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

by James Samuel

  "Alright, Jesus Christ, you need to calm down."

  James slowed up. The lights were green. They sailed through. Nazifa's breathing became audible.

  "There are more lights up there. Two minutes. That's the way he will go."

  His eyes kept swivelling between Suput's car and the speedometer. The nose of the Vauxhall almost kissed the rear lights of the Land Rover. Nobody was in their way.

  "Come on, come on," Nazifa muttered.

  The lights appeared ahead. They switched to red. Now was the time. Nazifa cranked the handle on her right and lowered the window. A frigid breeze rushed into the car, stinging their fingers, and freezing the sides of their faces.

  The Land Rover stopped. James brought the car to a halt next to it.

  "Now, do it now," James hissed.

  Nazifa revealed her .44 Remington Magnum and brought it to the window. She fired. A bullet shattered the Land Rover's window. James saw the figure in the passenger seat, blinded by the flying glass. Nazifa fired a second and a third bullet from mere feet away. He watched the man slump. Horns blared. The whole street gasped as one.

  "Drive! Drive!"

  James' ears rang from the blast of the bullets at such close range. He threw the car into gear and broke through the lights. He flew around the corner to the right, narrowly missing an oncoming bus. Angry drivers thumped on their horns. To James, they were nothing more than whispers on the wind. He sped through the traffic and took every turn he could as they headed for the river and the old town.

  "Police?" James breathed.

  Nazifa threw her head around. "None, we are safe."

  "We're not safe yet. We've got to get out of sight."

  "You overestimate Bosnian police, Englishman." Nazifa ran a hand through her purple hair and let out a laugh. "What a rush, eh? It's just like being in the army again."

  James kept driving without a word. He'd taken an unnecessary risk by doing this tonight. This should never have happened. He wouldn't take another chance until they were well out of sight. As Nazifa crowed about the death of Tomislav Suput, James kept moving.

  Every action had an equal and opposite reaction. He dreaded to think what would happen next.

  Chapter Eleven

  All manner of things ran through Sinclair's mind. At four in the morning, James still hadn't returned to the hotel. He hoped his compatriot had become too drunk and spent the night with Nazifa. His own experiences with James told him nothing was ever that predictable.

  The Hotel Old Town creaked as the building shifted and the fridge buzzed. He sat in the darkness at the oaken kitchen table, a single pink plastic rose in a long-necked container for company. He feared the worst, but what could he do? Fear for what James could have done. Fear for what it could mean for him. He tightened his dressing gown.

  His phone pinged. The screen came to life with the damning word 'Gallagher' flashing on the screen. Sinclair hesitated to answer, staring at his phone vibrating along the wood. He shook his head and answered the call.

  "Yes, sir?" Sinclair started.

  "I want a report on Bosnia. Have you made any progress on Kadrić?" He stiffened at Gallagher's posh tones, remarkably calm and official in contrast to his frayed nerves.

  "We are still in the early stages," replied Sinclair, forcing himself to sound equally calm and official. "We have made contact with multiple groups in the Sarajevo area, and we will see where it leads us."

  "Good. Then perhaps you would like to explain to me why Tomislav Suput was assassinated in the middle of traffic?"

  Sinclair took a sharp intake of breath. "Excuse me, sir?"

  "Member of the House of Representatives Tomislav Suput. Known Bosnian-Serb nationalist. He was eliminated on his way home from work on one of the major roads leading through Sarajevo."

  Sinclair tightened his grip on the phone to stop his hand from shaking. "Nobody has reported that on the news. I was not aware that this Suput had been killed."

  "Were you investigating him?"

  "No, we were not. The White Rose organisation was, on the other hand. It's a local group dedicated to achieving a resolution to ethnic tensions through peaceful means. I doubt its leader, Ratko Avdić, had anything to do with it, since he's a pacifist."

  "I see. Where is Winchester?"

  "Out, sir."

