by Thomas Ryan
‘That would need permission from the Kosovon courts. It would be difficult. And take about the same amount of time.’
The snort from Barry sounded little less than scornful. ‘You must be bloody joking. You have to ask these lying, cheating bastard pricks for permission?’
Lyons appeared impervious to Barry’s obscenities. Hands sat folded on top of his desk. ‘Yes, I do. Look, I’m not the bad guy here. I’d help you if I could. But what you have to understand is that this office is not an embassy. We only have the powers of a consulate. We may request, we may observe, but we may demand nothing. The best I can suggest is that you have Mr Shala cremated and take his ashes back to the family.’
A stony expression settled on Jeff’s face.
‘He’s Muslim. Cremation is out of the question.’ He leaned back and stared through the window. Balancing awkwardly on the roof tiles of the house next to the British office, an old man struggled to secure what looked like an even older television antenna to a chimney. His glance returned to Lyons. ‘It seems we’ve struck a brick wall here, Mr Lyons.’
‘I’m afraid you have. I really am sorry.’
Jeff stood and offered the consul his hand. ‘Mr Lyons. Thank you for your time. I shall talk to his family. I’ll make sure things are done decently.’
Jeff paced the worn carpet that covered the creaking boards of his hotel room. An untouched glass of whiskey sat on the bedside table. Twice he had reached for it and twice he had decided against it. He wanted a clear head when he spoke to Kimie. He was having difficulty formulating the right words. Alcohol would be no help at all.
Finally he lowered himself onto the bed. The house phone took up residence on his thigh. He lifted the receiver and dialled the number. He counted the number of rings. At five he prepared to hang up. At six the line clicked open.
‘Hello.’ Marko’s voice. He sounded drowsy.
‘Marko, it’s Jeff.’
‘Jeff. Hey, man, you got any idea what time it is? It’s bloody early, bro.’
‘Marko. Go wake your mother. I need to talk to her.’
‘She’s asleep.’
Jeff bowed his head with a sigh. He didn’t want to spook the kid before he got to the mother. He was too sharp for his own good when he wanted to be.
‘Marko, listen to me. I know it’s late. Just do as I ask. Please.’
A pause. ‘Why? What’s happened?’ The sleep had gone from Marko’s voice. ‘You’ve found Dad? Is he okay?’
‘Marko. Go get your mother.’
The order had left Jeff’s throat like a military bark. A clatter assaulted his eardrum. He guessed Marko had dropped the phone onto the table. He’d be alarmed and scampering off down the hall to his mother’s room. It would take a few minutes for Kimie to compose herself. She would splash water over her face and maybe run a comb through her hair. Arben had once told him of this endearing quirk of hers. That she would not answer the phone until she felt she looked presentable. The image brought a sad smile to his face.
‘Hello, Jeff?’ The voice sounded guarded.
‘Hi, Kimie.’
‘You have news? You have found Arben?’
Jeff coughed to clear the lump in his throat. ‘Yes, I’ve found Arben.’
The mosque at the cemetery still bore signs of scorching above its windows, although the roof looked as if it had been recently repaired. A dozen pairs of boots tramping in file had left a muddy trail to the graveside. Concrete headstones at various degrees of precarious tilt hunched in protection over mounds of dirt and weeds. Jeff tried to read some of the epitaphs but the Albanian was gibberish to him. Patches of ice the colour of milk chocolate lodged in the shadow of rocky protrusions. Tiny white and blue flowers dotted the uncut grass, adding the only touch of colour to the otherwise bleak surroundings. A bone-chilling wind swept down from the hulking mountains to the west, blustering across the cemetery and the small group of mourners.
Of those who congregated to bid Arben a final farewell, only Jeff, Morgan, Sulla and Tomi Mema had ever met him. Kimie declined Jeff’s offer to fly her and the children to Kosovo. She was not prepared to expose her family to the dangers that had taken her husband’s life but was adamant the funeral not be delayed. She took comfort in knowing Arben would be reunited with his mother and father. Barry and Bethany had insisted on coming, as had Klaus Otto and Barry’s South African police mates. The police contingent stood together avoiding eye contact with anybody. To Jeff they looked more embarrassed than penitent about their role in Arben Shala’s death.
