by James Samuel
"Matters are rarely as smooth as one would expect in this business."
James had already decided he didn't like Miran. They'd known each other less than two minutes and already he felt like he was disparaging his methods.
"Of course, of course, I understand, but we're playing into Kadrić's hands. It's what he wants. He wants war. Any excuse. That's why I came here to tell you that Kadrić will die this weekend."
James raised his eyebrows. "How will that work?"
"I did my own research. Well, I should say Nemanja did my research for me. Being blind makes it difficult to look at a computer screen. Kadrić will be in Belgrade this weekend to meet Ambassador Vojo Plemenac. I don't know why, but he'll be meeting him at the fortress in the centre of town at night. Get inside the fortress above Belgrade and you can kill him there. There are not many ways out. The fortress never closes."
James' heart leapt. Could it be true?
"How do you know this?" asked Sinclair.
"I have many powerful friends in Serbia. Bosnians. Good people who make good business. They know everything that happens in Belgrade when it comes to their country. All Bosnians are brothers in war. We know how much it cost us."
"I see," said Sinclair. "Then we'll be in Belgrade this weekend, you can guarantee it. Do you know what time the meeting will take place?"
Miran moved his head to look at Nemanja. "What time did we say?"
"Just after midnight. It should be then, I think. We don't know where, but it will in the open. Not on the north side. Forests are there. Too risky for both. Try the south."
James folded his arms. "Will they be alone?"
"I think so, yes," replied Miran. "They are associates. And the ambassador will be a smart man. Kadrić knows he could never touch a man like him. Diplomatic immunity, so what would be the point?"
James leaned forwards, contemplating what was to come. He had never been to Belgrade. He didn't know the fortress and he didn't know the layout of the city. Foreign ground was always a risk. The enemy had the advantage. Then again, it might be the best chance they ever had at taking down Kadrić.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sinclair radioed Gallagher they would move to Belgrade for a couple of days. Meanwhile, James made arrangements with Kemal to meet. Too much had passed between them over the Mostar incident. James needed him on his side. If anything went wrong in Belgrade, he would still need a Bosnian in Sarajevo he could trust.
James met Kemal at the same cafe they'd first met, though Kemal no longer greeted him with his former smiles and joviality. What happened to Ratko must still have played on his mind. James, too, felt guilty about dragging a person with peace in his heart into his world of violence.
"Kemal, I'm sorry for everything that's happened," James said as he sat down.
Kemal nodded. "Coffee?"
"No, sorry, I don't have time. Business."
"Okay, okay."
James shifted uncomfortably, an awkward silence settling between them as Kemal stirred his Bosnian coffee.
"How's Ratko?"
"Hospital. They broke his arm, four ribs, and his face... his face is bad, eh?"
James hesitated. "Look, I didn't mean this to happen to him. I never wanted your family to be involved in this."
"No, no, my friend. It is war. War is different. He will never know war." Kemal tapped his temple. "He does not know. A man must fight, or he dies. Ratko is a good boy, but he is not smart. Not like his father, not like you."
James agreed with Kemal wholeheartedly, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Ratko wanted him gone from his life forever, yet he still couldn't help but feel like his mission had destroyed a bystander's life. The White Rose couldn't operate if Ratko knew what was good for him. Now the nationalists knew him intimately they would never leave him alone if he raised his head above the parapet.
“Do you think you could do me a favour?” asked James.
“Of course, I have debts to you, my friend. Anything.”
“It’s not much. I was wondering if you could ask Ismet to send some of his Horde Sla to watch over Ratko. Things are going to get worse. I don’t know how much worse, but their first thought will be that Ratko had something to do with…” James gazed around to make sure nobody was listening. “With what happens next. I want him protected.”
Kemal nodded. “It’s a good idea, eh? They are strong men.”
“Thank you, Kemal, it’s the least I can do. I’ll cover the expenses. I don’t want your family to be hurt by this. It’s nothing to do with Ratko.”
“He said bad things to you, eh?”
James looked away from Kemal’s searching eyes. “That’s his choice. I’ve heard worse.”
“Okay.” Kemal started to stir his coffee.
“Look, after Kadrić is gone, this is not over for your people. I want to keep your son safe because he hasn’t done anything to deserve the punishment they gave him. The Bosnian-Serbs will be looking for revenge.”
“How can I repay you?” Kemal dipped a large sugar cube into his cup and sucked the coffee from it. “Jakov betrayed me. He was my friend. Not now. On my honour as a Bosnian, I must do something, but to Serbia I cannot go.”
“Why not? I thought you would have loved the opportunity.”
“I am not allowed in Serbia, my friend. Politics.”
James wanted to know more about that story, but he didn’t have the time for a long conversation. He couldn’t risk not making it to Belgrade in time for the meeting.
“Thank you, Kemal, regardless. I know what happened in Mostar wasn’t what you intended. Just keep an eye out for Kadrić’s men.”
Kemal reached across the table and seized James’ hand and clutched it. “On my honour, my friend. I do this for you.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Belgrade, City of Belgrade, Serbia
The train rattled onwards from the Serbian border. After three different train changes, James and Sinclair were finally on the direct train to Belgrade. The Serbian border guards had barely glanced at them as they took their forged passports. Neither of them used their real names on official documentation.
