by Thomas Ryan
No cellmates. Isolation might be a form of punishment. If it was, Arben thought it was probably for the best. Sharing with others might make his already unbearable predicament a lot worse.
He needed to pee. He banged on the door. Nothing.
He bashed on the door again, harder this time.
For an hour he sat legs crossed. The door finally opened.
‘Toilet,’ Arben cried.
The guard nodded and Arben raced past him.
Hours passed. Arben lost track of how many.
A cockroach crawled across the floor. This one must have escaped the heel of his shoe. He decided it would become his ally. An unlikely companion to help him cope with the solitude. When he paced back and forth in the few metres of space available, he was careful not to tread on his little friend.
The cell door swung open. A guard entered. ‘Advocate,’ he grunted.
‘For me? Are you sure?’
‘Advocate,’ the guard repeated. ‘Come with me.’
Without a belt or laces, Arben had to hold on to his trousers to prevent them from falling down. His shoes flip-flopped as he walked. He was led to a room only a few metres from his cell, the only furniture a table and two chairs. His lawyer was sitting on one of the chairs, waiting for him. A friendly face should have been a welcome sight, but Arben had learned to his cost that this smartly dressed man was not to be trusted.
‘How are you, Arben?’ Tomi Mema pointed to the seat opposite.
Arben slumped into the chair. The guard turned his back, a gesture to imply privacy, but Arben had no doubts the man would be listening to every word.
‘How do you think I am, Tomi? You know I haven’t done anything wrong. You know this is bullshit.’ Arben leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Why can’t you just have the charges dismissed?’
‘You know it is not that simple. Only the courts can release you. You were out on bail and you tried to run. Why did you do this? Where was your head? This is very bad for you.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me that. I’m the one in a filthy, stinking cell.’
Mema gave the guard a quick glance. ‘The people I represent are not happy. They gave you an opportunity to make everything right, but instead you decided to be foolish.’ He rolled his eyes to emphasise the level of disbelief he entertained. ‘What made you think you could escape these people? I warned you of the consequences if you tried.’
‘All right, all right. I’ve got the message. Tell them I understand. I’ll play ball. Just get me out of here.’
‘It will not be so easy this time. Now they don’t trust you. They think if you are released that you will only try to flee again. You may even cause them trouble when you are out of the country.’
Arben gave the bridge of his nose a vigorous rub.
‘How can I cause trouble, Tomi? I don’t even know who they are. But now that I think about it, who is doing this to me?’
Mema shook his head. ‘This is exactly why they worry. Don’t ask this question.’
‘And your best legal advice is that I cannot win?’
Mema nodded. ‘You know you cannot win.’
‘Okay. Okay.’
Arben hadn’t the strength or the will to fight an invisible enemy. All he wanted was to see his wife and children again. To hold Kimie in his arms, talk to his son, kiss his daughter. The money, the family farm didn’t matter – whatever they wanted they could have. He was at the point of no longer caring.
‘Tell them they have nothing to fear from me. I will sign whatever they want me to sign and no one will hear from me again.’
Mema nodded once more. ‘In the morning you will be taken to court and maybe I can arrange for you to be released. But remember, if this happens you must organise the money and sign over the documents or they will have you sent back here.’
‘Just organise it, Tomi. I’ll do whatever they ask.’
‘I will pass on the message.’
Back in his cell, Arben sat on the bed and watched the cockroach crawling up the wall. To relieve the boredom he made small wagers with himself as to which direction it would take next. The guard brought in a mug of lukewarm tea and a stale crusty bun filled with mushy tomato and a brown lettuce leaf. He ripped off a piece of crust and tossed it onto the floor.
A banquet for his six-legged friend.
Falling back on the bed, Arben’s thoughts turned from his family to Jeff Bradley. Jeff would have received his message by now. But, realistically, what could Jeff do? He didn’t expect him to jump on a plane and come to Kosovo. And even if he did, Jeff would have no idea where to start looking for him. All he could hope for was that by tomorrow it would be over and he would be free.