  "At four in the morning?" Gallagher sounded incredulous. "What would he possibly be doing in the field at this time?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  "I see." Gallagher paused. "I dearly hope you had nothing to do with this. If so, it was a highly ill-advised move to be so blatant. The murder of a politician for no good reason would make things extremely difficult for this operation."

  "I understand, sir."

  “I want to believe you, I really do. However, I know that Winchester is rather loose with his decision-making. I could trust you more if I were able to monitor his activities to a greater degree.”

  Sinclair ran his tongue over his teeth and drummed his fingers on the table. “Are you asking me to spy on him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t do it. Never. You must understand that in the field we can only operate to such a high degree of efficiency because we trust each other implicitly. I won’t betray that trust. Take it from me, James gets the results we want, and that’s what matters.”

  Gallagher paused for a long time, ratcheting up the tension. “That is an order, Wood. A direct order. Are you aware of the consequences of insubordination?”

  Sinclair’s fingers drummed faster and harder against the wood. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then will you do it?”

  “I will.”

  “Good. I want regular reports regarding his activities in the field. You are not to tell him anything about this conversation. I am becoming increasingly concerned about his conduct and his willingness to disobey orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  "Very well, good night."

  Sinclair ended the call. The blood pumped in his ears. Gallagher must know James had murdered Suput. Sinclair had no evidence to disprove it. Experience told him Suput must have died at James’ hands. He went to the fridge and removed the chilled half-bottle of vodka. Pouring a glass immediately, he knocked it back. The stakes had just risen.

  Chapter Twelve

  Belgrade, City of Belgrade, Serbia

  Kadrić stepped out of a taxi below the tall white ridge of the Belgrade Fortress. The great citadel dominated the skyline of Belgrade from the lofty Kalemegdan Park. He stared up at it flanked by two of his personal bodyguards.

  A dull grey morning greeted him, the sky like a sheet of freshly laid concrete. The wind whipped across the choppy rivers of the Danube and the Sava confluence. His two bodyguards swept the area for threats to the Bosnian-Serb leader. Davor and Krsto, identical twins, with bodies like a pair of club bouncers and shaved heads like fresh army recruits. They spoke little, which is why Kadrić had chosen them.

  "Is Lipovina here?" he asked of nobody in particular.

  "Eleven o' clock," said one of the twins.

  "Good. Be on your guard but remember he's a friend. We need him."

  His bodyguards grunted in response.

  Kadrić started moving along the riverbank. The famous floating clubs of Belgrade drifted in the waters, as little squalls lapped at their immense foundations. Most of them were owned by various mafia types from across the Balkans and Russia.

  Revolution stuck out as one of the largest. Resembling a floating island more than a club, colourful lights snaked across the imposing nightclub and large green signage stood affixed to the sloping lead roof.

  From the outside, Revolution looked closed. A couple of men hunched over their brooms swept the outdoor areas of the debris from the night before. Kadrić lingered at the beginning of the bridge for a few moments, hoping to catch their attention..

  "Good morning," Kadrić raised a hand in greeting. "I'm here for a meeting with your boss."

  The two men just stare
d at him for a moment. One of them lifted his head, his ferret-like eyes judging the threat to their boss inside Revolution. “Your name,” he said.

  "Sadik Kadrić."

  "Come," said the other man. "He's expecting you."

  The bridge swayed slightly as Kadrić and his two bodyguards stepped across to the club.

  A tall man built like a house on legs appeared at the main entrance. Kadrić knew him only by his nickname, Tarzan.

  "Good morning, Tarzan." They exchanged firm handshakes. "How is Joko?"

  "Good. Very good." Tarzan didn't smile. "They stay outside."

  Kadrić nodded back at Davor and Krsto. Lipovina didn't take chances, even with those professed to be his closest friends. Not that anyone could truly be close friends with a mafia chief.

  "Follow me, Sadik."

  Tarzan led the way through Revolution. The lights were turned down, except for the dim green 'Exit' lights, which prevented them from being enveloped in total darkness. Kadrić soon found himself standing in the main VIP area, with restaurant-style tables set in front of the panoramic window giving patrons a view of at the rest of Belgrade.

