by James Samuel
"Okay," Ismet said after consulting with his friends.
Ismet's entourage shuffled out from their seats, taking their drinks with them.
James' pulse accelerated as he watched for any sudden movements from the retreating men. He didn't know what they were saying. He couldn't imagine Kemal risking his life to jump in if Ismet exploded.
When they left, James shifted to the edge of the sofa, so his back faced the window and he faced Kemal and Ismet.
"Well?"
"Sadik Kadrić."
Ismet looked taken aback at the mention of the name. His face hardened and he conversed with Kemal again.
"Do you know him?" James asked.
"Know him?" Ismet's words slid from the depths of his throat like permafrost. "Yes, I know him. An enemy of all Bosnians, of all Muslims. What do you want from him?"
"I'm going to kill him."
Ismet raised a bushy eyebrow. "You? What does a foreigner like you want to kill him for? You are a Westerner? American?"
"English."
"English, American, it's all the same to us. None of you care about Bosnia or what you did to us. When the Serbians come to Sarajevo, you did nothing. Three years it took you to bomb Belgrade. Three years Milošević and Mladić had to butcher our people. You did nothing."
"I'm not here for politics."
Ismet threw his arm in James' direction. "Everything is about politics."
James didn't flinch or look away from Ismet's eyes. "Not in my world it's not. I only want to know the target and the price."
The leader of Horde Sla showed the effort of containing himself. Ismet’s shoulders rose and fell as his fuse shortened by the second. James saw right through Ismet’s facade. All bluff and bluster. The classic tough guy at the bar.
"If you don't want to help, I can go," James offered. "If you do want to help, there could be money in it for you."
Ismet’s face exploded in outrage. "I will not take your money. Kadrić is Serbian. All Serbians are animals. I will kill any Serbian for free. It is my pleasure and my duty as a Bosnian and a Muslim. Everyone knows someone who died in the war. You English will never understand."
"Then what do you want?"
Ismet shook his head. "Nothing. My family died in the war, everyone except my mother. Killed by shells from the hills. I was away, fighting in the north. My mother was in the market when the shell hit our home. There was nothing left."
Kemal clapped a comforting hand on Ismet’s shoulder.
Ismet shook with anger, but he never acknowledged the friendly touch.
Softly, James said, "Tell me how I can get to Kadrić."
Ismet took a deep breath and gazed up at something above James' head. He followed the Bosnian's gaze and saw the strange flag on the wall. It had a shield with a golden crown upon it. A white line slashed diagonally across a field of fleur-de-lises.
"The flag of the old Bosnian kingdom. We held out against the Turks longer than anyone else in the Balkans. We are proud of our history. And now that we are independent again, the West forces us to take their flag. A flag that means nothing to us."
James felt the conversation falling into political territory again. Kemal, Ratko, and Ismet were right; everything was about politics here.
Ismet grasped the handle of his beer glass and gulped some of it down. His Adam's apple poked at the skin on his throat as it bobbed up and down. White foam coated the bottom sliver of his moustache. James resisted asking why a Muslim would drink a glass of beer.
"Are you going to tell me what I need to know?"
"I don't know. Kadrić is not my friend. Everyone knows he is with Serbians in the north, the invaders of our country. Saturday, Borac Banja Luka come to Sarajevo. Horde Sla will be there. You will see his friends there. Ivica Boro is one of their leaders, a Serbian. He is always there."
"I'm not a miracle worker, Ismet," said James. "If he's with a crowd of football supporters then there's no way I can get to any of them. Will this Ivica Boro even lead me to Kadrić?"
Ismet shrugged. "He is a war criminal like him. He should be able to help you. There will be a riot tomorrow."
James pursed his lips. He'd never heard of a pre-planned riot before.
"We smash them," Kemal interjected. "Every year they come to Sarajevo and every year we fight them. The police, they do nothing."
