by James Samuel
It took no more than ten minutes for the driver to deposit them outside Kafana. It looked new, with its gleaming old gold and maroon sign. Sinclair forced some marks into the man’s hand. The driver left them with a thumbs up before speeding away.
“Is this what you were expecting?” asked James.
“Not at all.” Sinclair wiped his runny nose. “Anyway, if we hurry up, we can get the evening train back to Sarajevo. I would rather we get on with this. Remember what I said to you.”
“I know. Stay calm. No violence,” James parroted back to him. “You’ve told me at least three times already.”
Sinclair released a half-smile. “I know, and that’s what worries me. I’m still not sure if it’s enough.”
The duo made their way into Kafana. Most tables were occupied with locals in thick woollen jumpers. Cakes thick with cream and pastries covered in chocolate sat behind the plastic food guards at the counter. The bright lighting made the coloured icing gleam. James’ mouth watered at the prospect.
“Here he is,” said Sinclair, indicating a lone man at a nearby table in a suit stirring a cup of coffee.
James followed Sinclair’s gaze; the man stared straight back at them.
“Good afternoon.” Plemenac stood. “Vojo Plemenac, but you can call me Mr. Ambassador.”
James resisted rolling his eyes.
“I’m Sinclair.” He shook Plemenac’s hand. “And this is James.”
“But you can call me Mr. Winchester.” James as he grasped the ambassador’s cold hand.
Time seemed to stop as the tension ratcheted up. James kept his gaze level at Plemenac.
“Well, could I get you something?” Plemenac recovered. “Coffee perhaps?”
“A coffee for me. Black,” said Sinclair. “And… James?”
“Get me something sugary. Anything but coffee.”
Plemenac smiled politely and made his way to the counter.
“What the fuck was that?” Sinclair growled in a low voice. “In less than thirty seconds –”
“Relax, Sinclair. If he wants to be a self-important prick, I can too. Everything will be fine. You can do most of the talking.”
Sinclair took a deep breath and adjusted his shirt collar.
“They will bring your coffee in a moment. For you, Mr. Winchester, I bring you a Cockta.” Plemenac deposited the bottle and a glass with ice in front of him. “It’s Slovenian cola. It’s very similar. During the communist times, we couldn’t find the American version.”
“Thank you, Mr. Plemenac.” James proceeded to pour himself the cola rip-off wondering if the choice of beverage was a subtle jibe.
“So, Mr. Ambassador.” Sinclair’s tone lightened. “Do you have any idea why we wanted to meet you today?”
“Oh, nothing more than what you asked. It seemed rather important, the way you described it. War in the Balkans, after so much was lost. Unthinkable. Incomprehensible. But that’s my personal opinion, of course.” Plemenac sipped at his coffee. “I’m just a conduit for my government in Belgrade.”
“Then we were thinking… do you think this café is private enough?”
“Don’t worry.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Nobody here will speak English. Banja Luka doesn’t have much exposure to tourists and foreigners.”
Sinclair nodded. “We believe that war has never been closer. And we know the source of that war.”
Plemenac raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I see.” The cup tinkled as it made contact with the saucer. “I find it surprising that two Englishmen would be so interested.”
“Stop with the crap,” James intervened. “The both of you. Mr. Plemenac, you know perfectly well who we are and the situation.”
Plemenac’s eyes flashed. “Mr. Winchester, I find you very interesting. You don’t want to play the game, like your friend.”
“I don’t like games.”
“Life is a game, but if you prefer us to speak frankly then we can speak frankly. Yes, the region has never been closer to civil war than it is now. But if it seems both sides want it, then that’s their business. As I told you, I’m just a conduit for the Serbian government.”
Sinclair cleared his throat, shooting a venomous look at James. “We were interested in Serbia’s position on the matter.”
“I thought we were speaking frankly?” Plemenac’s smile widened at Sinclair’s obvious discomfort. “You tell me why you’re so interested and maybe I can share some information with you.”
Sinclair’s shoulders dropped in defeat. “We work for a private organisation interested in the death of someone quite prominent.”
“I hope it isn’t me.”
James let out a little chuckle. “Of course not.”
“Then I’m very happy to hear that. I’m going to assume you want to assassinate Sadik Kadrić?”
James and Sinclair maintained their poker faces. Inside, James’ instincts fired on all cylinders. The alarm sounded like a fire drill. Plemenac knew more about the situation than he wanted to let on. But what was his position?
