PRIMAL Inception (The PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my friend. We all like a bit of pussy every now and then. The younger the better, hey.”

  Kreshnik laughed.

  Taneski’s face turned to a mask of rage. “You think you can blackmail a man like me, Zahir? You’re not dealing with a peasant or farmer. My company is worth billions. I will bury you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not blackmailing you, Mr. Taneski. I am just nudging you in the right direction. I’m advising you. Invest in me and you will make millions.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He shrugged. “Then maybe the world will find out what sort of man you really are.” He watched as Taneski contemplated the repercussions of the video being released. His brow was furrowed and he swallowed every few seconds.

  “Fine! But I want every copy of that.”

  “As soon as I have the money.”

  The Macedonian glared. “And what about Ibrahim Daçi? How are you going to deal with his popularity? He has three times the support base you have.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Daçi. Haven’t you heard? Mitrovica is falling apart. His people are crying for action. They think he is weak.”

  The businessman rose. “You better come good on your promises.”

  Zahir gave him a wave. “It has been a pleasure. Kreshnik, see Mr. Taneski and his men out.”

  As they were ushered from the room, Zahir relaxed on the couch and sipped his coffee. He contemplated returning to the dining room but no longer felt hungry. He lit a cigarette and reveled in his success.

  The front door slammed and Kreshnik re-entered. “That went well.”

  “The problem with those who have never experienced true pain, is they don’t know how far they are really willing to go. Mr. Taneski just got his first taste of how we do business.”

  Kreshnik snickered. “I don’t think he liked it.”

  “He’ll like the profits.”

  Kreshnik sat and poured himself a coffee. He took a sip before speaking. “Boss, we’ve got another problem to sort out.”

  “What?”

  “That CIA asshole. You know, the big guy.”

  “Vance?”

  Kreshnik’s eyes’ narrowed. “No, Iceman. He’s been sniffing around. One of the boys saw him down at the Pussy.”

  “Did he use the services?”

  Kreshnik shook his head. “Just asked questions from one of the girls. I think he could be trouble.”

  “What did she tell him?”

  “Not much, just that you owned the place.”

  He raised a gray eyebrow. “That’s all?”

  Kreshnik nodded. “She can’t say anything else. Doesn’t have a tongue anymore.”

  “He’s very capable, Iceman. Arrange a meeting with him.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. He’s trying to get dirt on you. If you bring him in close, he’ll just screw you.”

  Zahir stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Let’s show him how legit I am now. If he causes any problems, we’ll deal with it.”

  The corner of Kreshnik’s mouth curled up. “We should just kill him.”

  “Arrange a meeting. The sooner the better.”

  "I don't want to see that asshole."

  "You're not afraid of the big bad CIA agent are you?"

  "I'll fucking kill him."

  "All in good time. You won't be at the meeting. I've got more work for you up north."

  ***

  Ice led Vance to the temporary accommodation at the CIA compound. They entered the cramped mobile building and he dropped his partner’s backpack on a battered steel desk.

  Vance dumped his travel bag on the bed. The springs groaned in protest as he sat. “Where the hell did they find these beds? Mattress feels like a goddamn bag of potatoes.”

  Leaning against the wall, Ice chuckled. “If you want, I can book you in to a local hotel. You can have some lice with your potatoes.”

  “Nah, this’ll do. Listen, Frank thinks I’m just here for the source audit so we need to keep this Zahir business on the down low. If he gets wind of our little operation, he’ll ship me back stateside.”

  Ice pulled a metal chair from under the desk and sat. “Low key is optimal.”

  Vance unzipped his travel bag, took out a bottle of scotch, and splashed it into two plastic cups. “So tell me, big man. What’s been going on?”

  He took the cup Vance offered. “KFOR and the UN are a joke. The Albanian mafia is running riot and the upcoming elections will be a total farce if we can’t get Zahir off the ballot.”

  “What about this Ibrahim Daçi guy the LDK party’s backing. I thought he was king dick. Does Zahir even stand a chance against him?”

