Indicted

by Tom Saric

  The end result could be that they all lost against the slowly churning machine. Pavić tried, Braun as an accessory. There was only one choice left: let evil win, or try to stop it.

  Orchestration was the key to any successful operation. It required careful planning, hard work, and a dose of luck.

  Over the past three days, three events had occurred with absolutely perfect synchronization.

  First, he received confirmation that the package containing two French passports—with the names Audrey and Amélie Henri—had been delivered and signed for in Winnipeg. The package also contained itineraries for two tickets that crossed the globe through four airports, with a brief overnight in Riyadh, before the final leg of the destination. Whether the flights would be boarded, he could not be sure.

  Second, the stolen, untraceable flatbed had been delivered to him in Antwerp.

  And third, last night Juan managed to break into the construction site on the overpass, which narrowed the road to a single lane, and wire up the steamroller.

  He’d had three days, nowhere near the time he needed to set up an operation like this. Too many variables that were unaccounted for.

  But before he could further assess the risks, a fourth event happened: his phone buzzed with a text message from Juan.

  All in place for the party.

  Braun smiled. There were no choices left to make. He was in free fall.

  47

  Luka stood as the judges delivered the guilty verdict, each one addressing him directly, admonishing him for his crimes and atrocities. But Luka heard little of what they said—something about a twenty-six-year prison sentence; rather, he stared ahead, fantasizing about how much Natalie would have changed in a quarter century.

  Sounds rose up from the gallery behind him—some applause, some boos, mostly chatter—of which he heard little. His attorney leaned over and patted his shoulder, said something about being sorry and an appeal before he collected his papers and closed his briefcase.

  Part of him always knew that this was how it would end.

  Luka felt a guard grasp his arm and lead him down the aisle separating the gallery in two. The shackles dug into his ankles, forcing him to waddle out of the courtroom. Camera lights flashed and clicked while reporters talked over each other, begging for a sound bite.

  He looked away.

  Events began moving in slow motion. Out the front doors. The grey sky. Down the steps and into the back of a black SUV, third in a line of four identical black SUVs. A guard sat beside him. The driver gripped the steering wheel, waiting for the cars ahead to pull out. “Too cold?” the driver asked, his fingers on the climate controls. “No, thank you,” the guard said. Outside, reporters vied for space at the barricades.

  The taillights on the SUV ahead of them blinked twice, and the convoy edged forward. They rolled out onto the street, turned twice, and cruised towards the detention center. A siren whooped ahead. Blue lights flashed.

  He spent the next few minutes sitting next to the guard in his bulky body armor, doing what he believed all convicts were expected to do on the ride to the pen: he contemplated his life.

  He would likely see Natalie and Sara again—that is, if they decided to book the flight down. If they could afford it. And how long would the visits continue before they became mentally exhausted? They would become a trickle, and eventually they’d taper off and stop, but no one would admit to that.

  He tried to remember Natalie’s face, but where the image was once crisp in his mind, her features were now blurry and impossible to hold onto. This was after only a month apart—what would be left of the memories after twenty-six years?

  Part of him knew this was how it was always going to end. His beautiful life in Winnipeg was just a brief respite.

  In a half-hearted effort to remain hopeful—all you have is hope, he reminded himself—he replayed Braun’s promise in his head: “I will find a way.” Braun, he had to admit, never gave up, or at least never stopped believing.

  He looked out the window. Along the road were yellow and orange construction signs. Crews were digging out the entire left lane six feet deep.

  The motorcade slowed as it passed the workers, most of whom had stopped to look at the tinted windows, wondering what important person was inside. Just as the bumper of the SUV passed a steamroller, a flash of white burst out of the engine. The SUV’s windows rumbled, and then everything turned white.

  Arms were wrapped around his chest. His feet dragged along the ground. He opened his eyes. A Hispanic man wearing construction gear was holding Luka underneath the armpits and dragging him out of the SUV across the lane, behind a truck.

  Luka looked back at the SUV. The doors were dented, and paint was scraped off. The driver was holding his head, stunned from the blast.

  “Stand now,” the construction worker said. “Now!”

  Luka wobbled to his feet, partly from the spinning in his head, partly from the weight of the shackles. Car doors slammed shut. Two security guards emerged from the first SUV and looked at the steamroller, weapons drawn.

  The man pulled Luka by the arm towards the guardrail and pointed down. A highway ran underneath them, perpendicular to the overpass. Immediately below, on the side of the highway, was a flatbed truck with wooden sides, filled with hay.

  “Jump!”

  Luka hesitated. The guards were walking up to his SUV now.

  “If you want to be free, jump.”

  Luka climbed onto the guardrail and rolled off, landing on his side in the hay. A moment later, the Hispanic man dropped beside Luka. He yanked on a rope, and a canvas sheet unrolled over the top of the flatbed. The truck pulled out into traffic and accelerated, its wooden sides rattling the whole way.

  Luka leaned against the side wall and pulled the chains onto his lap. The man kneeled next to him, holding bolt cutters. He snapped off the chains, one at a time, then collected them and threw them to the far end of the box.

