The Old Bridge

by Andrew Turpin

  Saturday, July 14, 2012

  New York City

  The plane climbed steeply out of JFK Airport. Johnson, in a window seat, relaxed in readiness for the long flight back to Europe.

  He was belatedly about to switch his phone into flight mode when the secure text message arrived from Vic.

  Joe, some bad news. Watto is chasing those documents too, separately from me. Don’t know why but will try and find out. Will call you as soon as I can. Vic

  Johnson didn’t hesitate. He dialed Vic’s number and ducked down behind the seat in front of him in an attempt to get out of the flight attendants’ line of sight.

  Come on, answer it, answer it . . .

  The line picked up. “Vic, I’ve just taken off and I’ve got about ten seconds before we’re out of phone range. I’m heading back to Dubrovnik from New York. I’ll update you later. Now, just tell me, what the hell—”

  “I don’t know, Joe, but I’m hearing Watto wants those documents very badly. You know how many pies he’s had his fingers in over the years. It could be related to some current operation, or could be something from the past.”

  Johnson wanted to ask for specifics but was mindful that first, all the passengers around him could hear every word, and second, the call would cut off any moment.

  “So you’re telling me two factions are competing for the same thing?” Johnson asked, hoping he was being vague enough. “That’s damned typical.”

  “Sums it all up,” Vic replied. “But I don’t know if he knows I’m also after them.”

  “Come on Vic, if you know about him, then what’s the odds of him not knowing about you? Let’s get real.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right, but I’m not sure. Anyway, I’ve got a few sources I can go to internally to find out a little more.”

  “Well, get onto it, quickly, can you?”

  Despite his efforts to stay out of sight, Johnson caught a glimpse, between the seats, of a flight attendant waving her arms in his direction, in an attempt to get him to turn off his phone.

  He deliberately shifted his eyes to the plane window and pretended not to notice.

  “When you said it could be something current, what do you mean?” Johnson said.

  “Well, the biggest issue in that part of the world is Syria. And Watto heads Syrian operations. A ton of weapons are being funneled to the rebel forces there by various routes—mainly through Saudi Arabia, Turkey, and so on—and they’re coming from various places, of which Croatia is clearly one. Now, whether Watto might have an interest in that, I’ve no idea, but—”

  “You think it’s related?”

  “Well, it could—but—” Vic’s words became fragmented and broken as the call quality deteriorated. The aircraft climbed into cloud cover, and the lights of New York, now far below, disappeared.

  “Hello, Vic, hello?”

  The signal disappeared completely, just as a flight attendant appeared at the end of Johnson’s row of seats, her hands on her hips, staring at him.

  Johnson shrugged, held up his phone, and put it on his lap.

  That bastard Watto is messing with my investigations again . . . There’s just no escaping the damned guy.

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday, July 16, 2012

  Port of Dubrovnik

  “Natasha? Yes, she works here. She just went across the road for a coffee break a few minutes ago,” the white-haired man said from behind his computer screen.

  Johnson nodded and walked out of the old stone harbormaster’s office at the Port of Dubrovnik, a mile and a half north of the Old Town. Three seagulls squawked and fought over an old sandwich that lay on the ground in front of him.

  Johnson walked a short distance to his right until he could see Jayne, who sat on a bench under a tree on the street corner, seemingly buried in a novel. She spotted him, but a slight shake of his head, followed by a nod in the other direction, indicated to her that he was heading elsewhere and that she should wait. She returned to her reading.

  On the large tree-lined island separating the north and southbound roads past the port, he saw a snacks and drinks kiosk with a group of tables and chairs on the pavement, shaded by an expanse of large blue sun canopies. Behind them, dominating the port, were three enormous cruise ships moored at the quayside. They stood in a neat line, towering high above the modern passenger terminal.

  Johnson crossed the road and walked casually to the kiosk. The tables were largely occupied by groups of tourists: families and backpackers as well as smartly dressed older couples.

