The Old Bridge

by Andrew Turpin

  Drago took the notes. “Okay, one hundred and fifty. The safe’s yours.”

  Marco reversed his Lexus into the garage and right up to the bench. The two men slid the safe into the back of the car.

  He nodded at Drago, then drove toward his own unit, half a kilometer down the road.

  Marco had acquired the unit, a single-story building made from cinder blocks and a corrugated steel roof, for cash about eight years earlier. On the outside, it was in better condition than Drago’s, but not greatly so. And that was one of its advantages. Nobody would have suspected that goods worth millions of dollar sometimes passed through it.

  There was little to differentiate the building from the others on the road.

  The walls were covered in graffiti, and someone had tipped a pile of builder’s rubbish on the concrete rectangle that was intended for parking.

  From the outside, it looked a dump. Inside, there was a small bedroom, in case Marco needed to stay there, a shower room, and a surprisingly well-equipped kitchen, alongside the large storage area that comprised the majority of the floor space.

  Marco had also ensured it was secure. Behind the rickety wooden doors were steel roller doors, secured with large padlocks, and the windows were bricked up on the inside.

  He was certain that nobody could possibly get in without drawing attention to themselves. However, he had never installed a burglar alarm. The last thing he wanted was for a false alarm to sound and for police to come poking around.

  Marco parked the Lexus outside, took his keys, and let himself in through the kitchen door.

  He flicked the kitchen lights on, and was just about to close the door behind him and lock it when he glimpsed out of his peripheral vision a black-clad figure emerging from around the corner of the building to his left, on the side farthest from the street.

  Marco didn’t stop to see who it was. Instinct told him he needed to get out of the man’s line of eyesight.

  He ducked behind the left side of the doorframe and pulled his gun from his belt.

  As he did so, there was a loud bang and he felt a sharp impact at the top of his right bicep, followed by an indescribable pain. His arm froze and he involuntarily dropped the gun. He glanced at his arm, to see blood spurting from beneath his T-shirt.

  To his right he saw the British woman crouching next to a black trash can no more than ten meters away, pointing a gun at him.

  Immediately, the black-clad figure appeared in the door, holding a pistol, also pointed straight at him. Now Marco recognized him.

  “This is for Petar, you bastard,” Filip said. “Get inside.”

  Marco slowly raised his left arm, his right dangling uselessly at his side, and backed into the kitchen, facing Filip.

  “No. Don’t shoot me,” Marco said. “Listen, I just—”

  “I should kill you. I really should. But get on the floor,” Filip ordered. “Lie down on your front, and put your hands behind your back.”

  As Filip spoke, Marco saw the British woman walk into view behind him. “Do what he says,” she said. “Now.”

  “Fuck it,” he said, as he got on his knees. “Fucking Franjo.”

  Thursday, July 26, 2012

  Wolf Trap, Virginia

  Watson sat down on his favorite rock among the pine trees next to Difficult Run River and took out his burner cell phone. He winced as he caught his sprained left wrist on his belt buckle.

  Watson’s wrist had become a mosaic of purple, blue, and black as the bruising had spread over the back of his hand. He clasped his right hand to the spot. His damaged tendon was feeling a little better, but the improvement was only marginal.

  After two long-haul flights within just a few days, being up most of the night supervising the Sinj arms transfer, then being injured and getting very little sleep, he felt utterly exhausted.

  The flight delays in Vienna hadn’t helped, and Watson had finally gotten home only at about five o’clock the previous afternoon. Then he’d dosed himself with Ibuprofen, gone to bed, and slept.

  When he’d finally gotten around to watching the news over breakfast that morning, the Bosnia documents story had broken. Coverage was virtually wall-to-wall.

  Now he carefully surveyed the area, checking for the habitual dog walkers or others who might have less legitimate reasons to be in the woods. Only when he was satisfied he was completely alone did he turn on the phone.

  He was surprised to see he was getting five bars of reception, far better than the normal one bar he usually got outside his house, or even sometimes no signal at all. Maybe the phone company had put a new mast in somewhere.