  Joko Lipovina sat at a table reading the newspaper. When he noticed Kadrić, he stood and greeted him with a wide smile. His watery blue eyes were colder than the light of the winter morning. The two men met in the centre of the room and exchanged three kisses on alternating cheeks.

  Lipovina held Kadrić by both shoulders like a doting parent. "Sadik, I'm so happy you made it. How was your trip, eh? The border gave you no trouble?"

  "No, nothing. I slept most of the way."

  "Drink?"

  "Yes, of course."

  Lipovina laughed and slapped him on the shoulder before motioning to Tarzan. "Drinks, Tarzan. Raki, only the best. Leave the bottle."

  Tarzan wordlessly took up his role as bartender and got them a bottle from the bar at the far side of the room. He placed the Troyanska Slivova on the table, some of the finest rakija available in the Balkans. Most of his people in Srpska would only get to taste it at weddings and funerals.

  "Well, it's been too long. Sit, my friend."

  Lipovina waited for his guest to sit before resuming his seat. Like a waiter, Tarzan delivered two sparkling glasses to the table and poured them a rakija each. They toasted and swallowed in one. Tarzan poured them another glass and left the bottle where it was, departing through a different door.

  "Another toast," said Lipovina. "To Srpska."

  "To Srpska," Kadrić agreed. The rakija went down smooth, denoting its quality, and gently warmed his insides like a winter jumper.

  Lipovina poured out another two glasses, as was customary, and left the drink to settle. No host could ever afford to allow a guest's glass to stay empty or they would face disgrace.

  "Well." Lipovina turned in his chair to stretch his legs out down the side of the table. He brushed the red tablecloth lightly with his palm. "I'm sorry that our meeting was not possible until now. I have been away on business."

  "It's okay. No problem."

  Lipovina's wide, cheery expression disappeared from his mug. The furrows on his forehead flattened and the liver spots upon his bald head returned to their usual places. "I see war in Bosnia."

  Kadrić nodded. "If luck is on our side, it is. Tomislav Suput died last night."

  Lipovina tapped on his newspaper. "I read it just now. Bad business, eh? A politician being gunned down in the streets of Sarajevo."

  Kadrić couldn't help but smile. "They've taken the bait, like I knew they would. Soon things will get interesting."

  "Well, good news for you. What do you want, Sadik?"

  "Heavy weapons."

  Lipovina's eyes widened as the request took him off guard. "Artillery? Vehicles? Explosives?"

  "I've made a list if you'd like to see it." Kadrić took the folded piece of paper out of his pocket like a shopping list. He slid it across the table towards the nail of Lipovina's forefinger.

  Silence settled between the pair as Lipovina donned his reading glasses and squinted at the Cyrillic characters before him. Kadrić's chest tightened. He'd made some bold requests, but not too bold, never too bold with a man like Lipovina.

  "This will cost a lot of money. Could be more than one million dollars, you know that?"

  "We have the money. And money for more, if necessary. All we need is for you to get them through."

  "China or Russia?" asked Lipovina.

  "It makes no difference to us where they come from, as long as they work as intended."

  "Good. I will send you the price."

  The tension fell out of Kadrić's shoulders. He'd expected to have to negotiate. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected Lipovina to act so pliable.

  "Shake my hand, my friend." Lipovina's cheery smile returned as he grasped his hand. "Another drink. We make a good business together, you and me. You are a big man now, not just an unemployed soldier, eh?"

  They drank again. The heat rose in Kadrić's face behind the rakija. Yes, he'd once been nothing more than an unemployed soldier. Briefly wanted for war crimes, a lack of evidence had soon seen the charges, and the hunt, against him dropped. Darko had done well in erasing what he could.

  "I do have something else I wanted to ask."

  Lipovina raised his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. "Yes?"

  "With enough weapons, we can outgun the Bosnians and the Croatians. But we need men. They outnumber us everywhere. I was wondering, Joko, if you could lend me some of your men. We have the money, and we pay good."

  At that, the mafia chief broke into rancorous laughter. He banged the table with his palm and wiped some tears away from his eyes.

