"Boss, we're there," the driver said as they pulled alongside the Pajero. Murat was waiting with a jerry can.
Kreshnik glanced around. They were in a wooded area. He remembered the plan and ripped his balaclava off. He tossed the empty rifle on the back seat, jumped out, and tore off his coveralls.
When the clothes and weapons were in the stolen vehicle, Murat doused the insides with fuel. He tossed the empty can in through the open window and joined the others in the Pajero.
Kreshnik pulled on his black padded jacket and strolled over to the car. Lighting a cigarette, he took a drag and tossed it through the open window. It ignited with a whoosh and he climbed into the four-wheel drive. He watched in the rear vision mirror as the raging inferno disappeared into the distance.
Then he smirked. "Job well done, boys."
***
It was early afternoon when Ice parked his Land Cruiser next to a UN vehicle in front of the Smoking Pussy. Two uniformed Canadian officers, a Major and Captain, were already waiting. He knew them both, having introduced himself back at their camp. They were tasked with checking establishments that KFOR personnel visited for the presence of underage prostitutes.
He turned off the engine and glanced in the rearview mirror. He spotted the red 4Runner parked two hundred yards down the street and pulled a UHF radio from his jacket pocket. “Comms check.”
“Got you loud and clear, bud.” Vance’s voice was reassuring.
Ice turned the speaker off and returned the radio to his pocket. It would continue to transmit but, with its speaker deactivated, would not give him away. If things went south Vance would provide backup. If required, he’d request additional support from the Norwegian special forces unit on Quick Reaction Force duties. “OK, I’m heading in.”
Ice got out and gave the two KFOR officers a nod. “Where’s our man?”
“Not here yet,” one of them said.
Ice checked his watch and leaned against his vehicle.
"Did you hear about the attack in Mitrovica?" one of the Canadians said.
Ice shook his head. "No."
"It’s heating up there, eh. Serbs attacked a mosque a few hours ago. Killed five. Wounded another four."
The arrival of a late model Nissan Patrol ended the conversation. It parked next to them and Zahir got out.
Fists clenched, Ice imagined drawing the compact Glock 19 from under his jacket and slotting the war criminal between the eyes. Instead, he feigned a smile and gave a nod.
Zahir now looked to be the perfect gentleman. He was immaculately presented in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a blood red tie. Attached to his lapel was a red pin, the crest and double-headed eagle of the Democratic Party of Kosovo. He spotted the CIA operative and a broad smile split his pig-like features. “Mr. Iceman, so good to see you again.”
Ice grasped the aspiring politician’s hand and fought the urge to crush it. He glanced down at Zahir’s polished leather shoes. “Doing well I see.”
“Business is OK. Providing quality services to KFOR and the UN is not a low cost operation though.”
He ran his eye over the two bodyguards who lingered in the background. They were sharply dressed and clean-shaven.
Zahir looked at the two KFOR officers and canted his head at the hotel. “Shall we go inside, gentlemen?”
They followed him through the front door. Ice’s eyebrows rose as he walked in. The floor was spotless, the tables neatly aligned, and pop music was playing softly. Even the odor had improved.
Zahir’s beaming face turned to them. “As you will find, gentlemen, we have all the correct licenses. Our alcohol is good quality, our security adequate, and we have a responsible service of alcohol policy. That means your people can have a good time in a safe environment.”
One of the Canadians gestured to the upper level. “Come now, Zahir. We all know why we’re really here. Where are the girls?”
Zahir pointed up the staircase in the corner. “Additional services are available upstairs.”
“Then that’s where we should go.”
The upper level had also been thoroughly cleaned. In the reception area, a hostess greeted them. She was middle-aged, and her ample bosom was barely restrained by a black dress with a plunging neckline. She directed them to sit on a fake leather couch. Ice remained standing.
Zahir snapped his fingers. “Bring them out.”
The girls filed into the room and stood in front of the men in their underwear. They all looked to be in their early twenties. Ice noticed Svetlana and the young girl he had seen previously were absent.
