“Who would withdraw the party’s support for the peace conference within hours of taking the reins.”
“That’s a good bet.”
Annika stood up and began to pace back and forth behind the desk. It was a habit she had that Eric had observed before. It seemed to help her think.
“What if Arsić was out of the picture altogether?” she asked.
“What do you have in mind?” Eric flashed back to Filipović’s head exploding into a mass of red-gray goo. But he did not believe for a moment that this was what Annika meant by “out of the picture.”
“What if Arsić was gone? Just out of the equation. Could we keep Strelić onside?”
“I think so, yes. His calculus would certainly change, and it’s the challenge from Arsić that is pushing him to abandon the peace process.”
“Can you get me another twenty-four hours? Get Strelić to postpone his press conference by a day?”
“Maybe. But no promises. There are a few guys firmly in Strelić’s camp in the HDF who owe me a favor or two. I can try to cash those in for a delay, but it depends on the dynamics inside the party. If they’ve decided that Arsić is the future, they may already be looking to switch sides. And if Strelić feels the walls closing in, he won’t listen to anyone who’s telling him to do anything other than defend his position.”
“See if you can get me the time I need.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Annika’s eye’s narrowed and her expression was steely.
“I’m going to play politics.”
“I’ll do my best,” Eric promised.
“And one more thing,” Annika said, as though she had not already asked for the moon. “Ask Strelić to come in and meet with me tomorrow morning.”
“Now I’m not just cashing in markers, I’m writing IOUs.”
“That’s alright,” Annika said with a mischievous smile. “You’re good for it.”
—
Ante Strelić was a former semipro basketball player in Croatia’s development league. Eric had to crane his neck at an awkward angle as they shook hands. Strelić still carried himself like an elite athlete, angular and confident. His suit was Italian, charcoal gray with dark-blue pinstripes. His haircut was expensive. Strelić was not your average Bosnian politician. He had a future, and he would be the first to tell you that. His personal political fortune, Eric knew, would be the single most important factor in his decision making on the Sondergaard Plan. If his personal interests led him to choose war over peace, so be it.
In that way, at least, Strelić was all too typical of your average Bosnian politician even if his sartorial splendor was not.
Eric led the HDF leader up the stairs to Annika’s second-floor office. The High Rep was easily Strelić’s match in the wardrobe department. Black suit with a white open-necked shirt. Blond hair pulled back in a tight bun. Single strand of pearls. She looked ten years younger than she had just the day before.
They perched more than sat on the High Rep’s vaguely uncomfortable Scandinavian furniture.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Annika said, once coffee had been served.
“It’s my pleasure,” Strelić replied. His English was smooth and cultured, the accent colored by the decade he had spent living in Germany. “Your people were both persuasive and . . . insistent.”
“It’s all in the service of peace,” Annika offered.
“Of course,” Strelić said carefully. “Madam High Representative, I am happy to meet with you and I agreed to postpone my press conference at your request, but I am afraid that this conversation is unlikely to produce the results you desire. The HDF is forced to withdraw support for your plan. It’s not personal. I have enormous regard for your diligent efforts in pursuit of an agreement. The time is just not right.”
“Is it the HDF pulling out of the peace conference,” Annika asked, “or Ante Strelić?”
“Is there a difference?”
“That’s a little Louis XIV, don’t you think?”
“I am the party.”
“But only so long as you can hold on to the top job.”
“That’s the nature of our profession, alas. All political careers end in failure.”
“And you’re concerned that Mr. Arsić will use your support for the peace conference to move your career forward to that unfortunate end before its time.”
Eric admired the way Annika controlled the conversation. She was firm but not overbearing. The High Rep was a hell of a politician.
“I’m not concerned,” Strelić said. “I’m certain. If I don’t pull my party out of your conference, I’m going to lose it. And Arsić will be even more difficult for you to deal with than I am. He represents the hard-liners in our party, the unreconstructed nationalists. If you are thinking that you can back them in this fight against me and make Arsić an ally, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“I think no such thing,” Annika assured him. “We have no illusions about Mr. Arsić, his supporters, or his views.”
“So why have you asked to see me?”
“I just thought that you might like to know that three hours ago Mr. Arsić accepted a position as a senior advisor for the European Commission’s Western Balkans Neighborhood Program. He starts immediately.”
Strelić looked stunned.
He was no more surprised than Eric. The High Rep had made these arrangements through her own channels.
“Why would he do this?” Strelić asked.
“The position pays rather well, about fourteen thousand euros a month,” Annika said with a tone that implied the answer was blindingly obvious. “The job also comes with a nice apartment in Brussels and a generous expense account.”
“And that was enough?”
“So it would seem.”
“You know what they say about gift horses,” Eric added.
“I suppose that I do.” Strelić still seemed confused by the sudden change in his political fortunes.
