The Grey Falcon

by J. C. Williams

  “Why would he take the fall for a stolen car?” Sandy asked.

  Dickie thought he knew the answer. “The rest of the team probably had records. This might have been a third strike for them.”

  “You are probably right,” Adrien said. “Plus, one more factor. The suspected robbery leader was his uncle, Luc Millet. Uncle Luc is thought to be behind several large robberies. Flamboyant robberies. Art, artifacts, football games, betting houses, and, you will like this, museums.”

  “I met him today,” Sandy said thoughtfully.

  “Really?” Adrien said.

  “Where?” Dickie asked.

  “He was with Fraser Colbert’s mother. They wanted the body released for a funeral. The medical examiner agreed with me that we were done. We released the body.”

  “They will bring the body to France?” Adrien asked.

  “Yes. For a service and burial. However, they will have a service here first so that his friends can attend.”

  “When?” Dickie asked.

  “Tomorrow, ten o’clock.”

  “I guess we go to a service, then,” Dickie said. “I’ll pick you up at eight thirty. You’ll have breakfast ready? A proper full English breakfast is my usual.”

  Sandy replied, “You’ll get coffee and a muffin. My house. My usual.”

  Chapter 55

  It had been a long day. Chad flopped back on the bed, closing his eyes and letting his mind drift. After his discovery of the photographs, Chad was convinced his dreams had a basis in the real world.

  He took the photographs and the toolbox to Peter and brought him up to date on the conversation with Elsa and his investigation of Aunt Berni’s apartment. He showed Peter the missing year and gave him his conclusion. Forensic history. Uncover the facts and let it lead to an answer.

  His conclusion was that Michael and his brother were part of an independence movement in Croatia. Michael had a hobby in photography. Thomas played Olympic level football. Michael’s family was killed in the war that followed. Michael and his brother witnessed some atrocity or atrocities that bothered them enough to leave Croatia. They changed their names and discontinued any activity in photography or football. They wanted no one from their past to find them. Michael’s son found the photographs and discovered the identity of a person he could blackmail.

  Peter liked the process. The conclusion fit the facts. However, he did not know who the target was and therefore the murderer. He wanted his own search of the apartment.

  Chad agreed and suggested they talk with Elsa and that Peter ask enough questions to accept that she did not know of the photographs, or, what Christoph was doing. Peter acquiesced. Chad needed to return the keys. He asked that he could take Kari with them, only because he would be lost in any conversation in German between Peter and Elsa.

  Peter approved and they met Elsa at the hospital. She was apprehensive at first. Peter first acknowledged that he did not believe her husband was in drugs. He asked enough questions to determine she did not even know of a storage room. Chad, with Kari’s help, explained what he found. Then Chad suggested that she allow the police to examine the apartment. It took some convincing from Kari who gave her a legal perspective even suggesting getting a registered lawyer to advise her. She knew one they could call right away.

  Everyone was satisfied. Chad felt good. He had a good day. He couldn’t wait to talk to Sandy.

  He roused himself from the bed long enough to call her, connect to her voicemail, and promise to tell her more tomorrow.

  Tonight, his dreams of photographs were replaced by dreams of dates. Dates that spun, toppling over each other, all out of order.

  June 25

  3 days to Vidovdan

  Chapter 56

  Archer had an hour until he boarded the flight to Belgrade. He called Harry.

  “Mphmf. Zdravo. Hello.”

  “Wake up, Harry.”

  “I’m awake. Chad?”

  “You can go back to sleep in a minute. How are you feeling? How is the arm?”

  “It hurts, but today I will not take any pills.”

  “Brave of you. I wanted to let you know that I will be back in Serbia this morning. I will go to the monastery and poke around. I should be back in Belgrade tonight. I will call you when I get close, so you can tell me where you are hiding.”

  “Hiding? I’m not hiding. I’m doing what you said. Staying away from home.”

  “Good. I’ll call you.”

