by Glenn Meade
“You . . . remember me?”
“It took a while, but yes.”
“And now you’re going to kill me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Your answers. And they better be honest. You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”
“Among other things.”
“Such as?”
“You have information I want.”
“Really? We’ll come back to that. First, these people you’ve been hanging out with at the marina. I need to know what you’ve told them.”
“Why, so you can kill them?”
“No, but we may have been seriously compromised.”
“Enough to make you flee?”
“I’m afraid so. Well, what did you tell them?”
“Why don’t you amuse yourself thinking about that one on cold winter nights?”
He took a drag on his cigarette, tapped ash on the floor. “You want information. So do I. Let’s be civilized and trade a fact for a fact. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, and you tell me. Agreed?”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
Carla’s gaze was steady. “I want to know about my father, David Joran. And my brother. His name is Luka. He was four years old when we were in the camp. I know you were the last person to see him alive.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’m right, aren’t I? Where are they? What did you do with them? Did you kill them? The way you killed my mother and my husband?”
Shavik’s face looked blank, impossible to read.
For no reason at all, he reached out, touched her hair gently, and let it fall about her face.
She struck him hard across the cheek, and the cigarette fell from his hand onto the floor.
Calmly, he crushed it out with the toe of his shoe. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stared at the splash of blood.
Carla went to lash out at him again.
This time he reacted instantly, caught her hand mid-flight, forced it down.
“Spirit and defiance. You think you got that only from your mother?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you know who I really am?”
“I just told you. Mila Shavik. A war criminal, a butcher.”
“It’s time you knew the truth.”
80
* * *
Arkov stormed into the study, his face crimson, and slammed the door with a terrible fury.
He headed straight for the bar and grabbed a bottle of bourbon.
His father was already there, seated at a lacquered table, a meal in front of him. Salad, a selection of cold meats, some fresh fruit. Shavik’s Puerto Rican housekeeper, a plump, handsome woman, was pouring him a glass of red wine.
The old man dabbed his mouth with a napkin, waved a hand dismissively, and the woman left.
“Another disagreement?” He lit a cigar, inhaling slowly, enjoying the aroma.
His son splashed bourbon into a crystal tumbler and downed it in one swallow. “Is it ever any other way?”
His father scowled. “Nothing changes, does it?”
“You find it funny, Father?”
“No, I find it rather pathetic. My blood may be in your veins, Boris, but unfortunately my brains are not in your head.”
“Saying I’m stupid now, are you?”
“Calm yourself, and get sense. I’m saying you and Mila should be working together, not fighting like pit bulls. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
A sneer lifted the corners of his son’s mouth. “That’s a joke, considering you never stopped pitting us against each other. As if we were prizefighters, you enjoyed watching us trying to beat the life out of each other.”
The old man blew out another cloud of cigar smoke. “Survival of the fittest, nature’s most important law.”
“You make me sick, Father.”
“That’s the drink talking. Show respect.” The old man stood, hitched up his trousers. “What’s happening?”
“He won’t let me use the drug. He thinks it might kill her.”
“He has a point.”
Arkov took a swig, and his mouth twisted with scorn. “Brute force is the only way to deal with the clever kind. He’ll get nowhere talking.”
“You’re right, but that’s Mila’s problem. These people Billy’s watching. You think they know something?”
“The woman’s a lawyer, not an assassin. Yet she was carrying a silenced Sig. She’s also been visiting the former special forces guy at the marina. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“I agree.”
“That means he’s a risk.”
“Then deal with him.”
“What about consulting with Mila?”
“It’s my decision.” The old man crushed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray, buttoned his jacket, and stepped toward the window with a worried look. Fog hung in the night air like a thin pall of smoke.
“What’s wrong?”
“It might be wise if I left. If this fog gets any thicker, I could be stuck here. What about the airport?”
“Still open. I checked. They’re expecting some private traffic.”
“Good. Then I’ll leave you a little earlier than I planned. Have your driver take me right away, Boris.”
The old man moved to the door. “Let me know when it’s all been dealt with, and make sure Mila finishes off the woman when he’s done. Or that pleasure may be yours.”
“And the others?”
“Have Billy solve the problem.”
“Permanently?”
“As the coffin lid closing. Tell him to make it look like some kind of domestic dispute.”
Boris cracked his knuckles, a sudden excitement sparking, the very thought of violence stimulating him. “All of them?”
“It’s better that way—no loose ends. You think Billy’s capable of that?”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
• • •
“Do you remember the day I summoned you to my office?”
“Yes.”
Shavik took a long swig of brandy, as if he was trying to steel himself. “You recall what happened?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“I was ten years old. Like every other woman and child who suffered the brutality you meted out in the camp I was traumatized. Don’t you remember what you put us all through? Or are you going to claim you were just following orders.”
