by James Samuel
James bit his tongue and fought back the urge to begin verbally jousting with Ratko.
"We respect your position, even if we don't necessarily agree with it," said Sinclair diplomatically. "And I must say your English is impressive. You sound like a native speaker."
Ratko grinned. "Apart from the accent. Please, come inside."
He bustled past them and led them into a large sitting room. A fireplace formed the focal point of the room, the grate hidden by a dark iron fireguard stamped with vines and flowers. The sofas and armchairs stuck out against a room inundated with papers, books, and three computers. On one of them a Bosnian news channel played on mute. The room resembled the sort of place where Sinclair would perform his own intelligence work.
"I'm sorry, but the White Rose is active in a lot of areas. This is not just about nationalism but about poverty and basic rights for all," said Ratko. "We have a lot of support from students and many Bosnians abroad. It's where most of our funding comes from."
Kemal lingered at the doorway with a scowl on his face. He made a comment in his native Bosnian, which received little more than a glance from his son.
He gestured to the chairs and said, "Please, sit." Ratko proved himself a gracious host despite the shabby furnishings.
James eased himself onto the dark grey sofa. He felt the wooden frame below probing into his rear. Ratko perched himself on the edge of the opposite sofa, while Kemal seemed content to lean against the wall with his arms folded.
"Sorry it's not more comfortable," Ratko said to James. "This is the best I can offer, I'm afraid. All our donations are used to raise awareness of our campaigns and to martial support in Sarajevo and the rest of the country. This fireplace has been broken since I moved in."
Sinclair raised a polite smile. "You seem to be rather plugged in to everything that happens in this country. We understand you are a pacifist, but what we need from you is information. We haven't been in this country 24 hours, so we need to know about the situation and what we should be aware of."
"Is this a political matter?" Ratko sent a look towards his father. “I won’t involve myself in violence.”
"It's a business matter," Sinclair confirmed.
“Business?”
“For the good of Bosnia. No violence,” he lied.
Ratko nodded. "Okay, I’ll take you at your word. How can I help?"
"We need to find a certain man who we are looking to bring to justice. Sadik Kadrić. A Serbian nationalist. Do you know him?"
Ratko nodded sadly. "He's been involved in many murders throughout the Federation. Lately, they're linking him with the murder of a soldier, Benjamin Alić, and his family. Whether he was involved directly, or whether it was simply committed on his orders, we don't know."
"How do you know this murder was linked to Kadrić?" asked James.
"A flag pin from Republika Srpska was left behind at the murder scene." Ratko glanced up at the computer. "Here, look."
Every eye in the room turned to the computer screen. A reporter with a five o'clock shadow stood at the end of the driveway of an ordinary looking two-storey home surrounded by overgrown trees. A motionless police officer guarded the police tape with his arms clasped behind his back.
"It's all in Bosnian, of course, but that was where it happened. On the outskirts of the city." The shot changed to a studio as a newscaster in a red dress and an urgent expression spoke. A picture of a small flag pin appeared on the screen in the red, white, and blue of Republika Srpska. "It wasn't dropped there by accident and the soldier was a pure-blooded Bosnian. It was left there to send a message." Ratko turned away from the silent news report. "Kadrić is extremely active in nationalist circles and it's well-known he's willing to kill for his cause."
James focused his gaze on Ratko. The young Bosnian had an expression of sadness carved into his features, as if the killing of the stranger had wounded him personally.
"I might be wrong," Ratko continued. "But unless a group we're not aware of committed this dreadful act, we can be pretty sure this is Kadrić."
"And where would we find Kadrić?" said James.
"Srpska, naturally."
James shrugged. "Any idea where?"
"Republika Srpska makes up just under half of the entire country. Srpska is where the Bosnian-Serbs live, but men like Kadrić are often on the move. He’s been sighted in the Federation and in Herzegovina, where most of the Croats live. You would need to tread carefully."
James nodded. "Shouldn't be too difficult. We're not here to get involved in your politics."