  -----

  On the plane, Chad connected to the Wi-Fi and looked up the Croatian war timeline. He wanted to fit it to the photographs taken by Mika Pajovic. Reading several articles, he learned once again what Minister Brajkovic, Professor Maric, and Harry had explained. It was a complex situation formed by centuries of ethnic and religious differences compounded by atrocities from the recent world war and exacerbated by nationalism that arose from forty-five years of imposed state control.

  The timeline of the war didn’t fit with the missing photos. The war began in 1991 but there was world recognition of Croatia’s independence and a ceasefire in January of 1992. It was three years later that Croatia made a final push for the territory still under Serbian control. By then over three hundred thousand Serbians had been displaced.

  There were no references to atrocities or events in 1993 that would tie to the missing 1993 photos.

  Chad closed his eyes and leaned back. So if it wasn’t in Croatia, where did it happen? Slovenia? Bosnia?

  “What about Slovenia and Bosnia” asked the man seated next to Chad.

  “Huh?” Chad stammered, realizing he voiced aloud his last two questions.

  “You asked me about Slovenia and Bosnia?” the man asked.

  Chad took a second look at his seat companion. The man had a trim beard, dark hair, and warm eyes. His face and manner struck Chad as open and accepting. He appeared to be a listener.

  “I’m sorry,” Chad answered. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I was asking myself a question.”

  “Maybe I can help you. Ask me,” the man said.

  A boy of about ten sat next to the man, in the third seat, by the window. “Dad,” the boy said exasperatingly.

  The man patted his arm.

  Chad judged the man’s accent to be from the Balkan area. But, which country? Which nationality? Which religion? He had to be careful with his comments and questions.

  “American?” the man asked.

  “Yes. I’m Chad,” he said offering his hand. “You are travelling from Dresden? Going home?” Chad treaded carefully.

  “Yes. We live in Ruma, about forty minutes west of Belgrade. My mother lives in Dresden. My name is Damir. This is my son Adam.”

  Chad had an idea.

  “You grew up in Serbia?”

  “Grew up is an interesting expression. I lived my first twelve years in Bosnia. I grew up there as well. We were in a war. War robs children of a childhood. My mother took my sister and me to Germany in 1993.”

  There was that year again, Chad thought.

  “I mentioned Slovenia and Bosnia, because I am trying to find the birthplace of a man from Dresden. He is dead and his son recently died. The son’s wife had been told the father was from Croatia. He supposedly came to Dresden about the beginning of 1994 to escape the war, as your mother did. But I think there was a ceasefire in Croatia at that time. I thought perhaps he might have come from Slovenia or Bosnia, or even Serbia.”

  “He definitely was leaving a war area?” Damir asked. “The man was Serbian?”

  “Yes, to both.”

  “What do you do Chad?” The man was cautious now.

  “I am an archeologist. I sometimes help people find things. I sometimes help Interpol with investigations. I met the wife during one of the investigations.”

  There, that should be both specific and vague enough, Chad thought. Not the whole truth. But, close.

  “Not Slovenia,” Damir said. “They had already established their independence with just a ten day
war. Slovenia had very small numbers of Serbs and Croats. Eighty-five percent of their population describe themselves as Slovenes. They did not have an ethnicity issue.”

  “That was not the situation in Croatia or Bosnia?”

  “No. Croatia had over ten percent Serbians. That war was about Croatia wanting independence from Yugoslavia and the Serbs in Croatia wanting their own independent area. They did not want to be second class citizens.”

  “I see. And Bosnia? You said the war in Bosnia was in 1993?” Chad asked. “Could you tell me about it?”

  Damir answered, “Bosnia was different than any other Balkan country. Forty percent of the people were Muslim. Thirty percent Serbian. Twenty percent Croatian. I name the last two as nationalities, but in addition, remember that Serbians are Orthodox and Croats are Roman Catholics.”

  “So it was a religious war as well as nationalistic?”

  “Yes. It began with the Serbs claiming their independence from Bosnia, even before the country claimed their independence from Yugoslavia. Muslims and Croats attacked Serbs. Serbs, with elements of the predominantly Serb Yugoslav military, attacked back.”