“I was.”
“Liar.”
“You don’t recall anything of your visit to my office?”
“I’ve learned the mind has a defense mechanism that helps it bury trauma. In my case, I was one of the lucky ones.”
“Then tell me what you do recall.”
“You can go to hell.”
“Fact for a fact, remember?”
“First tell me what happened to my father and brother.”
“It’s complicated. But I’ll tell you the truth. You have my word.”
“Are they alive? Please, you have to tell me . . .”
“First, I need to know what you remember.”
“Why’s that important?”
“You’ll understand after I explain.”
“I told you, nothing. Did . . . did you harm me?”
“That depends by what you mean by harm.”
“Did you . . . did you touch me?”
“Yes, I touched you.”
He looked at her, her eyes meeting her stare. “Just as I touched your hair now.”
Carla’s eyes felt suddenly wet. “Did you rape me?”
Shavik looked strangely horrified. “Of course not.”
“Why can’t I believe that? You and your men raped women daily, and killed them. You killed my mother.”
“Look at me. You’re wrong. I oversaw the camp, yes. But I never personally harmed a woman or child. The men I commanded killed and raped, because they wer
e encouraged to do so by those above me. Yes, I slept with camp women. But killed them, no. Nor did I kill your mother.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Shavik’s jaw tightened as if he was jolted by a sudden pain. “What do you know about your mother’s past? Before she met your father.”
“She was from Konjic. A quaint town in the mountains between Sarajevo and Mostar, where Muslim and Christian lived side by side for centuries. Until war changed it all.”
Shavik took another slug of brandy, a distant look on his face, as if he were in another place. “Let me tell you a true story.”
“I don’t want to hear your stories, Shavik.”
“You’ll want to hear this one.”
81
* * *
“My father was a lawyer.”
Shavik took another mouthful from the bottle. “Not entirely an honest one, but a good father. Let’s just say he dealt with clients from the shadier side of life. The shadiest of them all was Ivan Arkov.”
“What’s this got to do with me?”
“Your mother’s father was a public prosecutor. My father and he crossed paths in court many times. They were rivals.”
“I asked what this has to do with me.”
“It’s important to know the secret that was kept from you. That day in the office I simply told you the truth.”
“What secret? What truth?”
“One day in a café in the old town I saw your mother. We were eighteen. I sat beside her. I asked to buy her coffee.”
“You . . . you knew my mother that well?”
“Yes, I did. That first day I met her I learned she loved Shakespeare, and wanted to be a writer. I told her I wanted to be a lawyer, like my father. She was kind and wise, funny and intelligent. We enjoyed each other’s company. I knew who her father was. She knew of mine. We didn’t care that our knowing each other would be frowned upon. Our family rivalries had nothing to do with us. So our relationship went on like that for many months, secretly.”
Carla was aware of a coldness seeping into her, a quickening of breath.
“Don’t look so surprised. We were young and innocent, from different sides of the ethnic divide. My father despised Bosniak Muslims. Your grandfather hated Christian Serbs. It’s been going on like that in parts of the Balkans for hundreds of years. Christian hating Muslim, Muslim hating Christian. But your mother and I, we didn’t care about the past, only the present.”
Carla didn’t reply, shock still sinking in.
“We were just two young people who wanted to do what young people did—talk, laugh, have fun, fall in love.”
She stared at Shavik, felt her stomach heave with disbelief. “My . . . my mother loved you?”
“She used to say that we were like Romeo and Juliet, victims of our families’ feud and bigotry. And she was right.”
“I . . . I can’t believe what I’m hearing . . .”
“When our parents found out, we were forbidden to see each other. But that didn’t stop us. We defied them. Until things took a sinister turn.”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“My father was due to face a corruption charge that would have ruined him. The charge was brought by your grandfather. The night before the trial my father hung himself. My mother was already dead. I had no one else. My only brother died when he was three. Ivan Arkov took me in, gave me a home, food, and shelter.
“He told me that your grandfather was responsible for my father’s death. That Prosecutor Tanovic harassed him because I refused to stop seeing his daughter. That he would never allow her to marry a Serb like me.”
“Marry?”
“We talked about it, your mother and I. But after that, I hated your mother’s people. From that day on, I wanted my revenge.”
“What about my mother?”
“I wrote and told her it was over. That I couldn’t see her again, not after what happened. There was too much hate in my heart.”
“What did she say?”
“She wrote back, a final letter, telling me how much she still loved me. But I couldn’t let go of my hate. It was too deep, too bitter.”
“What . . . what happened?”
“I heard she left for Dubrovnik soon after, and I never saw her again.”
“Never?”
