The Last Witness

by Glenn Meade

  “What exactly do you intend to do, Mrs. Lane?”

  “I told you, I’m going to make Arkov and Shavik pay.”

  “How?”

  “The less you know the better.”

  “What if I told you I know how to destroy them?”

  53

  * * *

  “You know what their weakness is, their Achilles’ heel?” Angel asked.

  “What?”

  “Money. It gives them their power. Take it away and you destroy them.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Shavik keeps a ledger in his home safe.”

  “So?”

  “It contains all the details of his skimming operation and income from the clan’s illegal operations. If the feds got their hands on that, Shavik and Arkov and their organization would be ruined. The whole thing comes tumbling down, all the way back to Belgrade.”

  “Can you get the ledger?”

  “No, they’d know it was missing. But I can get photographs of some of the pages. That would get the feds interested, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m sure it would.”

  “You’re a lawyer, you could explain it to them, and why they’d need to move quickly.”

  “Let me think about it. Right now, I don’t want you putting yourself at risk. What else can you give me? I need as much insider stuff as you can get.”

  Angel took a large manila envelope from her handbag and slid it across.

  “What’s this?”

  “Shavik’s address in New Jersey. Arkov often stays there when they’ve got business to discuss, but his home is a penthouse somewhere in Jersey, I don’t know where. I managed to take some photographs of Shavik’s property and the grounds on my cell phone. It’s pretty snazzy, in a place called Cape May.”

  “I know it. Tell me more.”

  “The house backs onto the beach, with views out over Delaware Bay. I’ve put everything in a file folder. Don’t look at the shots now. Put them somewhere safe. I’m giving you everything I know.”

  Carla slipped the envelope into her handbag.

  Angel said, “They were meant for Jan. I’ve also drawn a map of the house, showing many of the rooms.”

  “What about bodyguards?”

  “Shavik and Arkov have one each. Shavik’s guy acts as his driver. Arkov’s is a big guy called Dobrashin.”

  “Is there an alarm system?”

  “Yes, it’s state-of-the-art, and I’m not trusted with the code. But I’ve been with Shavik many times when he used a back garden gate that leads out to the beach. I made a point of trying to see the code he entered. It was always the same numbers. I took a photograph of the gate and wrote the code on the back. That’ll get you access to the house.”

  Angel hesitated. “Shavik also keeps a memory stick in the safe. I’ve seen him take it out with the ledger and insert the stick into his laptop. That would interest the feds.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m guessing it’s got some kind of encryption software, because he never seems to be able to use the laptop without it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That between the ledger, the encryption device, and the laptop, I’m betting there’s a ton of commercial information about the clan and its money.”

  “I’m not a computer nerd. Explain.”

  “Do you have any idea what organized crime gangs do with all their ill-gotten gains, Mrs. Lane? And no, it’s not a trick question.”

  “You mean from illegitimate businesses?”

  “Or legitimate.”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “What we’re really talking about are cash cows. With the mafia, the skim’s a way of life. You’re were a prosecutor. You know what the skim is?”

  “Instead of using a credit card, a customer pays in cash for a drink or a meal, whatever. Cash doesn’t have a paper trail. Some of it can be skimmed off.”

  Angel nodded. “Right. And if you happen to be a crime cartel running dozens of businesses, bars, and clubs you’ll have the skim down to a fine art. We could be talking about many millions with Arkov’s mafia.”

  “A year?”

  “A month. The trouble is, you bank that kind of dirty cash in the USA and the IRS will get to hear about it, and you’re going to jail.”

  Angel pushed aside her glass. “You can’t hide it under the mattress, either, or pretty soon you’re sleeping on a mountain.”

  “So what do they do with it?”

  “Move it offshore.”

  “How?”

  “Not electronically, because you’re back to using the bank again.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Three or four times a year a private Learjet flies in from Belgrade. It’s flown in empty and out loaded.”

  “With cash?”

  “Cash, gold, jewels, whatever asset is good for them at the time. But it’s not flown back to Belgrade.” Angel sipped her margarita, fiddled with the swizzle stick.

  “Where’s it flown to?”

  “Whichever bank is flavor of month. Usually one in the Cayman Islands.”

  “What about customs or airport security?”

  “That’s easy. The right officials get bribed.”

  “Fascinating as all this is, Angel, I’m assuming there’s a point?”

  “You bet there is, and here it comes. Whenever they fly in, it’s like a family reunion. They’re all there, the full cast of villains. Shavik, Arkov, the old man.”

  “Old man?”

  “Ivan Arkov. Big daddy himself. He’s usually there to make sure his boys haven’t tried to rip him off, and to personally supervise the Cayman deposit.”

  “Where do I come in?”

  “The next family get-together is this Sunday.”

  • • •

  Across the bar a young man sat reading a newspaper.

  The pinhead video camera in his baseball cap and the camera in his cell phone gave him all the pixels he needed.

  He managed to get off a dozen shots and grab a good fifteen minutes of video as he pretended to tap his phone’s keyboard.

