by Mike Maden
The man standing next to him was equally intimidating to the tough Serbian parachutist. Colonel Denisov was a lean, bespectacled GRU staff officer rumored to have spearheaded the deployment of a malware Android app used by Polish tank officers for fire control. Thanks to Denisov’s operation, the Russians were now tracking the exact whereabouts of all 247 Leopard 2A4 main battle tanks in the Polish arsenal.
Denisov was also known to be one of the principal architects of the New Generation warfare strategy, and a personal favorite of the Russian president. The GRU was by far the largest and most effective Russian intelligence service in both field agents and combat operatives, dwarfing the more famous FSB and SVR agencies, with which they competed for resources and political favor.
Colonel Maksimović wasn’t sure why a man of Denisov’s stature had been invited at the last minute to observe this relatively minor exercise. It only added to the Serbian’s anxiety.
“Your men are well trained in CQC,” Denisov said. “You should be pleased.”
“Colonel Smolov deserves most of the credit, sir,” the Serbian replied. “It’s his training regimen we follow.”
“Nonsense. These are your men and they obey your orders,” Smolov insisted.
“Thank you, sir. They’re good men. It’s an honor to lead them.”
Today’s exercise was intended to take down an “unnamed parliamentary building,” but everybody in the observation post knew exactly what that meant. The practice facility had been reengineered to fit exact blueprints of the actual target building just across the border.
Denisov turned to the Serbian commander, the disastrous report from Croatia and the empty cargo ship still on his mind.
“How soon could you mobilize the rest of your battalion, Colonel?”
The tall Serbian grinned. “Twenty-four hours, maximum, sir.”
Smolov frowned, curious. No such mobilization had been scheduled. “An impromptu training exercise for the Serbians, Colonel?”
Denisov smiled. “What else would it be?”
SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Jack hardly noticed the stink of the garbage chute outside his door as he entered his apartment. He kicked off his shoes in the foyer and fell onto the living room couch with a yawn and a sigh. It wasn’t as if he’d been humping a fifty-pound ruck up the side of Mount Rainier or doing wind sprints at the beach on Coronado Island. But a long day of cab rides, failed phone calls, and often tense, suspicious encounters left him emotionally spent. He’d run through the entire second list of twenty-three names that Gavin had sent him. Three were no longer in country, and the two he left messages for hadn’t called him back yet, nor did he expect them to.
Now what?
He could give overworked Gavin another call and ask him to generate yet another list, but he doubted the IT whiz had any more Aida cards up his digital sleeve. Besides, Gavin had actual work to do as the man in charge of all things computer-related for both Hendley Associates and The Campus.
His other option was to cancel his flight back home and keep hunting for other clues in the public record, or just keep his fingers crossed and hope the émigrés came back home or the ones he left messages for would call back.
The only problem with that was the text Gerry had sent an hour ago. Glad you’re coming home tomorrow. A lot going on. Need you back ASAP.
So with his two lists exhausted, no prospects for a third, and his boss breathing down his neck, it was clear to Jack it was time to get packed and head for the airport tomorrow.
He’d tried, hadn’t he?
Sure, his mother would be deeply disappointed—not that she’d ever say anything. In fact, she’d tell him how grateful she was that he’d tried his best.
And failed.
The and failed was the snarling demon inside Jack’s head. He couldn’t stand the thought of failing at anything.
What would cut him the deepest was the hidden disappointment his mother would undoubtedly feel when he told her the bad news that he couldn’t find little Aida. His mother never asked him to do anything for her. She was the most self-reliant person he’d ever known. As a physician, she was always doing something for others, sometimes risking her health and even her life to save peoples’ eyesight. The idea of letting her down was almost too much to bear.
But he didn’t really have a choice. Staying here another couple days or even another couple years wouldn’t change the likely outcome. Aida Curić, his mother’s young patient from so many years ago, simply didn’t exist. And he had important Campus work to do, as well as his work as a financial analyst at Hendley Associates. He was a good worker, and a good soldier.
But he was also his mother’s son.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he actually jumped when he heard a knock at the door. He was expecting his landlords to drop by for an inspection before he flew out tomorrow.
Jack padded over to the door in his stocking feet and opened it.
Oh.
Not his landlords.
34
SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
Jack’s jaw dropped, just like in the cartoons. Standing in front of him was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
And maybe one of the angriest.
Jack didn’t care. Her thick, chestnut shoulder-length hair and full-figured beach body would have caught his attention any day of the week, but her startling blue eyes absolutely gobsmacked him.
She must have liked what she saw, too, because the harshness in those magnificent eyes softened. She might even have blushed a little.
God knows he felt a jolt racing through him, from the nape of his neck all the way down to his . . .
Toes.
Standing behind her in the tiled hallway was a slope-shouldered slab of meat, with a shaved head and a closely trimmed beard, staring daggers at him.
