The Bach Manuscript

by Scott Mariani

  But Ben had no intention of remaining any longer than he had to. By the time McAllister had figured out what had happened here tonight, he would already be en route for Serbia.

  Chapter 34

  Novi Beograd

  Serbia

  Prior to its conversion into one of the wildest and most notorious nightclubs in the concrete jungle of Novi Beograd, the three-storey warehouse on the left bank of the Sava River had been an abattoir and meat-processing plant. In some ways, it still served a similar purpose – if you were unlucky or stupid enough to cross its owner, Zarko Kožul.

  New Belgrade: it wasn’t called that for nothing. Up until and during the Second World War the whole area had been swamp and wasteland, home only to the Sajmište extermination camp that was used by the Nazis to execute political prisoners and Jews from Bosnia, some fifty thousand in total. After the war, the area had been completely razed, then in 1948, years of work had begun shipping in vast quantities of sand and construction materials to create the base for the new city.

  Like so many buildings in Novi Beograd, the Rakia nightclub was a brutally utilitarian concrete cuboid that looked more like a military installation than a popular entertainment venue. The bikers who patrolled the outside of the building like circling sharks on Harleys from dusk till dawn, and the teams of men hand-picked for their intimidating appearance and violent ways, only served to reinforce the impression of a fortress. Which, of course, was all deliberate on the part of its proprietor. Many more of Zarko Kožul’s footsoldiers stood guard inside, heavily armed and working in shifts to protect their boss from trouble and keep an eye out for unwanted visitors. There was often trouble, but only ever of the kind that Kožul’s men could settle themselves. It was unheard of for any Belgrade cop to be crazy enough to go poking his nose into what went on at the Rakia.

  As a result, it was a place where the most hardcore criminals could let their hair down and feel relatively safe. Local legend held that it had once been a favourite watering hole of Milorad ‘Legija’ Ulemik, former Legionnaire, one-time member of Arkan’s Tigers and the Serbian Red Berets, later to head up the notorious organised crime gang the Zemun Clan, before he’d been sentenced to fifty years in prison for his part in the assassination of Zoran Đind¯ić, the Serbian Prime Minister.

  True or not, stories like that couldn’t hurt the reputation of Kožul’s business one bit. And they certainly didn’t put off the partygoers, who descended on the place in their thousands every night to drink and dance until they dropped.

  It was three in the morning and the strobing lights were flashing like the firebursts of a tank battle across the quayside and over the rippling waters of the Sava as Kožul’s joint got into full swing. New Belgrade was called ‘the Berlin of the Balkans’, and it was easy to see why. Bathed in the blood-red of the neon sign that said, simply, RAKIA, a swarm of some three hundred people, many of them already drunk and loud, formed a giant scrum at the entrance of the nightclub, desperate to join the massed crowds already crammed inside. Enormous men stood by the doors with their arms folded, eyeing the throng. Motorcycles slowly patrolled the street.

  Among the cars and taxicabs that came and went, a black Mercedes limo pulled up at the entrance. Its driver stepped out and opened the back door.

  Dragan and Lena Vuković got out of the limo. They’d come straight from the airport, looked somewhat bedraggled from hours of travel, and were carrying nothing with them except for the small backpack that Dragan had over his shoulder. Lena gazed up at the looming shape of the Rakia, then darted an anxious look at her brother. Unlike him, she had never visited the top floor of the building, but she’d heard the tales and knew enough about the man they’d come to see.

  ‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing, Dragan?’ she asked him for maybe the eightieth time since they’d managed to grab the last-minute flight from Heathrow earlier that night.

  ‘Relax, babe, we’re golden.’

  Dragan led the way, pushing through the crowd towards the main entrance, until the way was blocked by a bouncer so tall and broad that he towered over Dragan and made Lena look like an infant.

  ‘I’m expected!’ Dragan had to yell over the percussive thunder of the music blasting from inside. The bouncer unzipped the backpack, opened the plastic folder inside and stared at its contents in bewilderment, as if he’d never seen an original eighteenth-century music manuscript before. He scrutinised Dragan for a long moment, then Lena, then drew a radio handset from his pocket and called upstairs to check. A moment later, the go-ahead came back and he nodded them through the door.

