a grassy traffic circle restricted to bicycles and pedestrians, creating rainbows in the afternoon sun in front of the stone block Administration building.
“Thank you, Dr. Archer. I am Dr. Sonja Maric. Please call me Sonja.”
The slim thirty-something professor had her blonde hair pulled back and twisted behind her head , held with a bright blue clasp. Her mouth wore a genuine smile in a contrast to her wary eyes.
Chad noticed all of that. She introduced herself to Harry, who explained his role. She acknowledged it with a curt nod, thanked him for his potential help, and indicated she could probably manage.
Sonja started to walk, leading them. “I wanted to meet you here so that as we walked to my office, I could give you a brief look at this wonderful institution.”
“Thank you,” Chad responded. “I noticed that there is a mixture of old and new buildings. When was the University founded?”
“1808.”
“Wow. I think my school goes back that far or close to that time.”
“Not quite” she snickered. “BC’s charter was 1863.”
“Oh come on now. What’s fifty-five years?” he tried to joke.
“About thirty percent more history. Something an historian would consider important, maybe not so much an archeologist.”
Chad heard Harry laugh.
Sonja continued. “Of course BC has a bit more organization to its campus in the beautiful park-like village away from the heart of a big city.”
Chad wasn’t sure that was a compliment or a dig. He tried to get ahead of her and look into her eyes. They had a mischievous twinkle.
“Do you know BC? It sounds like you have been there?”
“I wanted the experience of a top level prestigious American school. I applied to be a transfer student in Boston for a year.”
“Well BC was a good choice,” Chad said, finally feeling like there could be a connection.
She ran right over him. “As I was about to say, however, Harvard was booked up for transfer students. So, I got BC as a consolation.” The last sentence was delivered with a deep sigh.
Chad wisely chose to remain quiet for a minute. Harry snickered.
Sonja asked Harry something in Serbian. The two shared a laugh. Chad felt it was at his expense but wisely chose not to comment.
Instead he asked, “Sonja, what do you teach here when you are not trying to teach lessons to visiting Americans?”
“No, that’s mostly what I do. They have so much to learn.”
This time she turned to look Chad in the eye. “Just kidding. I’m usually a pleasant person. I just don’t like being called by the University president and ordered to drop my afternoon schedule to play tour guide to an American sent by the Minister of Economy.”
“I see. I apologize for the last minute request and the imposition we are making on you. I didn’t know until a few hours ago that I would be doing what I am doing. I am glad that your antagonism wasn’t because of me, personally.”
“Don’t be so sure,” she deadpanned.
Harry laughed again.
The rest of the walk to her office was filled with information about the University, its 90,000 students, and its long history of producing economists, historians, politicians, and doctors.
They made themselves comfortable in Dr. Maric’s office. It was neat and organized, as she appeared to be. It could have been Chad’s office back at BC with just a change of book titles.
“Dr. Archer, what can I help you with today?”
“Thank you. I am on an assignment from your Minister. I need to learn all that I can about the Battle of Kosovo.”
Dr. Maric was taken back for a moment.
“What?” Chad asked.
“We have archeologists in Serbia and in Kosovo. Why does an American archeologist have an interest and why would you have a better perspective than our own?”
“I was asked for by Dr. Valmir Siliki. Do you know him? He has been looking for some artifacts and requested help from a Forensic History perspective. I have some experience in that area.”
“I know of Dr. Siliki. We have exchanged emails, several in the last couple months. I feel better that he asked for help. I was requested by the Minister by name, according to our president. I didn’t know why. Now I do. I wrote a paper during my doctorate studies on the Battle of Kosovo.”
“I’d like to read it,” Chad said.
“I will see if I can get a copy in English. I don’t believe it would ever have been translated.”
“I’ll take it in Serbian,” Chad smiled. “I may know a translator.”
“Bollocks,” Harry snorted. “Work.”
“It is titled, Victory from Defeat.”
“Interesting title. What is the premise?”
“Often the Battle was called a defeat for Serbia and a victory for the Ottomans. Yet here we are six hundred twenty years later. Serbia exists. The Ottoman Empire does not.”
“Doesn’t sound like too long of a paper. You summed it up there rather concisely,” Chad teased.
“There was more to it. My research included written records from Constantinople. Their own version of the battle was not celebratory. Their army had overwhelming numbers but suffered such large losses that they had to return to their capital. Seventy years passed before they returned. In the meantime, the Balkans did not recover, but our neighbors to the north became stronger. Also during the interval the Mongols attacked the Ottomans and weakened them. Internal power struggles also weakened them. As a result, when they eventually came north there was strong Austrian opposition. My premise was – what would it have been like if they had been outright and overwhelmingly victorious in that first battle. What would the world of the fifteenth to the eighteenth century, and even today, have looked like?”
“That is a good perspective,” Chad agreed.
“The other significant event was that Prince Lazar died in the Battle. We need to credit the religious and state communities in Serbia for their marketing success.”
