Gemini

by Mark Burnell

  Unlike Savic, who was still waiting for his answer. He wanted to possess her. Despite the warning she'd given him, she knew he thought he still could. She'd come across so many men like him. Predictable and aggressive, yet easy to manipulate.

  'Too far from you,' she said.

  When they went to bed she closed her eyes and pretended it was Mark. Then Komarov. Then Mark again. As though the two were different versions of the same man. One face, two names.

  Gemini.

  Now that she knew who Sabine Freisinger was, it felt peculiar to be in her apartment, in her bed. With her ex-lover. When she faked her orgasm Stephanie wondered whether Dragica had too. Or whether she hadn't needed to.

  It was still raining at six in the morning when the phone rang. Savic answered. Stephanie was aware of him tensing beside her. He listened, nodded, then said he'd be there in fifteen minutes.

  'Come on. Get dressed.'

  'Where are we going?'

  He was pulling on a pair of trousers. 'To a breakfast meeting.'

  A slate grey dawn, the streets still quiet; they drove in silence with just the spray for sound. Stephanie put on a cold front. Like wearing black, she found it was good for all occasions.

  They turned into Hobrechtstrasse in Neukölln, a cobbled road lined with trees and a mixture of buildings – nineteenth century and post-war – all residential above street level. The wheels grumbled over the cobbles as Savic slanted the car into a diagonal parking space, the bonnet beneath dripping branches. He looked over his shoulder.

  'Good. Vojislav is already here. The red Fiat on the other side of the street.'

  The car was empty. Brankovic was nowhere to be seen. Stephanie noticed the names above four shops in a row – Kosovare, Prishtina, Illyria Travel, Café Tirana – and felt her pulse flutter.

  Savic took out his mobile, made a call, spoke in Serb, presumably to Brankovic, then said to her, 'We can go up.'

  They got out of the Alfa Romeo and crossed the street. The plain brown door between Prishtina and Café Tirana looked closed but Savic reached out and pushed. It swung open.

  They entered a gloomy, airless hall, then climbed creaking stairs to the second floor. The doors on the first floor landing were nailed shut behind wooden boards.

  Savic produced a Mauser 90DA from the waistband of his trousers and rapped the butt against the door. When it opened they were in a small, unloved apartment: functional furniture – none of it new – paint peeling from the walls, the smell of damp everywhere. In the living room, masking tape ran across one of the windows, following the line of a crack.

  Six men and a woman were squeezed into the kitchen. Around the edge, an old, electric two-ring stove, a grill, a sink and some cheap seventies fitted units in avocado. At the centre, a table with a yellow Formica top. Beside it, a chair, which one of the men was tied to, his wrists secured by duct tape. One of the other men was sitting on a chair in the corner, cupping his nose. Blood was running through his fingers, splattering his lap. Both eyes were puffy. The woman, who stood beside him, tried to help but was prevented by a man Stephanie had seen at the auction.

  Savic looked at the two men who were sitting, then at Brankovic. 'Where's Shatri?'

  'He's not here.'

  He glared at the man taped to the chair. 'Who's this?'

  'Says he's called Sevdie.'

  'And the two over there?'

  'They own the café downstairs. Bobo recognizes them.'

  A squat figure with bad blond highlights bristled at the mention of his name.

  'And you haven't seen this one?'

  Before Bobo could answer Brankovic held out a manila envelope. Savic emptied the contents: some papers, a passport, an airline ticket.

  Brankovic said, 'From London. Doesn't speak German. Came in last week. Same as Shatri.'

  'Well, there's a coincidence.' Savic looked at the man and said, in English, 'You a friend of his?'

  Nothing.

  Stephanie thought Savic would throw a punch. But he didn't. He just sighed and turned away. There was a pot of coffee simmering on the stove. He helped himself to a cup. 'I can see this is going to take some time.' He sat on the edge of the table and lit a cigarette. 'Sevdie – is that right?'

  Still nothing.

  'This will be easier for you if you talk to me.'

  Black hair pushed back over the scalp, greasy skin stretched over prominent cheekbones, his darting, deep-set eyes were full of fear. He wore a crumpled grey suit over a dark blue-and-brown checked shirt with a frayed collar.

