The Old Bridge

by Andrew Turpin

  Aisha returned to the gallery and clicked again on the button that drew the lighting bar back up into the rig. Then she unlocked the door and raised the blind to avoid any questions when the morning crowd arrived.

  Next Aisha toggled the computer screen to the studio software that CBA used to program its lighting choreography in advance for the various television shows that it produced.

  Aisha selected the file that the team had already created for the Spencer interview. A preliminary lighting schedule was already set up, using a template which Aisha and her team could adapt depending on how they wanted to set up the system for the interview. She scrolled down to the end.

  Just before the instruction to dim the studio lights when the final credits started to roll, she inserted a line of code to lower the lighting unit she had just worked on down in front of Spencer and Wolff. It would spotlight the two of them with a blue hue against the darkened background of the rest of the set.

  Aisha saved the new settings and closed the application.

  Then she walked out of the CBA studios and across the road to a small park, where she sat on a bench by herself, took out her phone and called her friend Adela.

  “Hi, it’s me. I’m just calling to tell you I’ve done it,” Aisha said quietly. “I found it hard to decide, but it’s done.”

  There was a long pause. “You’ve done it, really? That’s good, Aisha. I had my doubts, but I apologize. Allah is great.”

  Tuesday, July 24, 2012

  Split

  “Now’s the time, Marco,” Boris said. “It’s like I’ve always said. Now we’ve screwed all we can out of the weapons cache, sold it off, why should I continue keeping the dossier quiet? We’ve got the cash. Now I’d like some career glory. It’s a huge scoop for me, a pay-off.” Boris looked at his friend.

  “Nice for you. No use to me,” Marco replied. “And you’re wrong, the cache isn’t almost all sold off, there’s enough left to make two more large loads up. So while you go glory hunting, I’m going to be worse off because it’ll be very difficult to sell more Kalashnikovs for a long time. You’ll scare off all the buyers. They won’t trust us.”

  Marco walked to the drinks cupboard in the hotel suite and poured himself a single malt.

  “But we don’t need any more money,” Boris said. “And this is just too good to miss.”

  To him, the key revelation was still that the Clinton administration had effectively allowed Izetbegović to bring weapons to Bosnia from Iran—and that was a story that would shoot him to the top.

  Marco turned around and took a large slug from the whiskey glass. “Quite apart from that, the more you put your head above the parapet the greater the chance of Johnson tracking us down and building a war crimes case against us. That’s what he does—remember? And that’s quite apart from what I did to Petar. You said before that either we finish him off or you drop the story. And we haven’t finished him off.”

  Boris went out onto the balcony of the eighth-floor suite at Le Méridien, a tourist hotel and casino next to the beach at Podstrana, a few kilometers southeast of Split, and stood, thinking.

  Then he leaned over the balcony, scanning right and left to check that nobody was eavesdropping. He turned back to Marco. “You’re right, it’s a risk to go ahead with the story. But I think it’s a risk worth taking. The chances of Johnson getting to me are actually small. And even if he has photographs of the documents, he won’t have the originals.”

  Marco rolled his eyes. “The other thing to remember is that if those documents go public, Watson’s identity is going to come out, even if he’s not named directly. Someone will work it out. Then he’ll be after you as well as Johnson.”

  “It doesn’t have to come out,” Boris said. “He’s not named. But I’m not that sympathetic to Watson. He’s made about $10 million that should be ours, and he’s not had to take much risk. It’s purely been money in return for not putting obstacles in our way.”

  Marco nodded. “You don’t have to remind me how much money he’s taken. But without him covering things up for us over the years, would we have been able to do what we’ve done? Unlikely.”

  Boris knew that was true, but he still hated the feeling of someone else getting a cut that should be his. His journalist’s instinct had for a long time also left him curious about the identity of some of the other people named in the Izetbegović documents, including the “Mr. B” who was referenced more than once, and the anonymous Pentagon defense adviser. He had always felt that to find out, he would need to take risks that could have blown his cover.