  At the back, sitting by herself, was a tall woman in a white blouse and a navy skirt, reading a newspaper and sipping a latte.

  Johnson drew nearer and watched her for a few moments. Her hair was slightly gray, and bags were visible under her rimless glasses.

  She seemed about the right age. Johnson walked up to her. “Excuse me, are you Natasha?”

  Her head snapped up sharply. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I’m really sorry to interrupt your coffee break. I’m Joe Johnson. I’m hoping you might be able to help me with something. I’m a war crimes investigator, and someone pointed me in your direction.”

  Natasha raised her eyebrows. “War crimes? What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Nothing to do with you directly, you don’t need to worry,” Johnson said. “Do you mind if I sit down, so I can explain. It won’t take long.”

  The woman put down her coffee. “Okay, as long as it’s brief. I really don’t have long before I’ll need to get back to work.”

  Johnson slid onto the chair opposite her. “That’s fine, I understand. Now, it might come as something of a surprise, but I’ve been trying to trace your stepbrother, Franjo. I’m actually following up a lead relating to things he might have been involved in during the war in Mostar, in 1993.”

  “Franjo?” Natasha asked, leaning forward. “What sort of things do you mean?” She pushed her glasses up on her nose.

  “Allegations that are probably quite similar to those leveled at many other war criminals in these parts: unlawful killings, torture, destruction of monuments, that kind of thing. Theft of important documents, possibly. He seems to have vanished, and I’m just speaking to those who were close to him—including family where possible.”

  “I doubt I’m going to be able to help,” she said. “I haven’t seen him for nearly twenty years.”

  Johnson felt his face fall. Aisha must have been correct, then. Franjo was dead.

  “How did you get my name and where I work?” Natasha asked.

  Johnson tried to smile. He usually didn’t reveal his sources of information, but in this case, he needed to quickly establish credibility with Natasha and hopefully get her talking.

  “Franjo’s ex-wife, Aisha, gave me your name,” he said. “I saw her in New York. She went to the States after they split up, which must have been in ’93. She only mentioned you in passing. In fact, she said you’d never met.”

  Natasha nodded. “No, we never met. It was difficult.”

  “I see. So you didn’t even go to their wedding?”

  “No.”

  “So you haven’t seen Franjo for twenty years. Many people assume he’s dead. Is that what you also think?”

  “Oh, no,” Natasha said. “He’s definitely not dead.”

  Johnson felt a jolt of adrenaline. Natasha’s voice was strong and certain. “He’s not dead? You’re sure?”

  “Of course,” Natasha said. “He’s been in contact, very occasionally. Once a year usually. Never says where he is or what he’s doing. It’s always quick; how are you, is work okay, that kind of thing. One-way conversation. He’s not a nice man, unfortunately.”

  Johnson fingered the old wound in his right ear. This was a breakthrough.

  “So why does he call, then? Is there a reason?”

  Natasha glanced around the other tables. “I’m sure he has his own reasons. But he doesn’t tell me.”

  “How does he soun
d? In good health?”

  She shrugged. “Yes, same as he always did.”

  “And you’ve never seen him in all that time?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea where he is?” Johnson asked.

  “No. I haven’t got a clue.”

  Johnson’s attention was caught by a dark-haired woman wearing sunglasses and a navy blue T-shirt, who was sitting at a table in the corner nearest to the kiosk. He saw her glance in his direction, then immediately look away.

  He refocused on Natasha and lowered his voice a little. “So just by way of background, can I ask, was it your mother or your father who remarried?”

  “My mother, Mira, got remarried to Goran, who was Franjo’s father, when I was about six. My own father died of cancer.” She stopped and picked up her coffee. “Do I have to answer all these questions? Is it necessary? I do my best to put him out of my mind every day, so this sort of thing doesn’t exactly help.”

  Johnson pursed his lips. It was interesting that Natasha had such an intense dislike for Franjo but took his call every year.

