by Mark Greaney
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re starting to get the hang of this.”
TWELVE
Captain Niko Vukovic ran the police force in Mostar, but that wasn’t where he made his money. He was paid by the Serbian mafia in Belgrade for a number of things, but his main income came from assisting with the flow of trafficked humans from the East, on their way to the West, the Middle East, and even Asia.
Vukovic didn’t know the scope of the operation in which he played a part. No, he was a big fish in a small pond, and his pond was Mostar. Here, as far as he was concerned, he was in command. Not that old general who’d run the way station until the night before last, but the police captain who had kept the pipeline open through the territory for the past several years.
After Babic’s obviously politically motivated assassination, Vukovic worried that those involved in the pipeline would hold him accountable, even though his job was not to provide physical security for the general but rather safe passage of the women on the roads to and from the way station, and police coordination if something went wrong. Still, the first thing he did when he heard about the attack on the farm was to assign himself four of his best officers to act as a security detail.
The four all took money from the Branjevo Partizans, the Belgrade mob, same as Vukovic. He figured they could be trusted to watch over him, both during his regular police work and when escorting him to a restaurant frequented by one of his Serbian mob contacts on the second floor of a small hotel on Stari Pazar Street.
The hotel was in the hilly Old Town at a cobblestoned intersection a block from the swiftly flowing Neretva River. It was luxurious by local standards, and the neat lobby was nearly empty. He walked up the stairs with his entourage to the restaurant and found it all but deserted, as well. It was late for lunch but early for dinner, his preferred meeting time with his contact.
He saw a heavyset silver-maned man alone in a back booth on his phone with a bottle of Serbian liquor in front of him.
Vukovic nodded. Always here by four. Just like clockwork.
The police chief entered with his four officers. He directed them to stay by the front door of the restaurant while he headed to the back.
“Zdravo, Filip.” Hello, Filip, Vukovic said as he sat down. “Haven’t heard from you. Time for a quick chat?”
The Serbian mobster gave him a half nod, then finished his call and poured Vukovic a drink.
They toasted without much emotion, then drank down their shots in silence.
Another round was poured and drunk, and then a third poured into the little glasses. But instead of picking it up and downing it, Vukovic said, “I’m sure your people in Belgrade have spoken to someone in the Consortium.”
Filip just nodded.
“What do they say?”
“What you’d expect. The Consortium is mad at us, mad at Babic, and mad at you.”
The police chief did expect this, but he also knew he had to push back against it. “You told them I didn’t have men providing security at the way station, didn’t you? That was not my role.”
“Yeah. I told them. Look, this will blow over, but they are moving the way station. It’s already closed.”
“Shit,” Vukovic said, but he wasn’t really surprised.
The man from Belgrade added, “The whores were taken to Dubrovnik. They are going to filter the next batch of product from Sarajevo to Banja Luka.”
“Banja Luka? That’s out of my territory.”
“What can I say? The Consortium makes those decisions.”
“What about me?”
The man with the silver hair shrugged. “What about you?” After a moment he said, “Look, we’ve got other jobs around here, we’re not cutting you off.”
“Are those other jobs going to pay as much as I was getting from the pipeline?”
The mob official shook his head. “You were getting Western money for that. Sorry, Niko, but that gold mine is shut down now. Be glad the Consortium didn’t tell us to terminate you.”
In a raised voice he said, “Terminate me? It wasn’t my fucking fault. They know that, right?”
Another shrug from Filip; he didn’t seem to care. Then he softened. “Look, Niko. You’ve been good for us here. Belgrade does not blame you for this; we aren’t going to hold it against you. But the Consortium, they demand everything run perfectly, all the time.”
“Your people aren’t going to come after me. But what about someone else?”
The Serbian mobster nodded to the four cops at the front of the restaurant. “Just keep those boys close for a few weeks. I’m sure things will settle down by then.”
Vukovic shut his eyes, squeezed his glass hard, and downed the rest of his drink. Banging the empty vessel back on the table, he said, “I have more to say. Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to take a piss.”
Filip nodded and grabbed his phone to make another call. Vukovic stood and waved over one of his men, and together they ambled to the stairs to go to the toilets on the ground floor of the hotel.
The police officer entered the restroom before his chief, his hand on the CZ pistol he wore on his utility belt while he checked the area. The first three stalls were empty, but he pushed on the door to the last one and found it locked. In Serbo-Croatian he said, “Police business. I need you out of here.”
Soon the toilet flushed, and behind the cop, Niko Vukovic stood in the doorway.
The cop cautioned him with a raised hand. “One second, sir.” Wanting to check the hotel guest who had been using the toilet, the cop kept his right hand on his pistol and his left hand up, signaling his boss to wait.
The stall door flew open, and before the cop could react, he registered a black semiauto pistol a foot from his nose. A man in a ski mask came out quickly and pointed a second weapon at the chief.