Pebbles slipping from the loose soil made hollow thuds on the lid of Arben’s casket lying at the bottom of the pit. When informed it was Islamic custom to bury the body in nothing more than a shroud, Jeff would have none of it. He insisted on the casket. His irrationality may have been shaped by Christian values, but he could not bear to think of Arben unprotected from the cold and the wet.
Jeff stood in a fit of gloom throughout the service, Morgan beside him, her arm looped through his. The barrenness, the dampness and the darkening skies all somehow suited the mood. It was fitting the world should be this way on this of all days.
A local imam recited prayers and those present who were followers of the faith extended their hands, palms to the sky. The muddy ridge the party was standing on held many bodies from Arben’s family. Casting his eyes out to the valley, Jeff thought he could discern the ancient rows of vines of the Shala family vineyard.
In a few days he would fly home. With Arben dead and the killer behind bars, there was no reason for him to remain in Kosovo. Without Arben to support the claim, any chance of regaining his property for Kimie and Marko was lost. Anyway, he was certain Kimie wouldn’t be at all concerned. Kosovo represented nothing but grief for her and her family. Why would she want to retain possession of any part of it?
When the ceremony was over, Jeff asked the others to give him a few minutes alone. The memory of Arben proudly holding up their first bottle of wine made him smile. Then choke with the effort not to weep. He bent and picked up a handful of dirt, rubbing it into his hands, bonding with nature as Arben had taught him. He stretched out his arm and let the dirt fall through his fingers onto the casket.
‘Goodbye, Benny.’
28.
Coffee for you?’ Jeff’s brain had been miles away. He looked up. Too quickly. ‘Ow. Shit.’ His hand shot to the side of his skull. Jeff realised too late that the state of his head precluded any sudden movement. ‘Yes, coffee. Keep it coming, will you? Breakfast too, please. Bacon and beans and whatever. Okay?’
A nod from the waiter. He poured coffee into the cup on his tray and placed it next to the Guardian lying beneath Jeff’s hand. The days-old English newspaper had been the only one available in the hotel bookshop. Before unfolding it, Jeff checked the sky. The gloominess of the previous day had departed. If the same clear winter sky he saw now had been around the previous afternoon, maybe his spirits would have revived enough to stop him from drinking his miserable hide into near oblivion.
Jeff drew a deep breath. His decision to sit at one of the Kukri bar’s outside tables had been in the hope that the bracing outdoors would help ease the ache in his head. Maybe it had to some small degree.
He opened the newspaper and scanned the headlines. ‘Mr Bradley. Mind if I join you?’
A neutral accent. American? This time Jeff looked up with care. Smiling at him was a nondescript, slightly built man in a charcoal-grey suit. Someone’s accountant?
‘Do we know each other?’
‘My name is Lee Caldwell.’
With a tinge of reluctance Jeff gathered in his newspaper and took a quick grip of the offered hand. Without further invitation the man sat and swung his legs over the fixed bench flanking the far side of the wooden table. Something impressed Jeff about the athletic ease of his movements. Despite appearances, this guy was not a desk worker.
‘Well, Mr Caldwell. You already seem to know me. So, how can I help you?’
‘May I ask what an ex-New Zealand Special Forces officer is doing in Kosovo?’
Jeff stiffened.
‘And why would that be any concern of yours?’
‘It’ll be no news to you that the region from here through to Moscow is, shall we say . . . unstable? Retired Special Forces soldiers are a prime commodity for anyone looking to hire mercenary soldiers.’
Jeff came close to throwing back his head for a laugh, but in deference to its certain painful consequences he stifled the urge. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding. Who the hell are you? CIA?’
Caldwell shrugged. ‘Would that surprise you?’
Jeff frowned. ‘No, in fact I’ve spent enough time with you guys to recognise the cut of the cloth. And if you’ve had me checked out, then you already know I’m not a mercenary. Not interested in becoming one, either. Happy now? If there’s nothing else on your mind, I’d like to finish my coffee in peace.’