“Until that day in the camp when I hardly recognized her, and it all came flooding back.”
“What did?”
“Emotions, feelings, regrets, for the life we’d lost.”
“She . . . she went to offer herself to you, to plead for the lives of our family.”
“She begged me for medicines for your father and brother. I promised to get them for her.”
Anger raged in Carla’s voice, her tone hard. “Why?”
“Because I still loved her. Because . . .” Shavik faltered.
“Not because she offered you her body in return?”
“No.”
“You’re telling me you didn’t harm her?”
“Never.”
“That doesn’t add up. My mother wrote a diary. I remember some words she wrote after she went to see you, and what they said.”
“Tell me.”
“ ‘I’ve paid a terrible price for seeing Shavik.’ There were other lines. ‘It’s done. I did what I had to. What Shavik did makes me cry.’ My mother’s words exactly. What did she mean by that? What made her cry? What did you do to her?”
“Perhaps the price she paid was knowing me again. Resurrecting old feelings she wanted to forget. What did I do to her? Nothing. I simply made her a promise.”
“What promise?”
“That I’d try my utmost to save her and her family.”
“Why?”
“I think I answered that question already.”
“Did she believe your promise?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You wanted nothing in return?”
“I wanted to speak with you.”
“Me? Why . . . ?”
“I was curious.”
“About what?”
“You made an impression the day you defended the old woman. There’s a lot of your mother in you. You still don’t remember our talk, do you?”
“I told you, I remember nothing. If you didn’t kill my mother, then who did?”
“Arkov was in charge of evacuating the prisoners. As they were driven off in the trucks I saw Lana standing in the back. I realized you and your brother were missing. I saw your mother stare back toward the camp building. I sensed something was wrong.”
Shavik paused. “I ran back into the camp, looking for you and your brother, but couldn’t find you. The shelling got worse. Then I heard shooting . . .”
Shavik’s voice broke off. “I left the camp and caught up with Arkov. I found the women and children dead or dying.”
Carla didn’t speak.
Shavik went on, “Some of the prisoners tried to escape. Arkov shot them and all hell broke loose. The men had been drinking for days, and all reason went out the door. It was a bloodbath.”
“Arkov killed my mother?”
“He denied it, but I never believed him.”
Carla felt her hands shaking with revulsion, and an icy coldness in her stomach.
“What . . . what happened to my father and brother?”
“I returned to the camp one last time. I found the boy lying wounded in the rubble, but there was no sign of you. I tended to his wounds as best I could. Then I took him to the Omarska camp where your father was kept.”
“My . . . my father was still alive?”
“Barely. I drove them to a field hospital run by some nuns. The nuns were unsure they’d survive. But I’d made a solemn promise to your mother that I’d try to save you all.”
“What did you do?”
“I left them with the nuns and tried to make it to my own lines. Once there, I loaded up a car with medical supplies. On the way back I was wounded.”
“But you
returned?”
“By the time I got to your father and brother they had deteriorated. But the nuns said there was still hope. They treated my wounds and said if I could make it over the mountains that night to a hospital, they’d survive.”
“What happened?”
“There was a snowstorm. My car got stuck. In the freezing cold your father faded fast. I tried everything I could. But he passed away, holding your bother in his arms.”
Carla was ashen. “What . . . what about Luka? Tell me.”
“He was crying for his father. Crying and growing weaker by the minute. Seeing him cling to your father’s body it . . . it reminded me of the way I clung to my own father when he died. It seemed the first time in years I registered any kind of emotion.”
“What happened then?”
“I wrapped him up warmly, built a fire, gave him more drugs. I tried everything I could. But once your father died the life seemed to go out of your brother and a little after midnight he passed.”
Carla broke down. Her body convulsed with sobbing.
She seemed to lose all control then, all reason, and with a terrible fury she hit Shavik about the head and chest using her fists.
He stood there, not moving, taking it all, and when her energy was spent and she was still sobbing he put his arms around her.
She could smell the male scent of him, expected to feel a powerful sense of revulsion, but it was the strangest thing—she felt nothing, except an odd kind of pity that was frighteningly close to forgiveness. Aware of it, she drew herself back with a sudden loathing.
“What did you do with their bodies?”
“Next day a local farmer helped me deliver them to a morgue in Mostar. I later learned they were buried in a grave site near the town.”
“I can’t even pretend to understand you, Shavik. Not ever. How did you grow to hate so much that you’d allow women and children to die? How? When did you cross that line between good and evil? Whenever I saw you in the camp, your eyes were so full of hate.”
“I have no answer. Except that in my mind, I was avenging my father. In my part of the world, the code of the vendetta is always absolute. The man who does not take vengeance for the wrong done to his own was himself cursed, if that makes sense?”