by James Samuel
She removed one of her dark velvet gloves and offered her hand to James. "Hello, James. How are you?"
He took it gently and let it fall, gesturing to the seat opposite him. She ignored it and decided to sit next to him on the bench instead.
"How good to see you again,” he said. “I heard Ratko wants to talk to me. I suppose it's about Suput."
Nazifa laughed before breaking off and speaking in her native tongue to the bulky waiter who arrived at their table. Soon, two dark Sarajevskis arrived at their table, followed by two cherry rakijas in traditional glasses with a narrow neck and bulbous bottom. James thought they looked like little potion bottles out of some fantasy novel.
"Rakija is something to be enjoyed. You drink real rakija slowly," she announced. "Come, drink."
James and Nazifa raised their glasses and sipped on the rakija. He smacked his lips as the sweet taste tantalised his tongue.
"So, Ratko?" James prompted.
"Oh, yes. Ratko is very angry. He was very angry with me, but I don't care. It made our problem go away. You can't speak to people like Suput. They only understand the language of violence."
"Like debating with the dog after it craps on your carpet?"
Nazifa roared with laughter, her hand lingering on James' thigh for just a moment. "Yes. But Ratko will never understand. He will sulk like a child for some days, but he’ll swallow the medicine."
"Is this the first time it’s happened?"
Nazifa shook her head. "No. He knows he needs us more than we need him. Bosnia will continue its fight with or without him. That’s why he’ll stay quiet."
"Then is there any use in me meeting Ratko at all?"
She shrugged. "Your choice. Drink."
This time they lifted the half-litre jugs of dark beer and swallowed great gulps, leaving them both with little white moustaches. James gulped it down, surprised by the harsh bitterness of the beer.
"Do you have any more work for me?" Nazifa asked.
"No more targets for now. Unless Ratko has something we can act on, we'll have to wait to make our next move."
Nazifa looked disappointed. "I was so excited last time with you. So many good memories of my time in the army came back to my mind. It hasn't been the same since I left. It's why I wanted to work with Ratko."
"Ah. Why did you leave the army? I'm sure you're still young enough to be there now."
She laughed at that. "They made me leave. You see, a man from another unit tried to take advantage of me."
"They made you leave because he tried to take advantage of you. It doesn't sound very fair."
"No, no, it was no problem. He tried to rape me, so I cut him." She made a snipping motion with his fingers. "I cut it off."
James' eyes widened. He didn't know what to say to that.
"So, they made me leave. I said I would never report it in the papers or go to court and they said I could leave without going to jail. It's not so bad, eh?"
"And... and what happened to the guy?"
"I don't care," she shrugged, grabbing her beer again. "It's not so important."
"No, I don't suppose it –" His phone started to ring. "Excuse me, Nazifa."
James took out his smartphone and frowned. Gallagher's name appeared on his screen. He dearly wanted to let it go to voicemail, but he knew he couldn't, not this time.
"Yes?"
"Winchester, I hope this call is not coming at an inappropriate time."
"I would let my own mother choke if it only meant I could listen to your dulcet tones for only a few seconds." James winked at Nazifa.
"That's enough of the sarcasm, Winchester. As you are likely aware, I have been mainly communicating with Wood."
"I hope it's not the morning kind, sir."
"Winchester!" Gallagher boomed. "Enough of the nonsense. There are a number of matters I need to discuss with you. First, did you kill Tomislav Suput earlier this week? Yes or no will suffice."
"No, sir."
"Good. Suput's death has only played into our target's hands. The higher the temperature gets, the greater the chances of a major international crisis. A war will only increase our risk of being exposed, and Kadrić will be far harder to reach. I dearly hope you understand the ramifications of his death. It means we need to act with greater care than ever."
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, sir."
"Secondly, have you been briefed on Finch's findings?"
"About the ambassador, sir?" James chose his words carefully. "Yes, I have. Sinclair will prepare the next stages of the plan. As of now, we don't know where his allegiances lie."