The woman gathered her wits. Her softness disappeared. All business now. “You are Jack Ryan?”
If you’re looking for me, yeah. I mean, hell, yeah!
“Yes, I’m Jack Ryan,” he said evenly.
“My name is Aida Curić. I understand you were looking for me.”
“Yes, I was. I mean, I am.”
In a million years, Jack never would’ve connected her grainy driver’s-license photo, which Gavin had sent him, to that perfect face.
“Please come in.”
“No, thank you. What is it that you want from me?”
“Nothing, I promise. I was trying to find you in order to give you something.”
“A letter?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
Good English, Jack thought. “My mother.”
“Why would your mother want to give a letter to me, a perfect stranger?”
Mr. Clean shifted his stance, his glowering eyes still fixed on Jack. From where Jack stood he couldn’t see a weapon on the man, unless you counted the two seventeen-inch guns hanging from his wide shoulders.
“You and my mother may have met many years ago when you were a child. She’s an ophthalmologist, I mean—”
“An eye surgeon. Yes, of course. Go on.”
“She performed an eye surgery twenty-six years ago on a little girl named Aida Curić who was injured in the Bosnian War, and saved her eye. She knew I was coming to the region and asked me to see if I could find Aida and give her a letter she wrote to her.”
“How do you know I was the little girl?”
“I don’t. That’s why I was asking all over town and looking for every Aida Curić I could find. But you’d know. I’m sure you’d remember something like that.”
Aida’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s say that I do remember. What does she want from me?”
“Nothing, I promise. She never forgot you and just wanted you to know that. I haven’t read the letter, but that�
��s what she told me. Can I get it for you?”
Jack watched the wheels turn behind her eyes. She offered a slight smile. Finally, “Yes, of course.”
“Won’t you come in?” Jack glanced over her shoulder. “Your friend, too.”
“All right.”
She whispered something to Mr. Clean in Bosanski. He nodded and stepped back into the hallway, facing the stairwell, folding his hands in front of him as Aida shut the door.
Aida didn’t budge from the little foyer. She saw the look on Jack’s face.
“My friend is concerned. It’s a difficult time these days for Bosniaks like me. You understand the politics of my country? The history?”
“A little. More than most Americans, I suppose.” Thanks to Rojko Struna’s mini-lecture on the drive from the Ljubljana airport, Jack reminded himself.
“Can I get you anything?”
Aida shook her head. “No, thank you. It’s late.”
“Then let me get that letter.”
Jack dashed to the bedroom and pulled his mother’s letter from a suitcase pocket. He hurried back, suddenly aware of his socks as he slid a little on the polished tile floor. He glanced down at his feet and wiggled his toes.
Aida stifled a giggle.
Jack handed her the blank envelope. His mother was clever enough not to use official White House stationery. She wasn’t trying to impress Aida, just communicate with her.
Aida slipped an unadorned fingernail beneath the sealed flap and opened it. She pulled the folded letter out but didn’t open it. She glanced up at Jack, and then back down to the letter. Jack saw in her eyes the tug-of-war between suspicion and curiosity.
Curiosity finally won out.
She opened the letter carefully, as if it were an ancient manuscript. Her eyes swept back and forth as she read, her frown softening into a little smile. As she reached the end, she touched one hand to her mouth, her eyes misting.
“You said you haven’t read this?”
“No.”
“It’s quite beautiful.” She brushed a fingertip against the corner of one of her almond-shaped eyes. “May I keep this?”
Jack smiled. “Of course. It’s yours.”
“Thank you. And please thank your mother for me. It was very kind, and very thoughtful of her.”
“If you’d like to tell her yourself, you can reach her here.” Jack handed Aida a plain business card with his mother’s P.O. Box address. She took it.
No wedding ring, Jack noticed.
“Thank you. I would like that very much.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink or something?”
“I have to get back, but thank you. And thank you for taking the time to find me and for delivering this.”
Jack shrugged. “It was no big deal.”
“When do you go back to the States?”
“Tomorrow, actually.”
Aida’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, that’s too bad. I would have liked to show you my city.”
“Well, it’s not a problem to change my plans.”
“Really? That would be wonderful. Can you come back to the tour office at ten o’clock tomorrow?”
“Sure. That would be great.”
“Wonderful.” She put her hand out.
Jack shook it. A firm grip. Their hands lingered for a moment longer than he expected.
More electricity.
“See you tomorrow, then.”
She turned and opened the door, whispered something to her man as the two of them disappeared down the stairwell.
Jack shut the door.
What was he going to tell Gerry?
He’d promised his boss he was flying home tomorrow, but that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen now.
35
At ten o’clock the next morning, Ambassador Topal sat at the head of the table in the conference room of the Islamic Peace Studies Center (IPSC), built with funds from a religious organization based in Ankara, Turkey.
