by James Samuel
"I got him, James. I got him."
James laughed. "That you did. I suppose I didn't need a gun, after all."
"Where's Ismet?" asked Kemal as he drove a fist into the stunned man's ribs.
Ignoring the beating, James gazed back at the stadium. Ismet staggered down the steps. Sweat spread out across his t-shirt like a wound and he clutched his chest.
"Ismet, hurry up," said James. "We need to get out of here."
"We have time. Ivica is okay... for now." Kemal drove another fist into Ivica.
Ismet managed to reach the car and fell against it. The exertion had nearly killed him, his face flushed red like a strawberry. "I'm here. Go, go, I sit in the front."
Kemal folded the front seat forwards and stuffed Ivica into the back. James followed with his gun jammed into the base of Ivica's skull. As the two rotund men filled the small space left in the Fiesta, James looked over the battered and bleeding man. He would live long enough, whatever happened.
Chapter Sixteen
The ride to the safehouse took more than forty-five minutes. Considering it too risky to drive directly through the heart of Sarajevo, Kemal had taken the scenic route high up in the hills winding around the residential areas. A dry lightning storm struck on the other side of the valley, sending probing forks of electricity into the city streets below.
Kemal had chosen the little cottage as their hideout because it belonged to his family long before the war. A crumbling waterwheel adorned the building, adjoining a stone bridge. The dirt roads were empty of all people. Only the street dogs, driven from the city, the tell-tale yellow and purple sterilisation tags on their ears, gave this place any indication of life.
A couple of crows let out a cry and launched themselves over their heads, before disappearing into the mists. Ivica groaned in response. The blood on his face had dried during the journey, leaving a Martian-like crust.
"We're here. My family home," said Kemal. "We had to leave it during the war." His knuckles turned white as he clutched the steering wheel.
"Well, we can speak about it with our friend." Ismet jerked the door open with his foot.
Kemal unfolded the seat and Ivica groaned from the floor of the car like a creaking door. James finally removed his feet from his captor as Kemal dragged Ivica by the scruff of his neck out of his car and across the road, chastising him in Bosnian all the way.
"Let's make it quick," said James. "News might get out."
Ismet smiled and shook his head. "No, my friend. In Bosnia we keep our mouths closed. My police friend will never say a word, and that means his men won't. You have nothing to worry about. You did well today. If you were Bosnian, you would be real Horde Sla." Ismet clapped a pan-like hand on his back. "Will you kill him?"
James shook his head. "I didn't bring him here to kill him. I just want information."
Ismet rubbed his hands together. "Good. After you get your information, he's ours."
He sent Ismet a sidelong look but decided not to say anything. That wasn't an argument he thought he would win.
Kemal wrestled Ivica to his feet and frogmarched him towards the door of the cottage. The home had been abandoned more than two decades ago. Only a few bricks kept the door locked and protected from any wandering animals who wanted to take up residence.
"Do we have a light?" asked James when Ismet opened the door into a pitch-black room.
"No light." Kemal threw Ivica across the threshold.
The cottage contained little more than a few broken tables and chairs set in front of a crumbling fireplace. The door of every cupboard and drawer had been left open. He figured Kemal's family must have left in a hurry with no intention of returning.
James switched on the light of his smartphone and left it on the mantle above the fireplace. Years of disuse had dried up even the last of the ashes. James’ phone cast a blue-white luminous hue across the room. He ordered Ivica to sit against the wall opposite the fireplace.
"Give me more light," said James.
The two men switched on their own phone lights, which did little to penetrate the gloom, but it was enough for James to get to work. He had to be able to see the man's face, to look into his eyes and see into his very soul.
"You speak English?" asked James.
Ivica shook his head, the fear evident across his eyes.
James sighed. "Fine. You'll both need to translate for me, but let me do the interrogating. Translate everything I say word for word."
Kemal and Ismet didn't hide their disappointment but nodded their heads.
"Ivica, I'm not going to hurt you if you answer my questions. You're not important to us, do you understand?"
Ismet translated and Ivica nodded his assent.
"Do you know who Sadik Kadrić is?" James asked.
Ivica shook his head after the translation.
Kemal gave him a huge open-palm slap to the side of the head.
James cleared his throat. "Thank you, Kemal. Ask him again."
This time Ismet slapped him on the other side of the head before Kemal had even finished asking the question. When Kemal got to the end of his sentence, Ivica nodded through gritted teeth. James could see his desire to fight, but he knew what would happen if he did.
"Good. Then I'm sure you know he's a Bosnian-Serb nationalist with dreams of breaking Srpska away from Bosnia. I'd wager that you feel the same way, isn't that correct?"
Kemal translated. "He said yes."
"Our business is with Kadrić and nobody else. He's the cause of all this trouble across the country. I'm not here to get into your political struggles. I only want Kadrić. That's why I want to know where he is and how I can get to him."
After Ismet translated James' words, Ivica responded only by spitting at James' feet. James sighed. If he could help it, he wanted to avoid any further violence. In answer to Ivica’s disrespect, he simply nodded and spun around on his heel. He listened to the grunts and screams behind him, as Kemal and Ismet beat him to a pulp. James slowly counted in his head. When he got to ten, he turned around again.
