Indicted

by Tom Saric

  “The testimony was thrown out.” Nenad leaned against the window. He looked at Braun. “But you kept my name out of it.”

  “That was our agreement.”

  “It’s good of you. An old man should be allowed to rot where he chooses.” He pushed his hand between the seats and held his palm out. For a moment, Luka thought he wanted him to shake it. “You have a picture for me.”

  Luka pulled Jurica’s passport from his jacket and placed it in his hand. Nenad unfolded his reading glasses and examined the picture.

  “We were told he might also go by the name Dragoslav Gavrić,” Braun said.

  “Yes,” Nenad said, as though this was common knowledge. “He goes by many names. Too many to count.”

  “You know him?” Luka asked.

  “Very well.”

  “He came to my home to kill me.”

  “But you’re here. So he’s dead.” A smile broke across Nenad’s face. “It might be true what the Croatians say about you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’re a hero.” Nenad laughed, which triggered a coughing fit. He wiped his mouth with the cloth, then noticed that neither Braun nor Luka were laughing with him. “Drago was the worst of us all. During the war, most of us questioned, in our hearts, what we were doing. Questioned what Banović ordered us to do. We had doubts. But not Drago: pure evil. There’s no other way to put it. Not a tear will drop on account of his death.” With his finger, Nenad traced a line down from the corner of his eye.

  “We believe he was hired to assassinate Luka,” Braun said. “We believe it’s related to the war crimes Luka is accused of in Nisko.”

  Nenad laughed again. “A revenge mission? Drago doesn’t do revenge. Didn’t, I should say. If he was out to get you, then someone…” Nenad rubbed his thumb and fingers together.

  “Money?”

  “Mafia, organized crime, politicians, whatever. They’re all the same. But for money, yes. I see it no other way.”

  “Who has he been working for?”

  “Who hasn’t he been working for?”

  Braun had to gather himself. Luka could see he was getting frustrated with Nenad’s evasiveness. “Saša Tadić,” Braun said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Little.”

  “Killed in a home with two other men and eleven women. Luka is accused of the murders.”

  Nenad sat quietly, ignoring this information. He folded up his glasses and handed back the passport. Luka saw a flash of fear cross Nenad’s face.

  “Nenad,” Luka said. “Tadić had uncovered a weapons smuggling operation. We know that Boško Pavlovski was involved. And somehow they’re worried that I can threaten this operation. They’ve already killed Ante Čapan.”

  “Everyone around you is being killed. The deeper you go, the more killing there is. You don’t want to unravel this any further.”

  “I didn’t choose this. They came to my house. They attacked me and my family. I don’t see any other way to go.”

  “Leave it alone.” His eyes were on Luka. Not vicious now, but scared. “Go back into your hole.”

  “They will find me again.”

  The bus slowed as it approached a stop in Barevo.

  “This is my stop,” Nenad said, standing abruptly as the bus slowed.

  Luka stood and put a hand on Nenad’s chest. “You don’t get off until you give us the name.”

  Nenad chuckled. “All I have to do is say your name.” He mouthed the words Luka Pavić. “Police officers will be here in five minutes, and this conversation will be over.” He swatted Luka’s hand aside and took two steps down the aisle.

  “Nenad,” Braun said. “Nenad, come back here!”

  Nenad walked towards the door, shaking his head.

  “How many days do you think you’ll survive?” Braun said, which stopped Nenad in his tracks. “If I give the judges in the Banović trial what they want: the name of the informant.”

  Nenad clenched his jaw and stared dumbfounded at Braun. “You dirty bastard.”

  “Because if you won’t help me any further, then I see no reason for our agreement to continue. Without your name, the original testimony is useless, so this relationship is useless.”

  Nenad fell silent. He looked away, his face reddening.

  “Who did Dragoslav work for?”

  Nenad took another step down the aisle. His shoulders slumped and he exhaled, then turned around, revulsion etched on his face. “He goes by the name Debeli. He owns a bar, the Koko Klub outside of Tuzla.”