  When the two women rose from their table and went their separate ways, he gave it a minute, then followed the darker-haired woman at a safe distance, dialing the number as he walked. The line clicked.

  “Yeah?”

  “Billy? It’s me.”

  “How’s Angel doing for us?”

  “Good. They talked for about fifteen minutes. We’ve got what we needed. I’m following the Lane woman.”

  “Stay with her. I want to know where she goes.”

  54

  * * *

  SARAJEVO

  “It’s certainly odd. Most odd.”

  “I wouldn’t say odd. More of a surprise.”

  “These are all the children’s remains you removed from the closet, Sean?”

  “Yes, Pierre. Four in total.”

  Kelly lifted his glasses back on his head as he hunched over the collection of skeletons and rotted clothing that lay on the four metal tables in front of him.

  Among them he saw a girl’s shriveled cotton dress and a boy’s pair of short wool trousers. As a father, such a sight never failed to distress him.

  The forensic expert standing next to him in the autopsy room was Dr. Pierre Bufont, a tall French-Canadian with a wine drinker’s blue-veined nose.

  “You say you completed the removal of children’s remains from the second massacre site?”

  “I felt I owed it to Mrs. Lane to speed things up. We took DNA samples of all of the young victims we found.”

  Kelly handed across a file full of printouts. “None of the bodies from either location match Mrs. Lane’s family DNA. See for yourself.”

  Bufont read the printouts.

  “So, it seems we’ve uncovered something of a mystery.”

  “We certainly have.”

  “Will you mention it to Mrs. Lane?”

  “I thought it might be wise to let sleeping dogs lie for now. No
point in upsetting her.”

  “Very wise, I think.”

  Kelly turned to a white-coated attendant who assisting him arranging the remains. “Thanks, Slava.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.” The attendant withdrew to a corner of the room, grabbed a broom, and began to sweep the floor.

  Kelly said, “In regard to the boy, we found some recoverable DNA in hairs on part of the child’s blanket and in his backpack.”

  “There’s no possibility of error?”

  “None that I can see.”

  Bufont looked up from the printouts and scratched his jaw. “You’re right. This is strange. Still, all families have their little secrets, I suppose.”

  The Canadian closed the file, laid it down.

  “You say Mrs. Lane is now the only credible witness?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The authorities will need her testimony in case a war crimes prosecution ever transpires. Her mother’s diary would also help.”

  “I’ll have the prosecutors contact her and take a formal statement.”

  “What’s wrong, Sean? You look bothered.”

  Kelly rubbed his jaw. “There’s always a chance the boy could still be alive.”

  “You think so?”

  “If the shelling or Shavik didn’t kill him.”

  “Shavik?”

  “He was in the vicinity. A man like him would have perceived the child as a threat, a witness to be eliminated. And Mrs. Lane told me Alma Dragovich thought she’d heard the boy escape before a shell hit.”

  “Is the old lady’s memory reliable?”

  “A hard one to answer.”

  “I suppose the boy could have survived, even if it seems unlikely. You searched the rest of the buildings thoroughly and found no other remains?”

  “That’s right. There’s another thing that confuses me.”

  “What?”

  “I got the distinct impression from Mrs. Lane that she knew Shavik was alive.”

  “There hasn’t been a sighting of him in almost twenty years. Don’t the authorities believe he’s dead?”

  “Her tone suggested otherwise. Strange, but I sensed as if she had insider information about his whereabouts.”

  “Interesting.”

  Kelly crossed to a wall map behind the desk. Tracing a line along the chart, his brow wrinkled in concentration.

  Bufont joined him. “You’ve got that look again, Sean. What’s going on in that wild Irish mind of yours?”

  “Alma Dragovich told Mrs. Lane that when she became conscious she was in a temporary hospital. And that she was being nursed by a nun. That’s when she claimed she saw Carla Lane’s younger brother alive.”

  “Why’s that important?”

  Kelly tapped the map. “If he did survive, he’s another potential witness. I checked, and the nearest temporary hospital back then was in an old convent here, in the mountains toward the Serb border. It’s run by an order of Orthodox nuns.”

  “I’ve seen the place. It’s quite beautiful. Built into the rock face.”

  “Of course, they don’t distinguish between a convent and a monastery in the Eastern Orthodox Christian churches, do they? They’re all called monasteries.”

  Kelly came away from the map. “I hear the nuns still look after the worst of the child victims. Orphans from all backgrounds who were so badly injured physically and mentally, the ones no one wanted.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I might take a drive up there and see if they know anything about the boy. Maybe the nuns have records of the patients they treated.”

  The Canadian smiled, raised his eyes. “You’re going back over twenty years, Sean. You’re certain it’s not just a yearning to see pretty young nuns in habits dating back to your Irish schooldays?”

  Kelly gave a hearty laugh. “You know, you could be right.”

  “Didn’t you say Mrs. Lane’s family already contacted the refugee agencies?”

  “Still, you never know. People slip though the net, Pierre.”

  Kelly consulted his watch, then flipped through his contact book, next to his desk phone.

