“I thought they’d tracked him down,” Pine said. “Lounging at the Grand Hotel in Pristina.”
“You’re thinking of some other thug. No trace of Popovic. He could be anywhere. Vienna. Kosovo.” A brief pause. “Berlin. Belgrade. You might want to ask LeBlanc, our friend from France.” Spratt gestured toward a far corner. “Apparently he’s been making some noise about it.”
Vlado tried to see whom Spratt was referring to, but there were six or seven people where he’d pointed.
“He’s apparently the one who helped link these two cases together,” Spratt said, “he and Harkness.”
“Who’s Harkness?” Vlado asked.
“A meddlesome blowhard,” Pine said. “Paul Harkness. Officially he’s the State Department’s special liaison to the tribunal. Used to be posted to the embassy in Belgrade, then to Sarajevo. But damned if I know what he really does other than stick his nose into everybody else’s business.”
“Now don’t be too nasty about Paul,” Spratt said in a scolding tone. “He’s done a lot for us down there. And none of this would be happening if it weren’t for him.”
“Which should tell us something about the whole operation.”
“How’d he get interested in Matek?” Vlado asked.
Spratt looked toward Pine, as if to ask how much Vlado knew. “I can’t say with any authority,” he offered hesitantly, “but apparently one of them turned up something in an old file, he or LeBlanc. That’s his counterpart from France. An unlikely alliance, I must say. Those two have spent the past five years trying to tear each other’s liver out, and now they’re getting along like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.”
“More like Jekyll and Hyde,” Pine said. “Now if you could only tell which was which.”
“Apt enough. But it’s the jurisdictional problem that worries me more than any of the personalities. We’ve got no business going after some old Ustasha. We’re only authorized for crimes committed since ’91.”
“So our part of this operation is illegal?” Vlado asked.
Pine smiled ruefully while Spratt rattled the ice in his drink. His ears were red again. “Technically . . .” He said the word with evident distaste. “No. But for official purposes, all you’re doing is arranging a meeting with Matek for interrogation of a potential witness. Then, while he happens to be under our control, a unit of SFOR troops will take him into custody on behalf of the Croatians, who are supposedly putting together an indictment as we speak.”
“And unofficially?”
Spratt grimaced, so Pine picked up the thread. “We’re rounding him up, plain and simple. Jurisdiction be damned.”
“But if it works,” Spratt said, “Contreras will be the toast of the town, and our international sponsors will be happy as clams.”
“So here’s to Hector Contreras, then,” Pine said, raising his glass. “The founder of the feast.”
“He’s an Ebenezer Scrooge?” Vlado asked.
Spratt looked up with a glint of astonishment. “Looks like you’ve got a sharp one, Calvin,” he said, sounding like the headmaster speaking to the hall proctor. “It’s not every Bosnian who’d have nailed that reference.”
“I took a lot of English in school,” Vlado said, nettled by the condescension. “I guess if I want to stay in character, I should say ‘God bless us every one,’ and let Pine carry me on his shoulders.”
“Sorry,” Spratt said, rattling his ice again. “Running low here. Better get another.”
Vlado watched him head for the bar in the corner. “Sounds like a popular case we’re on,” he said to Pine.
“Well, anything that puts Andric in the bag can’t be all bad. Who knows, maybe you’ll even learn a little of your history.”
“Nobody ever said much about the war growing up. Just the heroic stuff.”
“Not even that cranky old uncle you mentioned?”
“Yes,” he said. “Uncle Tomislav. Off in the middle of nowhere. Big dry hills where nothing grew but goats and rattlesnakes. I must have been ten or eleven the last time we went. I slept in a back room upstairs while my uncle and father sat in the back garden all night, playing cards and drinking brandy. I woke up in the middle of the night and they were shouting, going back and forth like drunken debaters. And my sense of it was that they were arguing about the war. Nothing specific, just a lot of old grudges about who started it, who did what, all the things no one ever talked about. It was probably the only time I ever heard my father talking politics, so I went to the window to watch. They were panting like bulls, mad as hell. Kind of funny, but a little scary, too. My aunt and my mother had to come out in their robes and pull them off to bed. The next morning we left without even having coffee, which is about as rude as running off with the silver.” He looked up at Pine. “And what about your family? What’s your father like?”
