by Mike Maden
Gavin had saved his bacon back in Singapore by identifying a couple undercover Chinese special operators Jack had run into, by accessing a DoD biometric database. Fingerprints, saliva, hair, and even semen samples of foreign operators were acquired one way or another and stored for future reference. If any of those phony Serb cops had ever spit or combed their hair anywhere near one of these DoD operations, Gavin would have been able to ID him.
Didn’t matter at this point. Those guys were in Bosnian police custody by now. The police would figure it out.
His mind turned back to Aida. The smell of her soft skin, the taste of her mouth. She was an incredible woman, and clearly they were connecting deeply.
More deeply than he’d thought possible.
But he had to admit that she was a mystery. She wasn’t a trained operator, but obviously she could handle herself in a pinch. She said she was only trying to protect him. He could believe that.
He wanted to believe that.
He was crazy about her.
And she was crazy about him, too. He was sure.
It had been a long day. A helluva couple days. Time for some chow and a hot shower and an early evening to catch up on some long-needed rest. Tomorrow was going to be his last full day in Sarajevo, and then dinner with Aida.
If tomorrow was going to be anything like today, he needed to be ready for it.
PARIS
Vasilev’s glass-enclosed “clean” room—suite, really—occupied the entire fifth floor of the private hospital, located in a late-nineteenth-century Beaux Arts building in the ultra-wealthy 16th arrondissement. From his bed, the old Bulgarian had a postcard view of the River Seine below, as gray and listless as freshly poured concrete oozing through the city.
His medical suite looked like a set from the old sci-fi movie The Andromeda Strain. The room was hermetically sealed and only select staff were permitted entrance onto the floor, and only when fully garbed in protective clothing and scrubbed spotless with the most powerful antibiotic cleansers. They adhered to BSL 3 protocols, just one step down from the biosafety level precautions the CDC would take when handling Ebola virus.
Vasilev’s experimental CAR T-cell treatment was proceeding well, according to the doctors, even better than they had hoped. But his overall health condition was extremely fragile, and his immune system severely weakened after years of traditional cancer therapies. Every precaution was being taken to protect the crime lord from infectious diseases of every sort, even the most benign bacteria, until his body had a chance to recover its own natural defenses.
Vasilev was in a foul mood for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the strict macrobiotic anti-cancer diet his idiot doctor required of him.
Who the hell can eat spelt and miso soup all day?
But it was his blood pressure that was threatening to kill him at the moment.
Behind the glass walls, Vasilev enjoyed every possible amenity, including an encrypted Amazon Echo Show, which he was using now while lying in his adjustable hospital bed, speaking with his number two, the Czech. The entire floor was vacated, even of staff, for the video call. One determined glance from Vasilev’s soul-snatching eyes sent even his world-renowned doctors scurrying for safety on the floors below.
“My patience is running thin,” Vasilev growled. “Why isn’t Ryan dead?”
“Our first attempt failed. We’re not sure why. But the loose end is tied off.” The Czech stubbed out a cigarette in an ashtray offscreen. Gray smoke lingered in the air.
“And?”
“We’re tracking him now, in Bosnia.”
“Tracking him? You should be killing him.”
“You said you wanted his head. That makes matters more difficult to arrange.”
“Yes, Tomáš, his head. His head!” Vasilev pounded his mattress for emphasis.
The solemn Czech nodded curtly. “Of course. It will be done.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“As soon as is humanly possible. However, I do have good news about someone else.”
“Tell me.”
He did.
Vasilev chuckled. “Well done, old friend. Now finish the Ryan job.”
“Everything is being coordinated, even as we speak. How are you feeling these days?”
“I feel fantastic. Of course, for seventeen thousand euros a day, I should. I could walk out of here right now on my own two legs. Something I haven’t been able to do in a year.”
The Czech allowed himself a small smile. “Then the treatments are even better than we hoped. Thank God.”
“God? God has nothing to do with it.”
The Czech’s eyes betrayed nothing.
He couldn’t agree more.
“I will report as soon as Ryan’s head is in my possession. In the meantime, get better, old friend. We have much to do when you return.”
The old Bulgarian nodded, shaking his jowls, which were pinking up nicely. “Worlds to conquer.”
The Czech smiled again. “Indeed. Worlds to conquer.” He lit another cigarette. Inhaled deeply.
Vasilev licked his yellowed teeth. He could practically taste the Czech’s tobacco, one of many vices he sorely missed.
“And you, Tomáš? How is your health?”
“I feel fine.”
“Good. If you want to keep it that way, get me Ryan’s head before I leave this place, or I’ll cut yours off myself.”
Vasilev killed the transmission. His stomach gurgled like a fermenting beer cask. He called down for something to eat. Beans and brown rice, perhaps.
Anything but that filthy miso soup.
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Gerry Hendley sat at his desk at Hendley Associates studying a piece of proposed legislation that the Senate Finance Committee was about to hold hearings on when his phone buzzed.
“Yes, Alice?”