“Perhaps,” said James. “Or perhaps not. But I suppose that wouldn’t directly impact you. What we want to know is your assessment of the situation. What do you think should be done?”
“Are you asking me what Serbia would do in the event of a civil war?”
James shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Oh, Mr. Winchester, we think practically not emotionally. You may hear the calls of the ordinary people. Many of them want to finish what was started in the last days of Yugoslavia. Serbia itself, we have no interest in intervention.”
James tilted his head. That’s not what he’d heard so far. Not that he expected Plemenac to tell the truth anyway.
Plemenac crossed one leg over the other. “We live in a world different from the one that existed during the last war. I can tell you exactly what would happen in the event of war. Firstly, the Serbian Army would defeat any force in Bosnia. That is a certainty. It might take some time, but the result is undeniable. However, the problem Serbia would have is the United Nations, NATO, and the European Union. Intervention would be inevitable, as it was last time. We could not hope to win.”
“Interesting,” said James.
Sinclair’s fingers dug into his thighs. James could see the steam rushing out of his friend’s ears.
“And if, for example,” said James, “a war did begin within Bosnia, what do you think, for argument’s sake, Serbia would do? More importantly, what would you do?”
Plemenac remained impassive. “Who can say? There are so many factors that it would be impossible to give you an answer. Who’s to say there would be a war? Kadrić’s position is hardly a solid one.”
James exchanged a glance with Sinclair. Did it make sense to continue hiding their purpose when Plemenac could see right through them?
“Very well.” Sinclair leaned forwards. “Sadik Kadrić is our target. He’s going to die within the next few weeks. Any plans he’s made will come crumbling down. Since you seem to know already, now I’m curious as to how.”
James’ eyes widened in surprise at Sinclair’s sudden lack of discretion.
“It’s quite simple if you think about it logically. The tensions of the region are no secret. The extremism of both sides is also no secret. The murders throughout Bosnia were clearly committed by nationalist elements from Srpska. Yet the response is the sudden death of Tomislav Suput.” Plemenac shrugged. “Unless a new group has arisen without my knowledge, then it must have been committed by an outsider. Days later I’m sitting in a café in Banja Luka with two interested Englishmen. Quite coincidental, one might say. Would that be a logical assessment, Sinclair?”
Sinclair nodded. “I suppose it would.”
Plemenac finished the remainder of his coffee and smacked his lips. “Anyway, gentlemen, I’m afraid I have an appointment. I’m desperately sorry I couldn’t have been of more help to you.” He stood and reached for his long winter coat. “But do stay in touch. Maybe we can hel
p each other.”
James and Sinclair watched Plemenac leave Kafana and disappear past the windows. James ruminated in silence over the conversation that had just transpired. Plemenac knew more about them and their mission than he should. He’d slipped up in just one area, revealing a personal interest in Serbia and war that should never have been there.
Sinclair leaned back in the high-backed wooden chair, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Sorry,” James said at last. “I did try.”
The intelligence agent shook his head back at him. “No. You were splendid.”
James cocked an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. You made him reveal part of his hand. Far more than we would have got out of him by playing nice. He started off with the neutral ground, but he said more than he wanted to say.”
James took his first sip of the Cockta. It really did taste like cola.
“What I want to know is why he’s taking the side of these people. There’s nothing to gain from it. As he said, Western countries would intervene if Serbia put a toenail over the border. The UN never left Bosnia for that reason.”
“Covert support, maybe?” James took another gulp of his drink.
“That’s possible. Kadrić’s group must be getting their weapons from somewhere. Normally, these nationalist groups aren’t this brave. Something is giving them confidence, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Plemenac is one of the reasons for that.”
“Would it make sense to deal with him?”
Sinclair shook his head. “Not yet. He might be more valuable to us alive.”
“For now, at least.”
Sinclair whipped out his smartphone and began furiously typing. His thick fingers tap danced across the well-worn screen.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m telling Gallagher. Plemenac is still an ambassador. We’ll need authorisation from him personally if the time comes. I’ll also tell Finch to stay on him. In the meantime, I want you to consider Plemenac an active player… just don’t kill him. Gallagher already suspects you were behind the Suput killing.”
James stretched his back and folded his arms. The web grew more complex. If he didn’t get a move on, Kadrić and Plemenac could be the flint that set the tinderbox of Europe aflame once again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
The snow had returned to Sarajevo. White waterfalls appeared to fall from the hilltops surrounding the city. Great flakes smacked the unfortunate souls of the city in the face. James wiped an unfortunate snowflake lodged on the edge of his near frozen eyelashes with a gloved finger.
