The Last Witness

by Glenn Meade

“Sure I can teach you how to shoot even better, how to kill. But Shavik and his kind, they’re natural-born killers. You’re not ready to go up against people like that, Carla. And maybe you never will, no matter how much time we had.”

  He clicked his fingers. “They could snuff out your life like that. There are a thousand ways to die, Carla. Painful, torturous ways. People like Shavik are probably familiar with every one of them.”

  He saw real fear in her eyes.

  “Meaning?”

  “Everything’s too rushed. We haven’t even got a solid plan.”

  “Can’t you help me try to figure one out?”

  “We’d need you to get access into the property, and deal with any bodyguards without setting off any alarms. That won’t be easy. Right now all we’ve got is a code for the back gate. What if the gate has security camera coverage that Angel doesn’t know about?”

  He looked at her. “Or what if the back gate sets off an alarm in the main house when it’s opened? It’s all too complex and doesn’t give me confidence. How about you ask Angel for more information?”

  “She said that’s everything she knows.”

  “After barely four days of training, and so little information, you’d need a ton of luck on your side, and then some, or else you’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Are you always this cheerful?”

  “As they say in Memphis, just telling it like it is, baby.” He pushed himself up off the rock. “Let me think it over some more.”

  Carla’s cell rang.

  She plucked it from her pocket, saw the international number, and answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Lane?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Sean Kelly, calling from Sarajevo. Are you sitting down, Mrs. Lane?”

  56

  * * *

  SARAJEVO

  The bar in the Serb district was a dark, unwelcoming place with barely a half-dozen tables. It reeked of stale tobacco and coffee.

  The owner, a tough middle-aged man with a flattened nose, was leaning on the bar, eating olives from a plate and reading a newspaper.

  He looked up as the customer entered. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind, Slava.”

  The mortuary attendant no longer wore a white coat. “I could do with a pear brandy. A large one, Yanich.”

  The bar owner grinned, wiped his hands on his grubby apron, and filled a shot glass to the brim. “A tough day counting bodies?”

  Slava swallowed the liquid in one gulp, slapped down the glass, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “It could be worse. I have information that could be worth something to a man like you, with your mafia connections.”

  The bar owner’s grin turned sour. His left hand reached over, grabbed the attendant by the throat, the stranglehold choking him.

  “I’d keep that trap of yours shut if I were you. Remarks like that can get a man killed, you hear me?”

  “No . . . no offense,” the attendant wheezed. “I . . . I’m just trying to do you a favor, Yanich. As old army comrades, like.”

  The bar owner released his grip. “What favor?”

  “There’s a witness to what went on at the Devil’s Hill.”

  “I thought there were none. Or at least none any court would listen to.”

  Slava massaged his throat. “Not anymore.”

  The bar owner slid a banknote from his wallet and patted Slava’s face. “Here, that ought to help ease the pain.”

  “A hundred? Is that all?”

  “Be thankful it’s not a fifty. Now tell me the rest.”

  TENNESSEE

  “Kelly’s certain he didn’t get a match?”

  “A hundred percent positive.”

  They sat there, on the rocks, Carla ecstatic, her heart soaring, her voice laced with excitement.

  “It’s wonderful news. The kind I desperately needed. I know Luka survived. I just know it, Ronnie.”

  “Carla, you want a word of advice?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t get carried away.”

  “Why?”

  “I saw the same thing happen so many times in the military when a guy went missing in action. Their family would jump on any glimmer of hope.”

  “But I told you what Kelly said.”

  “It’s been over twenty years. All you know is that Luka’s remains haven’t been found. I don’t want you to have your hopes crushed.”

  “I have a strange feeling about this, Ronnie. I truly do.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t explain. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “That it’s a foolhardy hope. I needed this good news. I needed it to get through the days ahead.”

  “What else did Kelly say?”

  “That he’d follow it up and get back to me.”

  “Follow it up how?”

  “He didn’t say, and I was too excited to ask. But it makes me even more determined to confront Shavik.”

  “Why?”

  “He was in the building before Luka disappeared. He may have seen him. He may know something.”

  “Carla . . .”

  “I know now Alma was right—that she saw Luka. I know it. Just as I know he’s alive.”

  “Carla, try to keep this in perspective. Don’t put all your bets on the one card, or it could really break your heart.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m being foolish, Ronnie. Please, let me cling to my ray of hope. I need to be positive, to have faith. You’d be the same if it was Josh.”

  He saw the bright hope in her eyes, and it seemed to fill her with energy.

  “Maybe you’re right. I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate here. But I guess anything’s possible.”

  She smiled, really smiled, for the first time since they’d met.

  She leaned over, touched his cheek, kissed it. “Thanks, Ronnie. I’m ready to head back if you are.”

  She stood, and felt a sharp pain in her lower side that made her double up. “Ooh . . . that hurt.”

  “You okay?”

  She struggled to stand. “I . . . I must have pulled something.”

  “Where’s the pain.”

  “Right here.”

  “Let me see.” He felt around her side and lower back, probing her muscles and tendons. “You’re pretty tense and knotted. You think you’ll be okay walking back?”