After a cursory glance, the Serbians continued their way down the carriage, rapping their knuckles on the glass doors of each compartment. James folded his arms, his eyes alert.
“You didn’t have to come, you know?” said James.
Sinclair sighed. “I know, but I figure nothing can be worse than Mostar. Besides, I need to keep my eye on you. The last thing we need is a dead ambassador.”
His arms tightened and he continued his vigil at the blurry landscape beyond the raindrops, a frown across his face.
“I should call Gallagher, to let him know we are about to carry out the operation.”
James didn’t respond.
Sinclair watched his friend for a few moments. He didn’t particularly want to join James in Belgrade. His place was sitting in a warm room behind a computer screen, but he had to keep a watch on James. Gallagher’s offer had been a generous one and he’d already taken a bullet in the leg to earn it.
“Gallagher,” Sinclair started.
“Wood. Give me a status report.”
“We are on our way to Belgrade to carry out the hit on Kadrić. We have him in our sights.”
“Interesting. How did you make so much progress? Was it Pejakovski?”
“No.” The train began to bump as it started rattling along the tracks again. “The client, actually. He called on us at the hotel. Somehow, he managed to find out that he would be in Belgrade this weekend. Meeting with the ambassador.”
“Ambassador Plemenac?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Winchester best keep his distance. I will not have a man with diplomatic immunity murdered in cold blood, do you understand?” His voice descended into a staccato. “Do not touch Plemenac, no matter what.”
“Yes, sir.”
James tilted his head in interest.
“James is here, sir.
”
“Repeat it. If Plemenac is harmed, we are finished.”
Sinclair lowered the phone. “Gallagher is warning us. Don’t touch Plemenac, whatever happens. We don’t have the authorisation from HQ to do it. Is that clear?”
His lip curled upwards in disgust. “Of course.”
He raised the phone to his ear again. “He understands, sir. One other thing, about the other matter. I hope it will still be honoured.”
“I am a man of my word, Wood. I must say, I have been most impressed with your speed in this matter. The client will be immensely pleased that this has been done, with almost three weeks to spare.”
Sinclair’s shoulders sagged in relief. He’d had nightmares that Gallagher had only made the offer to exercise his power and control. No matter how many years passed, he would never trust a man like Gallagher.
“Thank you, sir. I will report back when we return from Belgrade.”
Sinclair felt his friend’s eyes raking him. Maybe he’d made an error in bringing up that last part with Gallagher whilst in James’ presence.
“What’s going to be honoured?” asked James.
Sinclair turned back to him, hoping the deception wasn’t written in his face. “My wage increase.”
He smirked and burst out laughing. “You clever bastard. Why didn’t I think to haul Gallagher over the coals as well?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
James observed the streets of Belgrade’s Stari Grad district. The cobbles bustled with tourists and locals enjoying the milder winter temperatures. Pleasant wafts of cooked meat sailed out of restaurant doors and hung in the air. Little stalls of minced meat wrapped in cabbage leaves filled the historical district, while coffee and hot chocolate offered welcome relief for cold fingers.
None of this interested James as he marched along the crumbling outside wall of the Belgrade Fortress. Set on one of the highest points of Belgrade, it looked out across most of the city. The Sava and the Danube confluence below formed an enormous vein running through the heart of the Balkans.
James ventured through the open iron gate with Sinclair in tow. During the day, the locals and tourists alike strolled through the enormous Kalemegdan Park and the remains of the citadel. Much of it had been preserved, but the tops were uneven, as if someone had taken bites out of the brickwork.
“You know,” said Sinclair. “The entire population of the city used to live within these walls. Belgrade is older than Christ. They say by at least three centuries.”
“Shut up, Sinclair,” James barked. “Now isn’t the time. We need to make this quick. I don’t want Kadrić to be scouting the park as well. The longer we’re here, the more we’re likely to run into him.”
Sinclair reddened. “No need to be rude.”
James walked a couple of steps ahead of Sinclair. The phone call on the train had rattled him. Sinclair would have never asked for a pay rise without telling him about it. He was up to something, and James didn’t like it one bit.
James weaved in and out of the happy couples parading along the gravel-lined paths of the Park. He looked back to find Sinclair pausing near the gatehouse to admire the renovated drawbridge and solid wooden doors.
He, too, paused, unsure of leaving Sinclair out of his line of sight. Now he felt hunted. James almost expected betrayal. He didn’t know if he could trust anyone anymore, not even Sinclair.
Shortly, Sinclair caught up with him, the rush exacerbating his limp. “What? I wanted to look at the fortress. It’s been years since I came to Belgrade.”
James grunted in response and continued on. He gazed up at the sky; grey and angry, symbolising his current mood.
He continued, noting the features of the park: the undulations in the gentle hills, the positions of the trees, the long, winding paths. Where would both parties choose to remain discrete yet safely within the public gaze?
“James.” Sinclair nudged his elbow. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay.” Sinclair rolled his eyes. “If Miran was right, we need to look for open spaces. Close to the edge over there. Do you see where all those people are standing?”