"I understand that. Under no circumstances, Winchester, are you permitted to liquidate him. You are expressly prohibited from doing anything that could harm him, let alone kill him. This will not change, regardless of where his allegiances lie. I'm sure you do not need a lecture as to why."
James gritted his teeth. He knew killing a public figure like an ambassador would generate a huge amount of fallout, but he couldn't agree to Gallagher's request. If someone had a free pass, he was powerless to achieve anything. He crossed his fingers.
"Of course, sir. I will never do anything to harm him... under any circumstances."
"Excellent. I am pleased that you seem ready and able to follow orders. Perhaps I may be able to put my trust in you going forwards. If you keep that trust, it will give you access to far more lucrative projects with considerably less risk in future. Do we understand each other?"
"We do, sir," James replied, knowing full well Gallagher would never follow through on that promise. Gallagher had been holding that phantom carrot in front of him for years. If anything, the risk increased with every assignment, without the appropriate increase in pay.
"Good. Then, lastly, I want to talk to you about a more delicate matter. I hope you will keep this aspect of the conversation between us."
"What is it?"
"Wood. I'm concerned for his well-being. As of late, he seems to have lost much of his enthusiasm for the job. Going through the motions, I think would be fair to say. I know my contact with him is limited, but that is why I ask you to help me. Have you noticed any change in him?"
James slumped back on the bench and thought about it. From the moment they landed in Sarajevo, he'd wondered what ailed Sinclair. They enjoyed a close relationship, but they never spoke about what was going on inside each other's heads. It was an unspoken contract between them, despite their friendship.
"I think something may be on his mind, but he never said anything. In any case, it's not our place. As long as he does his job and does it to the standard we expect, that's all that really matters to us, right?"
"Yes and no," said Gallagher. "We may not enjoy a positive working relationship but let me tell you something. I'm an old man, and I've worked with a lot of individuals over the years. When you ignore someone's mental state because they continue to perform, you do so at your peril. One day, they might explode. It has happened countless times before."
"Maybe you're right, but it's still not our place to make him talk if something is bothering him."
"I am not asking you to do anything of the sort. What I am asking from one human to another is to keep me updated. If anything seems out of place from this point on, I want you to tell me. This is not about his position; this is about caring for another human being, do you understand?"
James nodded, even though he knew Gallagher couldn't see him. "Okay. For Sinclair, I'll tell you if I notice anything."
"Thank you, Winchester. I'll be in touch."
He put the phone down and held it in his palm for a moment. Gallagher had sounded almost like he cared about someone other than himself for a moment. He shuddered at the thought of Gallagher showing any warmth.
"What's wrong, James?" asked Nazifa. "You look worried."
"No, no, it's nothing like that. Just work, that's all. Sorry, you know I'm not allowed to talk about the people I work for. It's confidential."
"It's okay,"
Nazifa said cheerily. "Come, drink with me."
Chapter Twenty
Banja Luka, Bosanska Krajina, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Kadrić strolled down Trg Srpskih Junaka in the heart of the capital of Republika Srpska. Davor and Krsto flanked him on either side, saying nothing, as per usual. A rare day of sunshine burned down upon them, eviscerating the winter frosts and melting the dirty snow at the sides of the roads. He shuddered at the warmth of the winter sun on the back of his neck. It felt like progress. It felt like a light at the end of the tunnel.
He approached the old Banja Luka railway station. The long building painted a pale yellow and white once served as the transport hub during the days of Tito's Yugoslavia. Today, local officials had turned it into a modern art museum. Kadrić stopped to glance at the sign denoting a Damien Hirst exhibition.
"You know him?" Kadrić said to Davor and Krsto.
The two men shook their heads and shrugged.
"One of the most famous artists of the modern age. British. You never saw the pickled shark?"