“What do you mean?” Chad asked.
“It was a depressing time for Serbia after the Battle. The state and church were not separated at that time. Stories were told that Lazar was actually captured and beheaded. We have no proof of that. Yet he was considered a martyr and his remains, which were at first interred near the battle, were moved to a monastery that he had built. Over the next thirty years, ten cultic writings were circulated extolling his sainthood. In later centuries, epic poems were written. Creating this image established a religious figure, but more important ly a national figure. That image has transcended the centuries. It has fueled zealous resistance and fevered conquests.”
“Does it fuel anger today, fighting, and discrimination?” Chad challenged.
“A fair question, but you haven’t earned the right to ask it. Not if your knowledge base is the simple headlines.”
An awkward moment passed.
“You are right. I am sorry,” Chad responded.
She chose to comment on the question. “Dr. Archer , there are more recent events than 1390 to trigger anger. Like when the Nazis created the puppet state of Croatia and placed the Catholic fascist extremist organization, the Ustase, in charge. They murdered a half million Serbs, Jews, and gypsies. But, no Muslims. The Ustase oddly claimed that the Muslim faith, as well as Catholicism, were the religions of the Croatian people.”
“I can understand the animosity,” Chad replied.
“I know you are thinking
that was over seventy years ago. But the children and the grandchildren of those families remember. Then there is what the USA and the UK did during the Kosovo war in 1999. I abhor the atrocities that the Serb army committed in Kosovo and do not defend them. However, even though NATO justified their bombing of civilian sites in Serbia because those sites supported Serbian war efforts, innocent lives were lost at the Chinese Embassy, a prison in Belgrade, and in particular the headquarters of the Radio Television of Serbia. There are many reasons for bitter nationalistic attitudes.”
They were all quiet.
“We’ll move on,” she said.
For the next two hours Sonja walked through the battle preparations, where Lazar had come from, whom he recruited, where the armies positioned themselves.
Sonja was informative as well of the medieval armaments and tactics. She spoke to the rumors of betrayal, and the stories of how the Ottoman leader was tricked and assassinated by one of Lazar’s soldiers. She knew how the archers and cavalry were used and she knew of communications with banners and horns.
They took a break for coffee and then returned to Sonja’s office, her books, and maps.
“Two questions for you Sonja. Where would Prince Lazar have left his robe, scepter, crown, and such when he went to battle? And secondly, after a battle, who would take the weapons left by the dead combatants?”
“As to your second question, the battlefield victors usually collected weapons because they now held the land of the battle. In this case, there were such heavy losses, there were perhaps weapons retrieved by both sides.”
“That makes sense,” Chad said. “Though, I would think that if the Serbians retrieved Lazar’s sword it would have been displayed, honored, and made public. Similarly, I would expect the Ottomans to flout it, if they had it.”
“I would agree with you. As to the royal possessions, they could have been left anywhere. The city of Prishtina was the capital of Serbia at the time of the Battle of Kosovo; however, it would be logical that with the certainty of the Ottoman invasion, he might have picked a different place. Or, if he traveled with them, he would most likely leave them with someone who was part of his court that traveled with the army.”
Chad suggested, “Again, I would think that in the two years after his death and the canonization, they would have surfaced?”
“Probably,” she answered.
“You have given me a tremendous amount of information. I will think on it and try to arrange the facts in some way to lead me to a solution. At the moment, I should look for the sword with the Bosnians, the Serbians, the Kosovars, or the Ottomans.”
“Or the Croats. Croatia sent knights,” Sonja said.
“But, Croatia was Roman Catholic, not Orthodox like Serbia. Right?”
“The Ottomans, the Muslims, were a common enemy,” Sonja explained.
Chad asked, “You said knights. That was specific. Not soldiers, but knights. Like the Knights Templar?”
“Close,” she responded. “The Templar had been disbanded eighty years earlier. These were the Knights Hospitallers.”
Chapter 12
Sandy slipped into their first pub of the night through the kitchen door. She waited just out of sight and watched her partner enter the front door.
Dickie slowly walked through the bar. Everyone noticed him. He was too big not to notice. However, only a few risked looking directly at him. He reached the end of the room and turned back toward the front. Halfway along the length of the bar, he stopped and pulled a customer off his stool and pushed him out of the way. Dickie sat on the empty stool and put a beefy arm around the man sitting next to him.
“Charles, how have you been? What have you been up to?”
“Detective Williams,” Charles answered, “I was doing well until a minute ago.”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Charles. Have you been staying out of trouble?”
“I’ve been staying out of the nick.”
“Is that because you’ve been lucky or because you’ve been good?”
“The straight and narrow, Dickie. The straight and narrow.”
“I’m happy to hear that, Charles. Tell you what would make me happier is to learn where I can find Alfred?”
“I haven’t seen Alfred, Dickie. He and I aren’t close, you know.”