  “I think so.”

  “There’s a hospital in LaFollette, another in Harrogate. We can have one of them check you . . .”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. He stepped away from her but held on to her hand, alarm on his face.

  “What . . . what’s the matter, Ronnie? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  His eyes were fixed on her groin.

  She looked down.

  Between her legs, her gray sweats were stained with a growing patch of crimson. She stared at the blood in horror.

  “What’s wrong, Carla?”

  “My . . . my baby.”

  And then all her senses seemed to go, and she passed out.

  57

  * * *

  BELGRADE

  The bar owner had heard the stories about the beautiful old stone house overlooking the Danube.

  Rumors about lavish parties, government ministers, and rich industrialists wining and dining in the fifteenth-century prince’s residence that belonged to wealthy clan boss Ivan Arkov.

  He just hoped Arkov would lavishly reward his loyalty.

  The Merc limo and the two bodyguards met him on Belgrade’s outskirts. As the car pulled up outside the mansion’s entrance, the driver climbed out and opened the door for Yanich.

  A dapper, slim man with a Van Dyke beard and a polka-dot bow tie was waiting for him at the top of the entrance steps.

  Yanich felt a shiver go through him.

  Ivan Arkov looked harmless enough, but he alw
ays gave Yanich the creeps. He’d heard stories about the macabre mask fashioned from a victim’s facial skin that Arkov kept as a grisly memento in a secret paneled display case in his study. “Yanich. Welcome.”

  He took the boss’s hand, kissed his ring in a token of loyalty. “It’s good of you to see me at such short notice, Mr. Arkov.”

  The old man clicked his fingers, and the bodyguards stepped back, out of hearing distance.

  “Come, have some wine from my vineyard. Then tell me what’s so urgent about this information of yours.”

  • • •

  Arkov sat by the study window, listening.

  The paneled walls were polished rosewood, the shelves lined with fancy leather-bound books that looked just for show.

  Glass patio doors were spread open and led out to a swimming pool. As Arkov listened to the bar owner, he held his fingers together, touching his lips.

  When Yanich finished, the old man sighed and stood. His gray eyes were steady, focused on some distant point, toward the pool.

  “This attendant . . .”

  “Slava, Mr. Arkov.” Yanich sipped the wine and found it hard not to gag. It tasted worse than the slop he rebottled to serve his drunken customers.

  “And the forensics expert?”

  “His name is Kelly.” Yanich offered a sheet of paper. “I wrote the name down so there’s no mistake. Also the woman’s.”

  “So, she’s a witness?”

  “That’s what was said.”

  Arkov thrust both his hands in his suit jacket pockets and stared out at the shimmering pool. “Tell me what else you know about her.”

  “Her name’s Carla Lane. Her mother’s family name was originally Tanovic.”

  A flicker sparked in Arkov’s watery eyes. “You’re sure of the name?”

  “Certain. Kelly mentioned that her young brother may have also survived the Devil’s Hill. He intended to visit a hospital run by nuns where the boy was treated.”

  The bar owner explained all the details.

  “You’re sure about all of this?”

  “Yes, sir. The attendant was in the room when Kelly spoke.”

  “So, they discussed Mila Shavik?”

  “Kelly got the impression the woman knew where he might be.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s everything I know. I’d be happy to deal with Kelly, if you like. It could put the brakes on any investigation for a time.”

  A muscle twitched in Arkov’s face, and he offered a razor smile that chilled Yanich to the bone. “Kind of you to offer, but I’ll deal with Kelly myself.”

  “I served with Mila’s unit. We always said that he and your son were war heroes for protecting us from those Bosniak scum.”

  “And what else did they say?” Arkov lit a cigar, and puffed.

  “That you’ve been like a father to Mila. Treated him as if he was one of your own.”

  “I could do nothing less. His father was my loyal friend. Until a public prosecutor in Konjic put him on trial for his dealings with me. The prosecutor’s name was Tanovic, also.”

  “A relative perhaps?”

  “We’ll see. But what a waste.”

  “Sir?”

  “The prosecutor had no solid evidence. Mila’s father would have waltzed through the trial. Sadly, his nerve must have cracked before he hung himself. I felt it my duty to give his son a good home. The boy needed to belong. To have family around him.”

  “Your kindness is well spoken of, Mr. Arkov.”

  “So, you served with Mila?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you know there was always a certain friction between my son and him.”

  “Cain and Abel, the men called them, sir. No disrespect intended.”

  “You know why?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mila rose so fast in the ranks that Boris felt threatened. Some say Mila is power-hungry. But it’s deeper than that. After his father’s death, the clan became his family. Mila wants to prove himself worthy of belonging. It’s a common striving among orphans, apparently.”

  Arkov puffed again on his cigar. “He’s also got brains to burn. Of course, Boris isn’t happy to play second fiddle but that’s rivalry for you. Have you spoken to anyone else about all of this?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Arkov.”

  “Good. Then it will remain our secret. And while I hate to remind people what happens to informers, sometimes I must.”