  He shuffled forward with his cane, then turned, a smug grin on his face. “You were wrong about one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They don’t only smuggle weapons. They smuggle girls.”

  34

  Tuzla, Bosnia

  Separated from the nearest neighbor by a mile on either side and surrounded by an eight-foot-high chain link fence, the Koko Klub was an oasis for raunchy men. Dance music boomed inside, the kind that was so loud vibrations could be felt in the knees. A strobe light flashed on and off in the window, lighting up the pitch-black landscape like bolts of lightning. Drunken laughter spilled out of the club as a few middle-aged men in pressed khakis and linen shirts entered. Three burly men sat out front on overturned beer crates, playing cards while smoking cigarettes. They carefully watched everyone come and go.

  “Leave your identification in the car,” Braun said, pulling into the gravel parking lot to the side of the club.

  “They won’t ask for it?”

  “People who come to places like this want to stay anonymous. We just have to hope we pass the sniff test.” He pointed to the men playing cards.

  “If they ask,” Braun said, “I’m a ‘friend’ from Austria. Don’t offer any more. That would seem suspicious. I will act embarrassed.”

  “Why Austria?”

  “There’s a delegation from the Austrian Chamber of Commerce in Tuzla this week. The story will check out. You can say you are here on business from Zagreb.”

  They walked across the parking lot towards the entrance. Although Luka kept his head pointed straight ahead, he could feel the three men’s heads turn in unison as though they were a single organism.

  “Where are you from?” one of them called out.

  Luka stopped and slowly turned. Two of the men popped up, threw their cards down, and walked over with their chests puffed out.

  Luka said, “Zagreb.”

  They stood in front of Luka, both shorter than him, sizing him up. One of the men craned his neck, looking over Luka’s shoulder at Braun.

  “He’s my friend,” Luka said. “From Austria.”

  “Austria? He looks like police.”

  “Not quite. He’s a politician.” Luka winked. “We appreciate your discretion.”

  They seemed to understand this, then one shook his head. “No.”

  Braun pulled a one hundred euro note from his pocket and held it out.

  The men glanced at the green note, and one of them plucked it out of his hand before waving them through.

  Inside, the music was louder. The place smelled of sweat, stale beer, and smoke. The strobe light had stopped; now, purple and blue overhead lights made people appear like silhouettes. Candles flickered atop tables. Cigarettes glowed. A half-naked girl danced on stage, throwing her bra down to the howls of the men surrounding her.

  Nude waitresses served drinks. Behind white tulle curtains at the far end of the room, Luka could see the shapes of women straddling men, bouncing up and down.

  They sat down at a small table near the wall. A waiter came by, and they ordered a beer for Luka and tonic water for Braun.

  A waitress, naked aside from stiletto heels, sat on the lap of a fat bald man whose suit jacket was wide open, his arms outstretched. She was pretty, slender, her skin smooth and young. Couldn’t be more than eighteen years old. She laughed at something the man said—fake, the kind of laugh that euros bought. He pulled
her closer, his hands cupping her breasts. Luka saw her wince for a split second, then capitulate and laugh again as though she were enjoying herself. The man started undoing his belt.

  Luka watched the scene unfold, hearing Nenad’s voice: “They smuggle girls.” Who was forcing her to put her face in that man’s crotch? He glanced at the bar, where two men sat conversing, their backs to the stage. They seemed uninterested in the surroundings, which Luka took as a sign that they were managers. They weren’t particularly overweight, so he doubted either was the man named Debeli, which meant “fat man.” Next to them stood a grey-haired woman in a long burgundy dress. One hand was on her hip, the other holding a cigarette as she scanned the room. Wrinkles crossed her face, which made her scowl look even more repellant.

  “How much money do you have?” Luka said.

  Music thumped away. Braun couldn’t hear him.

  “Money!” Luka yelled, rubbing his fingers together.

