Interdiction (A James Winchester Thriller Book 3) (James Winchester Series)

by James Samuel

  James flicked his eyebrows as he helped Sinclair lug their suitcases to the front door. Sinclair had been snarky all the way from their departure point in Berlin, Germany to Bosnia.

  Were their experiences in Cambodia taking a toll on the veteran intelligence agent? He’d seen countless men change under the stress of the job, yet he, alone, stayed constant. Had Sinclair, of all people, started to buckle under pressure?

  Chapter Three

  Barely an hour passed before James and Sinclair ventured back onto the frigid streets of Sarajevo. James felt the temperature dropping in real-time. Already, he felt his toes numbing inside his shoes. He wiggled his fingers which now sported a pink-red sting.

  “Just around the corner,” said Sinclair. “A small coffee house a couple of streets away. One thing about the Bosnians is they love their coffee. I’m not sure if that’s down to the influx of Austrians or the Turks.”

  James shrugged. “I really don’t know anything about the history of this country.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of time for that later, let’s go. We’re meeting a man called Kemal Avdić.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” James grabbed Sinclair by the elbow. “You haven’t told me anything about this contract. Who is my target?”

  “Oh,” Sinclair laughed. “Sorry. I didn’t want to say anything on the flight or in the taxi because there’s always someone who understands English. Walk slowly and I can brief you on what I know.”

  They strolled along the Miljacka River. Everyone passed them at speed, wrapped in thick black, grey, and brown coats. Many of the older men wore dark flat caps with cigarettes lolling from their mouths. Another world that would soon evaporate in the decades that followed.

  “Our target is Sadik Kadrić, a Bosnian-Serb,” Sinclair began. “He’s a veteran of the last war. Rumoured war criminal but escaped international justice through lack of evidence. A committed Serbian nationalist, he wants to start a new war to free Republika Srpska from the Federation.”

  “Republika what?” James said, huddling deeper into his coat.

  “Srpska. It means Serb Republic if you translate it directly. Bosnia is officially split between the Federation, which is where the Bosniaks and Croats live, and Republika Srpska where the Serbians live.”

  “Okay. Cigarette?”

  Sinclair checked his phone. “Okay, we have time. The café is only about a street away.”

  James sat on the low wall above the river. Below, a chilly grey water slid its way through the city, carrying all sorts of garbage with it. Ladders led down from the bank to concrete slabs where, in the summer, local Bosnians fished the polluted waters.

  “What’s the likelihood that this Sadik Kadrić will succeed?”

  Sinclair made a hissing sound through his teeth. “Hard to say. Bosnia has been on the brink of a new war since the end of the last one. The Daytona Agreement in 1995 didn’t really resolve anything. It just stopped the war.”

  James took a long drag and puffed it out into the frigid air as he leaned into Sinclair’s story. The details might come in handy as he planned his attack on the target.

  “Besides, we are here, so the threat must be serious enough. Kadrić has been staging false flag attacks to try to build tension. A soldier and his family were murdered in cold blood before we arrived. They found a Srpska flag pin at the scene of the crime.”

  “How convenient,” James said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Too convenient. As if a murderer would accidentally leave a flag pin behind. It was a message. According to the file, Kadrić has been running nationalistic organisations for years since he re-emerged after the war. This is just the latest.”

  “So, he’s staging murders in the name of his little republic?”

  “Worse. He’s also killing Bosnian-Serbs and making it look like the Croats or Bosnians did it. He’s never killed anyone high-profile. Couple of local police officers. A soldier. Some local councillors. But like any good serial killer…”

  “He’s getting more confident and it’s only getting worse.”

  Sinclair nodded.

  James eased himself up from the wall and pinged the remainder of his cigarette into the river below. The muck immediately swallowed it up and carried it away to parts unknown. He ignored Sinclair’s tut of disapproval.

  “Who’s the client, Sinclair?”

  “Miran Heranda,” said Sinclair. “A real estate developer a tad older than you. He would have remembered the war, but he would have been too young to fight at the time. Our background research revealed that he survived the Siege of Sarajevo.”