Jeff’s unsubtle attempt at dismissal looked like going nowhere. Caldwell’s eyes maintained hold of Jeff’s in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time. That time it’d been a hardened Mujahadeen who, at first sign of a falter, would have blown his head off with the AK-47 pushed up under his jaw. Caldwell looked a lot less scary, but he appeared to possess equal single-mindedness.
The American leaned closer. ‘Do you mind telling me what your interest is in Arben Shala?’
Jeff held Caldwell’s stare for a long moment. ‘Okay. That much is no big mystery.’ Jeff paced his words. ‘I own a vineyard in New Zealand. Arben was my manager. He came to Kosovo to claim family land and find me some bulk wine. He disappeared. I came to Kosovo to find him. End of story.’
The nod from Caldwell told Jeff he’d told him nothing he didn’t already know. ‘And did you find him?’
‘Yes. In the Prishtina Detention Centre.’
‘And now you’ve found him, what do you plan to do?’
‘I don’t plan to do anything. I buried him yesterday.’
Caldwell’s eyes widened.
Jeff’s face creased into a grin. ‘You Yanks are not as slick as you think you are, eh? You need to pay your informants better.’
Again Caldwell presented impassivity. ‘Hard to find good help these days. So, what now for you?’
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but the police already have the person who killed my friend. I’m not looking for revenge or to make trouble, if that’s your concern. Today I’m booking a ticket home.’
Caldwell’s legs swung out from under the table with the same athletic ease Jeff had observed before. ‘Then I wish you a pleasant journey. Goodbye, Mr Bradley.’
‘Hold on. Not so fast. I think you owe me something.’
A frown fell across Caldwell’s face. ‘Owe you something? What might that be then?’
‘An explanation. About what your interest was in Arben Shala?’
‘If he’s dead, I no longer have any interest.’
Jeff bounded out from the table and blocked Caldwell’s path. ‘Wrong answer. You just breeze in knowing more about me than you should. Ask a bunch of questions that are none of your business. And think you can breeze out again and that’s it? Well, my friend, let me tell you something you don’t know: if you know anything about Arben, like why the fuck he ended up in prison in the first place, then you’re not leaving before you tell me what it is.’
Caldwell didn’t exactly gape at Jeff but he came close to it. His hands lifted skywards in mock defeat and he sat down again. Jeff returned to his own seat. His head was now throbbing like a drum. He rubbed his forehead and glared at the cause of this renewed agony. Caldwell ran a finger inside his shirt collar and adjusted his tie.
‘Since you insist, Mr Bradley, I work for US Trade.’
Jeff snorted. ‘Tell that to the Marines. They might even care.’
‘It’s my job to assess market potential on behalf of US businessmen. There aren’t many foreign investors in Kosovo, certainly no Americans. Some Americans do have sense enough to seek the advice of their trade department before they wander into far-off lands looking for deals. If, for example, Mr Shala had been American and if he’d approached me for advice, I could have told him that an organised criminal group were swindling him out of his land.’
Jeff sipped his coffee. It had gone cold. The cup went back onto the table.
‘I might also have been able to warn Mr Shala that the gang behind these scams is dangerous, and he should never have come to Kosovo in the first place. Unfortunately, Mr Shala was not an American.’
‘So why do you care about an ex-Kosovon getting ripped off?’
Caldwell swung out from the table once again and stood up. He fished a business card from his pocket and dropped it onto the table. ‘I’m staying at the Holiday Inn in Skopje. That’s just across the border in Macedonia.’
‘I know where Skopje is.’
‘If you have any difficulties leaving the country, contact me.’
Jeff’s eyes narrowed. ‘And why would I have any difficulty leaving the country?’
‘It happens. Have a safe trip home, Mr Bradley.’
Caldwell turned. After a few strides he had disappeared into the pedestrian traffic. Jeff salvaged the business card. His forefinger stroked along the top edge. ‘Now what the hell was that all about?’ he muttered.