Davor and Krsto looked thoroughly confused by Kadrić's choice of subject. No, these men were from a tiny village in the historical province of Slavonia to the north. Today, the people of these villages still worked the land as their ancestors had dating all the way back to the time of Ancient Rome. They cared little for the world beyond their borders. Only the war had stirred Davor and Krsto from their destinies of work and toil.
"It's okay. They will be replicas of the real thing. Too famous for us. Look, it's nearly empty."
There were no lines of frantic modern art fans waiting to get into the exhibition. Banja Luka's museums only offered replicas. No Western museum would take the risk of sending their most prized pieces to what they saw as an unstable backwater. Only the occupiers based out of Sarajevo were entitled to that, he reflected bitterly.
Kadrić stepped through the double doors of the former train station. His bodyguards knew their roles. Davor would remain outside, whilst Krsto wandered around the museum in case of threats. The Damien Hirst exhibition took up half of the museum, with the other half dedicated to the moon landings and moonrocks that had been harvested by NASA. Due to the lack of interest, the museum didn't charge anyone for entry. Only a single security guard sat in one corner engrossed in his phone. He barely raised his head upon Kadrić's entry.
Kadrić walked through the Damien Hirst exhibition until he came to a room dedicated to a documentary on the artist. The commentators spoke in English, with Serbian subtitles flashing across the bottom of the screen. The man he came to meet, Ambassador Vojo Plemenac, dressed in business casual attire, sat on one of the seats watching the screen.
Perching next to Plemenac, the ambassador kept his eyes on the screen for a few moments, waiting for the signal.
"Is there anyone else here?" asked Vojo Plemenac.
"Only the security guard in the front. My two bodyguards are here. One of them is outside the front door and the other one is... looking at the exhibitions."
"Good," said Plemenac. "You have nothing to fear from me, and I know I have nothing to fear from you. I'm alone and unarmed. You could shoot me now if you wanted to."
Kadrić smiled. He respected any man who had the balls to be that confident in himself.
"Lipovina sent me a message requesting a meeting with you."
"And I thank you for coming all the way to Banja Luka for it. I was prepared to meet you in Belgrade last weekend."
"I have other business here. I will be returning to Belgrade via Sarajevo in a few days. Now, what can I do for you?"
"Did Lipovina tell you anything?"
"Some things," Plemenac replied. "How can I help you?"
Kadrić shuffled uncomfortably on the bright orange seat and continued to train his eyes at the documentary. The lack of warmth from the ambassador unnerved him.
"Mr. Plemenac –"
"Ambassador Plemenac or Mr. Ambassador will be fine."
"Ambassador Plemenac," Kadrić fumbled. "I wanted to speak to you about the future of Republika Srpska."
"I thought you might. Lipovina told me that you recently made a significant purchase of heavy weapons. Weapons normally reserved for military use. I have to say I'm quite impressed that you've grown to such a level. Are you preparing to begin an armed uprising?"
"If necessary. My goal is the freedom of Republika Srpska from Sarajevo. Whether that means independence or a union with Serbia is up to the people."
"How coy. You know that I'm a Serbian before anything else. I want all Serbian peoples to be under the same flag. The Fatherland has seen difficult times since the end of Yugoslavia. The loss of influence across the Balkans and the loss of the southern territories. But I'm a realist. If you're here because you want Belgrade to declare war, you're dreaming."
"I can dream, can't I?" Kadrić said, irked.
"You can, but pragmatism wins wars, not dreams." Plemenac met his gaze for the first time. He sported a precision cut head of short, black hair, with only a little grey on the sides. A couple of deviant hairs had started to grow around his neck. Most of all, his eyes were like that of a ferret's, always watching. "Why do you think I became an ambassador not a soldier? Pragmatism, not dreams."
"Then, at the very least, I want support from Serbia. It doesn't have to be public. Weapons we have. Manpower is what we need. Even a declaration of protection from Belgrade would be enough."
