by Tom Saric
He had to get to the other side of the island, or inside the monastery. After counting to three, he ran in a crouch through the courtyard towards the church. As he neared the wall, three shots clattered against the stone. Luka dropped and crawled underneath a bench that stood in front of a hedge. He pushed the branches away, thorns tearing his skin, until he could see the shooter, now positioned on a bluff. In that position, Luka estimated the shooter had a clear sight of seventy-five percent of the island. He had to get to the blind side, but in order to do that he would have to run around the entire monastery unscathed. And then how would he get off the island? The sniper had a clear visual of the dock.
Chants from inside the monastery. He could wait for the Mass to end and then join the crowd. The sniper wouldn’t risk a shot with people around. Daylight was receding, and every minute that passed was to Luka’s advantage.
He waited behind the hedge, resisting the urge to lunge out and make a break for the monastery door. By now, the sniper would have his sights locked on the hedge, and he’d wait for Luka to make the first move before squeezing the trigger.
Once the Mass ended and the monks crossed the lake, the sniper would be spotted. Darkness would then descend, and Luka could safely climb out from his hiding spot. He smiled. Time was on his side.
The hum of a motor. Luka looked through the bush at an approaching boat. A bald man wearing a black leather jacket sat inside. The sniper was still in position on the bluff. There were two of them, and the bald man was coming to flush Luka out.
The motor went silent, and a moment later Luka heard the thump of boots on the dock.
Footsteps approached on the other side of the monastery. Only a few more seconds before the man reached him.
Carved stones were embedded in the dirt as landscaping edging for the bushes. Luka pushed one of the stones back and forth until it wiggled. As boots crunched against the gravel, he frantically rocked the stone harder until it came loose.
The footsteps stopped, and Luka held his breath. He tried to look through the hedge, but the sunlight filtering between the leaves was blinding. Then it went off and back on again like a light switch—the bald man had walked past.
Luka crawled around the shrub. The man was holding a gun and turned away from him, signaling to the sniper across the lake. Luka had a split second of confusion to exploit before the assassins turned their attention to him again. He jumped up and heaved the stone at the bald man. It landed at the base of the man’s neck, knocking him onto all fours, causing him to drop his gun.
Two shots flew past Luka’s right ear, popping into the monastery wall. Running past the bald man, he tried to scoop the gun up, but his momentum took him right past it. As he turned around to reach for it once more, another shot sent a divot of grass up in the air.
With bullets chasing him, Luka ran around the monastery and leaned against the wall, looking past the cypresses near the lake. The sun was now tucked behind the hills, leaving the water black. The far shore was about a kilometer away.
He looked to his left. The bald man stood twenty meters away with his arm extended, holding the gun. Luka ducked, and a spray of dust burst out of the stone beside his head.
He ran in a crouch towards the lake. The bald man walked towards him, the weapon by his side. Luka stopped by the shore and hid in the reeds, grabbing at the branches until he found a thick, hollow piece.
He dove into the water, kicking to propel himself deeper as he took a sharp right turn. The shooter wouldn’t be able to make him out if Luka didn’t surface. He heard the zip of bullets in the water to his right, a good distance away. The assassin was shooting indiscriminately; he had no idea where Luka was.
His body felt numb. He had to get to the other side of the lake before hypothermia set in. His lungs begged for air. He put the reed in his mouth and floated upwards. When he saw it penetrate the surface, he sucked in a massive breath before pushing himself deeper.
In the darkness, he crawled onto Lake Visovac’s far shore. He felt as though he were watching himself, emotionally disconnected from all feeling, from all surroundings. The soldier’s mind had been reactivated, and now he was methodically focused on his mission.
He started shivering, so he wrung his clothes out and put them back on. He needed to start a fire, but he couldn’t risk being spotted.
The monastery bell echoed around him, and he saw the lights of a few boats ferrying people to the opposite side of the lake. The BMW’s headlights turned on, and it drove away.