  From a bookshelf, Arkov picked up a remote control. He pressed a button. One of the rosewood wall panels slid open, and a light snapped on to illuminate a glass display case behind the panel.

  For a moment the bar owner couldn’t even breathe, the air trapped in his lungs.

  Behind the glass was displayed a human face—or at least the remnants of one. The skin had been peeled from a skull and was parchment yellow like a mummy’s. It covered a piece of glass made in the shape of a head.

  The face looked macabre, bizarre. Like some weird mask that belonged in a freak show. The bar owner wanted to throw up.

  Arkov calmly peered in at the face, rubbing the back of a finger against the glass, as if trying to attract some kind of exotic bird perched inside.

  “This man tried to sell me out. You wouldn’t do that, would you, Yanich?” Arkov’s probing eyes never left the bar owner’s face, as if he was trying to find his own answer.

  “No, sir, never . . .”

  “I like to look at it now and then, to tell myself how much I despise informers. Come this way.”

  Arkov stepped out through the glass patio doors into sunlight, toward the swimming pool table. The bar owner followed.

  Arkov removed his wallet, peeled off a handful of banknotes, and laid them in a neat pile on the table. “A token of my gratitude.”

  Yanich went to eagerly scoop up the notes, sweat beading his face.

  He never saw Arkov withdraw a garrote from his pocket—an age-old executioner’s weapon made of a length of piano wire, a wooden grip at each end. Arkov slipped the wire effortlessly around Yanich’s neck and pulled.

  Yanich grunted in pain, eyes bulging as the wire cleaved into his throat, a thin line of blood appearing across his neck.

  Arkov whispered into Yanich’s ear. “I despise people like you. They’d sell their own grandmothers.”

  Yanich’s face flushed as he struggled to breathe. Arkov pulled harder. The wire cut deeper into Yanich’s throat until it severed his windpipe.

  He gave a strangled croak.

  Arkov let go and Yanich’s body slumped forward, splashing into the pool, a gush of blood spraying the turquoise water crimson.

  Arkov took out a handkerchief, wiped his blood-spattered hands, and gathered up the banknotes.

  “Get rid of this scum and clean up the mess,” he told the bodyguards.

  “Then call the airport and have the Lear fueled. I want it ready to leave.”

  58

  * * *

  BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

  It was raining hard as Kelly pulled up outside the convent.

  A rumble of thunder sounded as he climbed out of his Renault. He yanked the bellpull and the tinkle echoed somewhere deep inside the darkened archways. As he waited, he looked around him.

  The drive into the mountains was treacherous, but well worth the views.

  The fifteenth-century Byzantine convent was really quite magnificent, with intricately carved stone windows. Part of it was built into the granite mountainside, a peaceful courtyard beyond solid iron gates, a fountain bubbling away.

  He pulled the bell again and a pair of nuns, one young, one old, came striding across the wet courtyard toward the gates. They wore heavy, plain dark habits, and tall wimples covered their heads.

  “Do you speak English, sisters?”

  The older nun nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  Around the older woman’s waist was a knotted cord from which hung a large wooden crucifix and a bunch of keys. Her face was full of strength, solem
n but rather beautiful. “I’m Sister Hilda, the abbess.”

  Her English was flawless.

  “My name’s Sean Kelly. I’m working with the International Commission on Missing Persons in Sarajevo.” He offered his card and the nun studied it.

  “And how may I help you, Mr. Kelly?”

  “It’s a little complicated, Sister. I’m trying to trace a boy. If you could spare me your time I’ll do my best to explain.”

  • • •

  Sister Hilda led Kelly under a darkened archway. The nun pushed open a solid oak door and stepped into a vast room.

  Kelly shook rain from his jacket and followed her in.

  Flashes of lightning exploded beyond the stone windows, and the room looked almost medieval, gilded icons decorating the walls. One end of the chamber had been modernized and looked like a gym-cum-playroom of some sort, complete with physical exercise equipment.

  Kelly was greeted by a pitiful sight.

  A handful of nuns attended to several dozen patients, young men and women mostly, who looked in their twenties and thirties. Some were missing arms or legs; others slobbered as they hunched in wheelchairs. Kelly noticed several patients with heavily scarred limbs or faces. Almost all had a vacant look, one that suggested their mental capacity was impaired.

  They greeted Kelly with wide-eyed uncertainty. He spotted a handsome young man with an angelic face standing in a corner, sucking on his thumb.

  Across the room a young woman gave him a shy wave with palsied hands.

  “Holy God . . .” Kelly said, waving back.

  He hated to even admit it, but the scene caused him conflicting threads of emotion. On the one hand it looked almost grotesque, nightmarish. And yet there was a beauty there, too, in the selfless charity of the nuns, in the touching innocence of the patients.

  “The horrors of war always cast a long shadow, Mr. Kelly. And as always it’s the innocent who suffer. Once, every one of these patients was someone’s beloved child. They’re still loved by God, who entrusts them to our care.”

  “They’re all war victims?”

  “Mostly. Some were sexually abused in the rape camps, or were shot or badly injured by shelling. Mentally, some never recovered, especially those who lost their families. Many of the young men and women you see still suffer constant nightmares.”