"That's enough," he said.
James looked upon his captive in the alien light of the three phones. A great welt swelled up underneath Ivica’s eye. Blood flowed freely from his nose and mouth all over again. Ivica tried to clear it away from his sinuses as he slumped back towards the ground, his head only supported by the wall behind him.
"Answer the question. I don't care if these two have to kill you. You decide whether Kadrić is worth protecting."
Ismet yelled the Bosnian words in Ivica's face.
"He says he doesn't know Kadrić,” said Kemal. “He says he's not important enough. Just a soldier."
"Do you believe him?" James asked.
"It's possible," Kemal shrugged. "Maybe he knows someone who knows Kadrić."
"Then ask him."
Ivica spoke quickly with a sharp edge to his words. From the screwed-up expressions of Ismet and Kemal he sensed he hadn't given him the answer he wanted.
"Go on," said James.
He turned around again and began to count. No matter how loud he counted in his head, Ivica's grunts and yelps got through. This could go on for hours. Beating a man to death took a lot of time and effort. He didn't know if he could stand to stay the course.
James approached Ivica and crouched down in front of him, into glazed, tree bark eyes, the tell-tale signs of a concussion. He unveiled the gun and made a show of opening the cartridge to show him it wasn't a fake. He popped it back in with a click like a round from a game of Russian roulette. Releasing the safety, he pointed it directly between the beaten man’s legs.
Ivica's breathing became sharper as he cringed back against the wall and tightened his legs together.
"One last chance. The same question again. We need a lead."
Ivica responded without waiting for the translation.
"He says a man called Goran Pejakovski. A gangster who may know more," Ismet translated. "But he doesn't know
where he is. He knows he's a Bosnian-Serb."
"Ask him why he thinks this Goran Pejakovski has anything to do with Kadrić."
"He knows Pejakovski works for anyone. He's known in the underworld. Sometimes he helps with weapons."
James rubbed his chin as he mulled over whether to believe him. Torture didn't always yield anything truthful. "Kemal, have you heard of him?"
"No, never."
"Ismet?"
"I've heard the name," he confirmed. "But I know nothing more than what he knows. Shoot him. Shoot him right there." A smile crept across his face. "Serbians have no balls anyway."
James took a long look at the shaking Ivica. No, he wouldn't shoot him. He never had any intention of castrating his captive. It was too cruel. Too unnecessary. James was a lot of things, but he wasn't a sadist.
"I believe him," he announced. "Well, I believe him enough to think that he doesn't have anything else that's useful to us. Kemal, can you drive me back into town?"
"Of course. What about him?" He nudged Ivica with the point of his shoe. "Let's kill him."
James shook his head. "No, I'm not going to kill him. There's no reason to. We've got what we wanted. Hasn't this country spilled enough blood?"
Kemal's lip curled upwards in disgust. "You don't understand what these people did to us. They deserve it." He spat on Ivica. "If you were Bosnian you would."
"But I'm not Bosnian," James said firmly. "And it's my gun. I won't kill him. You two can do what you want."
"Then I will stay here," said Ismet. "Kemal, you come back for me later, okay?"
Kemal nodded. "James, come on."
James hesitated in the grim cottage. His moral compass screamed at him to speak out for Ivica, to protect him, but the mercenary in him knew it would lead nowhere good. These men were necessary if he wanted to kill Kadrić. He told himself it was for the greater good of this country as he let the broken door slam its death knell in his wake.
Chapter Seventeen
A feeling of futility washed over James. A rotten taste soured in his mouth, like a glass of milk gone bad. Should he have done more to save Ivica from his ultimate fate? Yes, he needed Kemal and Ismet to guide him through this complex country. But he had the gun. He had the control. Even men as grizzled as those two wouldn’t have stood a chance if he’d forced the issue.
James and Kemal had barely spoken on the ride back to the city. They’d taken the direct route, with James leaving Kemal behind on the edge of the old town. He walked along the river and came upon the Vijećnica, the former library of Sarajevo. The pseudo-Moorish design saw the immense building covered in red-and-yellow stripes, with horseshoe arches running across the centre of the frontal façade on two floors. He stopped when he saw a plaque near the front door in English. Approaching it, the plaque read:
In this place… Serbian criminals in the night of 25th-26th August, 1992, set on fire the National and University’s Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Over 2 million books, periodicals and documents vanished in the flames. Do not forget, remember and warn!
James lingered under the sign, unsure of what to make of it. The presence of English jarred him. The reference to Serbian criminals unnerved him even more. Maybe Kemal was right, and the likes of Ivica had got what they deserved, albeit decades later? He needed to take his mind away from the conflict swirling in his head. He had to focus on something else.
He removed his smartphone from his pocket and sent a text message not to Sinclair but to Nazifa. After sending his message, he let out a deep breath and moved in the direction of the old town. For now, he needed a second option, or at the very least a drink.
A grey car came towards him, the window down. James stopped when his instincts flashed red. He darted behind the library’s arches as gunfire assaulted his position. The thick stone cracked and chipped away as the bullets sprayed the long-abused structure. He ignored the screams of panic and fear of bystanders fleeing for their lives. His heart raced, but as he heard the revving of the engine, he calmly stepped around the pillar in time to see the assailants flee. The car disappeared around the corner and curved away towards the other side of the old town.
