Lie in the Dark

by Dan Fesperman

  “You’ve come to the right place,” Toby said. “’Was just getting ready to pack it up and maybe head for the airport a day earlier than planned. Getting so slow here lately. My rag was sending someone else in in another week and we figured we could let the place go uncovered for a while. Then ten minutes ago my desk calls and my bloody editor says he wants me here for the interim. Says he thinks things are due to heat up again soon. Calls it his instinct, but that’s editors for you. Always seem to know exactly what you don’t want to hear. Anyhow, no problem with the phone. Come on in and I’ll get it on the uplink for you.”

  Vlado dug the phone number out of his bag.

  “So then,” Toby continued, “where are you calling, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Vlado hesitated, then figured Toby probably would know by the country code anyway. No sense in trying to keep it a secret.

  “Belgrade.”

  “Well, then.” Toby’s smile melted into a look of curiosity. “Not too many Bosnian government employees are in the market for calls to Belgrade these days, I’d imagine. Family?”

  “A friend.”

  “Yes, well, as long as I’m not participating in anything illegal.” He said it laughing, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “I can just punch up the numbers to get you up on the satellite, and you can hit the rest. Country code for Yugo is three-eight-one now, in case you didn’t know. Belgrade is still one-one.”

  Vlado was about to ask meekly for privacy when Toby said, “And I’ll wait outside, of course, as much as it might be tempting to eavesdrop on a policeman’s call to the enemy capital. Besides, even if I could overhear you I don’t speak the language, and my interpreter’s been out all morning drinking coffee.”

  “One other request before you go, if it’s all right.”

  “Sure.”

  “I see you also have a fax machine. If my friend here has something to send me, what number would he use?”

  “Well, this is getting interesting, isn’t it. Tell me, is this something you might be able to talk to me about? When it’s all over, of course. And I’m assuming now this must have something to do with your work, at least peripherally.”

  “Yes. Peripherally, as you put it. Perhaps it does. And if you can help me I can certainly promise you no one else will get any of this before you would.”

  “An easy promise to make since probably nobody else has asked for it. But sure, I’ll go for that arrangement. An exclusive. Fair enough then. Well, here we go ... Oh, and try not to run on too long, if you don’t mind. It’s ten marks a minute on my tab.”

  Vlado listened to the dial tone come onto the line, then punched in the numbers, hearing a hissing sound followed by all the old wheezes and clicks one had grown used to in the phone transmissions of the former Yugoslavia. And as he waited for an answer he thought of his friend at the other end, Bogdan Delic. Vlado had known him in university and had stayed in touch off and on until the war began. He was an artist, or at least that’s what Bogdan had always called himself, garrulously moving from one odd job to another, hectoring galleries to show his work and staying up until all hours with his friends and bottles of homemade brandy.

  He was the living denial of the term “starving artist,” with a wide rolling belly that sagged across his belt, and a big, husky beard that had taken over his jowly face. The last time Vlado had seen him he’d had two loud, grubby children in tow, and a reed-thin wife who never seemed to speak more than two words at a time. It had been vintage Bogdan, muttering and talking about all his old obsessions, as if oblivious to the scurrying children or the beleaguered looking waif of a woman who trailed behind. He’d even managed to ignore the rising wave of Serbian nationalism as it began to catch on in the streets of Belgrade. Well, Vlado thought, we’ll see how much of a Serb they’ve made out of him now.

  And suddenly there was his voice at the other end of the line, as gruff and loud as ever. The connection was remarkable.

  “Bogdan, it’s Vlado Petric. From Sarajevo.”

  “Vlado? My God, is it really you? And from Sarajevo? It’s like being called by the dead. A call from Sarajevo. Is it as bad as they say?”

  “I guess that depends on how bad they’re saying it is.”

  Bogdan answered with his big belly laugh.

  “Same old Vlado. Never gives away his feelings without a joke or a struggle.” It was an observation mildly surprising to Vlado, even a little annoying. But at ten D-marks a minute this was no time to explore it further.