  “I’ll give her the news. But I’ll wait another few hours to allow for the time difference. It’s going to be another shock. But a hopeful one.”

  “Will you mention the orphanage, Sean?”

  “No, I’ll decide after I visit the nuns.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to build up her hopes in case they come crashing down.”

  55

  * * *

  TENNESSEE

  For four solid hours that morning they went through shooting drills, using the larger-caliber handguns, until Carla’s fingers felt numb.

  The Sig gave a solid kick when she shot it, and a few times the pistol’s slide cut into the tender flesh between her thumb and forefinger as she fired, causing her to bleed.

  Ronnie adjusted her grip. “Your hand’s riding too high up. Keep it lower.”

  He produced a small black tactical flashlight, fitted it to the guide rails beneath the gun’s barrel. He flicked on the flashlight’s switch, and a powerful beam sprang on.

  “Get used to using the tac light. It could save your life.”

  He examined her paper targets. “You’re doing okay. Most shoot-outs take place at seven yards or less. If you can learn to hit a target accurately out to twenty-five yards, you’ll be doing pretty well.”

  He corrected her stance and grip again and again—one hand holding the gun, the other hand layered over it, gripping the fingers that held the weapon—until her shooting and aim became faster and more precise.

  “Okay, enough for now. We’ll keep working on your accuracy and speed.” He put away the guns. From the front of the pickup he pulled out a pair of cargo shorts and a pair of Reeboks. “You bring your training sweats like I said?”

  “Sure.”

  “Get them on. You ever run?”

  “Not for a while. Can we forget running, Ronnie? I’d need to ease into it with some practice.”

  “Then let’s just take a brisk hill trek. You can change behind the pickup. Getting fit will improve your reflexes.”

  The sun was out and warm. She changed into her sweats, and Ronnie plucked a couple of bottles of water from a cooler in the truck.

  He tossed her one. “It’s six miles there and back around that mountain.”

  “Six miles? Now? Walking in this heat? That’s pretty tough. I’m not so sure I can do that.”

  He tore off his shirt. His lean body was tanned, his chest muscled from hard manual labor.

  “Sure you can. I’m being gentle on you. I run this trail most days, so just be grateful I’m not asking you to jog.”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re wicked?”

  “It’s my middle name. Bring Angel’s envelope with you and let’s get moving.”

  • • •

  They rested on a hilltop after four miles and sat.

  The temperature was over ninety and Ronnie was drenched in sweat. “How are you doing?”

  Carla was completely breathless, bent over, the heat and humidity overpowering, her jogging sweats and Nike T-shirt wet with perspiration.

  “Scratch what I said about you being wicked.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s more like a sadistic streak.”

  Ronnie winked, cracked open his bottle of water, gulped some down. “You’ll get used to it.”

  He stared at the Smoky Mountains in the distance.

  Carla slumped on a rock facing him and drank mouthfuls of bottled water.

  “You look worried. What’s on your mind, Ronnie?”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  “You really trust Angel?”

  “Yes, for some reason I do.”

  “You don’t think she’ll double-cross you?”

  “No, I don’t. She was at the Merviak camp. You can’t fake hatred, Ronnie. I know she wants to see justi
ce done just as much as I do.”

  “Let me see the envelope again.”

  It was clutched in her hand and she offered it across. “I made copies of all the images for you. This one’s yours, so you can keep it.”

  Inside the envelope Ronnie found a green plastic folder containing photographs of a big house, the grounds backing onto the sea.

  At least twenty shots of the property inside and out, as well as a hand-drawn map of the interior. “Looks big enough to hold a barn dance.”

  “Over five thousand square feet, with two double garages.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did I mention the swimming pool, sauna, and exercise room and cinema?”

  “Who says crime doesn’t pay?” Ronnie studied the photographs. Printed by a laser printer, the definition was clear enough. “You know this place, Cape May?”

  “I’ve been there a few times with Jan. It’s an old seaside resort from the 1800s. Quaint, Victorian. I looked up the address on Google Maps and printed off a few more shots.”

  “I can see that.”

  “What do you think, Ronnie?”

  He flicked over one of Angel’s photographs: of a distinctive wrought-iron metal gate with an eagle’s head, inset into an archway in a pink stucco wall. On the back of the snapshot he saw the gate code: “2704 #.”

  “What else did Angel tell you?”

  They had talked for quite a while, but Carla remembered it all. “There’s a man named Billy Davix. He’s Arkov’s nephew. Former marine, a dangerous killer. He works as muscle for the clan. He’s the one who killed Jan, on the orders of Arkov and Shavik.”

  “Angel knows him?”

  “She’s often seen him in the club.”

  “Why the family get-together on Sunday at midnight?”

  “It’s only for a few hours. Apparently old man Arkov flies on to the Cayman Islands just in time for when the banks open on Monday morning.”

  “That only gives us seventy-two hours. Even less time than I thought.”

  “I’ll do my very best. I promise you, Ronnie.”

  “Your best might not be good enough. You’re a reasonable shot, better than some I’ve trained, but . . .”

  “But what, Ronnie?”