Zahir turned to the KFOR officers. “Do you need to see their papers?”
“No,” one of them replied. “Everything looks just fine from here.”
“Good.” Zahir headed to the stairs. “Gentlemen, feel free to inspect the rooms, the ladies will show you. Iceman, if you would join me downstairs.”
Ice followed him down to the bar. The staff had draped white linen on one of the tables. An uncorked bottle of red wine and a platter of food awaited them.
“Please, have a seat.”
He lowered himself into a chair.
Sitting, Zahir splashed some wine into a glass, swirled it, then inhaled the aroma. “This is local wine, merlot. It’s excellent.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Zahir shrugged and took a sip. “We’ve had our differences, Iceman. But, the past is the past. Now we need to help Kosovo heal her wounds. We need to forget past transgressions, and focus on what is best for the people.”
“And that’s you?”
“Kosovo needs a strong leader. You are a warrior, you understand that.”
Ice placed his hands on his knees and clenched his fists.
Zahir dipped a piece of bread in a bowl of sauce and ate it. “The UN, NATO, the world, even the CIA are happy to forgive and forget. Why not you? Won’t you help me do what’s right for Kosovo?”
“What’s right for Kosovo? You sent Kreshnik to murder a family of innocents. I watched as he executed them. Is that what’s right for Kosovo?”
Zahir placed his glass of wine on the table. “You still don’t understand the Albanian way. It’s an eye for an eye. It’s our code, our culture. Those Serb animals kidnapped Albanian girls and raped them. They killed our women, and in return we killed theirs.”
“You’re everything that’s wrong with this country,” Ice said, his voice low and hard.
Zahir squinted. “Be careful, Iceman. Otherwise you might end up like your friend Svetlana.” He traced a finger around his neck.
Ice was a hair-trigger from leaping from his chair and snapping the man’s neck when the front door of the club burst open and Vance stormed in.
The former commander of the Gray Wolves lifted his glass. “Ah, Vance. If I’d known you were in Kosovo, I would have invited you.”
“That’s a nice thought, Zahir, but I’m only passing through. Just dropped by to get Ice. We’ve got another meeting. Ain’t that right, bud.”
Ice stared Zahir in the eye as he rose. “Yes, unfortunately.”
“It’s been a pleasure.” Zahir lifted his glass. “Drop by any time.”
“We will.” Ice followed Vance out the front door and across to where the 4Runner was parked next to the Land Cruiser.
“You OK?”
He exhaled deeply. “Yep.”
“That bastard was trying to bait you.”
“Thanks for stepping in.”
“That’s what partners are for, bud. What’s our game plan now?”
“I’ll meet with the OSCE. See what they say.”
***
If anyone was going to be interested in Zahir and his atrocities, Ice thought, it would be the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe. The OSCE was responsible for administering the upcoming elections and was working closely with the UN to ensure Kosovo transitioned to a stable and legitimately run country.
Ice left Vance at the CIA compound to run the HUMINT
audit and arrived at the OSCE’s makeshift office alone. He handed the Zahir file to the woman at the reception area and was told to wait. Thirty minutes later, his patience had worn thin and the constant scream of a circular saw being used by builders renovating the office was getting on his nerves.
Finally, a middle-aged woman dressed in a business suit appeared at the door to the staff offices. “Mr. Anderson?”
Ice rose in response to his cover name. “That’s me.”
“Come this way, please.” She ushered him along a short corridor and into her office. “Please excuse the noise. They’re building us additional offices for the election.”
Ice sat in a chair facing her desk.
She took her own seat. “Who did you say you worked for, Mr. Anderson?”
“I’m with the US State Department.”
She looked over her glasses at him. “Oh, that’s interesting. Well, I’ve run my eye over your Zahir Jashami file.”
“It’s Jashari,” Ice corrected her.