“This would seem to solve your little problem within the party,” Annika suggested.
“So it would seem,” Strelić said in conscious imitation of the High Rep’s own blithe reassurances.
“What can we expect about the HDF’s position with respect to the peace conference?”
Strelić did not hesitate.
“Madam High Representative, I can assure you that our press conference tomorrow will focus on the importance of all of Bosnia’s political leaders putting aside their personal differences and embracing your plan as the surest path to peace and prosperity.”
“I’m so pleased to hear that,” Annika said with a slight smile. “And I am certain you will be quite convincing. I look forward to our continued partnership.”
“Partnership. Yes. I would imagine, Madam, that it is considerably more profitable to be your partner than your enemy.”
“I should hope so.”
After Strelić had left, Eric and Annika poured another round of coffees and shared a moment of quiet satisfaction.
“That was a pretty impressive performance, Annika.”
“Thank you. You’re the regional expert, but I’m the politician. Politics is the same all over the world. It’s all about who gets what.”
“Too many of them seem to want it all.”
Annika laughed lightly. “We politicians can be limited in our outlook, I agree.”
“There was more to the Arsić deal than just the job offer, wasn’t there?” Eric suggested.
“Well, there was also the matter of his trading company.”
Arsić ran a successful business exporting fruits and vegetables from Bosnia to supermarket chains in Western Europe.
“A stick to go along with his carrots perhaps.”
“Very good. I may have suggested to Mr. Arsić that
if he did not take the position the EU’s health inspectors were going to find his company in breach of so many phytosanitary regulations that not a single cucumber would make it onto the supermarket shelves of Western Europe.”
“Were you ready to follow through on that? Bankrupt him if he wouldn’t play along?”
“Yes. I was.”
“That’s what we Americans call hardball,” Eric said.
“Do you think it was unethical, what I did?”
It was a serious question and Eric gave it serious consideration.
“Maybe,” he offered, after a minute or two of thought. “But in the service of a good cause. I think that gives you some rope.”
“Thank you, Eric. I don’t love playing those kinds of games even when they’re necessary.”
“It’s a tough town. You do what you have to.”
Annika nodded in agreement.
—
A few hours later, Eric and Annika took the short drive to the Aleksandar Hotel. In a few short days, the Aleksandar would host the conference at which the fate of the Sondergaard Plan would be decided. Annika wanted the logistics to be smooth and predictable even as the politics promised to be anything but.
The Aleksandar was a venerable establishment and the beneficiary of a major facelift that had rejuvenated the façade and brought the once-tired interior into the twenty-first century. It was one of the best on Sarajevo’s hotel scene and an obvious choice for the conference. They toured the rooms that were being readied for the delegates from the three major ethnic communities, the entities of the Federation, and the two big neighbors—Serbia and Croatia—as well as the scores of European and American officials who were descending on the conference like locusts in the hopes of claiming a slice of the credit and a share of the glory that would come with success. These same self-promoters—so instrumental to the outcome, they would say back home—would slink out the back door into the night in the event of failure. It was always like that.
“What do you think, Eric?” Annika asked at the end of the tour. “Are we ready?”
“The hotel is in good shape. The plenary rooms are big enough. The delegation hold areas are too small to be comfortable, which is good. We could use a little more office space, another couple of computers, and a better copier than the one the hotel has offered. Wylie will give you one if you ask. If the talks get traction, we’re going to need the ability to adjust the texts in something close to real time. We’ll need to produce a lot of paper on a short timeline.”
“Anything else I should ask of your ambassador while I’m at it?”
“Other than to stay away?”
“I doubt very much that he would give me that no matter how sweetly I asked.”
“You’re probably right.”
At the front entrance to the hotel, they paused to consider how they would coordinate the complicated protocol dance of the arrivals and departures of the assorted muckety-mucks, all of whom would want to demonstrate their power and influence by jumping to the front of the line.
The hotel was located on Ulica Zmaja od Bosne, the street that had once been known as Sniper Alley. Eric looked down the now-crowded street toward the buildings on the hills ringing the city that had once served as the vantage points for the snipers and marksmen who had terrorized the populace of Sarajevo for the better part of three years. That was all in the past.
But Filipović’s murder was still fresh in Eric’s mind. There was no reason to believe that the assassination was the only one that Mali and his allies had planned.
Eric had not told anyone about that night. He had not reported it to Wylie because the ambassador was likely to respond by throwing him out of the country. He had not told Sarah only because he had no idea where she was or how to reach her. And he had not told Annika, largely, he suspected, because he did not want to give her cause to doubt his judgment. He had persuaded himself that he could operate effectively on his own in a fluid and ambiguous environment, and he had put himself in a dangerous position as a direct result. Filipović’s murder had raised the stakes to a much higher level than Eric had anticipated. Mali Barcelona had acquired an efficient instrument of death, and there was now empirical evidence that he intended to use it. With Mali’s opposition to the peace conference, the High Representative would have to be considered among the possible targets.