  It was possible that running the Iran story might bring him further leads that could identify those people. Overall, this story was far too good an opportunity to let slip.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Tuesday, July 24, 2012

  Split Airport

  The lounge at Split Airport was crowded, the year-round cohort of business travelers supplemented by a large number of peak season summer tourists.

  Watson struggled to find somewhere quiet to have an important phone conversation prior to boarding his flight back to DC’s Dulles Airport, via Vienna.

  He poured a large Jack Daniel’s on the rocks at the self-service bar, then made his way to one of the black club chairs in the corner near the window, overlooking the runway.

  Watson dropped his bag on the floor, then clutched his left wrist, which he had sprained when he dived to safety during the firefight at Sinj. He knew that at his age he had gotten off lightly, but a tendon injury would take some time to heal.

  Who the hell was that gunman with the camera? Watson suspected it might have been Joe Johnson. But how would Johnson possibly know about the Sinj operation? Only a very small, tight group of people were in the loop about the night flight.

  He drank the whiskey in one gulp, picked up his bag in his right hand, and strode out into the terminal building again. There was so much noise there that it was actually a safer location from which to make a call than the hushed lounge, where fellow passengers could eavesdrop.

  Watson dialed a number with his Croatian burner phone. “RUNNER, I need to talk to you urgently,” he said as soon as the call was answered. “I’m still extremely worried about Johnson having read those documents.”

  “I told you, we got them back,” Boris said.

  “Where are they right now?”

  “I have them on me.”

  “You’re carrying the damned things around with you? You’re going to keep them under wraps, I hope?” Watson asked.

  “That’s my business,” Boris said.

  There was something in Boris’s tone. Watson was preparing to give him both barrels when the phone went dead.

  Boris had hung up.

  Watson cursed. He called another number, this time for a US cell phone. Doing so was a risk, but unusually, he was feeling a little stressed now and the call couldn’t wait until he was back on US soil. He would have to let the guy know.

  “EDISON, its SILVER. We’ve got a problem.”

  “This had better be urgent. Go on, tell me.”

  “Something may be about to kick off in Bosnia. Some important documents have leaked, ones that came from Izetbegović’s office back in ’93. You know what I’m saying?” Watson said.

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. “I’ve been worried about this happening for twenty years. You’d better level with me. Do these documents name names?”

  “No, don’t think so. But people might add two and two together.”

  The man code-named EDISON muttered a stream of expletives. “So it’s potentially career-ending?”

  “Not necessarily. But potentially,” Watson said.

  “Sonofabitch. How long have you known about these documents? And who’s got them?”

  Watson said, “I’ve known about them for some time. But previously I’ve been fairly confident the person who had them wouldn’t do anything silly. The guy who has them is a Bosnian Croat, an arms t
rader by night, with a respectable job by day. I’m worried he might make the documents public. He’s not after you, I don’t think, but the problem is that the trail could lead to you.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” EDISON asked.

  Watson paused again. “Not obviously.”

  “Well, can we just pay off whoever it is who’s had the documents?”

  “It’s complicated,” Watson said. “Throwing money at the problem won’t work. The person who’s had them for some time, actually ever since ’93, is difficult. He hasn’t done anything with them, but I’m not certain how long that will last. Even worse, another person managed to get his hands on them for a short time—an American war crimes investigator. We’ve got them back, but I’ve been told this investigator guy is fully aware of the contents. I don’t know whether he’s copied them or not, but yes, he’s another threat.”

  “This is goddamned awful timing for me. I’ve got a series of public events coming up,” EDISON said.

  “So what’s new? Cancel them,” Watson said.

  “I can’t. They’re too big. Can’t you just dispose of these people? That’s what you do, isn’t it, in your profession?”

  “It’s not that easy,” Watson said. “If I take them out, there’s some sort of mechanism in place to take me down as well. I’d most likely go to prison, that’s if I didn’t get a bullet first.”