  “EDISON, it’s SILVER,” he said when the call was answered.

  “About time. Where have you been? Have you seen the TV coverage? Going crazy out there. What the hell—”

  “Yeah, I know, I know, I saw it just earlier. That’s what I warned you about a couple of days ago. These are the Sarajevo documents.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t expecting coverage like this. It’s not naming me or anything, but it’s getting close to the bone,” EDISON said.

  “That’s why I’m calling, to calm things. Like I told you before, these documents don’t actually name names. But they do talk about a CIA operative and a Pentagon military adviser in Sarajevo at that time who turned a blind eye to the Iran imports. The fact you were then working for the Pentagon seems to have escaped everyone so far, and I don’t see why it should surface. It’s not being mentioned in reports; all the focus is on Clinton and the White House,” Watson said.

  “Okay, as an old friend, I’ll take your word for it,” EDISON said. “But I’ve got a lot planned for the next few days—a few key appearances. It would look extremely odd if I suddenly scrapped it all. So I’m going ahead as if this has nothing to do with me.”

  “I don’t think you’ll get caught but can’t you cancel these events?” Watson asked.

  “No, it also involves one of my donors. Anyway, how much have we got coming to us from that last shipment? Has it been finalized?”

  “Yes, more or less,” Watson said. “It’s going to be about a quarter of a million US each. Peanuts in the scheme of things, but enough. It’ll go straight to the usual account. Don’t worry, the payments are all secure.”

  EDISON said, “Good. But what I want to know is, can we stop this coverage? And, if so, how?”

  Watson said, “No. The cat’s out of the bag. But look on the bright side—at least the cat doesn’t have a name tag around its neck.”

  He wasn’t going to mention to EDISON that the minute he suspected his involvement might become public, he was planning to run. A private jet would be on standby at Leesburg airport, twenty-five minutes from his house.

  However, Watson knew that such an escape might be more difficult for EDISON, who wasn’t seeing the bright side. “You’d better make damn sure the cat doesn’t have a name tag, SILVER, or else my career’s over, and yours will be over too. You understand me?”

  EDISON didn’t wait for an answer. He hung up.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Thursday, July 26, 2012

  New York City

  Johnson saw it on the screens as soon as he got off the British Airways Boeing 777 and into the arrivals hall at JFK.

  The morning TV news programs on the airport’s monitors were running video footage of the Bosnian war from the 1990s as well as old speeches from Bill Clinton. Weapons experts were pictured holding Kalashnikovs and rocket launchers, and there was old film of an Iran Air jumbo jet taking off from Tehran airport.

  He felt himself start to sweat. This was news coverage that he could instinctively see was already too big, out of control, unpredictable, and taking on a life of its own. There was no way of knowing where it would end up—just the kind of situation that Johnson hated.

  He stopped and focused on one of the screens, which was showing an international news segment.

  There was a clip from SRTV News, which was being credited with breaking the
story. The ticker running across the bottom of the screen read, “US helped Bosnian Muslims import Iranian weapons, secret documents show.” The next headline said, “White House turned blind eye as mujahideen flooded into Bosnia—proof.” A third said, “Patrick Spencer set to condemn US Muslim policy in set piece TV interview.”

  The next clip showed some academic arguing that the US had put weapons into the hands of radical Muslims that were later used against Americans and Western Europeans in a series of terror attacks, providing the momentum for the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

  “Did the United States’ policy throw fuel on the fire?” the presenter asked. “We’ll discuss all this and more after the break.”

  There seemed to be no mention of any involvement by a senior CIA man named Robert Watson or of Osama Bin Laden on any channel.

  Johnson walked on. He had seen enough.

  There were two text messages on his phone. The first was from Jayne.

  Marco’s just been arrested by police here in Split. Me and Filip held him at gunpoint at that business unit address you gave. Involved a little drama first, though. Will tell you more on the phone.

  Johnson smiled to himself. Thank God for that. He knew he could rely on Jayne to deliver the goods.