“Oh.” Pine snorted, smiling. “Atticus Finch. That’s what he always looked like anyway. Or dressed like. Another literary reference for you.”
“Atticus? A Roman name?”
“I guess you read mostly Brit lit. Atticus Finch is from To Kill a Mockingbird. Hero lawyer of the South. He was for civil rights before civil rights was cool. And every morning my dad went off to work looking just like him. Linen suits and seersucker. A wardrobe made for mopping your brow on the courthouse steps, right next to the statue to Our Confederate Dead.”
“So your father was a crusader?”
Pine shook his head. “Not exactly. I doubt any of his clients ever ran from a lynch mob, although to their credit I guess none of them ever led one. They’d have been on their porches a few blocks away, sipping drinks and wondering what the ruckus was. Doctors, bankers, real estate developers.” He swirled his wine, a faraway look in his eyes. “Jaycee glad-handers wanting to dispose of one little problem or another. A wife past her prime or a tenant behind on his rent. The kinds of things you didn’t want people talking about at the country club. And with my father you got discretion with a capital D. For a nice hourly fee, of course. I guess that’s why he could never stomach the idea of his son slumming with thugs and gumshoes. On a government salary, no less.”
Vlado wondered at the tone of disappointment. It all sounded perfectly respectable to him. But now Pine’s expression was transforming from disappointment to worry, and Vlado turned to see a woman approaching from across the room, a grim look on her face, striding purposefully in her high heels. She drew up close to Pine, then, seeming to have just noticed Vlado, turned to accommodate them both.
“Hello, Calvin.”
“Janet.”
“So, guess who drew the short straw on helping the Croatians prosecute Matek?”
“You?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“It’s not that. It’s just, well . . .”
Vlado watched their body language with interest. The woman had eased a foot closer, as if challenging Pine’s right to his spot on the floor. Pine leaned away but without moving his feet, making him look stiff and off balance. They made an interesting pair. It occurred to Vlado that if you were to breed them, you might produce a new species of wading bird, a little tottery on long, thin legs and bony frames. Or perhaps the woman was just uncomfortable in high heels. She had large hazel eyes and light brown hair that swept around an oval face. Her small, prim mouth seemed to barely move when she spoke, as if she was used to imparting secrets.
But for the moment she was zeroed in on Pine. When she moved, her hair nearly brushed against his face, and Vlado could have sworn Pine flinched, ever so slightly, while holding his wineglass before him in a defensive position.
“Well, look on the bright side,” she said. “It probably means they never found out. Otherwise, they never would have paired us on anything this sensitive.”
Vlado cleared his throat, as much to remind them of his presence as to pierce the bubble of their conversation. She turned without missing a beat.
“You must be the Bosnian. Vlado, is it?”
Somehow he did
n’t mind it from her, maybe because her offhandedness seemed directed more at Pine than at him. Or perhaps it was the trace of irony in her tone, as if she was saying she knew exactly what it was like trying to prove yourself to this crowd.
“Yes. Vlado Petric. And you are?”
“She’s Janet Ecker,” Pine said. “An attorney on loan from the NSA. That’s the National Security Agency. Code breakers and official snoops, basically, so she’s usually the one who gets to handle information when it starts to get touchy.”
“Which is probably why they put me on Matek,” she said. “To make sure nothing too sensitive is handed over to the Croatians. Or the French. They’ve got me working overtime with the black marker.”
“And you two are friends of some sort?”
Pine winced, but a smile flickered briefly on Ecker’s face, as if sharing in Vlado’s minor insurrection. Vlado wondered how much she’d had to drink.
