Line of Sight - Mike Maden

by Tom Clancy

“That’s awfully generous of you, Detective.”

  “Consider it a professional courtesy.”

  Yeah, or a setup, Dom thought. He was glad that Gavin had issued them untraceable phones, since Oblak had his number.

  “I’ve handed out a few ‘professional courtesies’ myself over the years. I usually attach a string or two.”

  “You want to know my motive? I’ll make it simple. I’m a patriot. I love my country as much as you love yours. Slovenia has survived countless occupations since the time of the Caesars, and yet we are still here. We know who we are. One people, one language.” He glanced back at the corpse. “Now that we’re part of the EU, our borders are open, and anyone can cross them, including our enemies, and I’m powerless to stop it. Worse, I don’t have the authority to cross those same borders and prevent it. It’s a one-way street, and I don’t care for it.”

  “So you’re using us to do your dirty work.”

  Oblak smiled. “One courtesy begets another. So my ‘string’ is that if you find out anything about this Iron Syndicate or this woman’s connection to it, I want to be informed.”

  “Fair enough. And maybe you’ll let us know about the cause of death, and the time you call it in to the Italians.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Dom extended his hand. So did Adara. They shook. “We’ll be in touch, Detective.”

  “And tell your large friend in the van to mind his speed limit. We’re much more strict about that sort of thing in Slovenia than they are in Italy.”

  Dom hid his surprise. He didn’t think they’d been under surveillance.

  * * *

  —

  That’s a good start, Dom thought, as he climbed into the van.

  Or maybe Oblak was just handing them over to his Iron Syndicate connection in Italy, waiting to find a way to throw them off the trail, or worse.

  Either way, Trieste was the next stop.

  Jack was in trouble, and this was their only shot.

  30

  SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  Jack stared at his hands, silently fuming. He knew he was under observation by the camera unit shielded in a translucent dome in the ceiling of the small interrogation room. No point in giving anybody any ammunition to use against him. He glanced around the room for the umpteenth time, bored out of his mind. A desk, a couple chairs, industrial carpet, acoustical tiles on the walls. Not exactly a torture chamber, unless you counted annoyed frustration as inhumane psychological duress.

  What was taking so long? It felt like he’d been in there for hours, but without his iWatch and iPhone, he couldn’t know for sure. They’d been taken from him for security purposes.

  The electronic lock clicked and the steel door swung open. Dragan Kolak, stepping past a uniformed guard, carried two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. The guard shut the door behind him as Kolak set the coffees down on the table and took the only open seat.

  “Black coffee, yes?” Kolak said, not really asking.

  “Thanks,” Jack said, not really meaning it. He took a sip. Not bad. Agent Kolak was straight out of central casting for an American cop show: rumpled suit; loose tie; thin, graying hair, badly cut; and cheap leather shoes, slightly scuffed. Only Kolak wasn’t a cop. He introduced himself as an agent of OSA-OBA, the Bosnian version of the CIA.

  “Everything check out?” Jack had provided Gerry Hendley’s direct contact information, along with his own passport and wallet containing his international driver’s permit, an ATM card, two credit cards, and about a hundred dollars in Bosnian convertible marks. He knew Kolak had been running background checks since he’d last seen him.

  “Your passport appears up-to-date and valid. So let’s get down to business, Mr. Ryan.” He blinked his overly large, sad eyes.

  “The sooner, the better. I hadn’t planned on spending my vacation in the basement of a security facility.”

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have attacked my agent.”

  “He took the first swing.”

  “If my other agent hadn’t been there, I wonder what else you would have done to poor Višća?”

  “I was just defending myself.”

  “Quite skillfully, for a . . .” Kolak snapped his fingers, trying to prompt his memory. “Ah, yes, a ‘financial analyst.’”

  “You obviously believe me or you would’ve had me arrested—or whatever else your agency does with criminals.”

  “I believe what my agents reported—and lucky for you, they’re honest. But if I were you, I’d stay away from Agent Višća. He wants to return the favor of the broken nose.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry about that. And the shirt.”

  “So you came here for vacation? Tourism?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what led you to pick Sarajevo as your destination? It’s not exactly high on most Americans’ lists of places to visit.”

  “I’m a student of history. Always wanted to come here. As your guys probably know, I was just visiting the assassination museum.”

  “We have a lot of history here, for sure, Mr. Ryan. And not all of it pleasant, as you must know.”

  “Very complicated, too.”

  “Just like my job here.” Kolak took his first sip of coffee. “Your passport says you were just in Slovenia.”

  “I didn’t stamp it myself, I promise.”

  “Another history tour?”

  “Business.”

  “More ‘financial analysis’?”

  “As you already know, I work for an American firm, Hendley Associates. We were hired to do some work for a company in Ljubljana.”

  “Yes, I’ve confirmed both. And yet you found yourself in the remote mountains near Kozjak Falls.”

  Jack stiffened. “Where I was attacked.”

  “And yet the woman you say attacked you is the one who winds up in hospital.”

  “Self-defense.”