“A call for you on line one. It’s urgent.”
“Thank you.”
He picked up. A familiar voice. It was Jeremiah Morales, the head of the federal Bureau of Prisons, a man who owed his position to the ex-senator. They exchanged a few pleasantries, but Gerry could tell there was something on the man’s mind.
“Out with it.”
“Gerry, I’m sorry to tell you that Weston Rhodes is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“Hanged himself.”
Gerry frowned with confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense. Weston was only facing five years. He had a lot to live for.”
“Some guys just can’t cut it.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Jeremiah. My best to Meredith.”
Gerry shook his head in utter disbelief. Weston Rhodes, the former senator and CIA field officer, was not a hero by any means, but not a wimp, either. And it wasn’t as if he was doing time in the Hanoi Hilton like Admiral Stockdale. Rhodes had been located in the least restrictive wing of “Club Fed,” the Federal Correctional Institution in Cumberland, Maryland. It was home to many white-collar criminals who posed no threat to themselves or others. Martha Stewart kinda crimes. Light duty, decent hours, no violence. It was a good gig, if you had to do time.
Rhodes was busted for his role in the Singapore affair that nearly got Jack killed. He could’ve been tried for treason, conspiracy, and a number of other felonies that could’ve put him in for life or even snatched it away from him.
But one of Rhodes’s K Street legal buddies bamboozled the federal prosecutor into a bench trial, and the presiding judge was a Yale alum who didn’t see the need to recuse himself from the case despite having known Rhodes for more than thirty years. It was rumored that Rhodes had stashed a good deal of cash in an offshore account as well.
So why kill himself?
It couldn’t have been about his situation. Perha
ps it had something to do with how he got there in the first place. He was connected to a middleman, the conduit between the North Koreans and the operation to steal the quantum computing technology and the attempt on Jack’s life. What was that guy’s name? He couldn’t pull it up. He called Gavin.
“Gavin, what was the name of that yahoo that was running Rhodes like a rented mule on the Singapore operation?”
“Zvezdev. A CIA SOG team found him—or at least parts of him—in a kimchi jar.”
Gerry thanked him and called the director of national intelligence, Mary Pat Foley, a friend for many years. He had her personal number.
“We found him in Croatia. A Bulgarian. The rumor was he was connected to some kind of criminal syndicate, but we never got more than that. I’ll forward the particulars of what we have.”
“Thanks, Mary Pat. I might have to circle back to you on this.”
“You have my number.”
Bingo, Gerry thought.
Rhodes was connected to Zvezdev, some kind of syndicate mobster who wanted Jack killed but he winds up dead instead.
Zvezdev dead.
Rhodes dead.
And somebody connected to Zvezdev still wants to kill Jack.
Zvezdev is the key.
That’s it.
Gerry’s e-mail dinged. It was the Zvezdev file promised from Mary Pat.
He opened it and scanned it for details. Zvezdev was the link to everything. The Bulgarian had fled to Croatia to hide, and it was the place where he had been killed.
Gerry pulled out his encrypted cell phone and speed-dialed Dom.
“I’m forwarding a file to you guys right now. I need you to get over to Croatia, pronto.”
53
Jack woke up with the alarm, refreshed and ready for a new day. He threw himself on the floor by his bed, banging out two hundred push-ups in sets of fifty before he even allowed himself to take his morning piss. Nothing like a sense of urgency to motivate the will.
It was time to get his head out of his ass.
Time to Get After It.
Nothing wrong with a vacation, but it was no excuse for letting himself go, and the last two weeks had been too much of a slide. After he took a leak, he thought about changing into a pair of running shorts and going for a run along the river. But he never saw any runners in the city and the sidewalks were crowded in the mornings, so he opted instead for four sets of twenty-five burpees.
He nearly puked his guts out, but he finally finished, gasping for air. Feeling a nice little pump all over his body, and a few aches he hadn’t felt in a while, he padded barefoot into the kitchen to boil up enough water for his last bag of Jocko White Tea and fry a couple eggs.
After finishing up his breakfast, he turned on the English-language local news at the top of the early-morning hour. The two lead news items caught his attention.
The first was about the upcoming Serbian Orthodox Renewal service in just two days, and the growing excitement among Serbs in Bosnia and the region, with video clips of faithful Orthodox people boarding buses and smiling bearded priests packing suitcases. “Local officials are anticipating fifty thousand participants tomorrow, up from estimates of just thirty thousand a week ago,” one commentator noted.
The second story featured the gruesome massacre of a Muslim wedding party three days before near Višegrad in Herzegovina, a region of the country through which he had passed with Aida on their trip to Dubrovnik.
The images were horrible and all too familiar to Jack, both on television and, unfortunately, in person. In catechism, the nuns taught him the theological concept of original sin, but life with The Campus proved to him it wasn’t just a theory.
The grim newscasters introduced English-subtitled video clips of grieving families and Bosniak community leaders calling for swift justice against the murderous Serb White Eagles. They complained that the corrupt and incompetent government was either unwilling or unable to deliver it.