Lining both sides of the conference table sat several Bosniak Islamic religious and community leaders. Two of them were bearded imams from conservative mosques in the suburbs. All of the others were decidedly moderate in their views, including two women, one in a silky blue-and-yellow headscarf and the other one, the IPSC director, wearing no head covering at all.
Topal had called this morning’s brief meeting. Recent polls showed the upcoming Unity Referendum was plummeting in the polls because of the recent ethnic violence. Without a strong Bosniak voter turnout in favor of the referendum, it was doomed to fail. The purpose of today’s meeting was to shore up the support of those assembled and of their respective constituencies before attending his next event.
There was one empty chair at the table that concerned the ambassador. He would look into that later.
“We feel that we have a religious duty to show the world we can live in peace with Catholics and Orthodox, as well as Jews and people of every faith—or no faith at all,” the director said. “The Unity Referendum is vital to the exercise of that sacred duty.”
Several heads nodded around the table.
Topal radiated a grandfatherly smile. “I applaud your ecumenicism, Madame Director.”
One of the imams spoke up. “We cannot allow the Unity Referendum to become a mutual suicide pact.”
“No, of course not,” Topal said. “My government would be the first one to oppose it if I thought that Muslim interests were in any way compromised.”
The imam placed an open palm against his chest. “Of this we have no doubt.”
“Thank you,” Topal said. The man’s mosque was one of hundreds destroyed in the war by Serb and Croat forces, and one of the many rebuilt with money from Ankara. Topal had personally approved this imam’s reconstruction project.
The headmaster of the largest private Islamic primary school, another facility built with Turkish funds, spoke up. “The government must redouble its efforts to stop the anti-Muslim violence we’ve been reading about.”
Topal nodded again. “I have received assurances that everything is being done to monitor the situation. But my sources also tell me the violence has been directed against other communities. Small acts of retribution.”
“Big fires begin with small sparks,” the other imam said. His mosque had been rebuilt with Saudi money.
“Which is why we must always take precautions and remain vigilant, even as we work for peace,” Topal said.
More heads nodded.
“Turkey is the hope of all Muslim nations, and President Özyakup is the father of the Umma,” the first imam said. “We are not afraid to work for peace because we know you are not afraid to fight for us.”
The Turkish president also said that every mosque was a barracks in his radical youth, Topal reminded himself. Özyakup had gone to great lengths in recent years to position Turkey as the new caliphate for the Muslim world. He was engineering an Ottoman Empire revival, including the restoration of historic Ottoman symbols, artwork, and buildings in Turkey and throughout the region. Özyakup even brought back Ottoman-styled uniforms to the presidential palace guard. State maps were being subtly republished to include areas formerly under Ottoman rule, and Turkish military and economic aid were spreading across the Middle East and even to Muslim Africa.
“Let us pray it never comes to that,” Topal said. “Peace is always better than war, and peace is the way of the true Muslim. But as the prophet said—Peace be upon him—‘He is a true believer who protects his brother or sister, both present and absent.’”
The two imams began applauding and the others quickly joined in. Topal smiled, crinkling his owlish eyes, seemingly embarrassed by the display, waving his hand to quell the collective enthusiasm.
Inwardly, he was shouting with joy.
The clapping stopped as he stood.
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“Please forgive me, but I have another engagement to prepare for. I urge you all to do your utmost to encourage your people to vote for the referendum, and for them to encourage their neighbors to do so as well. The future of all Bosnia and of Bosniaks depends upon it. If the referendum fails, then Bosnia fails, and who knows what will happen after that.”
“You can count on us,” the director said.
And with that, the meeting ended.
* * *
—
Jack arrived at the Happy Times! office at exactly ten a.m. Emir stood behind the desk, greeting Jack with a forced smile.
“Welcome back, Mr. Ryan.”
“Is Aida here?”
“She will be with you shortly. Can I get you a bottle of water or something else?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” Jack had skipped his standard morning pita chocolate-bomb breakfast and opted for a plate of fried eggs, pork sausage, and fresh fruit, and a couple cups of dark Bosnian coffee.
The office door behind the desk opened and Aida appeared. Jack almost forgot how beautiful she was, despite having spent half the night thinking about her. In tight jeans and a fitted but modest blouse, her figure was even more pronounced. Their eyes locked for a moment, and they both smiled.
Emir caught this. “We should get going,” he said, stepping out from behind the desk.
“No need. I’ll take him myself,” Aida said, still staring at Jack.
Emir’s constant smile faded. “But it might be better if I’m with you.”
“I think Jack can take care of us both,” she said. She turned to Emir. “Don’t you have the ten-thirty tour?”
“I called Ibrahim. He said he can take it.”
“Ibrahim needs a break.” Her voice lowered. “You keep it.”
Emir tensed.
Aida approached him. Emir’s head lowered, like a dog bowing before its master.
“They asked for you specifically.” Aida lifted his chin with her finger. He gazed up into her eyes. “You’re the best, and they know it. And so do I.”