The guide pointed to a stone-walled barn. “This is where it happened.”
He ran his fingers across the pock-marked surface, imagining the terror the family must have felt as they were forced against the wall. He took out his camera and snapped photos. Then he walked a dozen feet from the barn, crouched and examined the ground. Pulling on latex gloves, he picked up a shell casing and inspected the Yugoslavian head stamp. More photos.
He entered the residence through the open door. A musty smell hit him. Birds had built nests in the ceiling and animals had crapped everywhere. The furniture was in disarray, the dining table thrown on its side. On a shelf over the kitchen sink, he found a family photograph. It had been a large household with parents, grandparents, and children; nine in total. His heart lurched as he studied their faces. On the far edge of the photo stood a teenage girl with sandy-blonde hair. She wore a mischievous smile that reminded him of his sister. The inside of the house suddenly felt darker, colder, almost sinister. He snapped a photo of the portrait and hurried outside.
The guide was waiting. “Over here.”
Ice weaved between rusting farm equipment and followed him into the forest. As they followed an overgrown trail, he noticed the complete lack of bird life. The woods were eerily silent.
“This is where they left them.”
Ice trod forward. Most farms had a refuse pit. This one had been used as a mass grave. The bodies had been flung on top of each other. Discarded like pieces of garbage. The flesh had rotted away but hair and clothing remained. One of the corpses stared up at Ice with empty eye sockets. The jaw hung open in an eternal scream.
Hands shaking, he lifted the camera and shot a dozen photographs. More senseless killings. Innocents murdered because men like Zahir wanted power. Eye for an eye violence, perpetuated by their need for revenge.
The guide’s face was gray. “Do you have enough?”
Ice nodded.
“Then we can go.”
They walked quickly out of the valley, not looking back.
“I’ll drop you at your village,” Ice said when they reached the parked 4Runner. On occasion, he still used the battered Toyota. For security reasons, he rotated through a fleet of different cars when he conducted source meets.
The guide nodded and got in the passenger seat.
As they drove down from the hills, images of the corpses flashed through Ice’s mind, melding with memories of the execution he had witnessed two years earlier.
After a few minutes, his guide broke the silence. “Have you heard? Zahir is running for office.”
He snapped around to face the man. “What?”
“Zahir is running for office. My brother is the party secretary, and he says he has a good chance of winning.”
He clenched his teeth.
“You worked with Zahir during the war didn’t you?”
Ice didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the road.
“He is a strong man, Zahir. The Gray Wolves fought when most ran and hid. It’s because of men like him that the war came to an end. He gave Kosovo its freedom.”
Ice’s white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel went unnoticed. “His second-in-command, do you know him?”
“Kreshnik? Everyone knows Kreshnik, the hero of Brabonic. They say he killed an entire platoon of Yugoslav Special Forces to rescue a downed US fighter pilot.”
Ice’s eyebrows rose. “That’s what they say?”
The Albanian studied his face. “You were there weren’t you?”
Ice ignored the question. “Do you know what he’s up to now?”
“He just opened a hotel outside Brabonic. You should go, he does good deals for UN.”
“What’s it called?”
“I think it’s called the Smoking Pussy. Yes that’s it. If you take the back road from Brabonic you can’t miss it.”
Ice pulled the SUV over to the side of the road. “Thanks for the tip.” He opened the glove compartment, took out an envelope, and handed it over. “And thanks for your help.”
The man opened the envelope and checked the cash inside. “Will you be needing me again?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
The Albanian tucked the envelope away and jumped out.
Ice pulled back onto the road. He glanced at the digital clock on the dash. It was only an hour until nightfall. Enough time to check out Kreshnik’s hotel and get back in time for the nightly update briefing.
***
The hotel, if it could be called that, was exactly as Ice expected. A seedy dive on the outskirts of town. The words ‘Smoking Pussy’ flashed in red on top of the two-story building. Below the neon words a pink cat with a cigarette hanging from its mouth arched its back suggestively. Ice wondered if Kreshnik was responsible for the tacky, yet slightly witty name. He doubted it. The former KLA fighter and mass murderer had never shown much personality let alone creativity.
Leaning against his SUV, he opened a packet of chewing gum and studied the building. He was parked behind a beat up dump truck on the opposite side of the road. It was dark, but the lights on the hotel’s gravel parking lot were enough to see who was coming and going.
He stuffed gum into his mouth as a green Mercedes G-Wagen with KFOR markings pulled into the parking lot. The four men who spilled out were wearing cargo pants, hiking boots, and a mix of jackets. He smiled. Off-duty soldiers always dressed the same; function over fashion. The men disappeared through the front door and Ice approached.
Spotting a security camera above the entrance, he held up a UN ID card as he banged on the door. Seconds later, it swung inward and he ducked inside.
He was greeted by a thickset bouncer dressed in the typical Albanian mafia uniform of a black jacket, jeans, and gold chains. Ice smiled down at the man. “Booze and girls, yeah.”
The man nodded and waved him through a set of heavy felt curtains.