"Everything you do here is linked to the politics," Ratko snapped. He left his seat and moved to the window. Lifting out a large, framed map from behind some cardboard boxes, he offered it to his father, who stood it between the two sofas like a makeshift easel. "This is Bosnia and Herzegovina." He traced the borders of the country. "This is the country you see on any map in the world."
"Okay."
"These are the real borders of this country." He traced his fingers along two jagged lines in turn, pointing out the various ethnic groups making up the country. "You can't do anything here without some understanding of how the country works. This might be Europe, but it’s still dangerous."
"Alright, alright, but give us an introduction. We don't have time to spend months studying it. Give us a crash course in it."
Ratko sighed and took the map out of Kemal's hands.
"All you need to know is that Srpska is the home of criminals and murderers. They are Serbian, they are all the same," said Kemal. "Dogs. All of them."
"Oh, father," Ratko sighed.
"What did I say? Smart with books, stupid in life. And he wants to hold hands with them and sing for peace. Go, my son. Tell them of our politics. Then the men can do business while the boys speak."
Ratko frowned but resumed his seat on the sofa. "The political system of Bosnia is broken because it was designed as a temporary system to be used after the war. Unfortunately, when everyone forgot about Bosnia nobody bothered to change this system. We have three presidents: a Bosnian, a Serbian, and a Croatian. They share the presidency for four years, with each ruling for eight months at a time. During that time, each president steals from the two others. And on and on it goes."
"That's ridiculous," Sinclair exclaimed.
Ratko raised a hand to silence Sinclair. "That's not the worst part. The real power in this country is the High Representative. This is a foreigner appointed by Europe. They are the ultimate authority here. Originally, it was designed to oversee the transition to democracy and peace, but today they are still here. That's the great flaw of this country."
"On that," Kemal stepped forward and perched himself on the arm of the sofa. "We agree. Even our flag is not ours. The West made us have it. This is not the flag of Bosnia. It is trash."
Ratko nodded. "That's what you need to know about Bosnia and Herzegovina."
James' head began to spin at the sheer amount of information Ratko had communicated. For all his jobs, he'd never heard anything like Bosnia’s political system. It made no logical sense to him and magnified the ethnic divisions that remained in the country.
Sinclair's head bobbed along like he'd understood every word. "The war ended a generation ago and the country remains in the transition period, then?"
"Worse than that. We have never been closer to civil war than we are now. Kadrić and other Bosnian-Serb nationalists want a war either for independence or to join Serbia. These attacks are not done out of hatred. They're part of a strategy to drive each entity further apart. The goal is war. War, war, and more war."
"Pah, let them go to war." Kemal spat out the words with venom. "We will destroy them. I will grind my boot into their throats. I might be old, but I can still fight."
"That is not the way," said Ratko.
Kemal switched to Bosnian again and father and son exchanged heated words. Their voices rose an additional decibel with every sentence. Kemal’s face glowed red with fru
stration.
"This is not our fight." James' voice rose above the din. "We didn't come here to listen to the both of you argue over the future of Bosnia. I don't mean to be rude, but our time here is limited. Our priority is Kadrić and nothing more."
"Shut up," Sinclair mouthed at James.
The outburst stopped the two Bosnians in their tracks. They shared looks of anger, but no more Bosnian passed through their lips.
"You're right," said Ratko. "This is not your fight. I've been trying to find out more about Kadrić since the murder. We know that he's strengthening his links with various mafia groups in the Balkans. The Russian, the Croatian, and, of course, the Serbian. We also think that he may even be taking orders directly from Belgrade. On that, though, it's nothing more than a rumour."
"You need support," Kemal's deep voice boomed above his gentler son's. "You must know one thing about Bosnia. Politics is everything. I can introduce you to a good friend of mine. Ismet Ćatić. We fought in the war together."
"How can he help us?" James asked.
