by James Samuel
James showed no fear, but his nerves jangled. Kemal was his only real friend here. Ismet's leading ultras didn't look too pleased with his presence or the wearing of their sacred shirt.
Ismet spoke to his allies in booming Bosnian. They shuffled away, leaving just the three of them to await the start of the game.
"Do you have everything you need, James?" asked Kemal.
James gestured to the back of his belt, where he’d hidden his Glock 19. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it.
"Okay, Ismet will speak to the police. You have money?"
James blinked. Nobody had mentioned bringing money to the game.
“You know, to make sure the police give us no trouble, eh?”
James removed a wad of crisp Bosnian bills and handed them over to Ismet. It wasn’t worth the argument.
"This will be enough," said Ismet. "Guns are more expensive. Ultras never bring guns to football. Knives, bats, anything that need you to look into a man's eyes when you kill him."
James cocked an eyebrow. "Of course, but I'm here for guaranteed results."
Ismet let off a laugh. "I like you, Englishman. Pity you were not born Bosnian, eh?"
"We should go," said Kemal, checking the chunky gold wristwatch constricting his fat wrist. "Maybe we can see Ivica."
Ismet gestured to James. "Stay close to me."
The three of them rounded the stadium. Underneath the building, FK Sarajevo fans smoked, finished their beers, and called out to their friends. Everybody knew Ismet. The short walk took them longer than expected as Ismet stopped to press flesh and engage in brief conversations. The other supporters glanced at James but said nothing to him in Ismet’s presence. He knew what they were thinking.
A long line awaited them at the white iron gates. Riot police stood on either side, while other officers in their usual uniform frisked everyone who entered for weapons. Strangely enough, they never did find anything, but James did see bank notes changing hands on a regular basis.
"Let me do this," said Ismet.
Ismet skipped the line and took the arm of one of the riot police. They exchanged friendly greetings, before the stack of James' money found its way into the cop’s personal charity fund. Ismet returned to them with a wink.
"It's that easy, is it?" said James.
"That easy, my friend. You're in Bosnia now." Kemal patted him on the shoulder again.
They got into line and shuffled forwards. Ismet went first, raising his hands in mock surrender. The officer patted him down and let him go. James did the same. The officer felt all the way around him and placed his hand on the gun in the back of his belt. He only nodded and urged him to go into the stadium. Kemal soon joined them at the top of the stands.
James looked out at the stadium; the seats arranged like a modern gladiatorial ring. The players were already warming up on the field. Away from the verdant grass, James noted the thick grey clouds heading their way, an ominous sign if ever there was one.
"Look." Kemal pointed towards a grouping of a few hundred fans at the opposite end of the stadium. "There they are. Dogs. Traitors. Occupiers."
His ally spat the words, his cheery demeanour dropping away to display the darker side of Kemal. James spent a long-time glancing at the opposition, but they were too far away for him to make out anyone from this distance.
Kemal parted from Ismet and took them up to the very last row. The red plastic seats were adhered to steep concrete steps. None of the ultras would sit during the game, they never did anywhere in Europe.
FK Sarajevo flags fluttered in the breeze. Banners in Bosnian were draped across the front rows. Already, ultras from both sides chanted in their own languages. The deep, guttural voices rose as one, spitting venom across the pitch. James had no idea what they were saying, but he noted some of the fans unfurling swastikas. James stiffened. He’d expected some rowdiness. Not this, fans bristling for open warfare.
"I look for Ivica for you." Kemal took out a small pair of binoculars. "So, you can watch him."
"Hopefully he's here."
"He will be." Kemal leaned against the protective wall at the highest point in the stands. "Ismet tells me he never misses a game, and Ismet knows. There is no game here in Sarajevo or in the whole of Europe Ismet misses. He knows everybody."
James nodded, feeling the gun in his belt, the only comfort he had in the insanity preparing to break over this district of Sarajevo.