James followed Sinclair’s finger. A group of people in drab winter coats milled around a patch of grass with a view over the city. It offered the ideal photo opportunity. Key to the clandestine meeting, Kadrić and Plemenac would have more than 100 metres of open ground in every direction.
“Do you ever wonder why they chose to meet here instead of a restaurant or a café?” asked James.
“I thought it quite strange. It makes no sense to choose a place like this. The only reason I can think of would be to avoid anyone photographing him and Plemenac in public. It would be a scandal for an ambassador to be seen meeting with the leader of a Bosnian-Serb nationalist organisation.”
“That seems logical. In the middle of the night no one will recognise them. I hope we can trust Miran.”
Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “You’re being paranoid again, James. Why would Miran want us dead? To begin with, he requested our presence. Blackwind has no role in this conflict, not until now, and that’s his doing.”
James didn’t respond. What Sinclair said made sense, but it was in his nature to see enemies everywhere. Too many people had turned out to be not who they appeared to be. When it was his life on the line, he chose excessive paranoia.
“That looks like the closest place.” James pointed at the crumbling inner fortress wall. “It’s the best I’ve got.”
“Will you be able to see them from there?”
“I think so. But I won’t be able to hear them.” James scratched his head. “Even at night, I won’t be able to get any closer without potentially scaring them away. Chasing Kadrić through here is too risky. I could hit the wrong person.”
“Then there it will have to be… wait.” Sinclair scrutinized the wall.
James followed him. “What is it?”
“You see where they keep the old foundations behind the glass there?”
“Yes.”
“Look up. There are lights pointing outwards. They must be to illuminate the open spaces. If you hide behind them, they’ll never look over there because the light will dazzle them.”
The corners of James’ mouth twitched upwards. “Good man. I’ll be able to see them, but they won’t be able to see me. I think we have our plan.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Plemenac arrived at the fortress just after one in the morning. Saturday night meant teenagers drinking cans of cheap beer in the shadows of the grounds. He stared straight ahead, with a posture that dared anyone to challenge him. Nobody did. As his eyes adjusted to the poorly lit grounds of the fortress park, he took a deep breath to steady himself. Tonight, was the defining night of the growing powder keg in the Balkans. If things didn't go according to plan, the scars would take generations to heal.
He approached the meeting point at the lookout over Belgrade. To his ire, he found a group of giggling Serbian teens leaning against the balcony overlooking the cliffs. That was a problem. He lingered at a distance, standing alone in the middle of the lawn. Plemenac took out his phone, pretending to check it and bouncing the pads of his fingers off the screen.
When he looked up again. Kadrić had just arrived, moving towards him, his head down, hands in his pockets.
"Ambassador Plemenac," Kadrić began. "I'm so glad you called me here for this meeting. I'm excited about our next move."
Plemenac gave him a thin smile. "Unforeseen circumstances. Come, move away."
Kadrić led Plemenac along the flank of the cliff, touching the top of the freezing cold safety rail. There could be no mistakes. Anyone in this fortress could be a spy. A bent ear could undermine the ambassador’s position. His diplomatic immunity was critical to the operation.
"Ambassador, foreigners are moving against us in Bosnia. They ‘ve put a price on my head, but I don't know who they are. They have already assassinated our brothers. I also have
my suspicions about the shootings in Mostar."
Plemenac nodded. "Yes. Their names are James Winchester and Sinclair Wood. Foreign mercenaries hired to kill you."
Kadrić's mouth dropped open. "How... how did you know?"
"I've already met with them. They requested it. Isn't that the strangest thing? They were trying to gauge which side I'm on, but I left them with nothing."
"And you didn't tell me?" Kadrić said through gritted teeth.
"No, I didn't think it pertinent at the time. They are Englishmen. Highly trained. Clearly experienced. Every killing of a nationalist in the last few weeks can most certainly be attributed to them."
"I will see them dead," he growled.
"That is not why I called you here to meet me. The two Englishmen are dangerous, but they are not trying to dismantle the nationalist movement. Their brief is simple: to kill you. They care not for Bosnia, Serbia, or anyone else in the Balkans. Like all foreigners, they are here to take what they want and then to leave."
Kadrić ran a hand across his head. His breathing grew shorter, sharper, more furious.
"My only problem is I don't know who hired them to kill you in the first place. Only they would know that, and their masters are abroad. I'm not even sure which organisation they work for."
"An English one, of course."
"Not necessarily. Private military organisations hire based on skill and experience not nationality. It's not uncommon for mercenaries to be hired for a single project only for them to move to a rival organisation later."
"In any case, they'll die."
"Calm down," Plemenac snapped. "You're becoming side-tracked. I called you here to discuss the necessary changes we need to make to advance the cause of Srpska."
Plemenac brushed past him, conscious of people passing close enough to see and hear them. He chose a spot near a low, crumbling wall on the edge of the fort. The bright lights dazzled him for a moment, leaving colourful orbs like pixies floating across his vision. Once away from the lights, shrouded in near total darkness, he stopped. Kadrić tucked himself into the corner and leaned against the safety barrier and the remains of the wall.