Ismet clenched his fists on the table in front of him. "I can show him to you. We fight him every year. And there are pictures. On Saturday, I show him to you. You come with us. With me, you are safe. A friend of mine is a friend of Horde Sla."
James tilted his head. "Do you trust every foreigner who walks into your bar this easily? I've been in this job a long time and it seems... strange."
Ismet grinned at him. "I don't trust you. I don't trust you at all. But Kemal is with you and I trust him." He leaned towards James. "If you lie to us, you will never make it out of Sarajevo on Saturday. Now, we know who you are."
The words chilled James to the bone.
"But if you are telling the truth, you have an army."
James nodded and accepted Ismet's extended hand of friendship. Whatever came of this, he now had the hordes of evil at his back. That had to count for something.
Chapter Six
Banja Luka, Bosanska Krajina, Bosnia and Herzegovina
The smoke from the burning fires of the landfill sites on the outside of Banja Luka cast a dark mask over the countryside. The verdant green hills of the Republika Srpska countryside were dampened by the cool, light winter rains and drifting industrial liquid discharge. Rain filled the holes in the paved road heading east towards Serbia like festering wounds.
Sadik Kadrić stared out from under the outdoor canopy of a lonely roadside restaurant with a cigarette in one hand. He rubbed the thickening stubble on his chin as he contemplated what lay ahead for the Bosnian-Serb entity and their battle for independence from the oppressive regime of Sarajevo.
Succulent juices dripped from a whole pig as the restaurant's chef slowly rotated the spit over glowing coals. The noise of drunk Bosnian-Serbs rushed out of the door as Darko emerged, slicking back his hair with a tortoiseshell comb. He wore a black shirt and black pants, with a gold watch on his wrist.
"Sadik," said Darko in Serbian. "I was wondering if I could talk to you privately."
Kadrić turned to his brother-in-arms, the most loyal one of them all. A fervent nationalist and someone with real war experience. Darko had been young at the time of the war, barely more than a boy. Kadrić had taken him under his wing and taught him the ways of war, and the things that happened away from the eyes of international observers. Darko never flinched, no matter what atrocity Kadrić had urged him to commit.
"I know you too well, my friend," said Kadrić. "I came out here because I knew you would follow. What's on your mind?"
"Our campaign. To free Srpska from the Bosnian dogs. I've had some ideas."
"Come." Kadrić clapped him on the shoulder and offered him a cigarette. "You know I value your opinion. You see a lot of things I don't."
Darko beamed and accepted the cigarette. He lit it and leaned against the wooden fencing separating the covered patio from the cleansing rains.
"The story is fading out of the newspapers,” said Darko. “People are outraged, but they're moving on like the war never happened. I want us to step up our actions. More killings. More exposure. The Bosnians feel too safe; they're not as scared as they should be."
Kadrić sensed Darko wanted to mention that. He'd seemed edgy, desperate to speak to him about it since they’d met at the party for the engagement of some lieutenant's sister. He hadn’t cared enough to remember the details.
"That's human nature, Darko. You remember Sarajevo as well as I do. By the end of the first year, they got used to us bombing and shooting them. You can't expect them to call for war every time there’s an attack."
"Then where does that leave us? We need to do something more. I thought the killing of another sold
ier, in their capital, would get us what we wanted. We're no closer to a declaration of war than before. And Belgrade stayed silent."
"Calm down, Darko, you're too impatient. Belgrade was always going to say nothing. You can't expect another country, even Serbia, to take sides, at least not publicly. People don't trust Serbia after the war. They have to be careful. England, France, and Germany are not so far away. We can't afford an intervention."
"But what –"
"Darko, Darko, we don't want Serbia to join any war against Bosnia. We are not the villains, and we can't let the world see us that way. We wouldn't stand a chance if the West decided to get involved. Sarajevo must make the declaration of war."
Darko's face hardened. He sucked on his cigarette for a couple of seconds and blew the smoke out into the rain.
"I'm going to Belgrade this Saturday, so I won't be going to Sarajevo for the football match. I'll be meeting with Joko Lipovina."