Plemenac shrugged. "Maybe it's possible, but a public move of protection would be incredibly controversial. This is politics. Serbia has greater concerns than Srpska. The European Union is threatening to envelop us and cut us off from Russia. The likelihood of us regaining the southern territories grows smaller by the day as more nations recognise them as the independent nation of Kosovo." He shook his head. "There's little benefit for Belgrade in creating instability in the region."
Kadrić couldn't hide his disappointment as he leaned forwards in defeat. He clasped his palms together like he was about to say a prayer. He watched his dreams of Srpska and Serbia crushing the Bosnians and Croats together ebb away.
"So, there's nothing you can do for me?"
"Not necessarily. I am, of course, nothing more than an ambassador, but I do have influence. Lipovina made it clear that manpower is your greatest need, but you'll need to fight for your own independence alone. It may be possible to provide you with the manpower you need.”
"Really? How many?"
"Impossible to say at this early stage, but there are ordinary Serbians who would relish the opportunity to fight Bosnia, including some elements of the Serbian army. If they remove their ranks and any other identifying markers, I'm sure Belgrade would temporarily turn a blind eye to their activities."
Kadrić's stomach leapt with hope. His dream of freedom for Srpska was still alive. Lipovina hadn't led him down a dead end. If his nationalist army could gain access to Serbian soldiers and all their modern training, they would rain down hell upon the Bosnians and Croats before they could seize their rifles.
"This will be a covert war, you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Ambassador, thank you for your support. I would like to invite you to visit my family one day. My wife will cook you dinner. She will make you the best meat in all of Srpska."
Unmoved, Plemenac rose to his feet and straightened out his crisp white shirt. "Continue fighting your war, Sadik. If your cause shows sufficient chance of success, I will be able to talk to the right people for you."
With that, the ambassador turned spy disappeared through the doorway into another room.
Kadrić lingered, stunned by Plemenac's receptiveness. His hands shook with excitement, his jaw juddering. After all these years of struggle and failure, Kadrić had his breakthrough at last. The long years of oppression were about to come to an end.
Chapter Twenty-One
James and Sinclair climbed out of the rickety train from Sarajevo and ventured across the platform of the Banja Luka train station. Arriving passeng
ers heaved and grunted as they forced their cardboard boxes and black garbage bags full of their belongings through the narrow doors. Most people wore hoods, the little flurries of snow keeping people on their toes.
“They say first impressions are everything,” said James.
Sinclair ignored him as they hurried through the train station and out onto the street. A thick stench of smog gave the impression Banja Luka burned tyres on every street corner. The soupy air brought up wet, throaty coughs from the huddled masses lingering around the blocky communist buildings.
“So, what do you think?” asked James.
“I think we should meet Mr. Plemenac and get back to Sarajevo as soon as possible.”
James nodded in agreement. “Where are we meeting him?”
“Kafana on Jevrejska. It’s a café.” Sinclair strained his voice to make the pronunciation. “I hope you’re going to stay calm. We don’t know enough about Plemenac to judge whether he can help us or, if not, whether he poses a threat to us.”
“I’m always calm,” James replied.
“Yes, well, let’s keep it that way.”
Sinclair caught a taxi from a driver standing outside a kiosk with a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He flashed a grin, displaying a gold filling inside his lips.
“Kafana on Jevrejska?” Sinclair said slowly.
“Yes, yes,” the taxi driver replied.
Sinclair frowned but they got into the taxi anyway.
“Is there something wrong?” said James as they began their journey. “You seem like you’ve lost your appetite for culture.”
“It’s nothing. I’m tired. That’s all.”
The driver took them the short way into the heart of Banja Luka. The dismal surroundings of the train station broke like a fever dream as they met a modern central boulevard. Their driver spoke no English but would point and gesture at the sights of the city, from the train station to war memorials. James caught a glance of a tourist shop selling t-shirts bearing the faces of Tito and Gavrilo Princip.