“You could say that,” she said. “Just don’t say it around the office. And if you were going to be here for long, I wouldn’t say it around you. You see, Calvin spent months looking for a good Dutch girl but settled for an American. Until he got something going down in your part of the world. Doing his part for better diplomatic relations.”
Pine reddened. Vlado considered sauntering off for another drink, but Ecker mercifully changed course. “So, what do you make of his file?” she asked Vlado. “Matek’s, I mean.”
It was pleasing to suddenly be treated as an equal, even if only as part of her fencing with Pine. “I haven’t seen much. Just the summary. But he seems like standard-issue Ustasha.”
“So far we’ve only gotten the sanitized stuff,” Pine said.
“If I have my way, you’ll be entitled to as much as you want,” Ecker said. “It’s amazing stuff.”
“That’s what Spratt said the other day.”
“Spratt doesn’t know the half of it. And without some of my connections I’m not sure I would.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning there’s been some strange information management going on. Someone trying to keep too many stray pieces from adding up to anything beyond the specific charges. There are a lot of old State Department cables and CIC reports that make interesting reading. But some of it has been deemed a little too interesting.”
“CIC?” Vlado asked.
“Army Counterintelligence Corps. From the U.S. of A., which doesn’t come out of this looking too good, even though most of this stuff is fifty years old.”
“What could be so embarrassing, after all that time?” Vlado asked.
“Details, mostly. And names. James Angleton for one. Dead now, but once quite a wheel at the CIA. The ultimate cold warrior. And just after the war he and plenty of others were ready to make nice with an awful lot of Nazis. Nothing new about that, but the conventional wisdom was always that we only helped a few actual war criminals escape. Klaus Barbie, one or two rocket scientists. This stuff makes you wonder. And that’s before you even read about the so-called missing assets. At the worst it looks like Matek might have helped loot the State Bank of Croatia as the war was winding down. Beyond that I’d better keep my mouth shut.”
“Maybe we should get you another drink and find out more,” Pine said, seeming to regret his words the moment he spoke them.
“That’s his idea of a little joke,” Ecker said to Vlado. “A drink or two always worked pretty well for him where I was concerned. In fact, maybe that’s all it was.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Pleasure meeting you,” she said, again turning abruptly toward Vlado. “I think I’ll go for a refill.” She strolled away as briskly as she’d arrived.
“Sorry about that,” Pine said after an awkward pause.
“No problem.”
“Big mistake on my part.”
“She doesn’t look like a big mistake.”
“Not in that way. I mean, I was kind of a jerk about the whole thing. Fortunately for both of us nobody found out.”
“These things happen.”
“Yeah. But if anybody asks . . .”
“Don’t worry.”
“Thanks. Trouble is, she’s very good, so I still like working with her. And she’s a Balkan linguist on top of everything, so nothing gets lost in translation.” Pine scanned the room, perhaps looking for Janet. Seemingly satisfied that the coast was clear, he said, “Excuse me, but I could use something a little stiffer than wine. Interested?”
“No thanks. But please.”
Pine headed for the bar, leaving Vlado momentarily isolated in the growing sea of people, the volume of conversation rising to a roar. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a pale, composed face with shimmering brown eyes.
“You must be Monsieur Petric,” the man said.
“And you must be Monsieur LeBlanc.”
“So Pine has already warned you about me.”
“Afraid so.”
LeBlanc was trim and alert, eyes always moving. In conversation he was prone to making little touches here and there, the clever hands darting and quick. In manner of dress he carried off the small flourishes that only Frenchmen seem able to manage, and for the moment, even though he wore a dark suit like every other man, he somehow looked a cut above them all. His skin was of a pallor that said he wasn’t outdoors much, but Vlado knew looks could be deceiving. So many of these supposed diplomatic types who’d come to his country during the war had fancied themselves men of action, and that was also the case with LeBlanc, who had been fond of following close in the wake of major offensives by both sides, driving nothing more imposing than a blue Renault while shells burst within a few hundred yards. He eschewed the field jackets favored by so many photographers and aid workers, dressing for war as if he might suddenly be invited to Paris for lunch.