Niko Vukovic did not move, other than to raise his hands slowly.
* * *
• • •
I rush out of the stall with my weapon pointed at the cop, then train the stainless steel semiauto on Niko standing at the door. When I can tell neither man is going to go for his weapons, I shove my Glock in my waistband and yank the Czech-made pistol out of the cop’s holster, racking the slide against my belt buckle to make sure the guy had a round chambered. A bullet ejects and falls to the floor, and then I point the cop’s own gun back at him.
Both men are frozen in place, and this makes me happy.
I know what I’m doing. Speed, surprise, and violence of action will win most violent encounters without the need to fire a shot.
To the cop I shout through the fabric of my mask: “Drop your radio and phone on the floor, and pull out your handcuffs. Lock yourself to the shitter.”
The guy doesn’t speak English, apparently, and he just stares at me. I look to Vukovic, motion for him to enter the bathroom all the way and to close the door behind him. When he does this I tell him, “If you don’t speak my language, you’ve got five seconds to learn it before I shoot you both.”
Instantly the chief answers in a heavy accent. “What you want?”
“For you to tell him what I just told him.”
He speaks to his subordinate, nods as if to give him permission. I move out of the way of the john and the cop reluctantly enters the stall, then handcuffs himself to the pipe going into the cistern. I kick his radio and phone across the bathroom, and they come to rest under the sink. Then I order Vukovic to remove his own radio, but let him keep his phone. He does so, I check the cop kneeling over the toilet and see that he has clasped the handcuffs as instructed, and all the while I keep Corbu’s little pistol pointed at the police chief. When the cop is secure I put the crappy gun in my back pocket and shift the CZ to Vukovic.
“Turn around.”
As the chief turns he says, “Are you from the Consortium?”
I have no idea what he
’s talking about, but he doesn’t need to know that, so I don’t answer.
He follows that with, “Whoever you are, this is my territory. Not yours. You throwing your life away today.”
I close on him fast, spin him around, take him by the back of the neck, and jab the pistol in his kidney. I kick open the door, then start hustling the Mostar chief of police quickly through the ground floor of the hotel.
There’s not much activity around, but the few people in the lobby see me instantly. Everyone freezes in shock, and I scan each person I see to evaluate if they’re a threat. A hotel security man slowly starts to open his coat, but I train the gun on him and he raises his hands.
In fifteen seconds we are out the employee-only utility door that I used to enter the hotel, and on a quiet Old Town side street. I shove Vukovic into the front passenger seat of my Jeep, then rush around to the other side and leap in.
I’m driving as soon as I get behind the wheel, my gun on the Bosnian Serb next to me. I don’t make it fifty feet before I glance into the rearview and see two of his bodyguards racing out the front entrance to the hotel, heading directly for their SUV. I slashed the tires on the police vehicle parked on the side street near me but didn’t do anything to the police vehicle sitting out front, because I couldn’t chance being spotted by any of the hotel staff standing around the entrance.
They call me the Gray Man, but this shit’s not magic.
I’m low profile . . . I’m not invisible.
The police vehicle lights up and sirens wail, and it falls into hot pursuit behind me.
* * *
• • •
Vukovic looks in the passenger-side mirror now and sees his men behind us.
“You let me go, and you keep running. They will not chase you.”
I speed through the center of the hilly town with no idea where I’m heading. It’s tough holding a gun on a passenger while driving one-handed, and I clip the mirror off a parked panel truck during a left turn.
I look to Vukovic, then tap the cell phone on his belt with the barrel of the 9-millimeter.
“Call them! Tell them to back off, or you’re gonna get shot!” It’s nearly impossible controlling the Jeep at these speeds, and I know the cops behind me are already radioing to others with instructions to cut me off ahead. My only chance is to get Vukovic’s help in having them end the chase, and then get out of town before all the other police of Mostar rain down on me.
But Vukovic doesn’t move. He looks at me without fear and speaks calmly, because he knows I’m after information, and I won’t kill him. He says, “You are going to die.”
I move the gun from his temple to his knee, and press it there. “Maybe. But first, you are going to limp.”
“What?”
“I need information from you. I can still get it from a one-legged man.”
Vukovic looks at the weapon, taking stock of his predicament now, and I see a slight crack in his visage. The first real hint of concern.
He pulls out his phone, hits a button, and brings it to his ear.
I speak fair Russian, better Spanish, a little German and French, and some Portuguese, and I’ve picked up a dozen phrases in Serbo-Croatian, but I can’t understand a word of what this guy’s saying now. I look at him while he talks, hoping to give him the false impression I have a clue, but it makes racing through these tight narrow streets even more dicey.
He starts yelling into the phone, and I tag another parked vehicle, sideswiping the little two-door with my left rear quarter panel. My tires scrape a curb on a turn as he ends the call.
Looking in the rearview I’m relieved to see the police vehicle behind me slowing down. It turns off down a deeply sloped side street a moment later.