He closed his eyes. It was time to sleep.
He conjured up an image of Kimie.
She was working in the vegetable garden at the rear of the house. He remembered she had badgered him for days until he had dug it over for her. She reached out and snapped off a parsley stem next to bushes of mint. He could almost smell it. How he loved it when she sprinkled mint over new potatoes. He walked closer to her, ever so slowly. She heard his approach and looked up. The joy in her smile melted his heart. He pulled her to her feet and took her in his arms, caressing her face and whispering her name over and over, until he drifted off to sleep.
6.
Jeff gave the other aircraft the once over as the Austrian airliner taxied past on its way to the terminal building. An American Air Force VC-25 that looked a lot like Air Force One sat parked on an offshoot of tarmac isolated from civilian air traffic. Within spitting distance of the Air Force Boeing VC-25 were two Apache helicopters acting as sentinels. Behind them was a sandbagged radar unit.
Jeff had surfed the Internet before leaving New Zealand. He discovered that after NATO had chased the Serbian army out of Kosovo, the province came under the governance of the UN. NATO troops remained but with a new role: keeping the ethnic Albanian and Serbian civilians from killing each other. Somewhere near the Macedonian border, the Americans had built a military base.
Jeff gave an involuntary shiver as he stepped out of the warm cabin onto the mobile stairs and into sub-zero temperatures. With cheerful insistence, a young woman in a charcoal ankle-length coat and bright red scarf directed the disembarking travellers towards the arrivals processing area. Jeff was in no hurry. The bags still needed offloading and the handlers were nowhere in sight. The sun hovering in a cloudless sky did little to thaw the chilly breeze sweeping across the exposed surroundings. His hands had already turned a chapped blue.
Inside the terminal, three Indian soldiers looked on as passengers formed shuffling queues in front of the four immigration control booths. When his turn came, Jeff handed his passport across to a Nigerian police officer. The man gave him a quick scrutiny before placing the travel document under a blue light. Satisfied it was not a forgery, he put it to one side and typed some information into a computer.
‘What brings you to Kosovo, Mr Bradley?’
The Nigerian officer’s English was impeccable.
‘I’m here on business.’
‘Are you staying long?’
‘No longer than two weeks, I shouldn’t think.’
The Nigerian banged a stamp onto a middle page and slapped the passport back onto the counter.
Ten minutes later, Jeff retrieved his bag from the carousel and followed the arrows to the exit. Outside, crowds waiting for family members swarmed the exit and the attempts by police to keep a clear pathway appeared to be a losing battle. As passengers descended the sloping ramp, welcome-home groups engulfed them. Jeff stood at the top of the ramp and scanned over the mass of bobbing heads. He caught sight of a sign written in tortured English: Welcum Geeff Baddley. It was being held aloft by a tall, solidly built man dressed in black trousers, black shirt and black leather jacket. Kimie had assured Jef
f that her friend was a good man from a good family, and therefore his son would be a man who could be trusted. Jeff was far too sceptical to accept anyone from this part of the world at face value, but for Arben’s sake he would give Sulla the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.
He shouldered his way through the crowd.
‘I’m Jeff Bradley.’
The man smiled.
‘Good to meet you, Jeff Bradley. I am Sulla Bogdani, a friend of the family of Arben Shala. Welcome to Kosovo.’
Sulla was close to the same height as Jeff, equally broad-shouldered and pretty much the same age. Thick black hair curled over the top of the man’s jacket collar. The disarming smile and movie star looks had Jeff wondering if Sulla might fancy himself as a Kosovon Don Juan.
Sulla reached down and took hold of Jeff’s suitcase.
‘No worries, Sulla. I can carry my own bag.’
‘You are my guest. Please, allow me this honour,’ Sulla said, pulling on the luggage strap.
Jeff decided to humour the man. He released his hold.