"He is big man of Horde Sla. The fans of FK Sarajevo." Kemal paused. "Football. Ismet knows many people. He meets them, he fights against them. See if he helps you. I take you to him tomorrow."
James looked to Sinclair for an answer. He was the hitman not the intelligence of the operation.
"If you believe he may be able to bring us closer to Kadrić, it would be well worth our time," said Sinclair.
Kemal shoved a meaty hand into his pocket and took out an old Nokia phone from the early 2000s. He brought the phone close to his face and began pressing buttons, his face screwed up in deep concentration.
"Here is Ismet. You like him very much." Kemal offered the phone to James.
The phone showed a low-quality photo of Kemal and another man sitting in a bar together. Ismet's expression settled somewhere between a smile and a scowl. What stood out to James were those eyes. Bright green and piercing, set into a skull that resembled something like a Great Ape. James didn't need to ask what sort of man he was. He'd been around them all his life.
James passed the phone to Sinclair with a nod. If nothing else, they were about to meet a man who spoke their language.
Chapter Five
The smog enveloped Sarajevo in a depressing gloom as it lingered into the following afternoon. The poisonous smell of exhaust fumes and factory chimneys triggered thousands of wet coughs across the city. Melting snow at the side of the road left a dirty slurry coating the paths and roads. James tugged his scarf up over his mouth as he met Kemal in his old Ford outside the Hotel Old Town.
"Where is your friend, Sinclair?" Kemal almost looked disappointed. "He sick?"
"No." James climbed into the car. "This is just not his area of expertise."
Kemal hadn't dared switch the engine off. He shifted the abused car into first gear with a meaty hand and pulled away from the curb. The Ford spluttered and belched a cloud of black exhaust fumes as they joined the main road that followed along the river. He took out a soft package of cigarettes and offered one to James, which he took.
"Drinas. Very important in Bosnia. We smoke these during the war. They have never changed."
James lit the cigarette and took in a long drag. He felt the tar coating his throat. "They're strong."
"Very strong. Very strong." He shook a clenched fist. "Like Bosnia."
"So," James started. "How can Ismet help us?"
"You know Horde Sla?"
James shook his head. "Is this a political group?"
"No, they are Horde Sla. Hordes of Evil in your language. To the very last day of my life, only Sarajevo, this is what they say."
"You'll have to explain, I'm afraid."
"Ismet is the leader of Horde Sla. The supporter’s group of FK Sarajevo, Bosnian football team. Oh, you should see how they fight. Real Bosnian warriors. On Saturday, you will see. Borac Banja Luka come from Srpska to Sarajevo for a league match. They will kill them. You will never see anything like Horde Sla."
"Are you a... Horde Sla?"
"Of course! I am Horde Sla. It is war. Serbians." Kemal took his eyes off the road to stare directly at James. "I beat them Saturday. We destroy them."
James felt uneasy at the murderous glint in Kemal's eyes. He'd never cared much for football after he became a teenager. With all the violence and destruction in the world, it never made sense to him that football supporters were willing to kill each other over who supported who. He preferred devoting his time on his days off to reading any book he could get his hands on. It gave him peace of mind after the tension and bloodshed of his job. A chance to vanish into a different world.
Kemal glanced back at the road. "One of the biggest games. Biggest game is the Eternal Derby. The Sarajevo derby." He started to cackle. "Hell come to Sarajevo, we say."
"That sounds like a wonderful cultural experience." James' voice dripped with sarcasm. "But I didn't come here for a cultural experience. How is this going to lead me to Kadrić?"
"Ismet knows everybody. All these Serbians. He knows who they are. Maybe he help you, a good friend of mine, Ismet. Many years we fight together."
His confidence perked up again. He took another drag of the tar-ridden cigarette and even he, a heavy smoker in his own right, could barely resist the urge to cough a piece of his lungs out. Kemal continued to regale James with tales of the various battles Horde Sla had fought against other football clubs. James grunted and nodded in acknowledgement, keeping his true feelings about the blood sport to himself.