Sergeant Pavić walked up the wooded hill, guided by the silver moonlight that filtered through the forest canopy. The map he had been given at the park entrance showed a road past the hills. Somewhere along that road must be a bus stop.
He walked for over an hour in darkness before he heard distant sirens. Pinpoints of blue and white lights flashed across the lake, reflecting on the black water.
Čapan’s body had been discovered.
21
Zagreb, Croatia
Braun sat in the heated driver’s seat of the Alfa Romeo he’d rented at the airport and parked on Skalinska Ulica, eating a cheese pastry. The wipers swept the rain away every three seconds, clearing the windshield so he had a clear view of the door marked 84. The window vents were cranked full blast to keep the glass from fogging up.
He thought about how much time he’d spent in vehicles, staking out suspects to right the wrongs of war. He’d always been on the right side of justice. Never before had he considered he might be wrong. It didn’t bother him, he told himself. His job was finding suspects, arresting them, and bringing them before court. The system would do the rest. He was a mere cog.
He looked at his watch. Ten after ten. He’d been sitting there for nearly two hours. He’d wait another twenty before going inside.
His mobile phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He looked at the caller’s name and rubbed his eyes before deciding he had to answer.
“Where are you?” asked Nicole.
“Zagreb. Landed three hours ago.”
“Did you check in with our office in Zagreb?”
“No.”
“Local police?”
“No.” He hesitated, and then said, “I prefer to wait until I have more information. I will notify them soon.”
“I will call them by the end of the day if you don’t. I can’t have agents conducting investigations in foreign countries without permission. It’s against protocol.”
Braun said nothing. Local law enforcement usually proved to be a meshwork of red tape. She was giving him the day to work in freedom.
“Have you talked to the lawyer?”
“No.”
Fuzz on the other end. A sigh into the receiver.
“I can’t simply knock on his door,” Braun said. “If Pavić came to see him, the lawyer might be aiding him. Announcing my presence is the same as sounding an alarm. It will drive Pavić deeper underground.”
“And waiting three hours gives him time to burrow.”
“Not that simple, Nicole.”
“Not that complicated.”
Braun pursed his lips, holding back the urge to argue. Nicole saw things one way: her way. To invite uncertainty into her worldview was to disrupt it. “Has anything turned up on the dead man in Winnipeg?”
“Not yet.” She paused. “And that’s not your concern. You just find Pavić.”
Braun put the phone down on his lap and took a deep breath before returning it to his ear. “It is my concern. I’m your investigator, and it’s my job to gather evidence. I’m not a head hunter.”
Her voice rose. “Fingerprints, bullet casings, witnesses. That is evidence. Of genocide. I have more than enough for a conviction. I just need him here, in court.”
“Someone didn’t want him there.”
“What are you referring to?”
“The dead man. I think he came to shoot Pavić.”
“How do you know that, Robert? How do you know what that dead man wanted? Maybe
they had a fight over money, gambling, drugs. It doesn’t matter. It benefited us. It led us to a war criminal, and now, because you don’t trust anyone but yourself, you are trying to overcomplicate the situation, wasting time and letting him slip through our fingers. Is that what you want?”
“I want justice.”
“Then find him. And where did you leave his wife?”
“She and the child went to a cottage outside of Winnipeg.”
“I’ll need you to send me her contact information so we can interview her.”
“I will,” Braun said, and then cleared his throat.
“Anything else?”
It wasn’t the right time, he knew. But she’d been blowing him off. This hard veneer wasn’t her. He could feel the soft touch of her fingers beyond it. “When I’m back, I think we should talk. About what you said in Como—”
“Como was a mistake, Robert. There’s nothing for us to talk about. Just make sure you get Pavić.”
The phone went dead.
At 11:45, the man came out of 84 Skalinska Ulica. Average height, round in the middle, stark white hair thrown over to one side. Worn leather briefcase in one hand. Something tucked under his other arm.