She glanced down at the file. “So it is. Well I’ve looked at the file and am afraid it won’t preclude him from running in the elections.”
Ice gritted his teeth. “He’s a war criminal.”
“No, he’s only been accused of committing crimes. According to my database, he hasn’t been formally investigated or prosecuted. In fact, from what I’ve seen in the UN records he was responsible for saving an American pilot, and the defeat of a particularly nasty Serbian death squad. So I hope you can understand why the OSCE cannot simply ban him from running in the elections.”
At a loss for words, Ice stared at her. He felt like a schoolboy being disciplined by a high school headmistress.
“Furthermore, from what I understand, the UN have earmarked him as being a highly suitable candidate. He’s one of a handful of leaders who has the support base and respect to keep Kosovo from tearing itself apart.”
Ice shook his head in disbelief. “Do your records show that he owns brothels and is an active member of the Albanian mafia?”
“More speculation, Mr. Anderson. Also, I believe your own government is supportive of his contention and your Ambassador has given his blessing.”
“I’ve got an ongoing investigation into his criminal activities. If that was included in the report along with evidence of Zahir’s mafia links, would that be enough?”
The woman gave him a cold look. “I believe your efforts would be best put to use elsewhere. Unless there is a dramatic change in circumstances, Mr. Jashari will be running in the elections.”
Ice rose. “Thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure.”
He strode out of the office, struggling with the urge to punch something.
Back at her desk the OSCE woman flicked through the file again. This ‘Mr. Anderson’ was thorough to say the least. There were photos, maps, link analysis charts, witness statements, as well as a detailed assessment. There was no doubt in her mind, that giant of a man wasn’t a State Department employee. He had intelligence written all over him. She picked up her phone and dialed a number.
“Embassy of the United States,” the operator answered.
CHAPTER 8
Ice was the only one in the gym at the CIA compound. It was basic: a squat rack, chin-up bar, a bench, and a pile of dumbbells. Still, it was more convenient than the huge KFOR gym he occasionally used, and he didn’t have to put up with overweight REMFs doing bicep curls in the squat rack. As he warmed up on the bench with two ninety-pound dumbbells, his phone rang. Dumping the weights, he strode across to his gym bag, grabbed the phone, and answered the call.
“Listen, this can’t take long,” Barishna whined. “I’ve found someone who’s willing to talk to you about Zahir.”
He sat on the bench. “What’s he got?”
“Everything: locations, numbers, names, details… he’s got details.”
“What does he want?”
“Cash, he’s poor. Everybody’s poor.”
“When and where?”
“Tomorrow. At an abandoned farm outside Sarban.”
“OK. How am I going to find it?”
“Drive past Rimaniste. Meet me at the bridge just before you enter Sarban. Tomorrow at 10am. I’ll guide you from there.”
“OK.”
“Make sure you come alone. He’s scared but needs the money. If you bring others he won’t show.”
“Understood, I’ll see you then.” Ice hung up the phone. This could be the breakthrough. The additional information that would force the ICTY to indict Zahir, or at least get the OSCE to drop him from the elections. On the other hand it might be a setup. That risk could be mitigated though, and both Zahir and Barishna knew better than to target a US citizen. Atrocities during a civil war were one thing. Killing a CIA officer was something else altogether.
He abandoned his workout, grabbed his bag, and headed back to the office where Vance was working. Despite missing out on the weights session, he felt better. It was time to wipe the smug smile off Zahir’s face.
***
Ice ran through contingency plans in his head as he sat waiting in the 4Runner. He and Vance had worked late the previous night, going through every conceivable scenario.
Barishna was ten minutes late. A group of teenagers had gathered across the road and were watching. Their interest was not surprising. Sarban could be described as a one-horse town, literally. Ice had seen only one other vehicle in the tiny village, a four-wheeled cart being towed by a horse.
He lifted the handset to the 4Runner’s tactical radio. “One-one, this is one-two, no sign of QM,” he transmitted to Vance.