“Annika,” he said impulsively. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Shoot.”
It was an unfortunate choice of idiom.
“You read the stories in the papers about Filipović’s murder in Srpska?”
“Of course.”
“I was there when it happened.”
Annika’s eyes widened.
“Really?”
“I was sitting two meters from him when he was shot. I believe the shooter works for Marko Barcelona. Filipović was ready to sell Mali out to save his own skin and he told me that he knew what it was Mali had over Dimitrović. So Mali decided that he’d be better off with Filipović dead. I was negotiating the terms of Filipović’s defection. But we didn’t get the chance to close the deal. Whatever Filipović knew, he took to his grave.”
“Any idea who the shooter is?”
“None. But he’s extremely good at what he does. Annika, I’m worried about you. It’s possible that if Mali decides you’ve become a serious threat he’ll move against you personally. He’s not above it. Not by a long shot.” Eric winced at his own poor choice of words.
Annika was not easy to intimidate.
“Eric, through all the years of fighting in the Balkans, how many of the international negotiators were targeted for violence by the belligerents?”
“None,” Eric conceded.
“The risks were too high. It just wasn’t worth it. That hasn’t changed. They will do absolutely brutal and unconscionable things to each other, but I doubt very much that they’ll extend the same treatment to you or me. The outsiders are all replaceable parts.”
“I’m replaceable, Annika. But I’m not at all convinced that you are. Will you at least get close protection? A detail.”
“If Mali really wants me dead, it wouldn’t matter. I’ll let some Sarajevo policeman follow me around if it’ll make you feel better, but I’m ready to take whatever risks I have to in getting this done. There’s too much at stake.”
Annika’s thinking paralleled Eric’s own. He had been chewing over Dragan’s suggestion that they use the opportunity of Mali’s meeting with the political and criminal leadership of Republika Srpska to search his house. Eric did not doubt that Dragan could get them inside. He did not know what they might find there, but he knew that at the moment they were two steps behind Mali—and that the leader of the White Hand seemed bent on ensuring that the Sondergaard Plan died in the cradle.
Sarah would not hesitate. But it was her line of work. Eric was a diplomat, not a spy. In principle, he enjoyed diplomatic immunity, so he could not be prosecuted even if they were caught breaking into Mali’s home. In practice, judgment was likely to be delivered outside a courtroom and the execution of the sentence would be summary. A bullet to the back of the head did not discriminate on the basis of diplomatic niceties.
Annika stepped back and looked appraisingly at the hotel. She seemed satisfied.
“Are you ready for this?” she asked. Annika was talking about the peace conference. But Eric was thinking about Mali and Dragan and Sarah. Annika was right. There was too much at stake. This was a chance to correct the mistakes of the past. Or at least make amends.
He was ready.
“Let’s do this,” he said with more conviction than he felt.
There was no way that Annika could know he was answering a different question.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
NOVEMBER 10
23
Interrogation was a kind of seduc
tion. Done right, it required time and patience as the questioner and the questioned did their complicated dance. The interrogator was the male figure. The pursuer. The aggressor. The conqueror. The subject was the female. The pursued. The defender. The conquest. At the end of a successful interrogation, the subject should give him or herself willingly to the interrogator as though it were the consummation of a secret desire. The subject would unburden himself of his secrets; whether he did this because of guilt or pride or weariness did not really matter. Interrogation was a delicate art form that could not be rushed.
—
VW did not have time for that shit.
—
There was another kind of interrogation: short, sharp, and brutal. This was the interrogation of the waterboard, of the electric current, of sleep deprivation, of stress positions, and of fear. It was violence first, questions later. Torquemada and his Inquisition. Interrogators of this stripe did not need to worry about establishing credibility. The bruises and burns they left behind did that quite nicely.
Not long after the beginning of the Global War on Terror, in which the United States of America formally declared hostilities against an abstract noun, VW had done a short stint at the prison in Guantánamo, Cuba, where the military was holding a group of what it called “high-value detainees.” Most were anything but, just angry and confused kids with delusions of jihadist grandeur. A few, however, were the real deal, men like Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. The al-Qaeda propaganda chief had been waterboarded almost two hundred times, ultimately confessing to masterminding the 9/11 attacks, the Bali bombing in Indonesia, and the attempted shoe-bombing of an American Airlines flight. If they hadn’t stopped, Mohammed would have accepted responsibility for the Gulf oil spill, global warming, and Jar Jar Binks. That was the shortcoming of this approach. Push hard enough and you would always find what you were looking for. Torquemada and his team had an extraordinary batting average. In the end, everyone confessed. They would say anything to make the pain stop.
The Wolf of Sarajevo Page 21