  “I’m Juan.” He had thick, powerful hands. “An associate of Robert’s. Put your arms out.”

  Juan modeled for Luka that he wanted his wrists up. He pulled a pick from his vest pocket and got to work on the left handcuff.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Getting you the fuck out of here. Far away.” Click. The handcuff opened. “We have only four minutes or so before they shut down the highway.” He banged on the rear window to emphasize the urgency. The second handcuff opened. Juan started on the leg cuffs, then pulled a small black box topped with an antenna out of his pocket. It looked like a walkie-talkie with a dial on the face.

  “You set off a charge?” Luka asked.

  “Just enough to stun. The cars are armored.” Juan smiled. “No casualties.”

  The truck took the next exit, then turned several times onto bumpy dirt roads. Through the wooden slats, Luka saw the truck stopping at a farm that looked long abandoned. The farmhouse was missing shingles and had peeling paint, and the driveway was overgrown with weeds.

  The driver’s door opened, and footsteps pounded along the side of the truck. Then the canvas at the back was swept open.

  At the sight of Robert Braun, a warm feeling ran through Luka, one he’d lost: hope.

  “Let’s get going.” Braun held a pile of clothes in his hand. “Put these on, leave your jumpsuit in the back of the truck. Quickly.”

  Luka undressed and pulled on the grey slacks, blue collared shirt, and shiny black shoes. The tie he would put on later.

  “Juan,” Braun said. “You'll take care of the truck?” Juan nodded. “Thank you. Come with me.” Braun beckoned to Luka, who followed him towards a row of bushes. Behind them was a navy Alfa Romeo.

  They hopped in and drove along the dirt road until they reached another highway, the road signs indicating Rotterdam. For the first ten minutes of the drive, Braun didn’t speak, repeatedly checking his watch, beads of sweat forming above his collar.

  “Robert, have you gone mad?”

  Braun simply sh
ook his head, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Breaking me out? Even if they don’t find me... if they get you, then you’re going in too.”

  “They won’t.”

  Luka stifled the obvious rejoinder: “But how can you be so sure?” Instead, he said, “Where are we heading?”

  “Antwerp. Open the bag under your seat.”

  Luka did so. Inside was a wig with short, wavy brown hair, metal-framed glasses, a pair of blue contact lenses, and a passport.

  “We might be asked for our passports at the border, might not. Depends. But it’s best to be prepared. Put those on now. Your description will be put out, so the less you match, the more time we have.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Belgium. Then I’m going to Zagreb.”

  “Zagreb, why? Robert, you’re putting yourself at risk here. Best you leave me, and I’ll find my way out.”

  “Luka, listen to me. I’ve tried everything I could to get you out legally. But the situation is deeper than I could have imagined. I couldn’t stand by any longer. The process is broken, or infected might be a better term. I needed to fix it, do what had to be done to get you back to your family. Once you’re safe, I have more work to do.”

  They descended towards Waalhaven harbor. Blue cranes along the piers stacked freight cars five high and four thick. Barges plowed through the grey water. A foghorn droned in the distance.

  “And you’re sure you won’t be connected to this?”

  Braun curled his lower lip between his teeth.

  “I’m not sure. But to be honest, Luka, I don’t give a shit anymore.”

  They were forty kilometers inside Belgium, heading south, when news of Luka’s escape broke on the radio. Braun translated for Luka: Convicted war criminal escaped custody. Explosion at a construction site destroyed the transport trucks carrying Pavić. He escaped, and it’s unknown if he is working with others or if he’s alone. Witnesses are still being interviewed. Pavić is likely still in The Hague, but Interpol is also monitoring border crossings.

  “Unlikely,” Braun said, “that they’ll be that vigilant. Border patrols are focused on terrorists and watch lists.”

  “Unlikely but not impossible, you mean.”

  Braun looked over at Luka, eyes fixed and serious. “The alternative is life in prison. This will give you freedom and your family.”

  Luka’s heart skipped. “My family?”

  “You have a flight out of Antwerp in two hours. You’ll connect twice. Your family is already waiting for you. You have new names and twenty thousand euros to get started.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Tahiti. No extradition treaties. And you speak French.”

  “And what, start over? Go into hiding again?”

  “For now, yes. There are no other options. It will be hard to find you if you stay discreet. No contacting anyone. Ever. It’s the three of you, and that’s it. I’m going to continue the case, find those responsible. When that’s done, you will be cleared. I will contact you when that happens. But that could take years, if ever.”

  Luka was filled with both excitement and dread. Excitement because he’d see Sara and Natalie again, hold them and kiss them. A new lease on life. Dread because he had to go back into hiding, constantly looking over his shoulder.

  “There are other things you deserve to know, Luka,” Braun continued. “How you fit into the puzzle.”

  Luka listened to Braun’s reconstruction of events as he explained how he’d met Natalia Nemet in Barcelona. How Tadić, Radović, and Filip Nemet had been planning on freeing the ten girls, until they were all killed, along with Nemet’s wife.