  “Self-defense? And yet you’re not the one in hospital. You’re really quite the violent man, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t go looking for trouble, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And yet it comes seeking after you wherever you go. A pity.”

  “Are we done here?”

  “Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “You have until I finish my coffee. Unless you plan to arrest me.”

  “No. Nor do I plan to have you deported, nor charged with espionage, nor tossed into a rendition facility far from the prying eyes of your government, all of which is in my power to do.”

  “In that case, what do you want to know?”

  “What is your interest in Aida Curić?”

  The question caught Jack by surprise. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. How could the man know about that? Well, obviously, they’d been following him. But why?

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your concern,” Jack said.

  “Aida Curić is a citizen of my country, and it is my sworn duty to protect the people and constitution of Bosnia. And when a violent foreign national enters my country to hunt down one of my fellow citizens? Well, that’s very much my concern.”

  So much for keeping a low profile, Jack thought.

  “Well, when you put it that way, I kinda see your point.”

  “So I’ll repeat the question, Mr. Ryan. What is your interest in Aida Curić?”

  The best lie, Jack knew, was one that contained the most truth. But any lie at this point might put him in harm’s way, and sitting here, he couldn’t quite figure out what advantage there was in lying to Kolak at all.

  “Technically, I’m here on an errand for my mother.”

  “Your mother? What kind of mission are you running for her?”

  “Mission? No, it’s more like an errand. I’m making a delivery. A letter.”


  “What kind of letter?”

  “Just a letter from my mother to Aida. She knew I was going to be in Slovenia, and she asked me to come down here to find Aida so that I could give her a letter she wrote to her.”

  Kolak leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

  “And how does your mother know Aida Curić?”

  “When Aida was a little girl during the war, she received a bad eye injury. My mother performed surgery on her. She lost contact with Aida over the years, and asked me if I could find her. She wanted to know how Aida was doing after all this time, and to let Aida know that she was still thinking about her.”

  Kolak sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin, his face lost in thought.

  Finally, he said, “As incredible as your story sounds, I am still inclined to believe you, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Then I’m free to go?”

  “Why not?”

  Kolak stood. So did Jack. Kolak handed him a business card.

  “If you run out of resources in your search for Ms. Curić, feel free to contact me. Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

  Jack was confused. Why would Kolak want to help him find Aida? He slipped the card into his pocket.

  “I appreciate that. If you’d just let me get my stuff, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Follow me.” Kolak opened the door. “Just one favor, if I may. When you find her, would you mind letting me know?”

  “You’re telling me that you won’t be tracking my every step?”

  Kolak shook his head. “I don’t see any reason to. Besides, my department is, how do you say, short-handed? My resources are better deployed elsewhere.”

  “So why do you want to know when I find her?”

  “Just curious. It’s a fascinating story.”

  Kolak flashed a smile full of crooked teeth.

  * * *

  —

  Jack and Kolak shook hands in front of the OSA-OBA main building, a drab, unremarkable structure on a modest, narrow street just up a long, steep block north of Maršala Tita.

  A half block east, a remote camera positioned behind the one-way glass of a third-story apartment window recorded the handshake.

  The camera software triggered an alarm on a laptop a half kilometer away.

  A woman, an officer in Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate (GRU), glanced up from texting on her phone, noting the image capture. Her hazel eyes were light brown today. Depending on her mood, they could also shift from gold to pale green.

  “Who is it?” A Russian man’s voice from the kitchen. He was preparing a pot of tea.

  “It’s our boy, Dragan Kolak.”

  The facial-recognition software automatically logged name, place, and time. But per their protocol, she manually logged the same data into another database on a separate computer.

  Their sources pegged Kolak as a central figure in the Bosnian security services. They just weren’t sure whose side he was playing for. Part of their job was to find out. More important, they wanted to know if he knew where the stolen thermobaric missiles were, or at least who had them.

  Finished, she returned to the image capture. Kolak headed back into the building, but the man he shook hands with was walking toward the camera. She dragged the red camera target reticle to the scowling, bearded face. The target reticle flashed three times, indicating it was searching for the man’s identity. A moment later, it turned back to solid red.

  A rare miss.

  She froze the live video feed long enough to capture the man’s facial image as a still photo, then saved it to the Search Alert file.

  Her partner leaned over her shoulder, setting a steaming cup of tea down by her elbow just as Jack turned the corner, heading back toward the main drag. The camera tracked him until he disappeared.

  “Who’s that?” He pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles closer to his eyes for clarity. The aroma of cigarettes and cinnamon in her hair made his mouth water.

  “A friend of Kolak’s, perhaps.”

  “Name?”

  “None.”

  The man leaned closer to Jack’s saved image. “How is that possible?”

  “Beard, mustache, dark eyes. Perhaps not distinctive enough for the algorithm.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He stood erect again, sipping his tea. Facial-recognition technology was advancing rapidly, but it was still limited by one significant fact: “Recognition” was a comparative exercise. The quality of existing images in the search database, or the lack of them, ultimately determined the software’s success.

