The Old Bridge

by Andrew Turpin

  The final document was a printout of an email titled “Patrick Spencer interview 27 July.” It appeared to be from Spencer’s press secretary, addressed to Boris Wolff at an SRTV email address, and consisted of one line, confirming the interview date. There was no reference to location or time.

  That corroborated the details that Jayne had found from her Google search, then.

  Attached to the printout was a photocopy of a return air ticket dated the previous evening, the twenty-fifth of July, from London’s Heathrow Airport to New York’s JFK.

  Johnson pursed his lips. The interview must be in New York, then. It was now the early hours of Thursday morning, and Boris—or Franjo—was due to interview Patrick Spencer on Friday. Johnson would need to get the first available daytime flight to New York later that morning.

  The next sheet was a printout of a brief email from a David Rowlands, whose signature at the bottom showed he was the editor of the Wolff Live program at SRTV. The email was headed “News schedule” and contained what seemed to be a shorthand list of news stories, but with no further explanation.

  Syria—Assad chemical weapons? Aug 3 (tentative)

  Afghanistan—US Military death toll nearing 2,000. Aug 6 (firm).

  UK—London Olympics analysis. July 28 (firm)

  Croatia/Bosnia—Sarajevo documents. July 26 (firm)

  Johnson read the last line three times, then exhaled hard.

  Sarajevo documents, scheduled for today.

  This wasn’t good. The last thing he wanted was for news organizations to start splashing the Bosnia story all over the world, just when he needed radio silence so his suspects wouldn’t run for cover before arrests could be made.

  The one thing Johnson hadn’t found was any trace of the dossier of documents he so badly needed. He spent some time carefully going through every other potential storage location he could find in the office and the other rooms in the house.

  But there was nothing.

  Thursday, July 26, 2012

  London

  Once Johnson had extricated himself from Franjo’s house, it was past two in the morning. He walked back to his Mazda, opened the door, and jumped in. He placed the yellow folder containing the documents from Franjo’s filing cabinet onto the passenger seat.

  Then he accelerated away, turning onto Exhibition Road and past the Victoria and Albert Museum. He drove for ten minutes, following the satnav on his phone west through London toward Heathrow Airport. Only then, as he reached Hammersmith, did he pull onto the side of the road.

  First, Johnson sent a secure text message to Jayne in Split.

  URGENT, Jayne, I may have an address where you can find Marco in Split. Let’s talk as soon as you’re awake and I’ll explain.

  Then he made an encrypted call to Vic, giving thanks as he did so for the five-hour time difference that meant Vic would still be up in DC.

  “Vic, it’s Joe.”

  “Hi buddy, where are you now?”

  “London. I’ve just been into Franjo’s house. Or rather, Boris Wolff’s house, as he calls himself here.”

  “Did you find the dossier?” Vic asked.

  “No. But I did find some other useful information which confirms his identity and that he’s a TV interviewer, as I told you. He’s definitely in New York now for an interview tomorrow with Patrick Spencer. Have you had any luck tracking down where it might be?”

  “We think it’s CBA, though it’s not confirmed yet,” Vic said. “The TV studios are very secretive about these things. Unfortunately, CBA just happens to be where Aisha works—we found that out after you told me to keep an eye on her.”

  “Shit—it would have to be that one,” Johnson said. “I’m worried about Aisha. I’ve found out she has much more of a motive than I thought. Franjo apparently killed her father and sister with tank shells the day the Old Bridge in Mostar was destroyed in ’93.”

  There was a pause. “Hmm. That’s tough on her, if so,” Vic said.

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve got to assume the worst—that’s she may be gunning for him still. We can’t afford to have a dead Franjo, obviously. He’s done too much. We’ll need to get him to Sarajevo at some point so he can go in front of a war crimes court.”

  “Yeah, agree, 100 percent,” said Vic. “I’ll get my team to keep a close eye on her, in that case, and we’ll talk to the studio. What else did you find at Franjo’s house?”