  “When was this?” Chad asked.

  Damir was silent. Lost in his memories.

  Finally he answered. “January, 1992. It continued for three and half years. Atrocities by both sides. Hundreds of thousands died and fled. It was particularly bad in 1992, 1993 and 1994.”

  Chad realized the timeline would fit the dates of the death of Pajovic’s family in November 1992 and the missing photos of 1993.

  “You left Bosnia in 1993?” Chad asked.

  “Yes. My father had been killed fighting in 1992. They wanted to recruit me. I was only twelve. They wanted another Davo Decak. The Devil Boy. He was a teenager with a very violent reputation fighting in a Serbian paramilitary unit. I admit my enthusiasm was for the glory of war. My mother knew better.”

  Damir was silent once again.

  Chad asked, “What do you do now, Damir?”

  “I am a priest.”

  Chad’s surprise look and glance toward Adam prompted Damir’s comment. “In the Orthodox religion, we can be ordained even if we have established a family. You asked what I do. Every other week I travel through the Republic of Srpska. That is the independent Serbian state within Bosnia. It is a unique situation within Bosnia. There is a co-existing and self-ruled Bosnian state along with a similar Serbian state. The Bosnian state is mostly Muslim and some Croats. Geographically, Srpska is not connected. It is two parts separated by a large city that is multi-national and multi-religion. I preach acceptance and cooperation between religions. It is a hard thing to do in Srpska. I am rejected as often as I am accepted.”

  “I commend you, Damir.”

  They spoke more about the war and the UN and NATO’s actions and inactions. Chad was convinced that the photographer’s origin was in Bosnia and the person wanting the photos was a war criminal who feared exposure. Maybe the Olympic aspirations of the brother could be a lead. Chad knew whom he could ask for help.

  ------

  Chapter 57

  Sandy frowned at her refrigerator, cursed her pantry, and wondered why she agreed to have breakfast ready for Dickie. He said coffee. Luckily Chad drank coffee, so she had that on hand. But, breakfast? Around the corner was a bakery. That will have to do. She summoned her willpower to avoid the sweets and committed herself to buy only two nutritional muffins. She’d only be gone a few minutes. Did she really need to set the cameras on? Get in the habit she told herself. She switched on the cameras and their silent alarms and left.

  “Oh, those look too good,” said Sandy, eyeing the sweets. She had already pointed out a bran and blueberry muffin. She heard the text ding-dong of her cell phone. Probably Dickie telling me he’s already there. Keep your knickers on, she thought.

  “I’ll take two of the Manchester tarts,” she said, weakened by the sight and aroma. The pastry shell was spread with raspberry jam, filled with custard, topped with coconut flakes, and finished off with a cherry invitingly peeking at her.

  Purchases in hand she walked out of the shop and pulled out her phone. The text was simple. INTRUDER. It was the alarm. Bollocks.

  Sandy raced around the corner and the one block to her flat. She didn’t have her baton and this man had possibly killed two other people. Maybe it was just Dickie arriving early? Picked her lock when she didn’t answer?

  She had an idea when she saw the trash bins outside. Luckily, it was pick-up day for recycling. She set down her bag of sweets and looked into her neighbor’s bins. She found a sturdy looking wine bottle.

  She called backup. Later she would wonder why she didn’t wait. Was it retaliation for the invasion of her privacy?

  Quietly she unlocked the front door to the building, left it open, and walked up one flight, willing the creaky steps to stay quiet. She hoped her apartment door was open. It wasn’t.

  Sandy slowly turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open. She saw the back of a large man going through her bookshelves. She briefly considered telling him to surrender. Instead, she decided a light blow to the back of the head was justified and defendable.

  Perhaps it was the open door. A slight breeze. A change in temperature. Whatever it was, he turned sharply around when she was halfway to him. She hurriedly swung the bottle. It cracked across a raised forearm. That was it for her. He was lighting quick and punched her solidly in the jaw with his right hand. She twisted just enough to weaken the blow. Still, it knocked her backward, falling over a table but luckily landing on the sofa. Her ears ringing and her focus dizzy, she saw him coming at her.

