The Field of Blackbirds (A Jeff Bradley Thriller)

by Thomas Ryan

  He made sure to pick up the glass as Arben had taught him. Turning to the wall he tilted the glass against the white background. What had Arben said to look for? ‘If it is red turning purplish it is young. Deep red and it is aged.’

  The contents of this glass were approaching purplish, just as Jeff expected. He doubted the Xhiha brothers would allow wine to age for more than a season when it could be turned into cash. He swirled the glass and brought it to his nose, breathing in the newly released polyphenols. Jeff took a sizeable sip and let it swish and circulate to every part of his mouth. To Jeff’s amateur palate it seemed to have what he’d describe as good body. He looked for a basin. There was none. He spat the wine back into the glass and put it on the table with a nod of the head. He adopted what he hoped would pass for a wise expression.

  ‘Mmm. Young, yes. But better than I expected.’

  Had he done it right? Was there any part of the process he’d got wrong?

  Astrit’s bright grin and thumbs up to the others reassured him he’d not made a complete dick of himself. The staff clapped then returned to the bottling with what looked like renewed enthusiasm.

  ‘Astrit?’ Jeff said cautiously. ‘Has a man named Arben Shala visited the vineyard at any time in the last two weeks?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Shala was here.’ Astrit checked behind him then lowered his voice. ‘He was with an American woman. They had a big argument with the brothers. I didn’t overhear much of what was said, but he and the woman did not look happy when they left.’

  ‘Really? An American woman? Do you know who she was?’

  ‘When they first arrived she gave me a business card. I have it in the office. Come, I will find it for you.’

  Jeff gave Sulla a quick glance.

  ‘As they say in the movies,’ Sulla said, ‘this might be our lucky break.’

  ‘A lead, at any rate, Sulla my friend. Sounds like a promising one too.’

  The sun hung low in the sky when Jeff and Sulla drove back into Prishtina. Jeff mulled over the bits and pieces of information he’d been gathering. The disagreement between Arben and the brothers had no doubt been when Arben confronted them over the ownership of the land. He looked at the woman’s business card in his hand. What interest did she have in Arben Shala’s affairs? Her name was Morgan Delaney and the card was embossed with the USAID logo.

  Impatience tightened his shoulders. He wanted to get back to his hotel room and phone the number on the card.

  12.

  The trained eyes of Lee Caldwell scanned the blast zone. His steps needed to be slow and measured. Grid searching by a man of his experience was never rushed. Not if he expected to find clues that lesser professionals might miss.

  A pause to check his bearings.

  The cobbles of the narrow, sloping street, Čopova ulica ran from where he stood right into Prešeren Square, Ljubljana’s city centre. To his left, tangled wires roped through the glassless window frames of McDonald’s restaurant. The balcony had collapsed. Further down he noted a few store owners had covered shattered windows with plywood and canvas. But most gaped open. Caldwell looked into the burnt out interiors sodden by fire hoses. The stench of charred stock and timber filled his nostrils.

  He paused at the entrance into the square. Beside him, a torn piece of yellow police tape, still attached to a length of mangled aluminium framing, fluttered in the breeze. The broken glass and debris he expected to see had already been swept up. But specks of blood splattered across the walls and cobblestones still waited to be washed away.

  The gentle flap of tarpaulins draped over a handful of apartment buildings sounded like the wings of giant birds passing by. Wooden panels had been nailed over the doors and windows of the rest. The two buildings cornering the alley that the marathon runners were to have run through had collapsed into a mountain of rubble. The acrid smell of charred timbers was much stronger here. In three languages somebody had whitewashed on the wall that the Sunday morning bric-a-brac market would stay closed indefinitely.

  Groups of the city’s inhabitants huddled together in silence. Most held lighted candles as they continued the city’s vigil for the 83 Slovenes killed and the 117 injured.