  The waiter returned and put their drinks in front of them.

  “Can you get me that girl?” Luka said, flicking his head towards the waitress in stilettos.

  “No, I’m sorry, she’s occupied. I will get you one just like her.”

  The waiter turned towards the bar, but Luka grabbed his arm. “No. That one.” He turned to Braun, motioning for cash once more.

  Braun shook his head. “Luka, this isn’t a good—”

  “Money.”

  Braun looked up at the waiter, who seemed taken aback by Luka’s insistence. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of euros.

  Luka grabbed it and began counting. “Here, two hundred.”

  The waiter sighed and took it. In this world, money ruled. He strode over to the girl and ordered her over to Luka’s table, gesturing apologetically to the man. Not yours anymore.

  “What are you doing?” Braun said. “We don’t need to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “She needed help.”

  The girl strutted over, flashing a phony two-hundred-euro smile. Hands immediately placed on the armrests of Luka’s chair, she leaned in, nipples inches from his face.

  “Stop,” Luka said.

  She stood up languidly, still giving him that rehearsed smile.

  “You can sit down. I paid to speak with you.”

  She lowered herself into the chair next to him, leaning forward on one elbow. Up close, she looked even younger. A layer of foundation was smeared over her face, mascara forming black rings around her eyes. Her pupils were large. Amphetamine-induced.

  “What is your name?”

  “Ruža.”

  “Your real name.”

  She glanced towards the lady in the burgundy dress, who was now turned away. The smile faded.

  “Katya.”

  Luka stopped short of asking her age, or where she was from. Based on her broad face, narrow nose, and slightly slanted eyes, he would have guessed Russia or the Ukraine. Her accent and name gave it away.

  “Thank you, Katya. You can just sit here. No need to perform.”

  That made her uncomfortable. She shifted in her chair. Her eyes darted between Luka, Braun, and the woman in the burgundy dress.

  “You’re police?” she said.

  Luka shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

  “They will wonder why you paid for me to just sit here.”

  Luka looked past the curtains at a set of large doors at the back of the room.

  “How much for private time?” he said.

  “Three.”

  Luka counted out three hundred euros. Katya took the money to the bartender, who passed it to the woman in the burgundy dress.

  “Luka, you can’t be drawing attention to us like this,” Braun said, leaning in and pleading for rationality. “They are already suspicious. We have to be methodical.”

  “This is my way,” Luka said.

  Katya returned, holding another girl’s hand. This one was slightly older, and wearing nothing but black stilettos and a miniskirt. She was rake-thin with chestnut hair and piercing slate grey eyes. One of her ears was slightly malformed, as though it had never fully developed, and she quickly brushed her hair back over it. “She is for your friend. Her name is Mateja.”

  Luka and Braun followed the two girls through the club, past the main stage and across the sticky concrete floor until they reached the swinging double doors. Then they walked down a narrow hall with warped wallboards and dim lighting, the floor still vibrating from the bass. They turned down a second hallway, this one narrower and darker. Katya opened a door at the end.

  The private room was windowless, with unadorned walls, dim yellow light, and two massage tables. Katya pulled Luka’s hand to sit him down, but he resisted, and remained standing in front of the door, next to Braun.

  “What, you don’t want a show?” Katya said, a faint flush on her cheeks beneath her foundation.

  “I lied.”

  Her eyes turned wild. She lunged at the door, pushing between Luka and Braun, but Luka leaned against it. She reached out and swung her hand at Luka, landing a blow on his shoulder.

  “You are police! Let me out!”

  “We’re not! We just need to speak with you,” Luka said.

  “Fuck you!” She thrashed and scratched Luka, dragging her nails down his neck.

  The pain seared, and blood ran down his neck. Luka grabbed Katya’s arm, twisting her around and pulling her onto the table, her arms crossed in front of her. “We’re not police,” he whispered in her ear. “But we are your closest allies right now. If you help us, we can help you too. You have to trust us.”