  Sandy timed her kick and lashed out with what strength she could find. She was aiming for his chest but missed. A good miss. She connected with his groin. He doubled over.

  The she saw the rage in his eyes. He took one step toward her and stopped. He turned away. Then she saw why - the full force of Dickie Williams came flying through the door. The two men collided like stags locking horns. Neither gave an inch. Then the intruder realized there might be more help coming and stepped back pulling his opponent to the side. Dickie flew past him landing on Sandy. Then the man raced out.

  “We’re done here, Sir Galahad,” Sandy muttered from under Dickie’s weight. He rolled off of her and went after the man.

  He returned in just minutes. “Gone,” he said.

  She was sitting up rubbing her chin where a red mark was already visible.

  “Ouch,” Dickie said. “Let me get something for that.”

  He returned with a cold wet cloth and applied it gently.

  He stood back and looked around. “What, no coffee?”

  She smiled through the pain. “No, but I have video.”

  Two blocks away, the watcher in the van called Max. He had just witnessed a large man picking the locked door, the subject woman carrying an empty bottle as a weapon, and a second large man rushing through the open door, all followed by the first man rushing out. The camera, which Max had not yet ordered to shut down, had caught good images of all three people.

  -----

  On the two-hour drive from Belgrade to the Ravanica Monastery, Chad called Minister Brajkovic’s office. He wasn’t in, but his assistant agreed to look into Chad’s request and pass it on to the Minister. His request was to find records of Olympic trials for football in 1984, and look for a Tomislav Pajovic. Chad wanted to know where Tomislav grew up. Croatia or Bosnia-Herzegovina.

  Chapter 58

  “Good news?” Dickie asked Sandy, who was on her cell phone. He could not tell from the one-sided conversation. There were only uh-huhs and okays from Sandy.

  “No,” She answered. “Liam took an image from the apartment camera and ran it through our facial ID data base. No hits. He’ll now try Interpol’s. That will take longer. If that doesn’t give us anything, he said he’d call Adrien and ask for his help with the alphabet soup across Europe, UK, and the USA. Maybe our intruder wandered through the spy world.”r />
  “H-m-f-f,” Dickie acknowledged.

  “Good cop, bad cop?” Sandy asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Rock, paper, scissors?”

  “No need,” he said. “You’re just naturally a goody-goody. I’m not.”

  “But then you get all the fun,” she frowned.

  “Too bad,” he smirked. “I’ve spent twenty years perfecting this persona.”

  The two detectives waited at the back of the large room that was rented for the Remembrance Service for Fraser Colbert. His employer sprang for the rental as well as most of the flowers and the lunch buffet. They set the time for noon so that if a large number of employees wanted to go, there would be minimal impact on their business.

  Fifty to sixty people crowded in to the two-room venue. The high-ceilinged rooms were separated by a folded eight-foot divider that allowed two simultaneous meetings. The divider was pulled back today. Both rooms were well lit by windows, giving brightness to the celebration of Colbert’s life. A cloth-covered table was used to collect photographs and memories of attendees’ brief moments of life with Fraser. A few chairs were scattered about for Fraser’s mother and others that needed them.

  Sandy didn’t care for funerals. Usually they were somber and sad. This celebration was quite different, uplifting for some, closure for others. Several associates and friends spoke briefly.

  “Mostly work associates?” she asked Detective Constable Stacker as he approached her.

  “Mostly,” he answered. “However, I do see a number from the flats where he lived. There are even a few from the pub circuit. He was well liked.”

  “Anyone stand out as a suspect to you?” she asked, trying to teach him.

  Stacker looked intently at the crowd, seeing nothing as he tried to see everything.

  Dickie sighed and with a poke from Sandy instructed Stacker. “Look for anyone who seems to stay on the fringes, or someone that remains alone, or someone too loud, drinking too much, or anyone continuously stealing glances at us.”