  “Belgrade hates you, by the way, not you personally but you as a resident of Sarajevo. And even I am growing a little tired of you. You’re all anyone in the world hears about from this war. The whole world feels sorry for you and hates all of us. We have no jobs, no gasoline, inflation that doubles every hour, but it is Sarajevo they weep for on CNN. But now that is off my chest, my friend. For Chrissakes, how are you? How is your family?”

  “They’re gone.”

  There was momentary silence at the other end, and Vlado realized he’d been misunderstood.

  “Gone to Germany, I mean. Berlin. Since June ninety-two.”

  “Good God. A long time. But they’re alive, at least.”

  “Yes, alive and growing. Sonja is almost three now.”

  Bogdan, with his own children, understood without another word the weight of that remark, and all its ramifications. He knew how quickly children changed at that age, and how quickly they grew apart from someone far away.

  “So, listen, Bogdan, I am on a borrowed and very expensive phone and can’t spend much time. But what I need is a favor, if you can do it. I don’t think it will be risky, but if you decide it is then don’t bother.”

  Vlado explained what he needed, a copy of information from whatever Belgrade called the transfer files, more particularly those items listed with Sarajevo locations. Bogdan said he’d try. He had friends at the Ministry of Culture who’d find it for him, no questions asked, and the rest would be easy.

  “I’ve been wrangling with some of their people lately anyway. Was finally starting to make a name for myself but now some of them think my work’s a little too adventurous. Or subversive is more likely.” He laughed again. “But I’ll tell them I’m trying to compile a list of which of our national treasures might still be in the hands of those dirty mujahedeen in Bosnia, in your incestuous city of heathens and mixed marriages. That ought to get them moving.”

  “It’s several hundred items, but copy as many as you can, or least the ones with the higher values. And then you can fax it to this number. It’s a satellite phone, so it may cost a little. But anything you could do would be a great help.”

  “Anything you can tell me about what this is for?”

  “A murder investigation. That’s really all I can say. Sorry.”

  “It’s good enough for me, Vlado. I’ll do what I can.”

  Damir was waiting for him at the office, looking tired and despondent.

  “Any luck in Dobrinja?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” Vlado said. “In a few days I hope to have all the leads we could ever ask for. I only hope they don’t lead down the same dead end.” Damir waited for more, but that was all he was getting for now. Vlado knew it wasn’t fair, but he pressed on. “What about you? Anything more?”

  “All my sources are dry on this one. About all they agree on is that the ministry’s undercover men are genuinely shady characters. But maybe that means they’re good undercover men. I don’t know. The more I’ve thought about it the more I feel like maybe we’re out of our league. Maybe there’s a good reason the ministry’s been taking these cases all these months, and not us.”

  “How about the whores?”

  Damir’s face brightened. “There was one I quite fancied,” he said, and Vlado felt a pang of jealousy, wondering if it was “his,” the “bank teller,” as he thought of her. Then just as quickly he felt guilty for caring. Some of his mother’s Catholicism must have rubbed off after all.

  “She ca
lls herself Francesca. A nice blonde, short, a little soft at the edges but in all the right places.” And in spite of himself Vlado relaxed. He thought he remembered the one. By her manner she’d seemed almost as experienced as the one who’d styled herself as the leader.

  “Learn anything from her?”

  “For our purposes? No. Same problem you had. The bossy one kept opening her mouth. What a bitch. But I’m seeing Francesca some other time, I think. She hasn’t been in the business too long to forget that she can still appreciate a man for an evening out. As long as he pays her way, of course.”

  Damir was on the verge of further descriptions of this woman’s virtues and good sense when Vlado’s phone rang. Nice to hear them ringing again at all, he thought.

  It was Goran.

  “Vlado,” he shouted. He’d been typing when Vlado picked up the receiver, but now the clattering of keys stopped.