“Not close any more, you say. Wasn’t it his sister you married?”
“That’s so, Dickie. That’s so. You see though, she and I aren’t that close either, anymore.”
“Sorry about that, Charles. What are you hearing?” Dickie applied pressure with his meaty hand to the back of Charles’s neck.
“I don’t hear nuttin’, Dickie. I’m not in the business any more, specially museums and shite. I wouldn’t know a Van Gogh from an SUV.” Charles laughed at his own joke.
“That’s funny, Charles. I don’t remember saying anything about museums. Did Alfred have something to do with museums?”
“Alfred? Now you’re being funny. He’s like me, an ignorant. Don’t know from museums. But, you got a locked door or a window, then, Alfred’s your man. But, if you have something that takes planning and working with a team, he wouldn’t even be a third stringer.”
-----
Sandy couldn’t see the front door at their next stop from her position in the kitchen. She knew from her count to ten that Dickie should be inside already. Slowly she opened the door enough to peak out. Dickie was still standing at the front door. He evidently didn’t see any of Baywater’s known associates. Just as at their first stop, he had their attention, even if they didn’t show it.
“Attention, all you scumbags. I’m looking for Alfred Baywater. First one to step up gets the grand prize today.” He started to walk through the room. “And, for those that don’t step up. Well, you really don’t want to get the last prize.”
Dickie looked hard at each person, trying to catch a nervous eye. He reached the back of the pub and turned around. When he was half way to the front, one of the customers behind him slid out of the booth and started toward the kitchen.
When he reached the swinging door, Sandy pushed it hard, hitting the man and knocking him down.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there. Here, let me help you up.”
She grabbed the man’s arm, jerked him to his feet and steered him toward the men’s room door. The man tried to pull away but he saw Dickie coming up behind them.
Sandy pushed the man through the door. She barked at a man at the urinal, “Zip it up and get out.”
Dickie looked in and then took a position outside the door.
“What was your hurry?” Sandy asked.
“I was in no hurry. Hey, bitch, you can’t do this. Bloody hell. I have rights.” He started for the door.
“I wouldn’t go out there. He has less patience than this bitch does.”
The man hesitated.
She made a point of looking at her watch and then continued, “In fact he’s only given me two minutes and you’ve used up a part of that.”
The man turned around. “What do you want?”
“We want to know where to find Alfred Baywater.”
“I don’t know.”
“Fine. Guess I won’t need the two minutes. I’ll let the detective have his two minutes now.”
“Wait.”
“Go on,” she prompted.
“I really don’t know where he is. And, I don’t know where to try. If I were him, I wouldn’t be found, either.”
“Why? Because we’re looking for him?”
The man snickered. “You? I didn’t know you were looking until now. You wouldn’t scare him any worse. He’s bad scared enough already.”
“Who scared him?”
“I don’t know. I heard he got a phone call the other night from a fence, who gave him a warning that the coppers were asking questions.”
“Thought you said we didn’t scare him?”
“You don’t. But your asking questions may make others ask questions. Others who d
o scare him.”
“How do you know this?”
The man was quiet.
“Dickie,” Sandy called.
“Yes ma’am,” Dickie said walking in the door.
“He has a name,” Sandy said. “Your turn.” She started to leave.
“Wait. Hargrove. I heard this from Hargrove.”
Dickie looked to Sandy. “I know a Hargrove.”
“Good. I’ll get a unit to sit on this gentleman for a while.”
On her way past the man, Sandy stuck the point of her nightstick into his belly. Hard.
“Ooomph,” the man grunted doubling over. “What the hell?”
“Oh,” she said sweetly. “Sorry. Bitch.”
-----
“This time I get to have the fun,” Dickie said, as he turned into the alley leading to the back of the pub. “Assuming he is here. It’s his favorite place. Count to ten.”
Sandy took another look at the downloaded picture of Hargrove, and then she walked through the front door. She carried her nightstick in her right hand tapping it slowly onto her left palm.
She didn’t see Hargrove in any of the booths. Sandy turned to the bar. All of the customers’ backs were to her. She walked behind the bar. Most of the customers did not look up. She banged her club on the bar. When they looked up, she saw Hargrove. He looked back at her and knew. Quickly, he slid off his stool and moved to the back door. Dickie stepped back in the shadows. Hargrove didn’t see him until he was almost at the door.
“Where you going, mate?” Dickie asked.
“Shit,” he exclaimed. “Ah, it’s you, Dickie,” he added with false relief. Then he pulled a gun from behind his back.
“Now, now, Hargrove. You know that’s breaking the law.”
“Back up, Dickie. Out the door.”
Dickie did as he was told.
In the alley, Hargrove said, “Be quick now, copper. Turn toward the wall. Count to ten, and I’ll be gone.”
“Don’t think we can let you do that,” Dickie said, even as he turned around as instructed.
The Grey Falcon Page 6