  The volume of noise was ten times greater inside the nightclub. The place was so packed, if you collapsed from exhaustion or too much drink, you were likely to get trampled by the heaving ocean of bodies. Lightning strobes flashed overhead, making the dancers and the forest of upheld waving arms appear to move in jerky stop-frame animation. A second guard led Dragan and Lena through the crowd to a door marked PRIVATNI.

  Through the door, they found themselves in a red-lit corridor where the crash of the music was muffled enough to talk. Lena glanced around her, saw more men with guns and shot another anxious look at her brother. But Dragan appeared relaxed and in his element. He nodded greetings to a couple of guys he hadn’t seen for four years, and burst into a wide smile as a man in his thirties, dark-haired and much smaller than the bouncers, as well as Dragan himself, came walking over to meet him.

  They embraced. ‘Welcome back, Dragan. It’s good to see you again.’ Alek Bosković was one of Zarko Kožul’s inner circle. He was lightly built, but twice as dangerous as the hulks guarding the entrance. The closer you got to Kožul, the more deadly the people you would encounter.

  ‘What kind of mood is he in?’ Dragan asked.

  Alek grinned. ‘Never seen him in such good spirits. He hasn’t killed anyone for – oh, it must be weeks.’

  ‘Shit. Is he feeling all right?’

  Alek clapped Dragan’s shoulder. ‘Come on up, man. He’s waiting for you.’

  They walked down winding corridors to the open-shaft paternoster lift that was a throwback to the building’s earlier days, once used for transporting carcasses and butchered meat between floors. The double lift was on a continual loop with no doors and no buttons, the left side perpetually going up and the right side going down, like a huge vertical revolving door. The rumble of wheels and pulleys could be felt through the walls and underfoot. The three of them stepped aboard the rattling, shaking platform. As the paternoster hauled them skywards, Alek glanced at Dragan’s backpack and said, ‘Whatever it is you’ve brought Zarko, it better be good, my man.’

  ‘Good enough to cost me half my crew.’ Dragan told him about the man named Hope who had caused him so much trouble back in England.

  ‘Who the hell is this person?’

  ‘He’s a walking dead man, is who he is.’

  Zarko Kožul had grown very cautious after all the attempts that had been made on his life over the years. As they stepped from the paternoster onto the top floor, Dragan and Lena were patted down for weapons and concealed wires as a bunch of Kožul’s oversized heavies stood around watching every move. The contents of Dragan’s backpack were carefully inspected once again for anything suspicious. Finally, after being subjected to a more thorough search than any airport security check, the two of them were led to the holy of holies, the suite of rooms that comprised Kožul’s luxurious executive headquarters.

  Alek paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘You know the routine,’ he warned Dragan. ‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, no direct questions, and don’t challenge him in any way. And keep the eye contact to a minimum. He considers it disrespectful.’

  ‘You said he was in a good mood.’

  Alek grinned. ‘He is.’

  They stepped through the door into a large space the colour of blood. Zarko Kožul loved red. Everything was either painted or carpeted or upholstered the same shade of crimson, from the walls to th
e padded stools that lined the bar at one side of the huge room, even the bar itself. Some said that was so the spatters didn’t show up so much after Kožul personally executed enemies and troublemakers with his gold-plated Walther automatic. Others said he made everything red because he couldn’t wait to take over from Satan down in hell, so did all he could in the meantime to recreate it on earth.

  By the red-curtained windows to one side, a blonde a few years younger than Lena, clad in skimpy red underwear, lay on a red leather couch next to a mountain of cocaine that looked like a kilo of sugar on a low table. She was unconscious and didn’t appear to be breathing, but none of Kožul’s entourage was paying her any attention. The man himself was seated at the far end of the room, glowering at the visitors from behind a red leather-topped desk the size of an aircraft carrier. Alek gripped Lena’s arm to hold her back, and motioned for Dragan to go forward.

  Kožul said, ‘Sit.’