The players had disappeared from the field after their warmups. Only minutes until the game would begin. As the clouds gathered and darkened, the atmosphere in the stadium also darkened with them. The closer to kick-off, the closer the fans came to erupting into a war played out in the confines of a modern stadium.
"When will the trouble happen?" James' breathing grew short and sharp.
"Depends on the score. If we win, not until after the game. If we lose... it could happen at any time."
"As long as I know. Are the rest of the arrangements in place?"
"Yes, yes, my friend, the car will wait. Shoot any Serbians you can. They deserve nothing better."
The arrival of the players cut off James’ retort. One line in maroon and the other in black with red trim entered the pitch to a deafening cheer. The chants rocketed in their intensity. Red flares were set off only a few rows away, casting a devilish glow and swirling smoke through the stands. The garlic stench of phosphorous seeped into his nostrils.
The players shook hands with each other. Their rabid fans ignored the display of sportsmanship. Like a crowd at the Colosseum, they wanted blood.
Chapter Fourteen
Sinclair wiped his brow as he stood in a stone cottage at the edge of a small stream. The frigid stones were covered in thick, black soot. Creeping vines had infiltrated the cracked, grimy windows. He adjusted his headset in the shadows and made the call.
“Wood?” Gallagher’s voice came through loud and clear on the satellite phone.
“Yes.”
“Are the bugs in place?”
“They are. Ivica Boro should be here soon enough. I estimate it’s half-time at the football game. Even in Bosnia, things tend to be reasonably punctual when it comes to football.”
“Make sure you remove the bugs when you can. They are not cheap.”
“Sir, I’m sure you’re aware that I’m an intelligence agent. I rarely accompany James when he’s in the field. I wasn’t trained to fight. I can shoot a weapon but not to an acceptable standard.”
“Yes, Wood, I am aware. Do your best. When a meeting is scheduled between parties, I want to know everything. I will also provide you with access to Finch, whenever you require him. He is already on alert for any requests which originate in Bosnia.”
Sinclair gulped and clasped his hands behind his back. Jacob Finch was one of the greatest hackers in the country, maybe even the world. The notoriously reclusive Finch almost never broke ranks from his own home. A master cybercriminal, he operated not for money but for the pure pleasure of it all. To be given access to Finch was a rare honour, reserved only for the most important of the organisation’s operations.
“Furthermore, if you succeed in this little task, I may consider promoting you. I understand you are not as enthusiastic about field work as you once were.”
“What makes you think that, sir?” said Sinclair. How could Gallagher have read his mind, he wondered.
“My own sources. I consider it essential to be aware of what my employees think of their work. Correct me if I have made an error, but I believe you were weary of the constant travel and you would prefer a less risky assignment.” Gallagher cleared his throat. “I believe I could provide you with a permanent position at one of our offices.”
Sinclair swiped a hand across his perspiring forehead. “Which office? I seem to remember hearing someone recently being relocated to Saudi Arabia.”
“You would have the choice. Wherever you would like to work, a position would be found for you, as long as you do this one small thing for
me.”
“And James?”
“Winchester is in no danger from me. He is, as you say, a man who has achieved some quite stunning results in the past. I merely think I need to keep a tighter leash on him. All it takes is one international incident in the newspapers and we are finished, as I am sure you are aware.”
Sinclair relaxed a little. He felt terrible about breaching the trust he’d built up with James over the years, but if it didn’t put him in danger, he had to think about his own future. He looked up at his own reflection in the grimy window. Even the faintness of the image told the story. A fat, single, and rapidly aging man stared back at him. Did he really want to become a grizzled, lonely creature living off his memories?
Guilt, fear, relief, what did he feel? Sinclair wasn’t sure of his feelings. All he knew was he had to do this. For once, he had to do something for himself.
“I understand.”
“Excellent. If you agree, then the deal is on.”
“I accept, sir.”
Chapter Fifteen
The home crowd howled as one, like a wounded prisoner trapped in a corner. A player in black wheeled away after smashing in yet another goal. The match had started out well, with FK Sarajevo taking the lead, but Banja Luka had responded with three goals in a row. A few bottles had already flown from the stands onto the running track ringing the pitch.