Darko gave off a look of disgust at the mention of Lipovina. "He's a mercenary. He would sell his own mother into slavery if it would make him money. What do we want with people like that?"
"Weapons. He has access to the weapons we need. Heavy weapons, military-grade. Something we don't have enough off in Srpska. If Sarajevo declared war tomorrow, we would lose within a month. Bosnia’s army is stronger than ours. But a deal with Lipovina... things change."
Darko shook his head in despair.
Kadrić resisted lashing out at Darko. His impatience and rigid nationalistic beliefs prevented him from working with anyone who wasn't committed to their cause. Lipovina ran the largest mafia group in Serbia. His reach stretched across the Balkans, including into the Serbian government itself. They needed him to elevate their cause.
"Relax, my friend."
"You say relax," Darko snapped. "How many years have we been waiting for our freedom? So, we kill a few police officers, counsellors, soldiers, and it does nothing. This is small time."
"Careful." Kadrić didn't hide his irritation. "Remember your place, Darko. I'm the leader of this militia. I don't need a rabid dog's advice. Are you rabid, Darko?"
Darko screwed his face up. His cigarette shook as he vibrated with anger.
Kadrić's eyes widened in anticipation, waiting for Darko to challenge him.
"No," Darko breathed. "No, I'm not. I'm sorry."
"Good." Kadrić's tone softened. "After my meeting with Lipovina – which I expect to go well – you'll know more. On Monday, when I come back to Srpska, we'll begin the next stage of our plans. It'll be bigger than anything we've done since the war."
Something which resembled a smile broke across Darko's face.
"Here, I've got a secret for you." Kadrić reached into his moleskin coat and pulled out a small bottle of clear liquid. "Raki, my own. Very special rakija from my country house. Let's toast Srpska."
Kadrić grabbed a couple of empty glasses from the wooden windowsill of the restaurant. He handed them to Darko, who rinsed them from a small bucket used for collecting rainwater. Pulling out the stopper, he took in the whiff of pure Balkan alcohol, made from fermented grapes.
"You make strong stuff," said Darko as he inhaled the aroma from his glass of rakija.
"Only the best raki, my friend."
Kadrić replaced the bottle inside his coat and lifted his full glass. "Here, živeli, for Srpska."
"For Srpska."
The two men downed their rakijas and they both laughed heartily. To them, they toasted and drank like it was their last drink. In their world, it quite possibly would be their final toast.
Chapter Seven
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
The Hotel Old Town was more like a rented apartment than a real hotel. James and Sinclair each had their own rooms, kitchen, and a living room. James reclined on the balcony looking out at a courtyard of grey buildings puffing away on a cigarette and drinking coffee. If he arched his head, he could sometimes see the menacing clouds hurling snowflakes at them.
An old woman with ghostly white hair padded around the place in her slippers. She wore an apron and carried a yellow dust cloth, yet James had never seen her do any cleaning. Each morning she smiled at them and continue shuffling along the wooden floors. She'd never spoken a word of English and James had yet to learn her name.
"I see you're working hard." Sinclair joined him on the balcony, a tight blue dressing gown wrapped around his bulging shape.
"Football match isn't until Saturday. Nothing else we can do about Kadrić in the meantime."
"Well, I was thinking that maybe there are things we can do. We should use our time wisely here, if you're not going to be a tourist at least."
"Have you seen the weather?"
"There you are.” Sinclair’s face grew serious. “I was thinking about this football match. It's a risk. It's too risky –"
"Don't talk to me about risk. I'm always the one taking the risk and every time I've taken a risk everything has worked out fine. Remember Cambodia? I took on a whole army on top of an ancient temple. I think I can manage a game of football."
Sinclair rolled his eyes. "Okay Rambo, but I wasn't talking about that. Snatching someone in the middle of a riot isn't the easiest thing in the world. You're only going to have Kemal with you and... we can't really trust some animal like Ismet won’t get carried away. We might not capture Ivica Boro, this guy Ismet mentioned. We need a plan B."