“I have great respect for Monsieur Pine,” LeBlanc said. “One of the few who isn’t so partisan, to risk a Yugoslav pun. And in the interest of equal treatment, I hope he at least warned you about Monsieur Harkness, of the American State Department.”
“He did.”
“So, tell me, then. How many people have you met tonight who claim to understand your country? Quite a few, I’d think. All it takes for an American is about a week and he thinks he’s got the answer to six hundred years of Balkan problems.” LeBlanc heaved with a light laugh. Vlado couldn’t help but join in.
“An Englishman’s worse,” LeBlanc continued. “He reads a few books and thinks he has it worked out, but at least he usually has the good grace to keep it to himself. None of this hanging on your shoulder with a drink in his hand to confide his secret knowledge in your ear, waiting on your approval. Always remember, there’s nothing an American craves more than approval.”
“And you say that from how much time in America?”
“Touché. But I am sorry to disappoint you. I was posted to Washington for five years in the eighties. And you’ll find that need among all of them. Pine as well. Forgive an American for the sins of his country, and he’ll be your friend for life. But I guess I should be glad for their usual bluster and ignorance. It’s the ones like Harkness that can create difficulties. He actually knows the Balkans. Lives it and breathes it. Knowledge like his turns the comic element into something dangerous.”
“I thought you were partners on this?”
“Oh, we are. Willing partners. Perhaps I just can’t help being suspicious now that we finally agree on something. But the more important question for the moment is what do you know of us? What do you know of America, for instance?”
“Music, mostly. Rock ’n’ roll. We listened to all we could in high school. Led Zep, Talking Heads. And books. Hemingway, Fitzgerald.”
“And what did those songs and stories tell you about Americans?”
Vlado wondered. The songs had mostly meant a good time, offering someplace to dream about. But that seemed too shallow an answer for LeBlanc, and he realized he’d let himself be intimidated. “It told me abo
ut their generosity, I guess. And optimism.”
“When you’ve got that much to spread around, it’s not so much generous as indiscriminate. Everyone gets a little something if you hang around Americans long enough. Just don’t mistake it for trust. But enough of that. Your escort has returned. Cheers.” He tipped his glass of red wine toward Vlado’s.
“Cheers.”
Pine arrived with a bourbon in hand, looking perturbed that he’d left Vlado at the mercy of Guy LeBlanc.
“Hello, Guy. Hope he hasn’t been interrogating you too much, Vlado.”
“He did most of the talking, actually.”
“About what?”
“Americans.”
Pine chuckled, with LeBlanc joining in, not seeming the least embarrassed.
“It’s one of his favorite subjects.”
“But the important thing, Monsieur Petric,” LeBlanc cut in, “is that soon you will be headed home at last. And no doubt a few surprises will be in store.” Pine cast LeBlanc a tight-lipped glance. “In seeing what has become of your country, I mean. A lot happens in five years.”
“Most of the damage was done by the time I left. I doubt I’ll be too shocked.”
“I was referring more to the psychological sense. It is a conquered nation, Monsieur Petric, run by dollars and deutsche marks. I hope you will not be too disillusioned.”
A waiter glided up with more wine.
“Monsieur seems to have had enough already,” Pine said, not smiling. LeBlanc laughed lightly and nodded for a refill.
“Surely you aren’t suggesting that a Frenchman cannot hold his wine? Don’t worry, Calvin, your secrets are safe with me.”
Once again, a small alarm sounded in the back of Vlado’s mind, and it was only about to get louder.
“As long as the subject is secrets,” Pine said, “what’s the latest on Popovic? We haven’t heard a word in weeks, and you’re supposedly the man with the plan.”
Now even LeBlanc’s smile faded. Vlado gripped his wineglass tightly.
“No need to worry. He is still, as you Americans like to say, our ace in the hole.”
He was in a hole, all right, Vlado thought, stifling a sudden urge to come clean.
The Small Boat of Great Sorrows Page 10