Ice winced as he was hit by flashing lights and euro-techno blasting from crackling speakers. It smelled like a cat had pissed in an ashtray. There was a bar at one end and a raised platform with stripper poles at the other. In between were couches, tables, and chairs. To the side of the bar were a staircase and a door with the letters TOALET scrawled in white paint.
“What a dump,” Ice murmured as he navigated his way around the furniture to the bar. The only customers in the room were the soldiers who had arrived before him. They hadn’t lost any time settling in. Their table was already crammed with pitchers of beer, delivered by two waitresses wearing heavy makeup. They looked like they had been working the scene for at least a decade, or two.
“What you want?” the barman asked in halting English.
“What ya got?”
“Beer, whiskey, bitches.”
Ice considered his options. “Beer.”
“Five dollars.”
He raised his eyebrows at the exorbitant price and dropped a note on the bar. A cold glass of the amber liquid was placed in front of him. He picked up the stein and turned to watch the KFOR guys.
The four soldiers, Ice guessed they were Germans, were necking beer like it was Gatorade. One of them had a waitress on his lap and had slipped his hand inside her bra to fondle a breast. She seemed perfectly OK with the situation.
Ice turned to face a woman sauntering down the staircase. She flashed a smile. “Hello, big boy!” Clearly another veteran. Her face was caked with makeup and her breasts were almost exploding out of her lacy bra.
He returned the smile. “How are you this evening?”
She grinned. “I am good.” She sat on a stool next to him. “Are you an Englishman?”
Ice shook his head. “No, I’m an American. But you, you sound like a Russian.” Ice detected a faint glaze to her eyes. He glanced at her arms, searching for bruises or needle marks. She looked clean.
She pursed her lips. “You’re very smart. I am Russian. Do you want to join me upstairs?”
“Not just yet. I’d prefer to have a few drinks first.” He gestured t
oward the chairs. “Would you like to join me?”
She looked disappointed. “OK, first we drink.”
No, thought Ice, drinking is all we’ll do. He bought her a vodka lemonade, took her by the elbow, and gently led her to a pair of armchairs. “Do you have many girls here?”
She nodded sipping her vodka.
“Are they all Russian like you?”
She shook her head. “Many different girls. You want another girl?”
“No, you’re very beautiful.” He took a swig of beer. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
She smiled. “No, not just one. Would you like to make me your girlfriend?”
“Maybe. I just want to make sure you weren’t with Kreshnik.”
The girl’s smile dropped. “You know Kreshnik?”
“I know he’s not the sort of man I would want to offend.”
She nodded.
“He owns this place, doesn’t he?”
She shook her head. “No, he runs it for Zahir.”
Ice took another drink from his stein. “It seems like a nice place.” He glanced over at the soldiers. They were surrounded by young girls, probably around the same age as the blonde from the farmhouse. Sadness washed over him. He locked eyes with one of the teenagers. She looked barely sixteen, yet her expression was cold and lifeless.
One of the soldiers grabbed her face and kissed her.
Ice lifted his drink and downed the beer.
He felt the woman’s hand on his knee. “It’s a lot nicer upstairs. You should come up and see.”
“I wish I could, but I’m out of time.”
“Oh.”
He stood. “When I come back, who should I ask for?”
“My name is Svetlana.”
“Nice to meet you, Svetlana.”
CHAPTER 5
Ice balanced two coffees, one on top of the other, as he fumbled with the combination lock on the front gate of the CIA compound. He managed to turn the knob and push the gate ajar before jamming his boot in, and flicking it open. He repeated the process at the front door, then strode into the operations room and handed one of the coffees to a middle-aged female analyst.
Louise smiled. “You’re an angel, James.”
“Thought you could do with a morning kick start. Is Frank around?”
“He’s in his office.”
Ice walked to his desk and picked up the intelligence pack he had finished the night before. File in hand, he knocked on the station chief’s door.
“Come in.”
Frank Everton looked more like a teacher than a veteran CIA field officer and station chief. His thick-lensed glasses rested on a bulbous red nose over a bushy gray mustache. With his ruddy complexion, some thought he was an alcoholic, but Ice knew he was a teetotaler.
Frank lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What can I do for you, James?”
He held out the report. “I’ve got an ICTY pack here I want you to go over.”
“Albanian or Serb?”
“You need to read it.” He dropped the report on the desk. It was the Zahir pack, containing details of war crimes perpetrated by the Gray Wolves.
Frank sighed. “Look buddy, we’ve spoken about this. These aren’t going to get up. The UN administration has made it perfectly clear they won’t be pursuing prosecution against any of the KLA. The last thing they want is Albanians rioting and burning everything to the ground because their heroes are dragged in front of an international court.”
Ice dropped his bulky frame into the armchair in the corner of the office and drank from his coffee.
“I’m sorry, James, but that’s the way it is.” Frank opened the file and flicked through it. “Zahir again. I told you not to work on this.”
Ice’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a criminal. And, he’s running for office.”
“I know. They released the candidacy list last night.”
“And we’re fine with handing Kosovo over to war criminals and mafia?”