  He shrugged. “That guy’s hugely popular up north. They love him in his hometown, Mitrovica. If Zahir is gone, Daci wins.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “I’ve got Barishna hunting for more dirt on Zahir.”

  “Barishna the only one you’ve stayed in contact with?”

  Ice’s hand shook as he raised the cup to his lips. “Yeah. He’s been useful.” He took a sip.

  “And what’s going on with Kreshnik?”

  “I’ve submitted his pack twice already. The ICTY showed zero interest in prosecuting him.”

  “Even with the photos you took?”

  He nodded.

  “If they’re not gonna prosecute Kreshnik, then Zahir’s probably not going to get up either.”

  “I finished his pack and showed Frank yesterday. He told me to drop it.”

  “Typical.”

  Ice finished his whisky. “I think I’ll go directly to the OSCE. They’re running the elections.” As he placed his empty cup on the desk his phone rang. “It’s Barishna. Must have something.” He activated the phone’s speaker. “What have you got?”

  “Zahir knows you’re investigating him.” Barishna’s voice sounded even whinier through the speaker.

  Ice shot a look at Vance. “How? Did you say anything to him?”

  “No. Kreshnik rang me and said you were asking questions at the hotel in Brabonic.”

  “Damn,” mouthed Ice.

  “He wants to meet with you.”

  “Who, Kreshnik?”

  “No, Zahir.”

  Vance shook his head.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t think he’ll try to hurt you. He’s got KFOR inspectors going over to the Pussy tomorrow and he wants you to come with them.”

  “And you believe him?”

  There was a pause at the other end. “You might not have parted on the best of terms but Zahir still owes you for his success. He’s a hero because of you. Now he wants to prove to you and the American government that he’s legitimate.”

  “But we all know he isn’t.”

  “Who in Kosovo is?”

  Vance nodded.

  “Tell Zahir I’ll be there.”

  “I will pass on the message.”

  “And Barishna.”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep digging. I want all of Zahir’s dirt.” Ice terminated the call. “You think it’s a trap?”

  “Zahir’s a sneaky bastard, but Barishna’s probably right. He’s gonna try to give the impression he’s gone legit.”

  “He’s a criminal and a murderer.”

  “Let’s hear what he has to say. Might be able to use it against him.”

  “True, we need everything we can get. I don’t care what Frank says, there’s no way I’m letting him contest the election.”

  “I hear you, brother.” Vance started unpacking his bags.

  Ice headed for the door. “I’m going to find out who’s inspecting Zahir’s place. Get some rest and I’ll come grab you for dinner in a hour or two.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The white sedan was stolen, abandoned by a Serbian family who had been forced to flee on foot, leaving everything they owned. One of Kreshnik’s men now had it parked on a dirt road in
a forest a dozen miles from Mitrovica.

  Mitrovica was the northern most of Kosovo’s cities. It sat on the Ibar river opposite a Serbian enclave that had long been a hot spot for ethnic tension. Since the arrival of KFOR the Albanians had launched savage riots in an effort to evict the Serbian minority. It was ironic; the forces that liberated Kosovo from the Yugoslav oppressors were now protecting their Serb brothers from retaliation.

  As Kreshnik arrived to the outskirts of the city, he did not concern himself with the French KFOR troops guarding the Serbian enclave. That was not his target. His driver pulled the blue Pajero four-wheel drive in behind the stolen white sedan. "Murat, we'll meet you on the other side of town. Have everything ready." He jumped out of the cab, opened the back door, and grabbed his Yugoslav copy of the AK assault rifle.

  Joined by another of his men, Imer, he jumped in the back of the white sedan. They were dressed the same as the driver. Blue coveralls with balaclavas rolled up on their heads. Silently all three pulled down their balaclavas and checked their weapons.

  Kreshnik watched as Murat drove the Pajero around them and disappeared down the road. He gave him four minutes head start, then slapped the driver’s headrest. "Let’s go."