  “So we’re screwed?” EDISON asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Forgive me, but it looks that way to me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Tuesday, July 24, 2012

  Split

  Out of the corner of his eye, Johnson saw Filip ambling out of his kitchen door carrying a printed sheet of paper and heading in his direction.

  Johnson was busy on the phone with his son, Peter, who was at Amy’s house; he was congratulating him on making the district basketball team. Peter had trained hard all year, and the selection was well deserved.

  Filip stood waiting until Johnson finished the call. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, “But I’ve got something here that might be of interest. Viktor’s come up with the goods.”

  Johnson forgot the two painkillers he had in his hand. “He’s got it?”

  The piece of paper that Filip held gave him his answer. “Share register for VMM. He’s emailed a copy of the page we need.”

  Johnson put the tablets and glass of water down on the table. “Let’s see.”

  Filip held the page so Johnson could read it. “He got the whole list, nearly four hundred shareholders, nearly all of whom have addresses in the former Yugoslavia, mostly Bosnia and Herzegovina. But twelve are based elsewhere.”

  He pointed to the heading, which read “Non-Yugoslav Investors.”

  “These first nine are all investment houses, hedge funds, the usual suspects, based in New York, London, Zürich, and so on,” Filip said.

  He slid his finger down the page. “But then you’ve got these three—all individuals, not institutions. One has an address listed in Sydney, Australia, another in Johannesburg, and then this one in London, a Boris Wolff.”

  Filip went on, “Just look at that surname, Wolff. You can speak some Serbo-Croat. What’s the significance of that?”

  Johnson tried to reconcile the English surname with his somewhat rusty Croat vocabulary. “Tell me.” But then, before Filip could speak, it dawned on him. “The Croat word for wolf is vuk.”

  “Yes.”

  “So Vuković?”

  “Exactly,” Filip said. He momentarily looked impressed. “Vuković means ‘the son of the wolf.’ That’s your man. It’s got to be. Franjo Vuković is Boris Wolff. He has an address listed in Ennismore Mews, London.”

  Johnson let out a low whistle. He suddenly forgot his throbbing shoulder. “Filip, that’s good work, if it’s true. I mean, it’s a different word, but there is a connection. I’m a bit surprised he didn’t choose a name that’s more obscure.”

  Jayne leaned over and studied the sheet. “Yes, but how many times do you see this sort of thing? People are just too proud, too emotional about their roots, they can’t sever family ties, geographic ties.”

  “There’s the first name, too,” Filip said. “Boris is an old Bulgarian name—not a million miles from Bosnia. In the old Bulgar language, which nobody speaks anymore, that also means ‘wolf.’”

  Jayne exchanged glances with Johnson. “If this is correct, we need to get to London,” she said.

  “Agreed,” Johnson said. “But let’s get it confirmed. Jayne, can you do an online check and see what you can find about Boris Wolff in London?”

  “Sure,” Jayne said. She took out her phone and began a Google search.

  Johnson placed his hands behind his head and leaned back. “If that is him, we’ll need evidence, of course. And if we could get him arrested on British soil that would be perfect, far better in terms of getting the prosecution process under way in an orderly way than trying to do it from here.”

  “Bloody hell,” Jayne said, staring at her phone screen. “Look at this. The only Boris Wolff I can find listed for London is a TV interviewer—a political and international affairs specialist. Works for a company called SRTV and has a show called Wolff Live. That can’t be him, surely?”

  “Is there a photo?” Johnson asked.

  She tapped on the screen and held up the phone, which showed a photograph of a middle-aged man with neat short dark hair and a fleshy face, wearing a suit.

  “That does look like him,” Johnson said, “but you’re right, he can’t be doing that job.”

  “He could,” said Filip. “He trained as a broadcast journalist, remember. Does it say anything else?”