  “There was a list of news stories scheduled at his TV company, including one for today, the twenty-sixth, or tomorrow for you there, about some Sarajevo documents. I’m assuming that’s got to be the docs that we want. So what’s going to be in that story? I could take a fairly good guess. He’s bound to be taking potshots at the US and at Clinton about the arms from Iran revelations. A news organization would dress it up as a smoking gun, the final proof.”

  “Well,” Vic said, “It’s not necessarily a bad thing if we want to have Franjo arrested. It lays a nice backdrop for that to happen.”

  “Yes,” Johnson said, “but the other issue is Watto. He’s not named, but the trail will lead to him, and the last thing we want is his name out in the media—not if we’re gathering evidence and aiming to arrest him. All his CIA friends, his political friends, and all his carefully cultivated high-placed connections from over the years will just put the wagons in a circle, protect him, and cover it up, and he’ll get away with it.”

  “Yes, but if he’s not named people won’t make the connection immediately. Are there any other shocks in those documents?” Vic asked.

  “There are two other people referred to who aren’t named. I only just managed to get their identities from the Bosnian government official, Haris Hasanović, before Franjo’s cronies shot him dead. One of the two is a guy referred to as Mr. B in the docs, who helped with mujahideen training camps in Bosnia and was given a Bosnian passport. He was effectively given the green light by the US and its guys on the ground in Sarajevo who didn’t object. Guess who it was?”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re not going to believe this—it’s Osama bin Laden.”

  Vic was silent for a second. “Bin Laden?”

  “Yes. One of the US guys on the ground who didn’t object was Watto and the other was a Pentagon military adviser. Hasanović was about to tell me who the Pentagon contact was, but then he got a bullet through the head.”

  Vic whistled. “A Pentagon military adviser? Interesting. I’ll see if we can find out who was in Bosnia from the Pentagon at that time. Maybe Watto’s the one person who has that information. I’m actually waiting right now for some recordings, transcripts of some of his phone calls over the past few days, since I put that unofficial tap in place.”

  “Okay, let’s see then,” Johnson said. He yawned deeply and leaned back in his car seat. Now he felt the adrenaline that had kept him going in recent days suddenly drain out of his system.

  “I’m feeling exhausted here, Vic. Sorry buddy, I’m struggling to think straight. I’m heading for Heathrow. I’ll be on the next flight I can get to JFK, so should be there midafternoon your time. Hopefully I’ll get a bit of sleep on the plane. Also, if the shit’s about to hit the fan, doesn’t the White House and State Department need to know?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes, I’ll sort it. And they’ll go nuts, believe me. It’ll be absolute panic there. Iran is the great unmentionable. Watch this space.”

  Thursday, July 26, 2012

  Split

  Jayne’s alarm went off at 6:30 a.m., echoing around her bedroom at the Hotel Luxe, where she had decided to move from Antun’s house for a night, prior to flying back to London.

  The alarm woke her from a deep sleep. Half opening her right eye, she picked up her phone and stabbed a forefinger at the button on the front to turn it off.

  Then she noticed a text message notification on the screen from Johnson. URGENT, it said.

  She jerked up in bed and tapped on the message.

  Ten seconds later, she was dialing John
son’s number.

  Jayne found Johnson was at Heathrow, waiting to get a flight to New York. He talked her through the details of his nocturnal visit to Franjo’s house, including the address that he had found for Marco. Jayne wrote it down on the notepad the hotel had left on her desk.

  “Okay, I’m on it, Joe. Don’t worry, we’ll cover it. Leave it with me—I’ll get down there with Filip. You get going to New York and deal with things at that end.”

  Jayne hung up and sat there for a moment, suddenly energized.

  Her only issue was Filip. Could she trust him? She would have to. She sent a text message asking him to get to the Luxe as quickly as possible as she had abandoned her plan to fly to London. They now had an urgent job to do together.