  Katya kept thrashing and twisting. Luka tightened his grip.

  A knock at the door. Katya began to scream, but Luka covered her mouth with his free hand.

  He turned his head. Braun stood at the door. The other girl, Mateja, stood with her arms crossed, covering her breasts.

  “They’re checking on us,” Mateja said coolly.

  Katya moaned, but it was muffled by Luka’s hand.

  “We’re not police,” Braun said, his voice steady. “But we might be able to help you.”

  “Help? How?”

  Another knock, louder. “Okay in there?” a voice boomed.

  “Tell them you’re okay. Please.”

  Mateja shook her head. “They will kill us. They will kill you. No.” She took in a breath to yell. Luka’s heart pounded. They had nothing to offer these women.

  “Passports,” Braun blurted out. “I can get you passports.”

  Mateja exhaled. Her head rocked side to side. Luka saw her whole body vibrating as she considered the offer. Katya stopped thrashing.

  Mateja stared at Braun and opened her mouth. “We’re good in here!”

  Footsteps receded from the door.

  Katya stopped twisting, so Luka loosened his grip. She raised her arms defensively and stood next to Mateja.

  “Who are you?” Mateja said.

  “We’re from The Hague,” Braun said.

  “The Hague?”

  “We’re investigators looking into war crimes. Now clearly, you are afraid to be here because of what will happen to you if you speak with us. All we want is some information.”

  “There are eighteen of us. We need eighteen passports.”

  Braun stared hard at her. “Okay. I can get eighteen.”

  Could he? Luka wondered. Braun could lie to these women, promise them passports and flights and freedom, and they would believe him. They had no other options. He thought of the deal Braun had made with Nenad to get Banović before threatening to renege on Nenad to help Luka. Sacrificing one deal to make the next. And Luka now stood next to him, passive, having to trust that he would come through on this promise.

  Mateja shook her head. “How can we trust you? You will leave, and then what?”

  “You’re right,” Braun said. “You have no reason to trust me. All I can give you is my word. I’ll be back. You don’t have any other way out.”

  He saw t
ears forming in Katya’s and Mateja’s eyes. Mascara ran down their cheeks.

  “We’re looking for a man who goes by the name Debeli,” Braun said. “We’re told he is the owner of this place.”

  The tears stopped at the sound of his name. Sadness was replaced by hatred. Mateja wiped the mascara from her face.

  “He doesn’t come here often.”

  “Where is he?”

  Mateja took a deep breath in, exhaling loudly through her nose.

  “He lives in a house fifteen minutes up the road. But you’ll never get in. It’s behind walls and has a gate. He doesn’t let any strangers in.”

  “Who does he let in?”

  “Business associates, friends. His wife, Azra.” She motioned towards the door.

  “She is here? The one in the long dress?” Luka said.

  “Yes.”

  Luka looked at Braun, an idea developing in his mind. “I know what we can do.”

  35

  An hour later, Azra opened the door of her Renault Clio, which was parked behind the Koko Klub, and threw her purse onto the passenger seat. She turned the ignition and lowered the window, then shuffled through her purse, pulled out a pack of Davidoff Slims, lit up, and took a deep drag. She turned the radio volume up, blaring Bosnian folk music with the tinny sounds of a saz and the droning of a melancholic male voice.

  It was not until she had driven a kilometer up the dark road that she saw the muzzle of the Sig Sauer. She turned her head slowly, eyes wide in the rear-view mirror.

  Luka rose from the back seat and touched the cold muzzle to her temple.

  “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  She let out an annoyed sigh but kept looking forward, without a hint of fear, as though Luka was a mere inconvenience.

  “You can lower your gun.” She slowed the car and turned the radio down. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Keep driving,” Luka said, and lowered the gun.

  “Is that your friend?” She tapped the rear-view mirror. Two headlights shone behind the car. Braun was tailing them. “The German?”

  Luka smiled at her coolness. She must have recognized them from the club. “Luxembourgish.”