  The second text was from Vic, telling him to wait near Starbucks in the arrivals hall. Johnson continued through the concourse until he spotted the coffee shop.

  There was a tap on his right shoulder. He whirled around to find Vic standing behind him.

  Vic grasped his right hand and shook it firmly. “Come, this way, Doc. You’ve set the cat among the pigeons here, buddy.”

  “Not me. It’s that maniac Franjo who’s done it.” He followed Vic toward the terminal’s pickup zone. “Have you confirmed if it’s CBA who’s hosting the interview?”

  “Yes, it’s them. Aisha’s studio.”

  Johnson swore. “Any suspicious activity from Aisha?”

  “No, none.”

  ‘Well, given the unknowns, it might be an idea to have Aisha pulled in for questioning, just to keep her detained until we have Franjo in custody, whether that’s before or after this interview. We don’t want factors we can’t control in the mix. I can help with that if needed. I’ve met her. I’ll go with you.”

  “I’ve already requested that,” Vic said. “We’re getting her in and we’ll keep her for a while. She can’t do any damage then, if that was her plan.”

  Johnson breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you know where Franjo is staying?”

  “No. We’re finding out.”

  A black Chrysler sedan was waiting outside. Vic walked over to it and got into the rear seat, indicating to Johnson to do likewise.

  Johnson inclined his head toward the driver and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “He’s fine. One of my people. Don’t worry, we can talk,” Vic said.

  “Okay. Any progress on Watto’s phone taps?” Johnson asked.

  “A bit. There’s some slightly odd patterns coming up. Not just in terms of who he’s calling, but from where, which we’ve also been monitoring. There’s a spot near his house where calls have been made from an unidentified cell phone number, so I’m getting that tracked. It may or may not be him, we’re not certain. We should start getting call recordings and transcripts soon. In fact, our next job is to talk to the NSA telecoms engineer who’s been helping us. Hopefully we’ll get an update.”

  Vic gave Johnson a new, clean iPhone, still in its packaging, and a pay-as-you-go SIM card. “Use this. I’ve got one as well. I suggest we use these to communicate between us for the next couple of days. Watto’s quite likely to have arranged taps on my phone, and probably yours too.”

  Vic then reached into a small backpack he was carrying and handed Johnson a Glock and four spare magazines. “Here, you might need that, given the way things are going.”

  Thursday, July 26, 2012

  Astoria, Queens, New York

  The Ćevabdżinica Sarajevo café was unusually busy for a Thursday. Aisha and Adela had taken the last available table, in the corner near the door. They simultaneously stirred sugar into their cappuccinos.

  Aisha sipped hers and looked up from under her long black eyelashes.

  “So where did you put it?” Adela asked.

  “It’s in a lighting bar directly above the seats where Franjo and Spencer will be sitting. I need to somehow make sure that bar’s set lower than it normally would be so it takes them out.”

  She hesitated. “I want to do this. He’s burned me up inside for years. I can’t tell you what he did to my family and me.”

  “No doubts?”

  “No. Well, only the audience. There’ll be a lot of people.”

  Adela pressed her lips together. “Yeah. But it’s the cost of what we need to do. Spencer is inciting people. It’ll be a lot worse if we don’t stop him—there’ll be more deaths, more Muslims killed for doing nothing more than living here. You’ll never get another chance to get both of them.”

  Aisha nodded, her eyes hardening again. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m going to trigger it right at the end of the interview, just as the main studio lights go down and the credits are about to roll. The idea is to bathe Franjo and Spencer, two bastards together, in blue light with some fancy effect going over them. And then the whole place will go up. That’ll be some damn fancy effect for sure.”

  Adela stared at her. “You know, Aisha. I never thought, even a couple of weeks ago, that you’d ever get to this point. At least, not without a war to push you to do it.”

  Aisha shrugged. “Two weeks ago I felt quite at peace with myself. Two weeks ago I never dreamed that Franjo was still alive, let alone coming to interview that bigot Spencer in my studio. But this is personal. This is war, in a way.”