  By quarter to eight, Filip had arrived, dressed in a black polo neck shirt and black jeans. She spent a few minutes briefing him on what Johnson had uncovered at Franjo’s house in London.

  “Did you know that Marco has a business unit in Split?” Jayne asked.

  “No, but I know that area, and it’s rough as hell,” Filip said. “It’s definitely not a business park. It’s more like a collection of old shacks and car repair garages. The only business he’s involved in, as far as I know, is trading weapons.”

  They agreed to go and check out the address. If there was any sign of Marco, they would immediately call the local police, who were still hunting him in connection with Petar’s murder.

  If there was no evidence of him being there, they would stake out the place for a period, and then Jayne would make a decision about whether to try to enter the building and search for any useful information.

  She told Filip to wait for a few minutes while she went to the bathroom. After using the toilet, she cleaned her teeth, threw her toiletries into her small vanity case, and opened the door to her room.

  Then Jayne stood still for a couple of seconds: Filip was no longer there.

  Her first instinct was to open the door into the corridor and look out. But there was no sign of him.

  Then she glanced at the desk. The sheet of notepaper on which she had written the address was lying there, next to her phone. Then she realized, with a jolt, where Filip had most likely gone.

  “Shit!” she said out loud.

  She swiftly dialed Filip’s number. But it went straight to voicemail.

  “Bloody Filip,” she muttered, as she grabbed her bag and ran out the door.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Thursday, July 26, 2012

  Split

  Jayne sprinted out of the Hotel Luxe’s main entrance and around the corner to the parking lot. On the far side, she spotted a familiar azure Subaru Impreza.

  “Thank God,” she muttered under her breath.

  Filip was repeatedly trying to start the engine, which was turning over, but not firing into life.

  Jayne ran to the passenger door and flung it open. “What the hell are you bloody playing at?” she demanded, crouching down so she could look him in the eyes.

  A Beretta was on the passenger seat next to him.

  Filip glared at her. “What I’m playing at has nothing to do with you. But it’s got everything to do with my brother.”

  “No,” she said. “We’re not playing that game, although it’s not a game, is it? You saw that message, didn’t you? The address?”

  Filip shrugged.

  “Listen to me,” Jayne said. “We’re going to nail him. We’ll nail him for killing your brother. But we’re also going to nail him for what he did twenty years ago, the details of which we now have.”

  Filip said nothing.

  “And you’re not going to get to him with that gun anyway, are you?” Jayne said. “Because your bloody car won’t start.”

  Filip let out a loud huff. Then he nodded slowly. “Okay. Whatever.”

  “Good man,” Jayne said. “We just need to solve the slight problem of transport.”

  She stood and surveyed the car park. An old maroon Mercedes stood against the wall. It had a cracked windshield, one hanging wing mirror and several dents in the bodywork.

  “See that Merc. If we could get into the damn thing, we could hot-wire it,” she said.

  Filip climbed out of the Subaru and gaped at her, open-mouthed. “I’ve got a toolbox in the back of the Subaru—there’s a set of slim jims in it. I should be able to break into it with those.”

  “Have you got a crosshead screwdriver and a knife in there as well?”

  Filip nodded and strode to the back of the Subaru, opened the trunk, and took out the toolbox.

  “Okay, bring that,” Jayne said “Let’s run—we need to get out of here.” She jogged across the parking lot, Filip following close behind with the toolbox.

  The Mercedes looked at least fifteen years old. Filip put the toolbox down, opened it, and took out a long, flat piece of metal. Jayne could see a few people over near the entrance to the parking lot, near the street, but they were facing the other way.

  “Nobody’s watching. Go for it,” Jayne said. Filip slid the thin metal slim jim down the crack between the glass window and the metal panel of the driver’s door and wiggled it around in a well-practiced manner. Fifteen seconds later, the car door swung open.

  “Great,” Jayne said. “Give me the screwdriver and the knife.”