  Head bowed in respect, Caldwell picked his way through the groups to the monument to Slovenia’s greatest poet, France Prešeren. The residue of countless melted candles glued wreaths of brightly coloured flowers, framed photos and crucifixes around the statue’s feet. Caldwell had seen scenes like this many times before. But as immune as he thought he had become to such bombings, the collection of teddy bears and small dolls reflecting the death of children filled him with renewed rage. This was barbaric cowardice, pure and simple. It disgusted him.

  He knew the city would recover. In his experience, the effects of terrorist bombings were never long-lasting and whatever their political justification may have been was quickly forgotten. Suicide bombers died in vain. However, this time his trained eye told Caldwell those responsible for the wreckage in Presnov Square were not suicide bombers.

  These ones were almost certainly still very much alive.

  As always in such places, Lee Caldwell walked to a quiet spot. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer to the dead, promising their ghosts that he would find those responsible and make them pay.

  When he was finished, he walked back up Čopova ulica to his waiting car. He had a plane to catch.

  13.

  From the outside, the glass multi-storey OSCE building looked like a giant mirror. It reflected the light of the setting sun, sending shafts of burning orange light across the city. It didn’t surprise Jeff to see that most motorists heading west had one arm raised to shield their eyes. Jaywalking would be hazardous in these conditions. For once Jeff would err on the side of caution and wait for the traffic lights to turn red before crossing the road.

  The building had been easy enough to find but determining which was the entrance to the Land Registry Office proved more difficult. A security guard outside the Bank of Kosovo directed Jeff down a side street. It was a little after five and past office closing. Morgan Delaney had agreed to wait for him but, he suspected, with some reluctance.

  An ID badge attached to his jacket lapel, Jeff made his way along a corridor to the last room on the left. He knocked twice on the open door and took half a step inside. A standing woman speaking on the telephone waved him in and pointed to a leather two-seater.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what the minister is saying, Ron, he’s lying. The documentation is quite clear on this point and I don’t want him to get away with it.’

  Jeff took a seat. He judged Morgan Delaney to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. The charcoal trouser suit she wore fitted snugly over her tall, athletic physique. A neat chignon of thick, wavy red hair sat pinned at the nape of her neck. Green eyes glistened as she spoke. Her raised voice warned Jeff that she was angry about something.

  ‘Yeah right, and a big to-hell-with-you as well, Ron.’

  The hand piece met the receiver with a loud clatter. Then Jeff encountered a wide smile.

  ‘Bureaucrats. Don’t you just love them? You must be Jeff Bradley.’ She thrust out a hand. Jeff stood to respond. ‘Morgan Delaney.’ She perched on the edge of her desk and waved him to resume his seat. ‘How can I help you, Mr Bradley?’

  ‘I got this yesterday.’ Jeff fished the business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘It was given to me by the manager of a vineyard near Gjakova. He said you gave it to him when you visited with a man called Arben Shala.’

  ‘Arben Shala. Yes, I remember Mr Shala very well. Nice man.’

  ‘May I ask why he came to see you?’

  Morgan’s brow creased. Her eyes squinted at Jeff for several seconds. He was pretty certain she was not mentally undressing him, but it did look mighty close. Either way Jeff had the weird sensation he had just been put through some kind of
washing machine.

  ‘There are no privacy laws in Kosovo, but all the same I’m not prepared to discuss a client’s business unless I’m certain it’s in my client’s best interests. So before we go any further, would you mind telling me your connection to Mr Shala?’

  Jeff turned on a smile. ‘Fair enough. I own a vineyard near Auckland. That’s a city in New Zealand.’

  Jeff noticed a tightening of Morgan’s lips. ‘I have heard of Auckland, Mr Bradley. And I do know where New Zealand is as it happens. Not all Americans are geographically challenged, you know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Fact is I had a Kiwi penpal in Dargaville when I was ten years old. At that age I thought New Zealanders lived in grass huts. I was terribly disappointed when I found out they were actually quite civilised.’