  “No, you don’t have to. I’m not police, just a private investigator. It depends whether you would like to see justice done in this particular case or not. Of course, depending on how the investigation proceeds, it may well end up being passed to the authorities.”

  Natasha said nothing.

  “Did you have a good relationship?” Johnson asked.

  She gazed toward the expanse of water to her right that formed the bay of Gruž, a natural inlet that housed the port and sheltered Dubrovnik’s fleet of vessels from the Adriatic’s winter storms.

  “No, we didn’t,” she said. “We had a relationship once. We lived in the same small house. Now we don’t have a relationship. Can I ask, are you making any progress with your inquiries?”

  “Slowly,” Johnson said. “I’ve traveled from here to Split, to Mostar, to New York and back here again. I’ve tracked down three women, including you and Aisha, and I’ve made only marginal progress. I’ve no idea where he is, if he’s living under a false name, or even if he’s still alive. But I know a man who has been shot at by a sniper. Another man I was with has been murdered. I’ve been beaten up in the street. So something tells me to keep going.” He gave her a wry smile.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Doesn’t surprise me, not at all. Not in this country. Sorry, I need to get back to the office. My boss, the harbormaster, has a busy afternoon and so do I.” She drained the remains of her coffee and stood up.

  “Have you been working here a long time?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen several harbormasters in that time, but I’ve stayed in my job, somehow. I like it, mostly. It’s crazy busy in summer, quieter in winter.”

  Johnson got up. “I’ll walk with you. I need to go that way. Do you have a phone number I could take, just in case?”

  She stopped and studied Johnson. Then she took out a card from her purse and handed it to him. “My cell phone number and address are on there. I don’t know why I’m giving you this, but I am.”

  Johnson read it. “Jukić? Is that your maiden name, or have you been married?”

  “I’ve never married.”

  They walked across the road and back toward the harbormaster’s building. It’s old stone frontage, with green shutters upstairs and metal barred windows downstairs, formed a sharp contrast to the modern terminal building across the road. A few mopeds stood outside near some large flower tubs.

  “You have a son, yes?” Johnson said.

  She turned her head sharply. “Yes. He’s grown up now.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She exhaled hard. “I’m sorry, I really don’t want to answer any more questions.”

  “Just one more, sorry,” Johnson said. It was something he’d deliberately left until last. “Did Franjo ever mention anything to you about important documents, or a dossier of government papers?”

  Now they were outside her office. “He did once. He said they were hidden,” she said.

  “Hidden? You know about them, then?”

  “Yes. They were hidden somewhere secret. I don’t know if they still are. That was a long time ago. He mentioned them once to me, I think by accident when he was drunk one night.”

  “Do you know where they might be hidden?” Johnson said, consciously keeping his voice from rising.

  “You said that was the last question.”

  Natasha turned and walked into her office, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Johnson thrust his hands into his pockets. He stood still for a moment, debating whether to go into the harbormaster’s offices and try to continue the conversation. It was understandable that Natasha needed to get back to work, but he felt that that she was brusque because she didn’t particularly want to be questioned further. There had to be a reason for that.

  He thought better of going into the office and instead walked toward the bench where Jayne was still sitting. He parked himself next to her.

  “Well? How did it go?” Jayne asked.

  “One big breakthrough,” Johnson said. “which is that Aisha was wrong: Franjo is alive. He contacts Natasha occasionally, but she has no idea where he is. He doesn’t tell her. She doesn’t like him.”

  Jayne leaned forward. “Alive! That’s a big step forward,” she said. “And the documents?”

  “Well, I asked her at the end if she knew anything about a dossier of documents and she said they were hidden. That’s all. Then she walked off.” Johnson threw up his hands. “Anyway, we have another port of call, don’t we?”

  The previous day, after Johnson had arrived back from New York, they had agreed they would head to Franjo’s old holiday house in Pobrežje village once he had finished talking to Natasha.