  The little sedan accelerated down the dirt road, out the forest, and raced between ploughed fields. They slowed as the driver checked for traffic on the main road. Seeing it was all clear, he spun the wheel, lifted the park brake and executed a perfect drift turn onto the asphalt.

  "Nice!” shouted Kreshnik. His adrenaline was starting to flow.

  As they raced toward town, houses started to appear on both sides of the road. They flashed past a truck coming the other way and Kreshnik rocked enthusiastically. Tires squealed as the car careened around an ancient statue on a roundabout.

  "That's it ahead." He flicked the safety off his weapon.

  The car screeched to halt in front of an ancient stone building topped with a dome and minaret. It was a mosque over five hundred years old.

  He jumped out, sprinted up the steps, and through the open wooden doors. He burst into the prayer hall, spraying the AK from his hip as he hosed the dozen worshippers with a full magazine. Bullets punched through their backs as they faced Mecca. In the confines of the ancient building, he heard only the deafening roar of the assault rifle. Eyes wide, Kreshnik embraced the blood lust until his weapon ran dry.

  He stood watching bullets from Imer’s AK tear apart more victims, never registering the screams of terror. All he heard was the crescendo of automatic gunfire.

  A firm grip on his shoulder snapped him out of the daze. He gave the blood splattered room a final glance before following Imer back down the stairs and into the car.

  The driver slammed the accelerator into the floor and they raced down the main street. People flashed by, fleeing the scene. Within a minute, the car was out of town and speeding past farms.

  Kreshnik forced himself to take a deep breath. Adrenalin still coursed through his body. It felt like only minutes since he’d donned his balaclava.

  "Boss, we're there," the driver said as they pulled alongside the Pajero. Murat was waiting with a jerry can.

  Kreshnik glanced around. They were in a wooded area. He remembered the plan and ripped his balaclava off. He tossed the empty rifle on the back seat, jumped out, and tore off his coveralls.

  When the clothes and weapons were in the stolen vehicle, Murat doused the insides with fuel. He tossed the empty can in through the open window and joined the others in the Pajero.

  Kreshnik pulled on his black padded jacket and strolled over to the car. Lighting a cigarette, he took a drag and tossed it through the open window. It ignited with a whoosh and he climbed into the four-wheel drive. He watched in the rear vision mirror as the raging inferno disappeared into the distance.

  Then he smirked. "Job well done, boys."

  ***

  It was early afternoon when Ice parked his Land Cruiser next to a UN vehicle in front of the Smoking Pussy. Two uniformed Canadian officers, a Major and Captain, were already waiting. He knew them both, having introduced himself back at their camp. They were tasked with checking establishments that KFOR personnel visited for the presence of underage prostitutes.

  He turned off the engine and glanced in the rearview mirror. He spotted the red 4Runner parked two hundred yards down the street and pulled a UHF radio from his jacket pocket. “Comms check.”

  “Got you loud and clear, bud.” Vance’s voice was reassuring.

  Ice turned the speaker off and returned the radio to his pocket. It would continue to transmit but, with its speaker deactivated, would not give him away. If things went south Vance would provide backup. If required, he’d request additional support from the Norwegian special forces unit on Quick Reaction Force duties. “OK, I’m heading in.”

  Ice got out and gave the two KFOR officers a nod. “Where’s our man?”

  “Not here yet,” one of them said.

  Ice checked his watch and leaned against his vehicle.

  "Did you hear about the attack in Mitrovica?" one of the Canadians said.

  Ice shook his head. "No."

  "It’s heating up there, eh. Serbs attacked a mosque a few hours ago. Killed five. Wounded another four."

  The arrival of a late model Nissan Patrol ended the conversation. It parked next to them and Zahir got out.

  Fists clenched, Ice imagined drawing the compact Glock 19 from under his jacket and slotting the war criminal between the eyes. Instead, he feigned a smile and gave a nod.