At least one Bosniak called for justice “to be taken into our own hands,” and a raging imam called for jihad against the Serbs from his pulpit. A news crawl along the bottom of the screen read: #remembersrebrenica is trending number one on Twitter in Bosnia . . .
“Damn,” Jack whispered to himself as he powered off the TV and headed for the shower.
* * *
—
Jack left his apartment with the prestamped DHL envelope addressed to Detective Oblak and a list of touristy things he planned to do: art galleries, museums, and churches. He wanted to get a better feel for the city and the culture. He’d really fallen in love with the country and the people he’d met, but a profound sadness dogged him. This nation had a long and painful history, and, it seemed, a dim future, barring some unforeseen development. Strong-willed, hopeful, entrepreneurial types like Aida seemed few and far between. There was no lack of human or natural resources in this beautiful country. It seemed like the only thing keeping it down was a culture of despair.
Jack found the DHL drop-off, then started his tour, marking off each spot on his list as the morning progressed. After visiting the Sacred Heart Cathedral with the giant metallic statue of Pope John Paul II out front, his stomach grumbled and he found himself back at his favorite restaurant, downing another plate of fire-roasted ćevapi and a bottle of sparkling water.
After finishing his meal, he checked his list, but he already knew what was next. The Galerija 11/07/95, with its permanent exhibit on the Srebrenica massacre, was the only stop he dreaded, thanks to Aida’s warning. He seriously considered skipping it and going on to the Sarajevo Brewery Museum, but he knew he could catch that later.
He checked his GPS on his phone with a sigh and headed for the dark soul of the Bosnian War.
* * *
—
The Srebrenica exhibit didn’t disappoint, if that was the right word.
Located inside a modern, minimalist gallery of light blond-wood floors and gray walls, it didn’t sit right with Jack. The rooms were uncluttered and antiseptic, but the subject matter was messy and dirty.
It reminded him of his visit to Dachau years before, a single, perfectly preserved barracks building standing on well-groomed grounds without a speck of trash or disorder. No grimy, black soot or flaky ash to mar the barracks, no blood-soaked rags dropped in piles around the compound. The German exhibitors had removed all evidence of trembling, urine-stained fear and the groaning despair that boiled up from the merciless ovens.
The Galerija exhibit’s most moving displays were the fifty-two-foot-long Wall of Death featuring the ages and names of the 8,372 men and boys killed by the Serbs, and the hundreds of haunting photos collected by the Association of Mothers of Srebrenica and Žepa.
Jack exited the Galerija utterly depressed. His soul thirsted for life the way a drunk craves a drink. He needed to see Aida. Now.
Before he lost his faith in the possibility of hope.
He turned the corner, heading for the exit, and saw a familiar pockmarked face.
Too bad.
* * *
—
A beefy man with bad acne scarring and a bandage across his broken nose blocked Jack’s way out of the museum.
“Višća, isn’t it?” Jack asked.
The man smiled beneath his broken Ray-Bans, Scotch-taped back together at the bridge. He was one of Kolak’s goons, the one that jumped him just outside this building a few days ago.
The one that Kolak warned would want to get his revenge.
“Kolak wants you,” the man grunted. “You come with me. Now.”
The man wasn’t exactly making a request. Jack weighed his options. Jack took him once before and could probably take him again. But the man’s shoulder holster bulging beneath his coat was persuasive.
“Okay, Chuckles. But you’re driving.”
Jack reached for his phone�
�a little too quickly, apparently. Višća tensed, ready to throw a punch or pull his weapon.
“Just need to call somebody.”
“No calls.”
Jack’s options hadn’t changed. He stopped reaching for his phone.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Kolak. Now.”
Jack shrugged.
Time to see Kolak.
54
Višća ushered Jack into Kolak’s cramped, third-floor office at OSA-OBA headquarters and departed wordlessly. The gray industrial carpet was lightly stained, and the wood-paneled walls were mostly bare, save for the service commendation awards and shooting trophies.
At least this time it wasn’t another basement interrogation room, but it wasn’t much of an improvement. It looked like an abandoned set from The Rockford Files.
“Thank you for coming, Jack,” Kolak said, standing up behind his desk and extending his hand. Jack took it firmly.
“Happy to be here.”
“You are a gracious liar. Please, have a seat. Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Jack took a seat. “And for the record, I don’t have to be here. But I chose to come.”
“Duly noted, and greatly appreciated. Of course, if you hadn’t come in voluntarily, Višća was eager to encourage you.”
“Yeah? How did that work out for him last time?”
Kolak laughed. “I like you, Jack.”
“I doubt that’s why I’m here.”
“Just a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. But a call would’ve worked just as well. I’m kinda busy at the moment.”
“Of course you are.”
The springs in Kolak’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, folding his hands on his belly. “It’s just that I like to be able to read a man’s face when I talk to him.” He tapped his cheekbone with his index finger. “The eye is the best lie detector.”