  James nodded. Even he knew the Siege of Sarajevo, the longest siege of a capital city in history. For over three years, the city had been bombarded with artillery shells, indiscriminate sniper fire, and countless atrocities from the same smog-shrouded hills towering over them.

  “Hell of a way to grow up.”

  “He seems sincere.”

  “Don’t they all?”

  “Cynic.”

  He smirked at that. “Well, nice to see we finally have a client who isn’t as up to it in their necks as our targets. Someone who wants to make their country a better place, rather than muck it up even more. For now.”

  “A rare thing in this business,” Sinclair agreed. “I think it should be about time to meet Kemal. He’s going to be one of our contacts on the ground. Understandably, Miran is rather skittish about involving himself personally.”

  “And miss out on all the fun? He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”

  The two Englishmen approached the café across the street. Its two floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the darkened insides and the low lights hanging above a long counter. A half-dozen men in colourful winter jumpers huddled together across several tables.

  James and Sinclair entered the café to no real fanfare. They received a couple of glances, but the Bosniaks quickly returned to their conversations. The well-lit café only served to highlight the grease stains on the wall and the mould growing in the corners.

  Sinclair pointed off to a table by the side. “That’s the man from the photo. Over there.”

  Kemal Avdić sat on a long red leather sofa with a coffee in front of him. The giant of a man had a huge ape-like skull. The light reflected off the top of his bald dome as his ‘Balkan belly’ pushed against the table.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Avdić,” said Sinclair. “Sinclair Wood. James Winchester.”

  Kemal’s half-empty cup wobbled as he stood to greet them. “Mr. Sinclair and Mr. James, good to meet you.”

  James started having flashbacks to Cambodia, where the locals insisted on putting mister in front of their first names.

  “Sorry we’re late. You should have mentioned that you wanted to meet here earlier,” Sinclair said with a genial smile as he shook hands.

  “No, no, I should have told you. My fault entirely. James, is it?”

  James clasped the Bosnian’s hand. “Yes, Kemal.”

  “Good, good. Please, sit. I get you coffee. Our coffee is the best. The best in the world.”

  James sat in the metal chair bolted into the floor without mentioning his uneasy relationship with coffee. Kemal simply called out in his native language and indicated two more coffees with his fingers.

  “Welcome to Bosnia.” Kemal resumed his seat. “You should have come in summer. Sarajevo is very beautiful. Now you come in the middle of winter.”

  “Oh, trust us, we had no choice in the matter,” James piped up.

  Kemal laughed. “Yes, yes, I understand. Ah, good, your coffee is here. Once you drink coffee, we talk business.”

  The coffee that arrived at the table was something unlike James had ever encountered before. On a copper tray, three ceramic cups and three copper cups with a long, thin handles sat in front of them. The uninterested Bosnian from the counter took no notice of his confusion.

  “You never drink coffee Bosnian style?”

  James shook his head and inspected the foa
my brown liquid in the copper cups. “It’s hardly Starbucks, is it?”

  “It’s a džezva,” said Sinclair. “The liquid is boiled twice to make it foamy. Each džezva makes up three cups of coffee. Use the water and sugar however you like.” Sinclair smirked at him. “It’s not that complicated, even for you.”

  The three men set about creating their desired coffees. James took a sip from his ceramic cup and found the coffee acrid and much too strong. He added water and a couple of sugar cubes to dilute its bitterness. Something which passed for coffee went past his lips. He suppressed the urge to grimace.

  “So, why are we here?” James questioned, eager to get on with matters.

  “What have you told him?” Kemal asked Sinclair.

  “Only that Sadik Kadrić is our target. I thought it best if you tell him about the environment we’ll face here.”

  Kemal nodded. "So, he knows nothing of Bosnia?"

  James leaned forwards and pushed the Bosnian coffee away as he tried to lick away the taste. “Not a thing.”