With the barrel still on Vukovic’s knee, I ask, “Can they track your phone?”
“No.”
It’s impossible for me to tell for certain if he is being truthful or not, so I take his phone and throw it out the window anyway.
In times like this, it pays to be a dick.
“What do you want?” he asks, but we have some more housekeeping to attend to before we get down to all that.
I move the gun off his knee. “Put your handcuffs on. Behind your back.”
In response he just says, “You are the man who shot Babic. The Branjevo Partizans are going to kill you for that. You need to be running for your life, not talking to me.”
I move the CZ back to his temple now, and with a sigh designed to show me he’s a tough guy who isn’t scared, he pulls out his cuffs and puts them on. I break the keychain off his belt and toss it out the window so he can’t unlock himself, and I let him stew silently in the fear hidden behind his false bravado as I drive up and into the hills.
THIRTEEN
We make it out of the city without any more problems, and Talyssa Corbu calls and directs me to the place she found for the interrogation. After driving around a bit more to make damn sure no one is on my tail, I follow her directions. When I get there I muscle the Jeep into deep foliage off the road till it’s hidden, then park it and pull out my prisoner.
I’d put a black hood over Niko’s head as soon as we were out of the city, and this, along with his hands cuffed behind his back, makes him utterly compliant.
It’s work getting up this hill through these trees, which means Talyssa has done a good job finding an out-of-the-way spot. I get lost for a minute, but the young Romanian woman calls me and talks me back on track, and ten minutes after climbing out of the Jeep with the chief, I see the location. It’s a concrete bunker from the Bosnian civil war, mostly covered in vines and brush, pockmarked with bullet holes and RPG strikes. Still, the structure is remarkably intact.
I shove Vukovic inside. Rain drips through blast holes in the concrete above my head, openings that give some light to the otherwise dark space.
The walls are covered with graffiti. The words “Red Star,” the name of a soccer team, are emblazoned in red. “Tito” is written in spray paint all over the place, which surprises me, because he was president of Yugoslavia a long time ago, he’s been dead forty years, and he was an asshole back when he was alive.
Weird that kids around here take the time to tag bunkers with his name.
Talyssa Corbu stands in the middle of the dim space in her raincoat, the hood over her red hair and a scarf tied over the lower half of her face, just as I instructed her.
I pull a spare handcuff key from where it’s stitched behind my belt loop at the back of my pants—kept there just in case—and I unlock my prisoner, then resecure his hands over his head, attached to bent rebar sticking through one of the mortar holes. I leave him there, the bag still over his head, while Corbu and I step outside the bunker and speak in whispers.
“This place will work fine.”
I see now in the outside light that her eyes are filled with terror and concern, and she speaks in a voice tinged with trepidation. “Any problems?”
I know what she is asking by this. “Nobody got killed.”
Obvious relief washes over her, but I see her lower lip continue to tremble. “What now?”
“Now is the ugly part. I won’t know how ugly till I get started. You want to wait out here?”
“Of course not. I need to be in there listening to what he says. But . . . please do not torture him first. Give him an opportunity to tell the truth.”
She’s so out of her element right now. It speaks volumes about her relationship with her sister that she’s doing all this, but I worry about bumping up against her limits soon, perhaps in the next five minutes.
“I’ll start gentle. But what’s gentle for me probably won’t be considered gentle by you. I will use something called the presumptive. It means that although we don’t know everything, we’re going to come at him like we do. I’ll lead. I’ll tell him we know he’s with the pipeline,
and the Consortium.”
“The Consortium?”
“In the car he asked me if I was sent by the Consortium. Does that mean anything to you?”
She shakes her head and looks back at the entrance to the bunker. “What about me? What do you want me to do?”
“You just whisper in my ear if you have something to say.”
She nods her assent, although she remains incredibly reluctant about all this. I return to my captive and hear him muttering something in Serbo-Croatian. I don’t know what the hell he’s saying, but I don’t like it. I smack him on the side of the head, and he shuts up.
Talyssa gasps in surprise behind me.
“You better speak English, Niko, otherwise the only language we can communicate in is pain.”
He switches to English, and again he says, “You the man that kill Babic, yes?” After a little chuckle he says, “Some bad people looking for you.”
“Where are the women?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
I didn’t go through all this shit to get interviewed, so I don’t answer. Instead, I repeat, “Where are the women?”
Now he replies with “What women?” and I punch him in the jaw. I know it hurts, because I’ve gotten my own face bashed in a time or two.
Talyssa gasps again.
Vukovic grunts, and his head shakes inside the hood. After a moment it begins to hang. He’s not unconscious, he’s just showing signs of defeat, coming to the frightening realization that his future depends on me. It gives me some slim hope that I won’t have to pound on him all day.
“The women and girls who were locked in the cellar of Ratko Babic’s house. Where were they taken?”