  She scrubbed the video backward, capturing the footage of Jack walking toward the camera until the turn. She saved the clip and loaded that into the system as well.

  “Gait capture will help us keep an eye on him. And whoever he meets with might give us a clue to his identity.”

  “Send it along to Khodynka.” He was referring to GRU’s main headquarters in Moscow, a run-down, nine-story glass tower affectionately known as the Aquarium. “Maybe they’ll have something on him.”

  The woman tapped more keys.

  “Done.”

  PLOČE, CROATIA

  Beneath a clouded quarter moon, the Greek-registered Aegis Star sat low in the water on her twenty-meter beam, anchored in the small cove just beyond the mouth of the port of Ploče, the second busiest on the Croatian coast. The ship wasn’t scheduled to unload its cargo until mid-morning the following day. A warm breeze chucked the cold Adriatic tide against the rusting blue hull, its deck illumined only by dim navigation lights on the bow and stern. The bridge was dark.

  The low hum of an electric outboard motor cut to silence as the FC-470 rubber-hulled Zodiac combat craft drifted to a halt at the stern.

  Ten Russian KSSO operators scrambled silently up the aft ladder carrying only suppressed pistols on secured holsters and plasti-cuffs. The KSSO was Russia’s newest and most effective special operations unit. It was led by an eager young lieutenant who believed that an operation was only as good as the intel that drove it.

  Having trained for this kind of mission previously and possessing both the ship’s schematics and its crew manifest, KSSO made short work of securing the vessel. They first subdued the lone night watch on deck with a blow to the back of his skull, and then bound and gagged the rest of the sleeping, unarmed crewmen in their bunks, including their captain, a fat, flatulent Greek who reeked of ouzo and stale tobacco.

  Twenty minutes later they were belowdecks, breaking open the last of thirty-two ten-foot-long wooden crates in hold number three. The lieutenant swore prodigiously as he yanked off his balaclava and called his commander on an encrypted satellite phone.

  Another dead end, he reported.

  No thermobarics.

  No defectors.

  Where the hell are they?

  31

  SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  After his interrogation by Kolak, Jack returned to his apartment. He opened up his laptop and found an e-mail from Gavin on the secure Hendley Associates website. True to his word, Gavin had revised his search list and provided Jack with the names of twenty-three brunette Aida Curićes.

  That was a lot of Aidas, and only forty-eight hours to check them all out before his flight back to Dulles.

  He spent the rest of the evening mapping out the location of each new Aida. His intention was to call as many as he could, but when all else failed, he would attempt a personal contact. He was running out of time.

  Like his father, Jack was a bulldog when it came to finding something, or someone, he was looking for. His mother jokingly called it a mild form of OCD; his dad preferred the less clinically precise term stubborn. So did Jack.

  The next morning, Jack went back to the same breakfast restaurant as before and ordered the same chocolate-hazelnut pita and two cups of Bosnian coffee. Why not?
He was still on vacation. The only difference this time was he wore a ball cap to help prevent facial capture by any surveillance cameras. Kolak had spooked him.

  Fortified again with sugar and caffeine, he decided to take an extra precaution and found an electronics store, where he purchased a prepaid phone. He was certain that his iPhone was secure, but somehow Kolak had figured out what he’d been up to. The use of a local phone with a local number might make his prospective Aidas more likely to pick up, too.

  Kolak’s promise to back off rang hollow to Jack, considering the fact that he was apparently using him to find Aida, which didn’t make much sense. With his resources, Kolak could find anybody, or at least had a better shot at finding somebody in Bosnia than Jack did. And why in the world would he be interested in the same Aida, unless Kolak was telling the truth and he was just as intrigued by the story as Jack was?

  Jack wandered over to a small park in the middle of the Turkish part of the Old Town. He found an empty bench not far from a chess game. The enormous “board” was painted on the concrete in gray and white squares, and the giant pieces ranged from shin-high pawns to thigh-high kings.

  There was a gallery of old men sitting on benches close to the action, smoking and kibitzing as a thirtysomething guy in a sport coat lifted a pawn and took out the horse-headed knight of a silver-haired gent in a red-and-gold Adidas tracksuit, much to the gallery’s delight. Jack shook his head. From where he sat, the move seemed a strategic blunder.

  Keeping one eye on the spirited game, Jack began smiling and dialing in his hunt for the next Aida. He felt like a retiree playing nickel slots in Vegas, certain the next pull of the handle would hit the jackpot.

  Four calls in, that certainty began to fade.

  His fifth call went straight to voice mail, and, according to his map, her place of business was just a few minutes away on foot. Abiding by his new search protocol, Jack decided to head over there. It also gave him an excuse to see some more of the Old Town.

  He passed a large metal statue of a naked male figure on a pedestal in the middle of a small rose garden, in full sight of a towering, onion-domed Orthodox church. The figure looked like he was doing pull-ups on the shattered longitudinal axis of an open globe. His face pointed to the sky, but his polished bronze Johnson headed in the other direction. Jack read the inscription: “Multicultural Man Builds the World.” Jack shook his head. He wasn’t into modern art.