Rukavina reached into his trench coat pocket and fumbled a mobile phone to his ear. Braun sank down in the seat a couple of inches, hoping Rukavina didn’t notice him. Rukavina nodded, then closed the phone and hustled to a silver Mercedes parked ahead. He dug around in his overcoat pocket, pulling out a set of keys. He tossed his briefcase on the seat and pulled a brown envelope from under his arm. The old man was in a hurry.
Braun needed to get into the office and have a look around, but that could be done later. The office would always be there, but Rukavina was off to attend to some important business. The taillights on the Benz lit up and turned the corner. Braun pressed the button for the ignition, shifted gears, and followed.
It was a short drive to the Hotel Esplanade, the palatial pre-WWII building in central Zagreb. Braun watched Rukavina pull through the U-shaped front drive lined with perfectly trimmed H- and E-shaped hedges. A valet marched out and opened the Mercedes door, and Rukavina stepped out carrying the briefcase. The doorman swung the door to the lobby open, the timing so exact that Rukavina never had to break his stride.
Two cars and a limousine were idling between Braun and the Mercedes. If he waited his turn, Rukavina could disappear into a hotel room. Braun left the engine of the Alpha Romeo running and ran up the sidewalk. The valet, seeing that Braun had abandoned his car, came running over to offer assistance. Braun handed him a ten-euro note and pushed through the revolving glass door.
Braun had stayed at the hotel twice before, during early investigations following the Croatian War of Independence.
He spotted Rukavina at the far end of the lobby, standing at the double doors to the restaurant. He spoke to the maître d’, who ran his finger down a leather-bound folder, smiled, and led Rukavina into the dining area.
After the door closed, Braun stepped into the short line. The couple in front of him told the maître d’ their names, and he checked the list and smiled. He took their coats with extreme care, seemingly obsessed with making every interaction flawless. After leading them through the doors, he returned.
“Good morning, sir,” he said in English. “Do you have a reservation?” Braun stared blankly at him. “Reservieren? Rezervacija?”
Braun nodded his understanding. “Unfortunately, no,” he said in Croatian. The maître d’ raised his eyebrows and turned a little pale. He had mistaken Braun for someone who didn’t speak the local language. “I’m actually German, but I’m working on my Croatian.”
“Of course, my apologies—your Croatian is very good,” the maître d’ said, embarrassed. He scanned his list and then opened the door to the dining room, poking his head inside. Then he turned back to Braun with a pained look. “I’m very sorry, but it looks like we are full.”
“Perhaps I could sit at the bar?”
The maître d’ tapped his fingers on the table. “Usually, we require reservations for the lounge. But let me check.”
He returned after a few moments. “The bartender said it is fine with her. There are seats at the bar.”
The maître d’ led Braun into the lounge, past the rows of tables set for five-course meals. In the far corner by the window, Rukavina sat alone. He was reading a newspaper and tapping his fingers nervously, occasionally glancing around the restaurant. The brown envelope rested on the table.
Braun took a seat at the bar, and the bartender, a blonde twenty-something, came over immediately.
“Drink?”
“Tonic water, please.”
Braun turned around and looked towards the French doors. Curtains were draped over the window, so he didn’t have a view of the dining room. He had at most one chance, maybe two, to walk into the dining room so he could see who Rukavina was meeting with.
The bartender returned holding a tonic water with a slice of lime. He said, “Bathroom?”
She directed him around the corner.
Braun saw her watching him as he turned the corner. He needed to get into the main dining area to glimpse Rukavina. He stood in the hallway in front of the bathroom for a brief moment before walking back to the bar.
“It’s busy, could I use the restaurant bathroom?”
She nodded and pointed him past the French doors.
Braun walked into the dining room, slowing as he turned towards the bathroom corridor. Across from Rukavina sat a man in an overcoat that did little to disguise his massive frame. He had a shaved head, square jaw, and bushy eyebrows that met in the middle. Macedonian, if Braun had to guess.