  'Where's Farhad Shatri?'

  He shook his head.

  Savic took a drag from his cigarette. 'But he was here, right?'

  'No.'

  Brankovic took a tea-towel from the rail by the cooker.

  Savic tapped ash into Sevdie's lap. 'I know he was here.'

  'I don't know anyone called Farhad Shatri.'

  Brankovic moved behind Sevdie.

  Savic smiled but there was nothing warm in his eyes. 'Let me explain something to you. Farhad Shatri arrived at Tegel last week. With someone else. A male, more or less like you. And I know that Shatri came here with his friend. Who may or may not have been you. This ticket, though, tells its own story. You were on the same flight.'

  Sevdie was pulling against his restraints, trying to look over his shoulder to see what Brankovic was doing.

  'Sevdie, pay attention.'

  'Please …'

  'Look at me.'

  Reluctantly he turned back to Savic, who said, 'Let's start again. Where is Farhad Shatri?'

  'I don't know where …'

  Before he could complete the sentence, Savic threw his cup of coffee into Sevdie's face. A second of silence was followed by the start of a scream. Which was muffled by Brankovic who secured Sevdie's head in an arm-lock and rammed the tea-towel into his mouth with the force of a punch.

  The Albanian rattled from side to side, skinning his wrists on his bindings, the veins rising off his throat. By the window, the café owners whimpered. When the scream had subsided to a quivering moan, Savic yanked the tea-towel from Sevdie's mouth and said, 'Was Farhad Shatri here?'

  Sevdie nodded, the movement barely discernible over the tremble. Steam was rising from his scorched skin.

  'I can't hear you. Was Farhad Shatri here?'

  Through scalded lips, Sevdie mumbled, 'Yes.'

  Savic stared hatefully at Sevdie. 'Bobo, that seemed a little cool. Turn up the heat. I like my coffee boiling.'

  He stood up and turned his back on Sevdie. He circled the room in silence, no one else daring to move. Then he put a hand on Brankovic's shoulder and led him to the door, where he whispered an instruction that Stephanie overheard.

  He said, 'This isn't going to work. Call Gunther. Tell him we're coming. Tell him we need some place where no one can hear you scream. And tell him we need a bolt-cutter.'

  Brankovic's eyes began to sparkle.

  Chapter 12

  Stephanie arrived before Savic. At five to midday it was drizzling but several determined Berliners persisted in taking coffee outside. Swathed in overcoats, they sat at small circular tables on Unter den Linden beneath a large canopy. Stephanie entered Café Einstein and chose a table at the rear, beside a window. She ordered black coffee.

  Savic had called at half past eleven. He'd sounded breathless, anxious even. He'd been walking as he talked; she'd heard shoes clicking on concrete, the rumble of an engine, the rattle of heavy gates.

  Three tables away, two women sat opposite one another. The older woman was in her seventies, Stephanie guessed, or even her eighties. Her hair was completely white and her skin was alabaster pale, without a single obvious blemish, as though she had never seen sunlight. She sat bolt upright, in a dress with a frilly collar, a triple string of pearls around her throat, her hands in fingerless gloves of white lace. She was smoking Lucky Strike, which seemed a little incongruous.

  Stephanie felt she could use a cigarette herself. It had been years sin
ce her last smoke. Every now and then, though, the urge rose, Phoenix-like, from the cigarette ash. It was the mention of the bolt-cutter that had done it. That and the look in Brankovic's eyes. She'd told Savic she wasn't going to the Katz Europa depot in Marienfelder. He'd nodded, not offering a view in front of the others, but the message was clear enough: I don't blame you.

  When he arrived he appeared to have aged five years in five hours. His skin was almost as pale as that of the woman in the fingerless gloves, the effect made more dramatic by the dark stubble over his jaw. He shrugged off his leather coat, resisted a waiter's attempt to take it from him, and draped it over the back of the chair. Another waiter brought Stephanie's cup of coffee.

  Savic said, 'Vodka, no mixer, no ice. Make it a triple.'

  When the waiter had gone, Stephanie said, 'Sevdie?'