  "Then this will be a surprise for you. Bosnia is unlike anything you have ever seen. For me, it is heaven. For others, it is hell." Kemal touched his substantial chest. "I am proud to be Bosnian, but this country has never recovered from war."

  "I can see that. I saw all the holes in the walls," said James.

  "And shrapnel. It was worse years ago. You will see this in every town and city of this country. You find mines all over the country. Many of them we have never found. Everything that happens here is about the war. Understand that."

  "I would avoid too much of a history lesson," Sinclair interjected. "James is a barbarian when it comes to culture. He just wants to know about anything relevant to Kadrić."

  James shot Sinclair a dirty look.

  "Everything is about the war, including Kadrić." Kemal folded his arms. "Kadrić and the Serbian invaders are a result of the war. The West made them stay and destroyed our country by not punishing them."

  James raised his eyebrows. "They bombed Belgrade during the war."

  "Pah, a few bombs in Belgrade. Here, they dug mass graves. In Sarajevo, we had the longest siege in history. They never broke our spirits, but they broke our hearts. And now we have to pretend to forget. We were punished for existing, my friend."

  James felt the temperature of the conversation rising, the raw hatred etched into every word Kemal spoke. He dragged the coffee back across the table and sipped at it.

  "What should we know about Kadrić?" asked Sinclair after an awkward pause.

  "Kadrić is not some warlord. He likes to think he is leading an army, like the old times. But in men and weapons, he is nothing. Kadrić is dangerous because he can fight. He is not a businessman. He is an animal."

  James smirked at that. "We'll see about that. Pride always comes before the fall."

  Kemal managed to raise a half-smile too and turned to Sinclair. "You say James is barbarian. I see he is not so stupid."

  Sinclair let out a little laugh.

  "Then what do you need?" Kemal gestured at James. "Take your guns and go. My country will be better for it. One less Serbian dog to shit on our culture."

  "Contacts." Sinclair polished off his coffee. "You are really the only man we know. We need to build a network during our stay here. Our work is never as simple as walking into a country and pulling a trigger, or we would never be called in the first place. Caution is the policy we stand by."

  "You are smart. Yes, yes, we should go. I know a man, my son, Ratko. He will help you."

  "Does he know how to fight?" asked James.

  Kemal clicked his tongue. "I wish so. He has the heart and spirit of Bosnia, but a coward. You slap my son and he will do nothing. He uses many fancy words because his English is much better, but he is a coward."

  "A pacifist you mean?" said Sinclair.

  "Yes, yes, his favourite word.” Kemal paused. “A coward."

  James and Sinclair exchanged awkward looks between themselves. They both sensed they'd touched upon a family dispute. A pacifist would be little use to them in their line of work.

  "You still want to meet my son?"

  "Of course, we would," said Sinclair. "Information can be just as powerful as a bullet."

  Kemal slapped his knees and gestured at them to get going. The two Englishmen snapped to their feet, eager to push on. Even if Kemal's son were a pacifist, James would meet just about anyone to avoid drinking any more of that coffee.

  Chapter Four

  Kemal took them to his car, a dark blue Ford Fiesta. What looked to be a piece of rope held the exhaust to the chassis. Kemal struggled to shunt the seat forwards so James could climb into the back. He twisted himself into the centre of the backseat as Kemal's girth threatened to send the driver's seat flying into his knees.

  The Fiesta stunk of cigarettes and the old radio still had an outlet for a cassette player. Kemal pushed in the ancient cigarette lighter and hitched up his trousers. James took in great gulps of air to fight off the feelings of nausea perpetrated by the foul air.

  "I haven't seen a car like this in years," said James.

  Kemal turned the keys in the ignition. The Fiesta coughed and spluttered before going dead again. He tried it twice more and the car kept up its campaign of civil disobedience. An awkward silence followed before Kemal sighed and turned back to James with an embarrassed glow in his cheeks.

  "So sorry. She is old. A push should make her work."

  Nobody said anything until it became apparent Kemal wanted his passengers to do the pushing. James and Sinclair disentangled themselves from the cramped car and emerged into the freezing air again.