He noticed the teenagers turn their heads before he heard the sound of an engine. Using the side mirror, he watched a battered black SUV approaching. As it closed in, he slid his hand onto his pistol. Fifty yards out, he identified Barishna at the wheel and relaxed. “One-two, QM has arrived.”
The speaker crackled and a tinny voice replied, “Check, one-two.”
Barishna pulled up next to him and leaned across to yell through the open window. “Follow me. The farm is just ahead.”
Ice tailed the SUV through the village. A mile down the road, the vehicle parked opposite an overgrown track.
He stopped alongside and lowered the window. “Where to now?”
Barishna pointed at the track. “Up there.”
“Lead the way.”
“No, you go alone. He won’t be seen with me.”
“Why not? You’re not working for Zahir anymore.”
“People talk, tell stories. You go to the farm. He will meet you there.”
Ice glanced at his grab bag on the passenger seat. In it were a MP5K-PDW submachine gun, spare magazines, two grenades, and the cash. “If this is a setup, you’re going to regret it.” He planted the accelerator and aimed the 4Runner up the track.
As he approached the farm, he saw it looked abandoned, surrounded by overgrown fields. The roof of the barn had collapsed and weeds grew from the guttering. The stone-walled farmhouse was in equally poor condition.
Slowing, he brought the 4Runner to a halt fifty yards short of the house and waited. A minute passed and no one appeared. He reached for a pair of binoculars and scanned the two buildings. Movement at the end of the barn caught his eye. He examined it carefully. Nothing.
He drove off the track, through the field, putting the farmhouse between him and the barn. The 4Runner was a dozen yards from the stone building when bullets smashed into it, sending a cloud of steam into the air. His instinct to avoid the barn had saved him from the brunt of the ambush, but, at least two assault rifles were still trained on the car. Bullets punched through the windows, showering Ice in shattered glass.
He lay behind the console, and grabbed the radio handset as the passenger headrest exploded. “Shots fired, shots fired!” he yelled into the mike. He stomped the accelerator into the floor.
Rounds punched into the side of the Toyota as its wheels spun, the engine screaming.
One of the tires burst as metal-jacketed rounds shredded it. The SUV shuddered in protest as it slammed into a fence.
Kicking the driver’s door open, Ice snatched his grab bag and dove out of the vehicle.
He rolled as rounds lashed the car. Bullets kicked up dirt around him as he crawled into a shallow depression. Lying on his back, he slung the satchel over his shoulder and pulled out the compact MP5K and radio. He checked the frequency and depressed the button. “One-one this is one-two, over.”
The little radio was silent.
“One-one this is one-two, over.”
Nothing. He turned the volume down and stuffed it in his pocket. The retransmitter in the vehicle must have been shot to pieces.
The rate of fire hitting the 4Runner had abated slightly. Ice guessed that soon they would ceasefire and send men forward to inspect the wreck. Standard ambush tactics.
Sure enough, after a few more seconds the gunfire stopped. He unfolded the stock on his MP5K and listened intently. Someone yelled, ordering the searchers forward. He pulled a grenade from the satchel. Twisting the pin out, he held it in his right hand, the MP5K in the other. He heard voices. There was a gunshot as someone fired at the wreck. He popped the handle off the grenade a second before he threw it.
The two searchers didn’t stand a chance. The grenade exploded in the air knocking them to the ground. He sprayed their bodies with a long burst as he sprinted for the farmhouse. Rounds hissed over his head. He skidded to a stop against the stone wall.
As he caught his breath he assessed the situation. If Vance hadn’t heard the gunshots it could be minutes before he reacted with backup. Ice had to buy time. The best way to do that was roll with the initiative and kill as many of his attackers as possible.
He looked up. There was a single window two yards above. Too high. Shuffling along the wall, he glanced around the corner and spotted a back door. He pulled his last grenade from the bag, yanked out the pin, and tossed it at the base of the door. It detonated as he took cover behind the corner.
PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series) Page 19