Sulla, bag in hand, walked off. ‘My car is in the car park. Not far.’
Taxi drivers called out in anticipation of a fare to the city. But Sulla shook his head and waggled his finger like a teacher admonishing a child. The disappointed cabbies directed their attentions elsewhere.
When they reached the car, Sulla popped open the lid of the older-model silver Mercedes and tossed Jeff’s bag inside.
‘You had a good flight?’ Sulla asked as he drove out of the airport car park.
‘As good as it gets in an airplane.’
‘How long is the flying time from New Zealand?’
‘Close to thirty hours.’
Sulla expelled an exaggerated puff of air. ‘That is much too long. You have been to Kosovo before?’
‘No, this is my first time.’
‘Ah. Then maybe you will be disappointed. Kosovo is a poor country. The airport is good. The main roads are good. The UN has spent much money. NATO has repaired bridges. It is good they have done this. But it is a facade. Behind the walls it is third world. In the minds of the people it is third world. The war destroyed everything. Many people died. Many people left. Some came back. Most did not. How can a country grow when it has lost so much?’
Sulla turned onto a highway.
‘Why didn’t you leave?’ Jeff asked.
‘I did for a short time when the NATO bombardment started. But as you can see, I came back.’ Sulla honked at a car that had cut in front of him. ‘Idiot. Sorry, Jeff. Getting a licence in Kosovo is too easy.’
Jeff laughed.
‘And what do you do, Sulla, as a job, I mean?’
‘Like everyone else in Kosovo I must do a little of everything. Right now I am a driver. When you are gone I will sell goods. Simple products. Washing powders, cooking oils. It is very difficult to import goods. I have my contacts. So, it is a good business for me.’
‘And you live in Prishtina?’
‘Yes, I live in Prishtina.’
‘Have you heard from Benny?’
‘Benny?’
‘Arben.’
‘Ah, Benny is nickname. Very good. No, I am sorry but I must tell you I have heard nothing.’
‘You know Arben well?’
‘Not so much. My father is an old friend of the Shala family. He lives in Peje now. Arben and his wife were students at the university in Prishtina. My father was Arben’s professor. In Kosovo, the student never leaves the teacher. They are like father and son. This is how it was with Arben and my father.’
Hand pressed on horn, Sulla accelerated past a car. Jeff held onto the dashboard, knuckles whitening as the car barely missed an oncoming truck.
‘Is that why Kimie Shala contacted you and not a relative?’ asked Jeff.
‘There is no one else. Sadly, the Shala family and all the relatives are no more. Killed during the war.’ Sulla’s voice lacked any discernible expression. ‘The whole village. Massacred.’
‘Jesus.’
Now Jeff’s memory of Kimie, Drita and Marko huddled together at the airport – three pairs of eyes pleading with him to find their father and husband and bring him home safely – held far more significance. Kimie had insisted they see him off. She had fussed over him, brushing cat hair from his jacket lapel and squatting to wipe a smudge from his shoe. There had been no point in protesting. Jeff knew this was her way of coping. Nothing was said, but Jeff could see in their faces that they held him responsible for Arben’s disappearance. Only when he returned Arben to them would they forgive him.
‘You haven’t forgotten anything?’ Kimie had asked.
‘No, Kimie. I have travelled before.’
‘I know. I know. Socks. Have you packed extra pairs of socks? It’s winter in Kosovo. Very cold this time of the year.’
‘I’ve got plenty of socks. If I need more I’ll find a market.’
‘Yes. There are markets.’
When the loudspeaker announced his boarding call, Jeff had caught Marko’s eye and they exchanged nods. Marko had tried hard to adopt a macho attitude, but the tears were welling in his eyes. Drita said nothing, but clung to her mother’s arm. Kimie slipped her hand around Jeff’s neck and pulled him down to her. She touched his cheek with her own.
‘Bring my husband home,’ she whispered.