  He shook his head. She wasn't surprised. The kind of interrogation that required a bolt-cutter was unlikely to yield useful information.

  'I need you, Petra.'

  'Personally? Or professionally?'

  'Both.'

  She took a moment to decide how to play it. 'I don't want to work for you.'

  'Why not?'

  'It'll come between us.'

  'Not necessarily.'

  'It came between you and Sabine.'

  'That was different. She was different.'

  'I've been thinking about what you suggested in Hong Kong. I don't want to get drawn into a … programme. I value my professional independence. I've only ever done single contracts and that's the way I'd like to keep it.'

  'You did Waxman and Cheung.'

  'Essentially they were one person.'

  Gemini, again.

  'I only want one.'

  Stephanie picked up her cup and took a slow sip. 'Farhad Shatri?'

  Savic nodded. 'And I don't want you to kill him. I want you to find him.'

  'Because you can't find him yourself?'

  'That's right.'

  'What makes you think I can?'

  'You found Mostovoi when no one else could.'

  'Who is Farhad Shatri?'

  'It doesn't matter. Once you find him I'll deal with him.'

  'That's not the way I work, Milan. Gilbert Lai didn't want to explain why Waxman and Cheung were important to him. And I had to explain to him that I don't go into anything blind. That's why I'm still in business.'

  The waiter returned with Savic's drink.

  'This is different,' he told her.

  'Why?'

  'Because it's me. Because it's us.'

  'So it's a question of trust, then?'

  'Yes.'

  Stephanie's smile was measured. 'What are we going to be, Milan? Two strangers who have sex because they like the look of each other? Or something more? Because, if we're being totally honest, there are other strangers around. I see them everywhere. On the street, in the airport, in a shop. Maybe even in here. And if that's the way it's going to be, why bother with the commitment?'

  She saw this was the last kind of conversation he wanted to have. Certainly not now, probably not ever. Which meant the timing was perfect.

  'We could be something special. Look at us. Look at what we've done. We broke away from our pasts and created something new – something better – out of ourselves. Both of us. Now we have our own lives, our own reputations, but the question is this: can we have a life together?'

  'Why not?'

  'Because I'm Petra Reuter. And I won't accept anything less. And because you're Milan Savic. And I still won't accept anything less. If we're going to be together there can be no half-measures. It's everything or nothing.'

  The blood was returning to him. Perhaps it was the vodka. Perhaps not. She decided to gamble. 'Think of how it could be for us. The two of us, both dominant in our own way. What a couple we could make, Milan. Like Arkan and Ceca. Only better.'

  At first she thought she'd gone too far, both names a punch to his solar plexus. But once the shots were absorbed they seemed to energize him. Tired eyes became revitalized. He polished off the vodka and lit an American Spirit.

  Time to push home the advantage.

  'I'll do this for you, Milan. But not for money. I'll do it for you. The way I do things for you in bed. I'll do it for us. But in return, I want something back.'

  'Name it.'

  Trust. You have to tell me what I need to know. You have to show me. And then let me show you.'

  He was completely motionless. 'Everything or nothing?'

  'Everything or nothing.'

  Stephanie could almost see the creaking cogs turn with the vodka acting as lubricant. The idea of Arkan and Ceca coloured everything. They'd all been together: Milosevic, Arkan, Savic, Frenki and Badza, Ratko Mladic and Vojislav Seselj, organizer of the Serbian Chetnik movement. But of all of them it had been Arkan and his paramilitary Tigers who'd been the touchstone. He'd been the one with the flair, the one with the trophy wife, the one who'd inspired the most fear among Serbia's enemies.

  An image was forming in Savic's mind: of Savic himself, the criminal entrepreneur with a business stretching from the Far East to Western Europe, and Petra Reuter, the wraith spirit. She didn't have Ceca's voice, or her extraordinary breasts, or even her smouldering, angular beauty, but she had a reputation. And what a reputation it was. Not one that could be publicly paraded through the best nightspots in Belgrade or Moscow, but among Europe's criminal cognoscenti Petra would outclass Ceca and all the others. Arkan and Ceca had been Balkan giants. Petra Reuter was universal. That was the bottom line.