  Filip reached inside the toolbox and handed Jayne a small red army knife and a screwdriver.

  “Right,” she said “You ring the police, give them the address we’ve got, and tell them who we believe may be there, and that we’re heading there too. While you’re doing that, I’ll get this car started up.”

  She used the screwdriver to remove the plastic cover over the steering column. Then she sifted through the colored wires that ran up the column until she found what she was looking for.

  Jayne glanced at Filip, who was staring at her. “What are you looking at me like that for? Get on the phone,” she said.

  Filip obediently dialed the emergency services on his phone and began to brief the operator.

  Jayne pulled the ignition and battery wires out of their housing, then used the knife to trim off the plastic coating and spliced the ends together. The dashboard lights lit up. Then she quickly touched the starter motor cable to the battery wire, and the Mercedes’s three-and-a-half liter engine growled into life.

  Filip finished his call and nodded his head in approval as she revved the engine. “Where’d you learn to do that?” he asked.

  Thursday, July 26, 2012

  Split

  The rough cinder block garage, with a rusty car outside propped on bricks, its tires missing, stood only four kilometers from the elegant and historic tourist center of Split. But in many senses it was a world away.

  Marco nosed his Lexus 4x4 down Koplica Street, a fragmented collection of adjoining unmade gravel roads in the northern part of the city, which was situated only a few hundred meters from the back of the gleaming modern railway station.

  Very conscious of the police hunt that was under way for Petar’s killer, he had taken every precaution to avoid being followed.

  Marco parked outside the garage, next to an abandoned industrial site surrounded by rusty barbed wire. As he climbed out of the car, he stepped over a plastic bag full of dirty, used hospital syringes that lay in a puddle.

  An old workbench stood outside the garage, which had a corrugated asbestos roof and a makeshift plywood wooden door that failed to fit the frame in which it sat.

  Next door, there were two similar rundown cinder block garages, also in a state of disrepair.

  A man with a straggly, gray, tobacco-stained beard sat on the workbench and puffed a pipe. He had a frayed baseball cap on his head and wore navy blue oil-stained dungarees.

  The smell of the tobacco smoke reminded Marco of when he was a boy, and his uncle invariably had a pipe in his mouth whenever he visited.

  “Drago, how’s it going?” Marco said. “The safe. Is it finished?”

  Drago sucked hard on his pipe
and nodded. “Yes, all done.” He indicated toward the garage immediately to his right. “It’s in there, behind closed doors.”

  “Not that that’s going to make much difference now,” Marco said.

  “How do you mean?” Drago asked.

  “We got raided. While we didn’t have the safe. Which was your fault, so you screwed up in a major way.”

  Drago stared at him. “Shit, you’re joking?”

  “No. Sadly not joking. My friend Stefan isn’t happy, so you have a lot of making up to do. Otherwise . . .” Marco left the sentence unfinished.

  Drago slid off the workbench and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Well, I did the best I could,” he mumbled. “It was a longer job than I thought. And the guy I got to sort the lock took longer than I thought, too. Was it cash that got taken?” He searched Marco’s face for a sign of comfort but failed to get it.

  Marco just shook his head.

  Drago ambled to the neighboring garage, where he pulled on a steel bar that was holding the two doors closed. After some tugging, it came free and he opened the doors outward.

  There, standing on a wooden bench in the garage amid an array of oil drums, old tools, boxes, worn tires, and dirty rags, was a small but solid-looking metal safe.

  “Okay,” Marco said. “Let’s load it up. I’m going to take it to my unit down the road for now.”

  “It’s damn heavy. Are you going to manage it at your place?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a mechanical lift I can use.”

  “And you keep the safe there, do you?” Drago asked.

  “No.”

  “So what do you use it for?”

  “Too many questions. You don’t need to know.”

  Marco took some used banknotes from his pocket and counted them out before handing them to Drago. “There, one hundred and fifty in cash. Should have been three hundred. So half price. You’re lucky to get that, frankly.”