  She paused, then began whispering again. “It’ll be live on television, just like the way Franjo destroyed my father and my sister. That was on TV, on the Stari Most. It was filmed and broadcast the same night. It might have taken nineteen years, but it’ll be a very symbolic kind of justice. I hate him, and the glory will be Allah’s.”

  Aisha tapped her fingers nervously on the wooden table and glanced around the restaurant. “I need a backup plan though. The detonator’s number is saved into my phone. But just in case something happens and I can’t do it, can you stand by?”

  Adela sat back in her chair and raised her eyebrows. “Why would you need a back-up? Won’t you be in the studio?”

  “No,” Aisha said. “I’m going to phone in sick tomorrow. I’m not cut out to be a suicide bomber. I don’t have the guts for that.”

  “Okay then, a backup,” Adela said. She scratched her head. “So I’d just have to ring the number?”

  “Yep, just ring the number. It should ring four times, then you’ll hear it connect. Job done. You can hang up then. About ten seconds later, the detonator will be activated and the Semtex goes up. Your guy from the mosque spent about two hours talking it through with me. All I had to do was install it. Very easy. Anyway, you’ll be watching the show, won’t you? If anything goes wrong and I can’t do it, you can call.”

  “Yes, fine,” Adela said.

  Aisha took a piece of paper out of her handbag and scribbled a number on it. “Here you go. There’s the number. Put it into your phone now, just in case. Put it under Franjo Vuković. That’s the best place for it.”

  Her friend nodded. “The studio audience. How many will there be?”

  “That’s something I’m trying not to think about.”

  “Well, roughly how many?”

  “I don’t know. Probably three or four hundred.”

  “The glory to Allah will be great, then,” Adela said.

  Aisha drained her coffee, suddenly feeling deflated. “I think we’d better get going.” She put on her sunglasses and they both left the café.

  She said goodbye to Adela, who turned left to go around the corner, where she could catch a bus back to h
er house.

  Aisha turned right along 38th Street toward her house. Then she saw the police car parked outside, a few doors away. Two officers were just going through her front gate.

  Immediately she did a one-eighty and walked back in the direction she had come from. Once around the corner, she began running after Adela, who was about to climb onto a waiting bus at the stop just up the road.

  She shouted, “Wait, Adela, wait!”

  Her friend turned, saw her, and stood one foot on the pavement, the other on the step of the bus.

  Aisha caught up, now breathless, and pushed Adela onto the bus. “Go, go on, quick, I’m with you. I’ll tell you in a minute,” she said to Adela.

  The two of them walked to the back of the bus, which set off and threw them both off balance. They grabbed hold of each other, then fell into a seat.

  “Cops, outside my house,” Aisha said. “Two guys going up to the front door as I got near.”

  “Shit, they’re onto you, d’you think? I can’t see how . . .” Adela said.

  Aisha shrugged. “Me either. Nobody at work suspects a thing. At least, as far as I know.”

  But then in a flash, Aisha did know. It must have been what she said to Ana, who knew Johnson, who was searching for Franjo. How stupid of her.

  “Do you think they’ll work out what’s going on?” Adela asked. “Would they get the detection machines and sniffer dogs into the studio, do all that?”

  “Not sure. Your man at the mosque, Faisal, told me it was old Semtex with no odor. Apparently these days it has a scent built in for security reasons, but the old stuff doesn’t. But I’d guess they have ways of detecting it if they suspect there might be something.”

  “Would they cancel the interview?”

  “I just can’t see it,” Aisha said. “Not unless they were absolutely forced to. It’s going to be a massive earner. They have tens of millions of dollars’ worth of airtime booked by advertisers and the market’s been slow recently. So they’re desperate for cash. There’s no way they can afford to cancel it. Also, with all these stories about the US helping get arms from Iran to Muslims in Bosnia, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been deluged with more requests today. It’s a peak-time show. It’ll go global. That guy Spencer’s a massive draw card now.”