  Kadrić flushed with embarrassment.

  "You tell good jokes, Sadik. The mafia, entering a war? I'm a businessman. War is good for us because we are businessmen. Fighting a war would be foolish. But I like you. You have balls." He paused for a moment. "You weren't serious, were you?"

  Kadrić gulped and forced down his retort. He shook his head. "No, of course... it was just a joke. Thank you for doing business with us."

  Lipovina grunted. "You're right, though. You don't have the men. The Croatians will side with the Bosnians and you will lose. Everyone knows that. That's why they haven't taken you or Srpska seriously for years, but I can help you with that. Do you know Vojo Plemenac?"

  He leaned forwards. "No, how can he help us?"

  "The ambassador between Serbia and Bosnia. He's a spy for the government in Belgrade. We make good business together before. You two share the same wish, an independent Srpska, or a Srpska as part of Serbia, whatever your people wish. You are both strong men. I think you could work together."

  "That... that would be good. I would like to meet him. Should I stay in Belgrade?"

  "No, no, I will send him to you in Srpska. Vojo is a busy man. You will meet him... maybe next week."

  "Thank you, Joko. Thank you so much. This war could spread, you know? We need every man to fight for us."

  Lipovina smirked at that. "Oh, Sadik, I hope so. War is good, for all of us."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina

  Streams of Bosnians dressed in the maroon football colours of FK Sarajevo ambled towards the stadium. The bowl-shaped Asim Ferhatović Hase Stadium was the biggest stadium in the country, and all manner of shady types were about to stand side-by-side for the pride of Sarajevo. Games against teams from Srpska always brought trouble, according to Kemal.

  James arrived alone, meeting Kemal who waited for him outside the ticket booths. Kemal's football shirt clung tight around his body, the crest bulging out from his breast like it had a lifelong ambition to become three-dimensional. He glanced at FK Sarajevo’s ultras, the fanatical wing of the club’s fanbase, greeting each other with crisp handshakes and much backslapping.

  Kemal clapped him on the shoulder. "You look good, James, my friend."

  James, too, wore a football jersey identical
to Kemal's. He hadn't wanted to wear it, but Kemal had insisted, even going so far as to send it to the Hotel Old Town.

  "I can't say maroon is my colour," James replied.

  Kemal ignored his complaint, saying, “You had a good night with Nazifa, yes?”

  James blushed. “It was fine.”

  The night had been fun, but they hadn’t slept together. For now, his relationship with Nazifa was purely a platonic one. James had held back, the memories of Jessi Montoya from Mexico still tainting him.

  "I got the tickets,” Kemal continued. “Ismet is already outside. Come. Yes."

  They passed the ticket booth, which was little more than a wooden box in the middle of the road. Cars already filled the stadium, parked on the grass and in ankle-deep swamps. James felt exposed here.

  "Kemal," James started. "Do foreigners ever come to these games?"

  "Of course, my friend. We are all friends here. They sit on the sides." Kemal pointed at the flanks of the stadium. "Ultras go behind the goals. That's where we'll be. You will be fine, it’s no problem. Ismet has told everyone the Englishman is his special guest."

  "Alright, I'm not the football hooligan type, though, so I hope I'm not expected to play the part."

  "No, no, this is more than football. This is for Bosnia." Kemal shook his fist. "You stay with me and just watch. We tell you when the time has come." He let out a little chuckle. "But you will see."

  Kemal directed him towards a grouping of half a dozen FK Sarajevo fans. A long chain-link fence, with police dressed head to toe in riot gear, separated the home fans from the visiting FK Borac Banja Luka supporters. James spied the away team's buses parked well out of range of any projectiles.

  "Ismet!" Kemal boomed, waving to his friend. "We are here. James looks good, no?"

  "Welcome." Ismet disengaged himself from the semi-circle surrounding him, also dressed in the same shirt underneath his shabby bomber jacket. "You, Englishman, make sure you listen to us. This is dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."

  "Yes," Kemal agreed. "Be very careful."