Braun moved into the bathroom corridor and put his phone to his ear. He didn’t dial, instead keeping an eye on Rukavina and the Macedonian. The man didn’t speak, only stared across the table at Rukavina and occasionally nodded. Then Rukavina pushed the envelope towards him.
Raising the phone, Braun pressed the button to take a picture just as the Macedonian slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. Then he got up and left.
Braun looked at the picture. He’d managed to capture the Macedonian from the shoulders up, but his face was obscured by the shadow cast from the window behind him. He’d cut Rukavina out of the picture. It wouldn’t serve as any evidence, but at least for his own purposes, he had a record of their transaction.
A few seconds later, Rukavina left. Braun waited until the front door shut before strolling over to the table. A folded newspaper left behind by Rukavina rested on a plate. He opened it.
The headline read: “Murder on Visovac. Monk Slain During Mass.”
Below was a picture of the suspect, with a caption identifying him as Ilija Srna.
But it wasn’t. It was Luka Pavić.
22
Zadar, Croatia
In old town Zadar, Luka stood in front of a canary yellow apartment building, his hand hovering over the buzzer panel. Open-air cafés lined the street, people sitting with espressos accompanied by cigarettes. Locals sauntered past him along the stone road. No one paid him a glance.
Behind the yellowed plastic window on the panel were listings for two urologists, an optometrist, a photographer, and a lawyer. There it was, sixth name down.
Z Marić- Glas
Finding Marić had taken little skill. After leaving Visovac, Luka took a bus to a nearby town and stopped at an Internet café. A simple search showed that Zlatko Marić was a man who liked to bask in the limelight. Each article that referred to him as an “anonymous blogger” inevitably included his name and photo: Marić smiling glibly in his modern apartment, Marić posing next to his laptop. Zlatko Marić, it seemed, was not so anonymous, and didn’t want to be.
His website, Glas, which translated to “Voice,” featured a series of articles showing evidence of backroom government deals, detailed analyses of the flow of government funds in Croatia, and photos of officials meeting with unsavory businessmen. He didn’t
make accusations in the articles. Marić tiptoed the line between his ideals and self-preservation.
An article written in the newspaper Slobodna Dalmacija made the reasons for Marić’s reservation clear: a list of the names of all individuals who served in the Croatian War of Independence was published online. Anonymously. It listed over four hundred thousand names. The Croatian government shut the site down within three hours, and the hunt was on for the person responsible for sharing “state secrets.” The main suspect: Zlatko Marić.
Marić, according to the article, was promptly arrested and held for seventy-two hours by secret police at an undisclosed location. He was eventually released due to a lack of clear evidence of wrongdoing. When interviewed later, Marić categorically denied posting the registry or “ever” sharing any state secrets. He had received his warning. Afterwards, the tone of Marić’s articles had turned defensive, careful. Was he on a probation of sorts? Had paranoia sunk in for him too?
Luka’s hand moved past Marić’s name and instead pressed the next button down: Fotografia Toni.
“Izvoli,” said a man’s voice. Go ahead.
“Good day, sir,” Luka said. “I have a package for delivery.”
“Leave it in the box.”
Luka looked over at the row of apartment mailboxes hanging on the wall, each the width of a textbook. He pressed the button again.
“Da?” The man sounded irritated.
“I need a signature. It’s FedEx.” The man didn’t say anything, but Luka heard a sigh. He added, “And the package is too big for the box.”
The door buzzed and the man said, “2-D. I’ll meet you in the hallway.”
Luka pushed past the door and started up the stairs. As he came to the second-floor landing, he heard a door open. A cinnamon-tanned middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair came out, barefoot, tying the knot on his housecoat. Luka rounded the corner and started up the stairs to the third floor. He glanced past the open door into the apartment and saw a nude female figure also putting on a housecoat. Toni had been in the middle of something.