  “And you, Luka,” he said. “You saw what you shouldn’t have seen, but somehow you managed to save Natalia. Then the indictment came and they tried to get rid of you, send you underground to lie low, as low as possible. Only the criminals would know where you were, and they could dispose of you quietly. When you turned up dead, no one would mind—you were a modern-day Nazi, guilty of genocide. But you eluded them for years. Permanently, you must have thought. But they found you.”

  “I think I know how,” Luka said. “Tomislav gave me an ATM card. I used it several weeks before Dragoslav showed up in Winnipeg.”

  “So they traced you and were going to end it then and there. But it runs deeper, Luka. The founder of NightHawk is now a US Senator. If these murders were ever traced back to him, he’d soon find himself on trial. So he’s infiltrated The Hague on grounds that the US is now aiding the Tribunal. Getting friendly, even though the US still doesn’t officially support the authority of the International Criminal Court. They’ve influenced the proceedings every step of the way.”

  “And the trafficking?”

  “Still going on. From what I can glean, not at the same level as it was before. We’re working on helping the girls.”

  Luka shook his head. “I should help. I shouldn’t go.”

  “You've done enough. You made me see what was happening. I will see this through.”

  “So will I.”

  “Luka, for Christ’s sake, no.” Braun clenched his jaw. “Do you really think you can help? You have Interpol after you. I can do this better without you.”

  “I won’t let—”

  “They threatened your family!” He turned to Luka. “How well do you think Sara will do in hiding without you? She didn’t last five days before they found her. Now stop trying to be selfless, and take care of the most important people in your life.”

  Braun beat his fist against the steering wheel. Luka took in a breath of protest but then thought better of it. Signs for the airport. Braun took the exit.

  “Who is a man without his family?” Braun said, almost longingly. “You get on the plane and see your family. The worst thing that could happen is you never hear from me again and you stay put.”

  “Why are you going to Zagreb?”

  “I believe Senator Vance is going to Zagreb. I believe he is going to meet Tomislav Rukavina.”

  “Why are they meeting?”

  “I don’t know,” Braun said. “Maybe to destroy evidence of their connection? I’m going to find out.”

  Luka froze as a memory flashed through his mind. The safe. The black safe in Tomislav’s office. The files in the black safe. He gasped for air as the memory became more vivid.

  What are those other files for? he’d asked.

  You weren’t the only one, Tomislav had said.

  “I know why Vance is going to Zagreb.” Luka nodded.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re going to need me. I’m coming with you.”

  48

  They stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Tomislav Rukavina’s office door. Luka glanced at Braun. Was Braun aware of the risk he took by putting the Sig Sauer in Luka’s hand? He felt exuberant. He was free, and he was going to get his shot at revenge. Relief washed over him at the thought of a bullet entering Tomislav’s brain.

  He reminded himself what they had to accomplish: obtain the files from the safe. Ensure they were in order. Make Tomislav explain them. Record the conversation if possible.

  He looked at Braun. He’d convinced him that Tomislav would be more fearful of him than Braun, and, as a result, they’d have more leverage if Luka held the gun. It made perfect sense.

  A light was on inside, glowing through the frosted glass door.

  “He might not be alone,” Braun whispered.

  “He wouldn’t let anyone see the files. He wouldn’t incriminate himself. He’s too careful.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Luka didn’t answer. He lifted his leg and kicked just above the keyhole, driving his foot into the wood. It cracked and splintered, and he kicked it twice more until it gave way.

  Luka raised the gun and quickly scanned the office. The secretary’s desk was empty, as was the washroom.

  Beside the oak desk at the back of the room, he saw Tomislav’s head low to the ground.
/>   Luka stepped forward, grabbed Tomislav by the collar, and wrenched him up, his neck snapping back with the force. He threw him face down on the desk, shattering the desk light and sending a jar of pens spilling over the floor. Luka patted Tomislav down for a weapon. Negative. He climbed onto the table and pressed his knee into Tomislav’s back until he heard a crack, then slowly pressed the gun into Tomislav’s skin, just beside his ear.

  Tomislav made a garbled sound, but Luka pressed his face harder onto the surface of the desk.

  “You’re going to give us everything you have on Bart Vance and Haris Bogdani,” Luka said.

  More garbled noises. Luka could see the sides of Tomislav’s neck turning violet as he groaned. Luka felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice behind him.

  “We need to let him talk.”

  Luka turned. Braun’s eyes followed the gun as it dropped to Luka’s side.

  Luka dropped off the desk, and Tomislav rolled over onto his back. Luka could see the indent of the muzzle in his temple. Tomislav’s abdominal muscles contracted, and he abruptly turned his head to the side and vomited.

  He glared at Luka through bloodshot eyes and then glanced at Braun. He wiped the corner of his mouth before his lips curled into a smirk.

  “You haven’t killed me yet.” He cleared his throat and heaved himself upright, then licked his palm and ran it through his hair a couple of times. “So you must want something.”

  “Every document you have on Bart Vance, Haris Bogdani, and Boško Pavlovski.”

  “In there,” he said, flicking his head towards the black safe beside the bookcase. “5-7-9-1-3.”

  Luka kept the gun pointed at Tomislav, feeling the slight pressure of the trigger on his finger.