  ‘Some of us even wear shoes.’

  To Jeff’s relief, Ms Delaney’s smile returned. ‘Anyway, I met Arben through a mutual acquaintance. He told me he had a vineyard in Kosovo and was keen to sell. So here I am, an eager buyer, but no Arben. The hotel said he booked out a week ago. When I phoned his family they had not heard from him and they’re worried. Does that qualify me to ask questions?’

  ‘Okay, here’s the deal. The US government funds our company and what we do is investigate property disputes. Mr Shala came to see me for that reason.’ Morgan turned and shuffled through the documents spread across her desk. She held up a manila folder, opened it and withdrew some papers. ‘Here it is. Two brothers by the surname of Xhiha claim they inherited the disputed property from their uncle.’

  ‘Yes, I already know that much. I met with the Xhiha brothers earlier today. Is it possible that Arben could be wrong and the brothers really do own the property?’

  ‘Mr Shala had an original deed of ownership.’ Morgan held up a photocopy. ‘Two legal documents for the same property is not uncommon in Kosovo.’ She waved her hand over the desk. ‘All these files tell a similar story to Mr Shala’s.’

  ‘I guess I have to ask the obvious question. How can there be two legal deeds of ownership for the same property?’

  ‘That’s the simple part. During the war, many Kosovons fled the country. Some came back. Many didn’t. Anyway, someone, or a group of someones, or an organised gang – I don’t know which for certain – have been moving in on the abandoned properties. In Kosovo everyone is poor and in need of money, especially public servants. Pay the bribe and hey presto: new documents, all legally registered. Lately a number of the original owners have returned and, as you can see from the pile of files on my desk, there are an awful lot of disputes. Some are easily resolved, but most, as in the case of Mr Shala, are not. The difficulty is that during the war local council records went missing. There was never a central land registry in Kosovo.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Unfortunately, there are no easy solutions. Either one party gives up and walks away, or someone gets a gun and we end up with dead bodies.’

  It occurred to Jeff that he now had the probable reason for Arben’s phone message. He exhaled a deep breath.

  ‘I hate to think that someone would kill Arben over a shitty piece of land.’

  Morgan raised an eyebrow. ‘Wars are usually fought over land.’

  ‘Okay. Point taken,’ Jeff said, allowing a sheepish grin to acknowledge the absurdity of his comment. ‘And you don’t know whether the false registrations are attributable to lone opportunists or organised gangs?’

  ‘That’s about where it sits, Mr Bradley. My investigations have turned up more questions than answers. But at the moment there is one red flag flying higher than the rest.’

  ‘Which is . . . ?’

  ‘More than eighty per cent of these disputes are concentrated in the Peje and Gjakova regions. It’s too early to jump to conclusions, but I think I can safely say I smell a rat.’

  ‘This is not good news for Arben Shala.’ Jeff addressed this comment more to himself than to Morgan Delaney.

  ‘No need for pessimism. He could have just gone into hiding. It happens.’

  ‘Even if that were the case, I’m sure he would’ve found a way to get word to his family. Trouble is, after having met the Xhiha brothers, I have no difficulty believing they’re capable of murder. But to successfully cover it up? No. I think they’re far too stupid.’

  Morgan tapped a pen on the table. ‘Let’s think about that. To arrange false documentation requires the cooperation of public servants and judges and, of course, lawyers to handle the lodging of the documents. I don’t see the Xhihas having the aptitude for that either. I doubt they can even read. I’d be inclined to say that somebody else is pulling their strings.’

  ‘You think Arben’s claim is genuine then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m positive. Firstly, unlike many others, he did have the original documents. Secondly, he’s now a New Zealand citizen with a family and a good job. So why bother coming back to Kosovo if the claim wasn’t legit?’ She shrugged. ‘It just doesn’t sit right when I look at it from either angle.’

  ‘If you believe he is the real owner, what can your office do?’