Their journey took them away from the old town of Sarajevo, the neighbourhoods of establishments like the Hotel Old Town and into the downtown area. Here, the war damage grew more visible. No building had been spared the bullet holes and shrapnel. The large fortress of the American embassy loomed up alongside them. The stars-and-stripes hung above the door, hidden behind open grassy inclines and protected by a black iron fence topped with wire sharper than a barber's razor.
"We are almost here," Kemal announced as the embassy disappeared around the corner.
Socialist concrete apartment blocks cast their long shadows over them. James gazed up at Tito's spires and could only imagine what horrors the people in those homes had seen with the collapse of Yugoslavia.
Kemal pulled the car to a halt outside a bar on a street corner. Flags and banners bearing the name Horde Sla hung from inside the windowpanes. Outside, a burnished gold and red sign representing the most common beer in the city, Sarajevsko, hung over the door.
"These are my friends but let me go first. You are safe here with me," said Kemal as he removed his keys from the ignition. "I show you Ismet, okay?"
James nodded and got out of the car. His breath immediately crystallised in the frigid air. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he followed the doublewide figure of Kemal through the doors of the bar.
The scene that greeted James reminded him of some of the dive bars back home in England. Meaty forearms plastered with tattoos connected to hands covered in garish gold rings wrapped around glasses holding a full litre of beer. Almost everyone had haircuts that would have made his old army drill sergeant proud. The rancorous atmosphere didn't drop away, but James' instincts picked up those with their eyes on him: the outsider.
Kemal clamped a paw on his shoulder and steered him through the crowded masses. Long tables flanked the sides of the room, with standing room only at the bar itself. Black-and-white pictures of Horde Sla members of the past and coloured photos of men in uniform during the war took pride of place on the walls. James tore his gaze away from them, his senses heightened by the hostile environment.
Every so often, Kemal would call out in his native language to someone he knew. His grip on James' shoulder tightened as they moved towards the back of the bar. They came to a halt at a table filled with a shooting gallery of cartoonish thugs. Kemal took point and grasped the hand of a slim man with a full black beard and a head of hair groomed by a pair of scissors and a fruit bowl. His deep g
reen eyes bored into James.
"Don't bring foreigners here," he said.
Kemal pleaded with the man in Bosnian, even clasping his hands together. James only returned the man's stare.
"We must go," said Kemal to James.
James returned the man's glare. "You Ismet?"
"No, no, we must go." Kemal tried to get between the seated Horde Sla man and James. "It's too dangerous. I make a mistake. We go."
James opened up his coat and flashed the Glock 19 semi-automatic inside. The light metal caught the blanched winter light streaming through the windows and winked at Ismet.
Ismet's eyes darted to the weapon and widened at the sight. He paused for a moment. Eventually, he raised his hand, beckoning him to come closer. His friends eyed him like he'd gone mad.
"Thank you, Ismet. I don't have any problem with you or your friends. I only want to talk," said James.
Ismet’s nostrils flared. "Then sit. Kemal, you sit."
Kemal licked his lips as he lightly pushed James onto a stool across the table from Ismet. The group shuffled along the curved sofa to allow Kemal to plant his enormous behind on its edge.
"Don't worry, I'm not a Serbian."
The corners of Ismet's mouth twitched into a little smile for a nanosecond. "You would be dead if you were Serbian. This is Horde Sla land. We are Bosnians. Real Bosnians. I am a Muslim. You have problems with Muslims?"
"Only when they're trying to kill me."
Ismet's head bobbed up and down as he nodded. "Well, speak. Quickly. You are here now."
"It's a difficult issue. I don't know what Kemal said to you, but I wouldn't mind speaking to you privately. It's a... business matter. I'd rather keep it to as few people as possible."
The grouping eyed each other, speaking in low, guttural Bosnian accents. James fidgeted under the table, fearing he'd gone too far. He had to maintain his bravado. Bravery was the only thing these people respected. If he bent like a willow reed, he wouldn't get out of here in one piece.