  Savic said, 'I'm hungry. Let's eat.'

  He ordered veal, she ordered carrot and coriander soup. He steered clear of alcohol, ordering Coke instead. Stephanie drank sparkling mineral water.

  He was like a child's toy. She'd wound him up. Now she let him go.

  What was most striking was the casual drift from Belgrade gangster to hardcore paramilitary leader. At first they'd all been seduced by Milosevic's romantic vision of a greater Serbia. He'd come to the presidency on 8 May 1989, but it was his speech, on 28 June of that year, to one million people to mark the 600th anniversary of the Battle of Kosovo that truly made him. Savic had been there, at Gazimestan, part of the historic battlefield where Prince Lazar had perished in 1389.

  Recalling the speech, Savic submitted to the fog of nostalgia. Milosevic told them that throughout their proud history Serbs had never conquered or exploited others. He played on the heroism of Serbs over the course of six centuries and pointed out that they were now engaged in modern quarrels. And that although they were not engaged in battle, it could never be ruled out.

  With Mira Markovic, his wife, then a professor of Marxism at Belgrade University, at his side, they surrounded themselves with Serbian intellectuals who were prepared to regard Milosevic as the great Serbian messiah. Through mass manipulation of public and political life, they managed to impose direct Serbian rule over Kosovo and to install a pro-Milosevic regime in Montenegro.

  'After that it just seemed there was too much momentum. Previously Serbs and Slovenes had always got on. Suddenly that was no longer the case. And although our fight with Slovenia was over almost before it had started, it was obvious that Croatia was going to be a problem.'

  The transformation from gangster to paramilitary leader was organic. The leaders of the SPS, the Socialist Party of Serbia, were gangsters, Savic said, in all but name. Jovica Stanisic had been head of the SDB, Serbia's secret police. He'd realized that the SDB would not be able to incite Serbian insurrection in Croatia by itself. He brought in his two top men – Franko Simatovic, aka Frenki, and Rarlovan Stojicic, aka Badza – to help. They selected and recruited generals from the Yugoslav National Army, to help arm those who were ready to rise up, and they formed links with sympathetic criminals, Arkan and Savic among them.

  'I founded the unit in 1989. It was about 1991 or 1992 before people started to call it Inter Milan. Arkan set up the Serbian Volunteer Guard – the Tigers, as they became known –
a little later. 1990 or 1991, I think. Among other things, he was the head of Delije.'

  'What's that?'

  'The official supporters' club for the Red Star Belgrade football team. They were regarded as the Serb team. When Arkan set up the Tigers he recruited a lot of men directly from Delije.'

  'And you?'

  'Most of the ones closest to me – with the exception of Vojislav – were with me from childhood. We grew up together. We made money together. We had a bond that you can't buy. Inter Milan was merely the formalization of a tight group that already existed.'

  'I thought it became known as Inter Milan because of the unusually high number of foreigners you recruited.'

  'True. I wanted that blend. The ones who'd always been with me – the ones I knew I could trust with my life – and the ones who weren't interested in the politics or the history. Complete outsiders, only interested in money. They were there to fight. And we respected that in them. As a mixture, I would say it worked well.'

  Over the course of lunch he took her through a decade of war. Croatia, Bosnia, Kosovo. Milosevic couldn't stop. He needed to be pressing constantly. To have stood still would have been to retreat. And to collapse.

  Eventually Savic came to the network.

  'Even when we were in the Krajina, back in 1991, there were some who thought it would end in tears. In 1992 I was in China. Lai asked me that very question. What will you do when it all goes wrong? I'd always assumed it might, but that was when I started to believe it would. This was five years before the British handed Hong Kong back to the Chinese. A lot of people in the colony were making their own preparations, assuming the worst. So that was what I started to do too.

  'At that time, apart from my links to Hong Kong and China, my businesses were based in Belgrade. It was clear that if we lost, everything I'd worked for in Belgrade would be at risk. So I decided to diversify. Lai suggested human trafficking. Whatever happens, he said, the Balkans will be a lucrative transit region. And he was right. He was to provide the raw material – the people, in their thousands – and I was to provide the network for dispersing them across Europe.'