  Zahir now looked to be the perfect gentleman. He was immaculately presented in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a blood red tie. Attached to his lapel was a red pin, the crest and double-headed eagle of the Democratic Party of Kosovo. He spotted the CIA operative and a broad smile split his pig-like features. “Mr. Iceman, so good to see you again.”

  Ice grasped the aspiring politician’s hand and fought the urge to crush it. He glanced down at Zahir’s polished leather shoes. “Doing well I see.”

  “Business is OK. Providing quality services to KFOR and the UN is not a low cost operation though.”

  He ran his eye over the two bodyguards who lingered in the background. They were sharply dressed and clean-shaven.

  Zahir looked at the two KFOR officers and canted his head at the hotel. “Shall we go inside, gentlemen?”

  They followed him through the front door. Ice’s eyebrows rose as he walked in. The floor was spotless, the tables neatly aligned, and pop music was playing softly. Even the odor had improved.

  Zahir’s beaming face turned to them. “As you will find, gentlemen, we have all the correct licenses. Our alcohol is good quality, our security adequate, and we have a responsible service of alcohol policy. That means your people can have a good time in a safe environment.”

  One of the Canadians gestured to the upper level. “Come now, Zahir. We all know why we’re really here. Where are the girls?”

  Zahir pointed up the staircase in the corner. “Additional services are available upstairs.”

  “Then that’s where we should go.”

  The upper level had also been thoroughly cleaned. In the reception area, a hostess greeted them. She was middle-aged, and her ample bosom was barely restrained by a black dress with a plunging neckline. She directed them to sit on a fake leather couch. Ice remained standing.

  Zahir snapped his fingers. “Bring them out.”

  The girls filed into the room and stood in front of the men in their underwear. They all looked to be in their early twenties. Ice noticed Svetlana and the young girl he had seen previously were absent.

  Zahir turned to the KFOR officers. “Do you need to see their papers?”

  “No,” one of them replied. “Everything looks just fine from here.”

  “Good.” Zahir headed to the stairs. “Gentlemen, feel free to inspect the rooms, the ladies will show you. Iceman, if you would join me downstairs.”

  Ice followed him down to the bar. Th
e staff had draped white linen on one of the tables. An uncorked bottle of red wine and a platter of food awaited them.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  He lowered himself into a chair.

  Sitting, Zahir splashed some wine into a glass, swirled it, then inhaled the aroma. “This is local wine, merlot. It’s excellent.”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Zahir shrugged and took a sip. “We’ve had our differences, Iceman. But, the past is the past. Now we need to help Kosovo heal her wounds. We need to forget past transgressions, and focus on what is best for the people.”

  “And that’s you?”

  “Kosovo needs a strong leader. You are a warrior, you understand that.”

  Ice placed his hands on his knees and clenched his fists.

  Zahir dipped a piece of bread in a bowl of sauce and ate it. “The UN, NATO, the world, even the CIA are happy to forgive and forget. Why not you? Won’t you help me do what’s right for Kosovo?”

  “What’s right for Kosovo? You sent Kreshnik to murder a family of innocents. I watched as he executed them. Is that what’s right for Kosovo?”

  Zahir placed his glass of wine on the table. “You still don’t understand the Albanian way. It’s an eye for an eye. It’s our code, our culture. Those Serb animals kidnapped Albanian girls and raped them. They killed our women, and in return we killed theirs.”

  “You’re everything that’s wrong with this country,” Ice said, his voice low and hard.

  Zahir squinted. “Be careful, Iceman. Otherwise you might end up like your friend Svetlana.” He traced a finger around his neck.

  Ice was a hair-trigger from leaping from his chair and snapping the man’s neck when the front door of the club burst open and Vance stormed in.

  The former commander of the Gray Wolves lifted his glass. “Ah, Vance. If I’d known you were in Kosovo, I would have invited you.”

  “That’s a nice thought, Zahir, but I’m only passing through. Just dropped by to get Ice. We’ve got another meeting. Ain’t that right, bud.”

  Ice stared Zahir in the eye as he rose. “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “It’s been a pleasure.” Zahir lifted his glass. “Drop by any time.”