  Morgan shook her head. ‘Not a lot. Our job is to determine the truth and pass the information to the courts. Then it’s up to them.’

  ‘Did he mention to you he was being harassed?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. But he was very angry. He might have tried to resolve the dispute in the typical Albanian way. But somehow I don’t think so. Mr Shala didn’t seem the violent type. However, there are some ruthless individuals out there. Intimidation and violence are a part of Kosovon daily life. The value of these disputed properties runs into millions of dollars. The average monthly wage here is a hundred dollars. Do the math, Mr Bradley. For a few measly bucks people like Mr Shala can be made to disappear.’

  Jeff well understood the math. The bottom line chilled him. He stood up. For some reason his legs felt unsteady.

  ‘Ms Delaney, thank you for your help. I guess I might revisit the vineyard and have another talk with the Xhiha brothers.’

  ‘I’d be careful. I didn’t like the look of those two any more than you did.’ Morgan passed back her business card. ‘If I can be of any further assistance, please call.’

  Outside, Jeff stood on the pavement mulling over his conversation with Morgan Delaney. He refused to believe Arben was dead. He was not about to give up hope, not yet. But if Arben wasn’t dead, then where the hell was he?

  14.

  Arben’s eyes tracked the decline of the sun through the small wire-meshed window. Dusk crept across the Prishtina rooftops, sucking up the city’s colours like leeches draining life from a drunk collapsed in a gutter. Silhouettes dimmed then disappeared into darkness, yet Arben found himself still in the court cell.

  Hours of sitting on a wooden bench had numbed his rump. His calf muscles cramped from time to time. Pacing back and forth had helped, but it failed to ease his general discomfort. The bravado that had imbued him with the courage to confront Tomi Mema had withered into depression: a depression made worse by the realisation that Mema was right. There would be no compassion for him from the court. No hope of release.

  Voices approached. American voices.

  The clank of keys signalled the arrival of the court guard at his cell. She swung the gate open and beckoned him forward. Two brawny black UN policemen emerged from behind her and smiled at him.

  ‘Arben Shala?’ one asked. Arben nodded. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes, yes I do. I live in New Zealand. I’m a New Zealand citizen.’

  ‘That so.’

  The American’s voice betrayed little interest. The woman guard removed Arben’s handcuffs. He felt a nudge in the back.

  ‘Face the wall, Mr Shala.’

  Arben did as he was told. The second American ran his hands quickly down his trunk and legs.

  �
�Okay buddy. Turn around and hold out your hands.’

  Arben found his hands confined by a new set of handcuffs. The policeman bent to look into his face.

  ‘Is that okay? Not too tight?’

  ‘No, not too tight. Look, officer. This is a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. The people responsible are using the courts to steal money from me. I can’t get a message to the UN to let the New Zealand government know I’m here. I need help.’

  A frown crossed the brow of the policeman.

  ‘Do you have a lawyer?’

  Arben gave the man a vigorous nod. ‘Yes. But he’s part of the problem. I need international help.’

  ‘Okay, I hear you. You need to talk to the director of the detention centre once you get there.’

  It struck Arben that the director was an unknown quantity and that these men weren’t. He hated the thought of pleading, but his position didn’t leave a lot of room for pride.

  ‘Can’t you guys do something? This is desperate for me, officers.’

  Both policemen shook their heads. ‘Sorry, friend, no can do. We’ve got no authority here. We only drive the van. If you’re unhappy with your lawyer, the director will bring in someone from the UN to help you. You’re not alone. Really. Okay?’

  Arben’s flash of optimism disappeared into the cosmos. Mema had been right. No one cared. One of the policemen stepped into the corridor.

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  The court had closed long ago and Arben saw the street outside was clear of onlookers. At least the walk to the police van would be less harrowing than his arrival.

  ‘Sit anywhere. There won’t be any other passengers. Try to relax. It’s a short trip.’