“How long have we got?” asked James. “I can’t see the scoreboard.”
Kemal checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.” He threw a dismissive hand at the players. “They shame Sarajevo.”
James flicked his eyebrows but said nothing. The air seemed to whirl depending on the mood of the crowd. He could feel it turning, anger becoming outright hostility. He looked over at the line of police officers with riot shields on both sides of the rounded stand. They looked nervous. They knew what was coming. They knew they couldn’t hope to hold back the tide of Horde Sla.
A few minutes passed. The dismissive hisses grew in pitch, punctuated by cries of outrage from furious fans. A Banja Luka player fired a vicious shot through the desperate ranks of FK Sarajevo. The keeper lunged at it, catching the ball by a fingertip and sending it over the bar. Corner kick to Banja Luka.
The Banja Luka player jogged as slowly as he could towards the corner flag, where the ball waited. His apprehension was apparent even from James’ position high up in the stands. Horde Sla wanted his hide, at least a dozen screaming men leaning over the protective fencing and making all manner of gestures.
“James, look. He’s there. Look.”
James glanced at the player taking the corner and sighed. Kemal had become so fixated on the game he’d spent most of it screaming obscenities in his native language and then translating them for him. Finally, Kemal had done his job.
“Look, quick, look, my friend.” Kemal groped for his arm.
When James saw he had his binoculars out and pointing at the opposition fans he froze. He accepted the binoculars from Kemal and adjusted the focus to get a clearer picture of the Banja Luka fans taunting Sarajevo. They waved the chetnik salute, famous for its association with the Bosnian-Serbs and the various massacres of the war.
“Where is he?” James asked, scanning the crowd on the opposite side of the field.
“You see the Nazi sign?”
James adjusted his gaze and found the crude swastika drawn on what looked like a bedsheet. “Yes.”
“A few rows back. He has no hair. Black coat. A grey shirt. Blue jeans.”
James pinpointed the man based on Kemal’s description. “Is he fat or thin?”
“Thin. Very thin. Like…”
“Good. I see him. I’ll keep my eye on him. You go and tell Ismet.”
“Yes, yes, I go.”
Kemal lumbered down from the top of the stadium and began pushing his way through his Horde Sla brethren. James soon lost sight of his new friend. Kemal disappeared amid the sea of maroon. James kept his eyes trained on Ivica, like a hunter tracking its prey. That man was their only way forward, he thought as he felt his gun again. If he escaped, they would be back to square one.
The Banja Luka player at the corner flag hesitated as garbage rained down upon his head. A bottle of beer smashed on the field only feet away from him, showering his boots with white froth. He threw his hands in the air as he appealed to the referee. Red flares soon followed. They blazed at a few thousand degrees and hit the edges of the pitch. Like the eyes of the devil himself, they burned, and smoke billowed across the pitch.
James watched as the first Horde Sla members dropped onto the running track and advanced on the pitch. The players from both teams sprinted away. Horde Sla advanced, screaming like wild animals, dominating the pitch. Yet the riot police maintained their positions, as if nothing had happened.
Ismet materialised from the crowd in front of James. "Now. Now is the time."
"But what about the police?" James called back.
"Police are good. We have time." Ismet made a rubbing gesture with his fingers. "Money. We have a little time."
James nodded. It dawned on him the stack of notes wasn't just so he could get his gun through the gates. Ismet had paid his friend in the police to hold off for a while.
"Come, stay with me. Kemal will get his car."
Horde Sla had now flooded the pitch, occupying nearly every square of turf in their half. Their taunts had worked, and Borac Banja Luka's ultras came to meet the challenge. The riot police were watching but still hadn't moved.
James lifted the binoculars to his face as he stumbled down the steps. He still had his eye on Ivica.
"Hurry, James." Ismet gestured at him. "You come."
James stuffed the binoculars inside his coat and sprinted through the crowd. Ismet climbed over the railing separating the stands from the pitch. His friends below helped him down. James followed.