  “There’s some other stuff here,” Jayne said. “One or two minor magazine interviews with him, a handful of newspaper articles. Surprisingly little, though. Looks like he’s interviewed a few top politicians, most recently David Cameron. And it says he’s got an interview coming up on Friday with Patrick Spencer, the US Speaker of the House. There’s a short biography, but it doesn’t say where he’s from, no mention of Bosnia or Yugoslavia. Just says he spent some time at the BBC World Service earlier in his career. Nothing about family.”

  “He wouldn’t exactly be giving much background away if he’s changed his identity,” Johnson said. “Even your people at Six didn’t find any trace of what happened to Franjo after the war, did they?”

  “No, other than the vague Germany connection I told you about,” Jayne said.

  “Look,” Johnson said. “If it’s him, he’ll likely have those Sarajevo documents there. I need to get them back as well as pick up any other evidence. There’s only one way of doing that.”

  Jayne looked at him. “What? Get into the house?”

  Johnson nodded. “Does it say where this interview with Spencer is taking place?”

  “It just says it’s happening in the US. No location given. Most likely DC or New York, would be my guess.”

  “I’ll get Vic to check. That could help us,” Johnson said. “If it’s him, and he’s interviewing in the US, his house will likely be empty. We could even have him arrested in the States. The key is getting those documents back as evidence first, though. I think I’ll head over to London first thing tomorrow.”

  He turned to Filip. “The other question is over Marco. I assume he’s not listed among the investors?”

  “No,” Filip said. “Unfortunately not. I’m putting feelers out in other directions among my network, though. Don’t worry, I’ll find him.”

  “When you do, tell us,” Johnson said. “I don’t want you to start taking revenge.”

  “No. I think you’re forgetting I’ve done sixteen years in prison,” Filip said. “I hated every day. So I want Marco to do life.”

  Johnson’s phone beeped. He read the message and stood up. “It’s from Ana. I need to give her a call.”

  “Okay,” Jayne said, “You do that. Meanwhile, I’ll go and
phone Natasha at the Neptun and tell her she unfortunately needs to stay there for a day or two longer until we can make 100 percent sure it’s safe for her to go back home.”

  “Yes, I agree. Just apologize to her again,” Johnson said. “Tell her we’ll cover the bill—I’ll just add it to Vic’s expense sheet, given she’s only there because we’re trying to get his documents.”

  Jayne gave a half smile and took her phone from her pocket. “Yes, will do.”

  Johnson walked from the patio into the house and rang Ana’s number, again using Skype.

  “Joe, hi, I’ve found out something,” she said without preamble as soon as she answered the call. “It’s about Aisha.”

  “Hi Ana. Go on then.”

  “I met with someone this afternoon. Listen to this. That day the Stari Most was destroyed was the day Aisha’s father and her sister were killed, right? And you remember the bridge was destroyed by tank shells?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. This person, who was an eyewitness that day, described to me how the tank had been firing at the bridge parapets but suddenly adjusted its line of fire to the archway on the western side of the bridge right at the moment Aisha’s father and Zeinab, her sister, were there with a couple of other people. They were carrying wounded people from the front line back to eastern Mostar for treatment at the hospital. This person told me how someone with a walkie-talkie shouted instructions to the tank commander to adjust his aim. He yelled things like, ‘Now, now, they’re both there.’ That kind of thing.”

  Ana stopped speaking for a moment and Johnson thought he heard her sob.

  “Sorry, Ana, take your time.”

  Ana hesitated, then continued: “The two of them were hit and killed immediately, together with the two others and a guy on a stretcher. Apparently, the guy with the walkie-talkie shouted that he’d got them and gave a bit of a whoop, a victory shout, or something like that.”

  Ana took a deep breath. “Joe, I’m very, very close to 100 percent confirmation that that commander was Franjo. And . . . it’s true that Aisha’s always been more bitter about Franjo than you would have expected, but all this does explain it. He’s directly responsible for the death of her father and sister. Joe, she’s never gotten over that loss.”