29.
Will your friend be wanting coffee?’
A tray bearing Jeff’s breakfast order was in the process of descending onto the table. ‘Friend? Oh. No. Not him. Just fill mine, thanks.’
What kind of magic had that man Caldwell worked on him? Jeff realised his earlier seediness had departed and left him with quite an appetite. He pulled the plate of beans and eggs and bacon towards him and breathed deep of the savoury aromas. Knife and fork attacked the pile.
As Jeff’s head was about to come up from his final mouthful, a manila A4 envelope dropped onto the table. ‘As promised, a copy of everything that was on Arben’s file.’
Jeff looked up to encounter the green of a woodland lake in the eyes of Morgan Delaney. A red, manicured fingernail jabbed at the envelope.
‘If Arben’s family change their mind and want to reopen the process, they can contact me.’ She gave Jeff a quick once-over. ‘You look like shit. Did you sleep at all?’
‘Some.’
‘You shouldn’t drink so much.’
Jeff couldn’t help but notice the edge in her voice. ‘I don’t think my head would argue with you.’ He tried a boyish smile, but Morgan showed no signs of taking that particular bait. ‘Um. I’m sorry.’
‘Mm? About what, Jeff?’
No suitable answer presented itself. He could tell her that at the end of operations soldiers routinely used booze to calm emotions, bond with comrades. But the military was long gone from his life. Maybe he could venture the time-tried tear-jerker that he’d failed his best friend? The maudlin aspects of that option he didn’t favour. Of course, there was always the brutal truth that he just got drunk because he bloody well felt like it and it was none of her business. Jeff’s better self warned him clear of that one. The male default line it would have to be: eye contact and eyebrows forming an inverted V above nose.
‘I dunno. Being a bad boy?’
From the reaction in Morgan’s face, cute didn’t look like it was ever destined to make the cut. ‘Really, Jeff? Well, there’s the folder. I wish you a safe journey home and all the best for the future.’
But she didn’t leave. Just averted her eyes. A couple with a toddler in a pushchair ambled past. The toddler waved. Morgan waved back.
‘Morgan, if you’ve got something on your mind, spit it out.’
When Morgan turned back the morning sun brought a glow to her face that highlighted
her freckles. He hadn’t really noticed them before. Now that he had, he thought they added a special touch to her beauty. Like the final dabs on an oil painting.
‘I’m not a prude. I just don’t like drunks. I saw enough of them in the family pub.’
‘I’m not a drunk.’
Jeff’s voice had been quiet. Morgan undid the button on her jacket sleeve, then looked up and caught his eye still on her. ‘It’s not really about that, anyway. I had this crazy idea that you might turn to me. You know? Last night after all that . . . yesterday? But beer and brandy won out. Anyway, what does it matter? You’re leaving in a few days. I take it you’ve booked your flight?’
‘I was about to this morning. But I think I might be hanging around a little longer.’
‘Oh?’
Morgan placed her bag on the seat opposite Jeff and sat alongside it. Her eyes never left his face. Jeff pushed across Caldwell’s business card.
‘You recognise this name?’
She squinted at the black on white lettering.
‘Mm. No. Not at all. Why?’
Jeff related the details of his meeting with Lee Caldwell. ‘Caldwell said the scam that Arben was caught up in was run by an organised gang, which pretty much backs up your theory. What I’m not getting is that even if Arben was being swindled, and let’s face it we know that he was, what does that have to do with this guy? Caldwell isn’t police. If he’s who I think he is, then international espionage is his domain, not chasing a bunch of third-world scam artists.’
By her look of concentration, Jeff could tell the cogs of Morgan’s brain had begun to whir. ‘Okay, Jeff. Accepting that, where does it lead you?’
‘It leads me to believe that whatever trouble Arben was in, it likely had more to do with Caldwell’s field of interest than any dispute over the ownership of a vineyard.’
‘Which leaves one big question, doesn’t it?’
‘It does. What’s that field of interest? I’m beginning to badly want to know the answer to that. Does that make me crazy or something?’