‘I will.’ Jeff gave her hand a squeeze.
Kimie mumbled something in Albanian. A prayer, Jeff assumed. Whatever trouble Arben was in, Jeff fervently hoped he hadn’t made a promise that had already passed its use-by date.
‘We are on the outskirts of Prishtina,’ Sulla announced, breaking in on his reverie.
A sign perched on top of a three-metre-high fence read ‘UN Administration’. Behind the fence Jeff could see a Legoland city made up of twenty- and forty-foot shipping containers. The specially designed containers held offices, generators and anything else an administration centre might need. Jeff assumed Legoland would go with the UN the day they left.
‘The UN. You’re glad they’re here, Sulla?’
Sulla shrugged. ‘The Americans and NATO rescued us and the UN is trying to make us a nation. They try hard to make everyone happy, but you cannot make everyone happy. They do good things and they do bad things. All the time they make promises and still no one knows for certain what is the future.’ Sulla offered a cheeky smile. ‘The UN has money and they spend it, so not everything is bad.’
He turned left at a set of traffic lights. ‘Here we are. The Grand Hotel. This is where you will stay. It is old but it is the best accommodation in Prishtina. All foreigners stay here. This is where Arben Shala stayed.’
The sprawling twenty-storey brown-and-grey building dominated the skyline. On the roof huge letters in white suspended on wires spelled out H-O-T-E-L with five stars perched above the letters.
When the car stopped no doorman rushed out to greet them.
Jeff tensed the way he used to in his SAS days just before a mission was about to start. ‘Before we go in there’s something we need to discuss.’
Sulla turned off the engine and fixed his attention on Jeff. ‘What is it?’
‘What exactly did Kimie Shala tell your father?’
‘Not much. Only that she had not heard from Arben and she was worried.’
Jeff nodded. He was weighing up a decision. Could he trust Sulla? He decided he had little choice. He needed the Kosovon’s help.
‘Benny left a message on my answer phone. He said he was in trouble and he was leaving for Macedonia and would call from there.’
Sulla raised an eyebrow. ‘And of course this did not happen?’
‘Correct. Now I’m assuming the worst. Also, whoever was causing him trouble will be on their guard. My cover story is that I met Arben in New Zealand and he invited me to Kosov
o to look at a business opportunity. And now that I’ve come such a distance I’m keen to locate him.’
Sulla grinned. ‘Okay, I can play this game. So now you have a reason for asking questions.’
When they left the car, once again Sulla carried Jeff’s bags for him. This time Jeff didn’t bother protesting. The expansive hotel lobby confirmed that in its heyday the Grand might indeed have been grand and deserving of the five stars it still proudly displayed. But now the white ceiling tiles had yellowed and flakes of pink paint, faded almost to white, had peeled away from the plaster walls. The marble floor tiles, although polished, were cracked. The dimmed lighting failed to hide the fact that the shining jewel that once might have been the gathering place of the Prishtina glitterati was now simply seedy.
Sulla stood back and watched Jeff check in.
‘One question,’ Jeff said to the concierge.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Can you tell me if a Mr Arben Shala is staying at the hotel?’
‘Shala. Let me see. It is a name I remember.’ The concierge flicked through the registration book. ‘Ah, yes. Here he is. Yes. Mr Shala was our guest. He checked out more than a week ago. Are you a friend of Mr Shala?’
‘I know him from New Zealand. I had arranged to meet him here. A business matter.’
The concierge conceded a polite smile. ‘I am so sorry you have missed him. But please enjoy your stay.’
Sulla walked Jeff to the elevator. ‘Now it is in the open, you must be careful, Jeff,’ Sulla said. He looked back at the concierge. ‘Trust no one.’
‘You don’t have to worry on that score.’
‘You are on the third floor. I will leave you to rest. Tomorrow we will meet and decide the next step.’ Sulla took a card from his pocket. ‘If you need me, phone my mobile number. And remember: watch your back.’