James sipped at his coffee and tapped out the ash drooping from his cigarette. "Go on."
"Look," Sinclair's expression grew serious. "I couldn't find anything about Ivica Boro. If he's anyone at all, he doesn't appear on the Internet. Without a picture, there's no point getting anyone to look into any government records. There could be thousands of Ivica Boros in the Balkans. This might be a waste of time."
"You sound like Gallagher sometimes with your concerns." James threw his feet up on the iron fence of the balcony. "So, you got any other bright ideas?"
"Actually, yes."
"I'm shocked."
"The White Rose. You saw what Kemal's son had in that house. He's intelligent and the chances are he's been tracking some of these Bosnian-Serbs for a long time. If we attach ourselves to the White Rose, it could present us with some leads."
James dropped his feet from the fence and left his cigarette burning on the edge of the ashtray. "You want me to team up with a guy who would bow his head if someone punched him in the face?" He shook his head. "That's absurd. He would be a liability on any mission."
"We want information, nothing else."
James considered the idea. He didn't understand Ratko in the slightest. He identified with Kemal's anger at his son's approach to life. One day it might get him killed, and he wouldn't even fight for his own life. More importantly, it could force James into defending him from the same psychopaths who had murdered that soldier.
"Well?" Sinclair urged.
"No. We don't need him."
"You're going. I've already called Ratko and told him you'll visit him today."
"Bollocks, I'm not going anywhere."
Sinclair seized James' burning cigarette and flicked it off the balcony. They watched it sail away and land in a pile of freezing snow.
"Whoops." Sinclair got up to go back inside. "I suppose since you're done with your cigarette, you'll have to get on with it."
James watched Sinclair waddle back to his room. "You know, I still have the packet."
Chapter Eight
The wind howled through the city streets. A minor snowfall had been transformed into a maelstrom, forcing everyone to bow their heads in subservience. The windscreen wipers of James' taxi worked overtime to clear the thickening snow. Lunchtime had just passed, and the streetlights were already burning, for what little good they were doing.
James paid the driver his fare and ventured out into the whirling snowstorm. He pulled up the collar of his black woollen coat and moved slowly down the street of identical houses until he found
the little brass sign of the White Rose. He rang the bell and blew into his hands. If they were going to stay in the city, he’d have to find some gloves before he got frostbite.
Ratko pulled open the door. "Come inside, quick. This weather is terrible.”
The door slammed behind James and the warmth enveloped him.
Ratko took off his steamed-up glasses and cleaned them on the bottom of his crisp sky-blue shirt.
"You can say that again." James took off the heavy winter coat.
Ratko hung it up on the peg. "I must say I didn't expect Sinclair to call me out of the blue and offer your help."
"No? Me neither, strangely enough."
"Anyway, you're here now. You must be freezing. Would you like some coffee, or tea, maybe?"
"I'm fine, thanks," replied James, fearing it would be more Bosnian coffee.
"I'm quite busy at the moment, but I really appreciate your help, even if we do have our differences," Ratko continued. "Your mind is more open than my father's."
James followed Ratko into the living room. As per usual, all the screens were tuned into the Bosnian news from around the country. Reporters stood in different parts of the country speaking in their own dialects of Bosnian, Croatian, and Serbian.
"Your father means well. You both want the same thing."
Ratko frowned. "Do we?"
"You tell me. You both seem eager to find a solution for this divided country."
"That's true. I believe Srpska should be given its independence and removed from the Bosnian Federation. You can't force people to be together. Look at the Middle East. Your country and the French drew straight lines on a map. It left Shias and Sunnis in one country, alongside the Christians and the Kurds. Why would anyone be surprised about the situation there?"
James perched himself on the edge of the sofa. He didn’t feel comfortable talking about the carnage in the Middle East. The futility of it all had cost many of his friends their lives.
"Is Srpska Serbian land or are they the occupiers, though?"