  “The ghost lives, Vlado. Your man Neven Halilovic, former right hand man of the late lamented Zarko. He’s up on Zuc, living in his own little stronghold, if you can call that living. Seems he has managed to put together his own private army up there. Keeps the regular army happy by holding down a key part of the line, and they keep him happy by staying off his back. Though he’s not happy at all, by most accounts. Understandable under the circumstances. Can’t think of any other part of the line where there’s been more shelling and shooting lately, day in and day out.”

  Vlado paused. He was glad to hear Halilovic was alive, but this was hardly where he’d expected to find him. A prison cell would have been much more conducive for a quick and productive interview. But did he want to get to the bottom of this case or not?

  “How can I get up there?” he asked.

  “Zuc? Are you serious? Even if you went, there’s no guarantee you can get past his guards and actually see him. And if that happens he might always decide to hold on to you for a while. He may owe the army but he doesn’t owe the police.”

  “Are you actually urging me to be cautious, Goran? The man who believes I should live a little bit, even if it means dying? Just tell me how to get up there.”

  “It’s easy enough, really,” Goran said quietly. “Replacement units go up every night. Small groups. Mostly the raw recruits, no training and none of their own weapons. They do an overnighter and come back down in the morning just before dawn, turn in their rifles, pick up their pay in cigarettes, and go home to sleep. Boys, for the most part. Kids with pimples and leather jackets and nervous girlfriends who wait up for them.”

  “Every night?”

  “Tonight even, if you wanted. I was about to say it wouldn’t be a good time. The shelling’s been heavier this morning. But Orthodox New Year is tomorrow night and you definitely don’t want to go then. So, yes, you’d better do it tonight if you’re hell-bent and determined to go. You are hell bent and determined, aren’t you? Because if you’re not you’ve got no business being up there for even a minute.”

  “Then consider me hell-bent and determined.”

  “Now you’ve got me wishing I’d never opened my mouth.”

  “Exactly what I was hoping.”

  “I just wanted you to get out of your house, to have a few beers or something. Are you sure this is worth it?”

  “Not really. But the only way I’ll find out is to go. Anyway, it’s the only way I’ll find out anything more than I know already, which is precious little.”

  “Well,” Goran said with a sigh, “I’ve got a friend you can call to arrange it. They assemble units over near the cigarette factory. I’ll call him with your name and number and have him get back to you, if you want.”

  Vlado paused a second. Then he took the leap. “Yes. Go ahead.”

  “Okay then.” Goran said. “But if you come to your senses, call me back and we’ll have a beer.”

  “Something must be up,” Damir said as soon as Vlado hung up. “You actually looked excited.”

  “Either that or scared to death,” Vlado said, and, after considering once again the implications of where he was going, he decided to level with Damir, at least on this one.

  “I’m going up to Zuc tonight. To look for Neven Halilovic.”

  “God is great,” Damir muttered. “I didn’t even know he was alive. And he won’t be much longer if he’s hiding out up there.”

  “Runs his own army, apparently. They paroled him to fight.”

  “Makes a certain twisted sense, I guess. Which is more than I can say for what you’re doing. I guess if anyone knows what goes on in the world of hoods it’s someone like him, but what if you get all the way up there and he won’t even see you.”

  “Possible. Or even if he sees me he might say nothing. But then there’s the chance he might be just what we’re looking for. Former hoods can always use a friend with the police.”

  “That’s assuming he’s former, not current.”

  “Either way he’s likely pretty well out of the loop being up there, which would tend to lend him a certain credibility, I’d think, if he does decide to talk.”

  “Yes, but Zuc? The reason I kept this lousy job was to stay out of places like that.”

  “And I thought all this time you were in it for the comradeship and good training. Or the opportunity to meet interesting new people like Francesca.” Vlado sighed. “But I know what you’re saying. Zuc isn’t exactly what we bargained for.”