  The wooden chair in front of the desk was painted red and had had its legs sawn short to bring whoever sat in it closer to the floor. The reason for that was obvious to anyone who knew Zarko Kožul.

  Kožul got to his feet. He had to be fifty now, but didn’t seem to have aged a day since Dragan had last seen him. The only change in his appearance was that he’d filled out a little, if that were possible. After a lifetime of pumping iron, Kožul was literally as broad as he was tall. That was one way for a man who measured just half an inch over five feet in height to get respect in his profession. Another way was to torture, mutilate, and execute anyone who offended him in the slightest way. He’d had many years’ practice at that, too.

  Zarko Kožul stared at Dragan for a long time. His eyes were pale, almost colourless. Dragan sat in the low chair, and looked down at his feet, not wanting to show disrespect. One of the guards walked up and laid Dragan’s backpack on the desk. Kožul waved him away.

  ‘So the boy comes back a man,’ Kožul said to Dragan.

  ‘You said to go make something of myself, Zarko,’ Dragan replied, still looking down. ‘That’s what I did. But all I ever wanted was to work for you. You know that, right? I still do.’

  Kožul smiled. He jerked his chin at the bag on the desk. ‘What’s this you’ve brought me?’

  ‘It’s my gift to you. Out of respect.’

  ‘Respect, huh? That’s good, Dragan. That’s what I like to hear. Better be true.’ Kožul reached out a short, thick arm, fished inside the bag and pulled out the sealed plastic file it contained. He took his time opening it. The smile dropped from his face when he saw what was inside. He eyed the manuscript with disgust, then snapped his glare back towards Dragan.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Music.’

  ‘Music? I run a fucking nightclub. I already got all the fucking music I need.’

  ‘It’s, like, old. You know, valuable.’

  Kožul stared at him. ‘My grandmother’s old as balls. Doesn’t make her worth shit.’ He looked back down at the manuscript. ‘Jesus Christ, is that toilet paper, or what? Looks like someone wiped their ass on it.’

  One or two of the guards chuckled. Kožul liked it when his jokes were appreciated.

  As deferentially as he could, Dragan tried to explain. ‘The guy we stole it from was totally, like, a real expert. A professor. Seriously, he’d have done anything to get it. There are collectors who pay a heap for these things. There’s a market, like you wouldn’t believe. See the name on it, this Bach guy? Stuff like this is worth a ton of money.’

  ‘A ton, huh? That sounds like a lot. That sound like a lot to you, Alek?’

  ‘It does, boss.’

  ‘Sure it’s a lot. You’re talking millions of dinar,’ Dragan said. The truth was, he had no idea of a figure and he was going way out on a limb with such a guesstimate.

  At the other end of the room, Lena was tensing in anxiety for her brother. Alek’s grip on her arm was tight.

  Kožul’s brows furrowed into a deep frown. ‘Even if it was worth something, how the fuck am I supposed to sell it? I don’t know anyone who would buy trash like this.’

  ‘Come on, Zarko.’

  Kožul’s eyes flared. He leaned forward with his knuckles on the desk. ‘Are you disrespecting me? First you waste my time with this bullshit, then you talk back like a fucking punk?’

  ‘No, Zarko, you know I’d never—’

  Kožul stood there, quivering with silent fury. Then he said in a flat tone, ‘Alek, take this piece of toilet paper off my desk and burn it.’

  Alek stepped forward. He produced a cigar lighter from his pocket, set to maximum like a miniature flamethrower so that a tongue of fire roared out when he lit it. He picked up the pages of the manuscript and offered the flame up to a corner of the crinkled old paper.

  ‘Wait,’ Kožul said, holding up a hand.

  Alek extinguished the flame and laid the manuscript back down. Kožul was silent for a few moments, then seemed to relax as though the rage had ebbed back out of him. He sighed. ‘Look, you’re a good kid, Dragan. I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, getting rid of that piece of filth Orlić.’