"You don't need the gun. Don't fire," Ismet ordered. "It's too dangerous."
James took his hand away from his hidden weapon and followed. The two sides began to clash. A few punches and kicks were thrown here and there before the offenders retreated back to their respective sides. He scanned the scene before him. Ultras from both sides were trying to pick people off, like lions searching for vulnerable buffalo.
He coughed as the smoke from the still burning flares choked him. The acrid stench spurred him on faster until he reached the frontlines. Ivica stood only a few metres away from him.
"We charge them," said Ismet. "We charge them good. We will get him for you. Kemal will be outside the gates we came through. We are ready. Don't worry."
James just nodded, never taking his eyes away from Ivica. He couldn’t afford to lose him in the crowd.
Ismet raised his voice above the din and yelled a battle cry in Bosnian. In an instant, Horde Sla charged the visiting fans. The battle was on.
He felt Ismet's men carry him forwards. The football fans clashed. James lashed out at the nearest one, his fist colliding with the man's windpipe and he went down clutching his throat. A man grabbed James by the shoulder of his coat, before Ismet smashed him in the side of the head.
"James, here. Come."
Ismet and James retreated slightly and forced their way through Ismet's men. They reached the side of the pitch. James' fist throbbed; the skin slightly torn by the force of the blow to the windpipe. He caught a glimpse of Ivica again. The Bosnian-Serb fought like an animal, lunging with his fingers, aiming for the eyes of his opponents.
James broke free from the crowd and charged forwards. He threw a bone-crunching punch at Ivica that landed on the side of the skull. Ivica staggered but recovered, turning to James with rage in his eyes. James raised his fists in a defensive position when Ivica advanced on him, coming within range. A Horde Sla member appeared out of nowhere, giving Ivica a kick to the thigh. Ismet burst through the maul, putting Ivica on the defensive.
James saw his chance. He charged with him, forcing Ivica to run for the stands, isolated from his friends. The
y had him. Every time he tried to slow down and dodge, he received a meaty fist from Ismet.
"Go, go," Ismet called to James.
A few of Ismet’s friends rushed to further cut off Ivica's escape routes and force him towards the gates. Small groupings of Banja Luka fans were alerted to the scene unfolding before them. Yet every time they tried to make up some ground, bands of Horde Sla threw them back. Ismet had organized his men well.
In the chaos, the riot police finally moved. They advanced slowly towards the pitch, their riot shields lined up like the makings of a Greek phalanx.
Ivica broke into a run and headed for the gates, apparently hoping to find refuge with the three riot officers lingering there.
James reached for his gun and held it at his hip. The riot police saw the flash of metal and stiffened up, adopting a defensive stance. Were they in on the deal Ismet had made? Would they reach for their own guns and fire back? Ismet kept racing towards Ivica regardless. Ismet and Ivica vaulted the low fence into the neutral stands, followed by James.
Ivica started to slow as each steep step drained his energy reserves little by little. Ismet, too, had slowed, sweat pouring from his face. Only James, his superior training telling, made up the ground and soon managed to squeeze alongside Ismet.
In that moment, Ismet called out something in Bosnian. To James' amazement, the riot police lowered their shields and stood aside, the door clear.
"Ivica!" Ismet screamed as the desperate man reached the top of the steps and dashed through the open gates. "Shoot him, James." Ismet slowed up, his lungs finally giving out when he reached the top. "Shoot him now."
James sprinted past Ismet without a word. He raised his weapon as Ivica fled for his life into the car park. He took deep breaths as he steadied his shot, his target well within range below him. His finger twitched when a car came out of nowhere and slammed into Ivica. The Bosnian-Serb flew over the hood and landed with a sickening thud near the passenger-side door. James lowered his weapon with a grin on his face as Ivica rolled around, defeated.
Kemal rushed out of the car and launched a kick into Ivica lying prone on the ground. He lifted him with ease, throwing him against the battered Ford.