  He took out the small map that Aisha had drawn for him and glanced up, just as the woman in the blue T-shirt from the kiosk got up and walked to one of the mopeds outside the harbormaster’s office. She removed a white helmet from the security box on the back and sat on her machine.

  Johnson found himself wondering why Natasha had been so evasive about her son that she wouldn’t even give his name. Maybe she thought Johnson might seek him out and give him the third degree.

  Johnson took out a cigarette, offered one to Jayne, who declined, and lit it. And he realized he’d also missed a trick when she had talked about Franjo’s periodic calls to her. “He’s been in contact, very occasionally. Once a year usually. Never says where he is . . .”

  Damn, why didn’t I ask when he calls each year? When’s the next one due? Christmas? Easter? A birthday?

  Monday, July 16, 2012

  Moseć, Croatia

  Marco pulled his black Lexus off the narrow single-track road right at the top of the horseshoe-shaped bend and put it into first gear. He turned right and slowly edged the car up behind some rocks, then continued for a couple hundred meters until he reached some trees, out of sight of the road.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s here yet,” Marco said.

  Boris put on his sunglasses, then got out of the car and walked across the baked dry earth until he got to the nearest tree. There he sat down, leaned back against its trunk, and lit a cigarette.

  The sun was already high in the sky, and the ground felt warm to the touch.

  Marco climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked over to Boris. He looked at his watch. “He won’t be long, I said between eight and quarter past, so there’s a while yet.” He also sat down next to the tree.

  They waited in silence, both men taking long drags from their cigarettes.

  Just then, there came the sound of an engine from the direction of the road, out of sight beyond the rocks. Its tone lowered and faded, then picked up again, remaining at a high pitch as it drew nearer.

  “Here he comes,” Boris said. “Just remember I’m Stefan to this guy. It’s arms business, okay?”

  Marco nodded. “Don’t worry. I know.”

  An old long-wheelbase La
nd Rover Defender emerged from behind the rocks, steered around the row of trees and parked next to the Lexus. A man got out and limped slowly to them, a khaki green baseball cap pulled over his straggly gray locks.

  He nodded at them unsmilingly. “Marco, Stefan. Thanks for bringing me out here. It’s the asshole of nowhere.”

  Both Boris and Marco stood up and the man reluctantly shook hands.

  “Ratko, we’re here precisely because it’s the asshole of nowhere. Nobody lives around here. That’s why I chose it,” Boris said. “Is it all in the Land Rover?”

  “Yes, all there, Stefan. Shall we unload?”

  They walked across to the vehicle and Ratko opened the rear door to reveal a number of rigid cardboard boxes of different sizes.

  “It’s split between the PROM-1s, which each include two rolls of trip wire—they’re in the bigger boxes—and the PMA-3s, the flat ones, in these smaller boxes,” Ratko said. “You’ll need to intersperse them, probably in a ring around your target . . . wherever that is.”

  “Okay. Just show us the goods, so we’re sure what’s there,” Boris said.

  Ratko began to unload the boxes, and Boris and Marco joined in.

  After they were all on the ground, Ratko opened the cardboard boxes, flapping back the lids so that Boris could see inside. He checked the contents.

  “Okay, all there. Come with me,” Boris said. Ratko followed him to the Lexus where Boris took out a small black leather pouch, from which he removed a large envelope.

  “All in euros,” Boris said.

  Ratko removed two bundles of banknotes from the envelope and counted them swiftly, flicking them between his finger and thumb in a well-practiced manner.

  “Good, all there,” he said. “I wish you good luck, and be careful.” Ratko shook hands with the two men and jumped back into his Land Rover.

  Once he had driven off, Boris said, “Now down to work. We’ll need to carry this lot to those trees, down the safe path, and then we can begin digging.”

  After half an hour, the pair had carried all the boxes to some trees further into the scrub.