  Radomir Orlić had been one of Dragan’s reasons for leaving Serbia four years earlier: an informant who, if he’d lived another week, could have capsized the whole of Kožul’s operation by ratting to the police certain information about a certain string of armed robberies. More than a few lower-ranking members of the criminal fraternity had jumped at the chance to ingratiate themselves with Kožul by eliminating Radomir. Dragan had got there first, slit the rat’s throat and dumped his body in the Danube.

  ‘I’d do the same again, any time.’

  ‘You would, huh?’

  ‘Any time you say. You’re the man, Zarko. I have nothing but love and respect for you, like a son to a father.’

  Kožul sat, leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. Total silence in the room. The blonde on the red couch still hadn’t stirred. Her sprawled-out body looked dead.

  After a lengthy moment’s consideration, Kožul came to a decision. He tapped a finger against the manuscript. ‘Okay. I’m not an unreasonable man. Let’s give this a try. I know people who know people. I’ll make a call or two. See what’s what. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s worth something to some collector prick out there. If it is, then you can come and work for me. Always room for one more gun.’

  ‘You’ll see I’m right, boss,’ Dragan said.

  Kožul’s expression hardened again. ‘Oh, you’d better be. This better be everything you say it is. In the meantime, I got a job you can help me out with. Call it a test.’

  ‘Anything, boss.’

  ‘Alek will fill you in on the details. Now get the fuck out of here. I have business to attend to.’

  When Dragan and Lena had left, Kožul dismissed the rest of his troops and ordered them to take the overdosed girl out of his sight and dispose of her. Alone in his crimson domain, he snorted up a tug-rope of coke and became angry again, wanting to burn that stupid-ass bit of paper after all, then have that time-wasting upstart Dragan Vuković put in the crusher, and his whore sister given a starring role in one of the snuff movies that were a growth area of Kožul’s business empire. Then Kožul changed his mind again, and reached for the phone.

  The man he spoke to was a criminal fence, a useful associate with fingers in all kinds of pies.

  ‘You think there’s money in this old music crap?’ Kožul asked, after he’d finished describing the item in front of him.

  ‘I’d have to ask around, but yeah, there might be. Depends.’

  ‘Depends on what?’

  ‘Whether it’s genuine, for a start. Believe it or not, that might matter to some people.’

  ‘The guy I got it from says it is. They took it from some egghead who knew about this kind of shit.’

  ‘Does it have any provenance?’

  ‘Any what?’

  ‘Never mind. What you say the composer’s name was?’

  K
ožul had to check the manuscript again to see. He spelled it out. ‘B-A-C-H.’

  ‘I heard of him,’ the fence said. ‘So what’s in this for me?’

  ‘What do you want, a finder’s fee?’

  ‘I’d settle for fifteen per cent of the sale price.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘What you worried about, Zarko? If it’s bullshit anyway. Nothing to lose, right?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Eleven and a half.’

  ‘Give me a break, Zarko.’ The fence was one of the very few people who could get away with talking that way to Kožul, though even he was careful not to push his luck.

  ‘Okay, twelve. Then what?’

  ‘Then I’d dig out the contact for this guy I knew, way back.’

  ‘What guy?’ Kožul demanded, not liking the idea of getting others involved. The more links to the chain, the weaker it got.

  ‘This guy’s solid, trust me. Calls himself Ulysses. Used to be based in Bucharest but he handled stuff all over the world. I haven’t spoken to him in years. If anyone can help you find a buyer for merchandise like this, he can. He’s gonna want a percentage, but your cut is still gonna be more than you’ll get otherwise.’

  Kožul thought about it, then said, ‘Yeah, fuck it, why not? But I want this wrapped up fast, understand?’

  The fence said, ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk to Ulysses.’

  Chapter 35

  Grand Junction, Colorado, USA

  The fugitive was a forty-year-old Caucasian male named Ozzy Crumm. He’d never held down a straight job in his life, was considered a primo loser by anyone who’d ever known him, and now he’d skipped bail over a DUI charge, the latest miserable addition to a police file that showed multiple past arrests for auto theft, possession and sexual assault. A psychological evaluation on his prison record indicated a tendency to sudden, irrational outbursts of extreme violence. He was believed to be armed.