  “So then why don’t I go instead. You’ve got a family. I’ve got nothing but a few girlfriends who would mourn nothing but the loss of the occasional night on the town. My mother and father can fend for themselves, for all I care anymore. Just lay out the questions for me and I’ll ask them, simple as that. It’s really no contest, is it?”

  “Thanks. But Kasic would have it no other way, I’m afraid. It’s my investigation, when you get down to it, and if I’m not going to share much information with you ...”

  “Yes, I’d noticed that.”

  “... Then I’ve got no business being so free with the dangers. Which reminds me. I soft-pedaled that shakedown business when I told it to you the other day. Actually they scared me to death, but I’m still not sure how serious they were.”

  “Well, it should be good practice for tonight. You’ll have plenty of time to be scared to death.”

  Damir clapped a hand on Vlado’s back, resting it there in the manner of someone comforting the bereaved at graveside. Then, without a trace of his usual mirth, he said, “Good luck, Vlado. Up there you’ll need all you can get.”

  CHAPTER 13

  What did one take to a war? For it occurred to Vlado that this was where he was going. Off to war. He’d assumed for the past two years he was already living in the middle of one. Yet now that he was contemplating a walk to the trenches of Zuc he realized otherwise. He’d only been working at its fringes, padding about like everyone else in hopes of escaping the notice of the shells and snipers.

  Once the ferocity of the first few months of fighting had passed, the bigger guns had refocused most of their attention on the city’s edges, on the frontlines of the armies encamped in the snow and the mud. Only occasionally now were there days of heavy firing into the city center. Only now and then did a freak shot fall with deadly accuracy into crowds gathered to play children’s games, mourn a burial, shop at a market, or line up for bread or water.

  Vlado poked around his house, opening doors and rooms that had been shut for months. He felt strangely unequipped for his journey. A sleeping bag? He didn’t have one. A helmet? Ditto. But that was nothing unusual. Most of the soldiers had little more than their coats and the dark wool caps every man seemed to wear in the winter. A gun? They handed you one at the top of the hill, and you returned it on your way back down.

  He opened the door of his daughter’s closet, rummaging aimlessly. He picked up a few toys from a small pile on the floor next to the disassembled panels of her crib. He brought a fuzzy red dog to his nose. The synthetic fur was stiff and chilly, smelling faintly of drool and ol
d canned fruit.

  He walked into his and Jasmina’s bedroom, opened the drawer of a bedside table, and found a half-read book, its jacket stuck in the middle to mark the place where Jasmina had last set it aside. He pictured her sitting up in bed reading it, her every-evening pose, leaning back on a pillow propped against the wall, a small cone of lamplight pooling on the pages of the book, the whiteness of the sheets gathered at her knees, her long brown hair draped across bare shoulders.

  He remembered the conversation from one of their last nights together.

  “There’s a convoy of twenty buses leaving Monday. Goran says he can get you and Sonja on it.”

  She dropped the book to her lap, an accomplishment in itself, and looked up, eyes widening. “And you?”

  “You know the rules.”

  The rules were, and always had been, that no able-bodied male between the ages of sixteen and sixty could leave the city They were vital for defense. The unwritten rules were that those who weren’t regular army could buy an exception for a going rate equal to three thousand dollars, provided you had the right connections, and even buying your way out came with risks, not the least of which were being either shot in the back or conned out of every penny.

  She looked back down for a moment at her book, staring but not reading, then looked back up, though still holding the book open in her lap.

  “All the more reason we shouldn’t leave,” she said. “Why don’t we just wait until we can all go?”

  But they both knew her defense was bound to crumble, if not on this evening then on some later night. Like everyone, they had assumed at the beginning that the war would be a quick ride into either oblivion or salvation. It would pass like a strong fever, killing or breaking. Instead it had become a long illness that took its toll in slow measures, and they both knew by then that the prognosis wasn’t likely to change anytime soon. Those who could get out, did, if they had any brains, even if it meant leaving behind sons and fathers.