  "You've got to be kidding me," James muttered to Sinclair as they took up their positions at the back. "This Ratko better be worth meeting."

  "You really are a barbarian." Sinclair smiled. "This is a cultural experience."

  "It's a stingy experience. Cars are hardly that expensive. I was barely out of school when this car was made."

  "You ready?" Kemal called out of the window.

  "We are," replied Sinclair.

  James and Sinclair started to push the car along the street. The snow and ice made the road slick and the Fiesta soon started to roll. The two of them huffed and puffed to bring it up to speed. The car traversed a hundred metres before the engine sprang into life.

  "Perfect!" Kemal called from the window. "A Serbian would have called a taxi."

  "So would an Englishman," James said under his breath.

  The Fiesta's exhaust belched out brown-black smoke. They climbed back inside, and Kemal revved the car, the Fiesta growling obediently.

  "We go to Gorczany Street. It's not far. Some minutes from the old town. I must apologise for my English. It's not so good, but my son, Ratko, he was in Germany. He knows German and English."

  "You must be very proud," said Sinclair.

  Kemal shook his head in despair. "Ratko is smart with books, but he is stupid with life. Very, very stupid."

  Kemal drove them along the winding course of the river. They passed countless Bosniaks with their dark winter coats buttoned up to their chins, their heads down, a vain defence against the vicious wind charging through the valley that was home to Sarajevo.

  Gorczany Street consisted of two uniform lines of post-war buildings. These concrete slabs with their square windowpanes added to the gloom of the Bosnian winter. There were no tree-lined boulevards, like those lining the river. Many of the homes looked abandoned, with graffiti scrolled across the walls by untrained hands. James noted the poorly drawn swastika in black paint next to a set of steps leading up to a dented front door. The late-afternoon lights burning in the windows made the street seem like the last vestiges of a world in colour.

  "We are here. Now you will meet my son, Ratko.” Kemal brought the car to a gentle halt and turned off the ignition. "I hope he can help you, though."

  The three men ascended the concrete steps leading up to a black front door. 64 Gorczany
Street was one of the few buildings without any graffiti. James observed a simple metal sign next to the doorbell reading “The White Rose.”

  "The White Rose?" James said aloud.

  "My son." Kemal rang the doorbell.

  It took a minute for the door to open. The man who answered was little more than a twig, yet his stance exuded a sense of confidence of a man twice his size.

  "Ratko, I bring friends for you," said Kemal.

  Ratko inspected them up and down. James saw the suspicion in his face. He said nothing but looked to his father. The two men exchanged words in Bosnian. The atmosphere between father and son felt frostier than the encroaching winter.

  "Please," said Ratko. "Come in. I apologise for not welcoming you, but these are dangerous times. My father and I have differing views on a lot of issues."

  James nodded. "We'll never ask for something you can't give."

  "Ratko Avdić." He stood aside from the door and shook each of their hands as they entered.

  As Ratko closed the door behind his guests, his thick-rimmed glasses immediately steamed up. He removed and cleaned them with the bottom of his tight pink shirt. James saw little resemblance in father and son.

  Their footsteps echoed against the hallway's high ceiling. Terracotta tiles decorated the floor of the hallway and a long staircase with black metal bannisters led to the upper levels. James took in the warm air, soothing to his tingling face as Sinclair took care of the introductions.

  "My name is Sinclair Wood, and this is my associate James Winchester. We are here to work. If you don't feel comfortable consorting with the likes of us, we will understand and take our leave."

  Ratko replaced his glasses and shrugged. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with listening. I should welcome you to the headquarters of the White Rose. We are an organisation dedicated to securing Bosnia's future through peaceful means."

  "Peaceful means?" said James.

  "Non-violent. We never use violence in our official activities. I'm not sure if my father told you, but I'm a pacifist. I don't believe that violence solves anything in the long-term. Bosnia is like it is today because of violence. The current situation is unsustainable, but violence will not bring about positive change."