James clicked his tongue as he replayed the attack in his mind. He shook his head. It had all the hallmarks of a warning, rather than an assassination attempt. The poorly aimed shots hadn't come close to hitting him. This time. No, it was a warning. He'd been marked for death.
Chapter Eighteen
Sinclair sat in front of his computer, checking the news articles about the riot from the game. Some photographers had caught pictures of the hooligans in mid-flight, the burning flares and ominous smoke at their backs.
James sat adjacent to him at the kitchen table. Only twenty minutes earlier, someone had shot at him, yet he felt remarkably calm about the whole thing. It seemed Kadrić's men had pinpointed him as a threat.
"This changes things," Sinclair said.
"I don't think it does. All it means is Kadrić is aware of me. We knew it would happen sooner or later."
"I would have preferred later. We have barely started and Kadrić is already after you... assuming it was Kadrić."
" As far as I know, we haven't made any other enemies in Bosnia. Who else could it be?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." Sinclair looked away from his screen. "Just be more careful from now on. That was a warning. They won't send you a second one."
James released a brief smile. "Never mind, then. Goran Pejakovski is our next target. Find out as much as you can about him. Kemal didn't know who he was. Ismet had heard the name but that was it."
"A pity you killed Ivica. We might have found out more if we had more time with him."
"What makes you think I killed Ivica?"
Sinclair went pale, like a sudden nausea had come over him. "Well," he recovered. "I didn't think you let him go so he could report your faces to Kadrić."
James nodded. "Yes, he's dead, but I didn't kill him. I wanted to let him go, his death seemed needless, but Kemal and Ismet were about to revolt. I left him with Ismet."
Sinclair looked away. "That's all I want to know." He rubbed his chin. "Look, I've been doing some additional research. I found nothing, of course, but someone else did. Jacob Finch has some interesting information about the ambassador from Serbia, Vojo Plemenac."
He slapped his palm on the table. "Jacob Finch? How did you get Gallagher to give him to us?"
Sinclair avoided James' gaze. "I asked him. He said yes. If you want to find out more, you should call him yourself."
"No thanks." James lit a cigarette. "It's been a challenging enough day as it is."
The coils of smoke drifted over Sinclair's computer. The intelligence agent wrinkled his nose in protest.
"What did he say about this ambassador?"
"He's a spy."
"A spy?"
"Yes. There's evidence to show he has been working directly for the government in Belgrade for years. His ambassadorial role is just a cover, so people are more likely to trust him, but he's far more than just a messenger boy."
"Bloody hell." James took a long drag on the cigarette. "This could be interesting. What makes you think he actually is a spy?"
"Because Finch said so."
James felt tempted to argue but decided against it. Finch never got things wrong. He could hack into any computer system in the world when he wanted to. That's why field agents who could gain the cooperation of Blackwind's lead hacker considered it a blessing and an honour. Finch could unlock anything and answer any question. He was the closest thing he knew of to a modern-day oracle.
"So, what would you like to do with that information? Shall I add him to the list?"
"No. Assassinating a public figure like an ambassador without permission would only play into Kadrić's hands. It would do more for him than he ever thought possible because it would give Serbia justification to go to war if it wanted to. You know ambassadors have diplomatic protection under the Vienna Convention."
James shrugged. "I could make it look like an accident, I'm sure."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. According to Finch's report, Plemanac appears to associate with everyone. Even though he works as a spy, it doesn't necessarily mean he has aligned himself with Kadrić. You need to understand Serbia is rather indifferent towards Srpska these days. Your average Serbian has no interest in Srpska, so never assume the government in Belgrade is working to break up Bosnia and free Srpska. That's only what the nationalists say, not the moderates."
James let out a deep breath as he stubbed his cigarette out in a plain pewter ashtray. "So, where does that leave us?"
"We should meet him, I think. At the very least we can try to learn about his position. Then we can determine whether he poses a threat to our operation or not."
"Okay, that should be fine. I can go and meet him."
"Yes, you can, but not without me. I'll reach out to Plemenac to see if he's receptive to meeting us, and, if so, I will take charge of the meeting."
James rolled his eyes. "Having you in the field is more of a hindrance than a help. I'd prefer it if you stuck to your computers."
"So would I." Sinclair closed his laptop with a soft click. "But my experiences with you have told me never to rely on your diplomatic skills. Dealing with real world ambassadors requires a lighter touch, you know what I mean?"
"Whatever you say, Sinclair."
"Oh, and Ratko wants to speak to you whenever you can manage it.” Sinclair rolled his eyes. “I couldn't imagine why."
Chapter Nineteen
Later that evening, James found himself back in the bustling old town district. Amongst the bazaars and low wooden buildings, he picked out a quiet bar in a secluded courtyard. Long wooden tables and benches spread across the open space. Waiters delivered large glasses of beer to the customers huddled in conversations at the many tables. He hadn't been there for more than five minutes when Nazifa arrived fashionably late and with a hop in her step.