“That’s not for us to decide. The State Department, NATO, and the UN all want a stable Kosovo. Guys like Zahir are the only ones who can provide that.” He looked up from the report. “James, you need to look forward, not back. I want you to focus on collecting against potential threats to the election process. The rumor mill is already running twenty-four-seven with conspiracy theories, assassination threats, and the like.”
Ice nodded. He understood Frank’s unwillingness to rock the boat. Kosovo was teetering on a knife’s edge. Elements of the Albanian population were looking for any excuse to riot and throw out the remaining Serbs. No one wanted to be held responsible for igniting that fire.
“You’re a damn good officer, James. You just need to step back sometimes.” He passed back the file. “Hey, you spoken to Vance recently?”
“Not in a while. He should be done in Sierra Leone this week.”
Frank smiled. “Yes and he’ll be arriving in a couple days. HQ is sending him over to run an audit on our source files.”
Ice frowned. “Isn’t he going on leave?”
“He’s here for a week first. Volunteered for the job. Something about wanting to check up on his old protégé.”
“It’ll be good to catch up.”
“Thought you might approve.”
Ice stood and turned for the door.
“Keep your chin up, James. You’re doing good work.”
He left Frank’s office with the Zahir intel pack in hand. As he headed for the exit, Louise spoke, “James, are you going to have time to go over these files?”
He knew the rest of the day would be taken up with paperwork preparing for the audit, but now he needed to get out and clear his head. “Just heading to the gym. I’ll catch you after lunch.”
Two hours later, Ice dumped his gym bag in the corner of his room and collapsed on the bed. Lifting had done little to dispel his fury. All he could think about during the session was the injustice of Zahir running for power. The man was a murderer and almost certainly neck-deep in criminal activity. Ice pushed off the bed and filled a shaker with protein powder. He shook it furiously as he studied the photo of his family taped to the wall. His mother had passed away so it was just him, his father, and sister. The photo, taken last year, showed them smiling in front of a Christmas tree. Downing the shake, he forced himself to focus. Freetown was only two hours behind, Vance would be awake. He picked up the satellite phone from his bedside table and walked outside.
Once the phone established a signal he dialed a number.
“Hey bud, what’s up?” Vance answered.
“Heard you’re heading my way.”
“I was waiting on confirmation. Seems your sources are better than mine. I’m looking forward to catching up, brother. How are things in the old stomping ground?”
“Zahir is running for office.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“And the UN don’t have an issue with that? Do they know that he and that douche-bag Kreshnik are probably mafia?”
“I’ve told the boss. No one’s going to do anything about it.”
“I’m guessing you have a plan.”
“I want to submit his pack to the OSCE.” Ice referred to the body that oversaw the election process.
“You think they’ll stop him from running?”
“It’s worth a try. If it isn’t enough, I’ll dig up more dirt.”
“So if the war criminal angle doesn’t work, then hit them up with the mafia links?”
“Yeah. Frank can’t know. He wants me to drop it.”
“He didn’t see a family massacred in cold blood.”
Ice was silent.
“You OK?”
“Yeah, bro.”
“I’ll be there in 48 hours. We’ll work on this together.”
“Sounds good. I’ll get started on the legwork.”
“I’ve got to head out and finish my handover. I’ll drop you a message as soon as I work out my flights. St
ay frosty.”
“Will do.” Ice terminated the call. He pulled out a local cell phone and sent a text message:
Tomorrow 1100 at the tavern in Sicevo
***
Ice had not slept well. Every time he managed to fall asleep his dreams took him back to the hill overlooking the farm two years earlier. Instead of the camera he found himself aiming a sniper rifle. It was his chance at redemption. But every time he tried to take the shot he balked. No matter how hard he willed it he couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Time and time again he watched in horror as Kreshnik executed the entire family. He welcomed the morning when it finally arrived and freed him from the nightmare.
Three hours later Ice was driving a white Toyota Land Cruiser with blacked-out windows down Highway 9. He glanced in the mirror as he turned off onto a gravel road. The car that had been behind him since he left Pristina didn’t make the turn.
The road he followed wound its way along freshly plowed fields, over a small bridge, and into the town of Sicevo. He parked the four-wheel drive behind a hedge and walked to the village center. It was a cluster of red-tile roofed buildings around a dry patch of grass the size of a baseball diamond.
The only locals to be seen were two old men sitting on a bench outside the local tavern. He gave them a nod, pushed open the door, and ducked inside. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting he spotted three men sitting in a corner. They were broad-shouldered, wearing leather jackets and drinking cups of coffee. He walked past them, smiled pleasantly at an elderly woman behind the counter, and sat in the opposite corner.
The men watched him as he ordered a Turkish coffee. When it arrived, he lifted the cup in a mock salute and gave them a smile.
One of the thugs got up, glared at him and walked out. The other two continued to stare as he sipped the strong coffee. He dropped his hand to his hip and eased his jacket aside, giving him easier access to his Glock pistol. The front door opened and his fingers closed around the butt.
“Mr. Iceman, how are you?”
He smiled, taking his hand from the weapon. He knew that whiney voice. “I’m good Barishna, how are you?”
PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series) Page 17