James and Sinclair stepped backwards as tyres screeched and Kemal’s car halted outside the Hotel Old Town. He watched Kemal’s immense body bounce in the seat as he broke hard.
“James, Sinclair, my friends. I need to speak with you.”
“What’s the rush? We were going to see your son. He wanted to speak to us,” said James.
“No time for that. Come, in the car now. We drink beer. I know a place.”
James exchanged a look with Sinclair, who shrugged his shoulders in response.
“Okay, Kemal. Let’s not take too long. It’s late.” James frowned. “I hope it’s important.”
“Of course, of course. Important things must be talked over with beer, eh?”
“Alright.” James stepped forwards to get into the car when Sinclair held him back.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Sinclair.
James shrugged in confusion.
“Look at my size. I won’t fit in the back.”
“I bet you would.”
“I’ll toss you for it.”
James hunted for a coin in his pocket. He took out the large silver and gold five-mark coin. Balancing it on the edge of his thumb, he flipped it high into the swarm of snowflakes.
“Heads,” Sinclair called.
The coin landed square in James’ palm and he turned it over onto the back of his other hand. Lifting it quickly, his heart sank.
Sinclair gave him a taunting smirk. “Well, I suppose that’s the way it goes. Go on, James. Be my guest.”
James muttered obscenities to himself as he squeezed himself into the back of Kemal’s mobile death trap. Sinclair’s seat swung back, cramming James’ knees between the two seats again. He winced at the pressure on his chilled legs.
“Why you flip a coin?” Kemal asked curiously as the car spun its wheels and jerked away from the curb.
“Nothing special,” said James. “So, what is this all about? You look like you’re worried about something.”
“No, no, very excited. I am very excited. I know many people and have something important for you. Very important. But first, beer.”
Now James felt on edge. Kemal seemed so sure that he’d uncovered something. But what could he have found that the likes of Jacob Finch and Sinclair couldn’t? He and Sinclair had already found a Serbian spy posing as an ambassador, after all.
Kemal whisked them through the driving snow. The windscreen wipers did little to stop the snow from piling up on all sides. Kemal had no more view than a tank’s episcope. Yet he plunged on with reckless abandon. He stopped outside a pub ten minutes later. James squinted to see any landmarks, only to be greeted by a whiteout.
“Couldn’t you have given us your news in the hotel? The snow’s getting worse,” said James.
“No, no, never. It’s tradition.”
“Not to worry,” said Sinclair. “James just doesn’t like to sit in the back of your car.”
Kemal cackled and the two men opened their respective doors. The snow grew thicker and faster with every passing second. Still, James sprang out of what he could only describe as the worst car in Bosnia. He saw a glimpse of the bar and dove straight under the little shelter outside the front door. A couple of Bosnians smoked away, raising their eyes at the strange foreigner.
James felt like his hair had adhered to his forehead. “Hurry up, you two.”
Kemal greeted the locals in his native language. They patted him on the shoulder as he passed.
“This is a very nice bar. Very nice, my friends.”
The three men broke into the warmth of the pub. The darkened surroundings were illuminated only by bands of green neon running along the walls and the bar itself. Faded newspaper cuttings decorated every inch of the walls. James gazed up at the cuttings. All from the war. All holding up the collective suffering like a trophy.
“Come, sit,” Kemal called happily with three beer mugs held in his enormous hands.
They took up a table in a darkened corner. James noted a few American backpackers bantering with each other at the other side of the room.
“Keep your voice down,” said James. “Tourists. They’ll understand us.”
Kemal clicked his tongue. “You worry too much, my friend. Drink, drink.”
Under duress, James and Sinclair raised their beer mugs to meet Kemal’s. They each took a gulp, whereas Kemal downed half his beer in one. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he chuckled.
“Well?” said Sinclair. “What do you have?”
“The best news. I found the man Ivica mentioned. The traitor Goran Pejakovski. We know where he is now.”
James tilted his head. “Really?”
“Yes, he’s in Jajce in the north.”
“Srpska?”
“No, no.” Kemal took another gulp of beer. “Jajce. Close to Srpska, near the border. It’s still Bosnia. I asked some friends and my son. They found him. He lives there and we have his address.”
“Then let’s go. Tomorrow?” said James. “Let’s make this quick to keep them off balance.”
Kemal shook his head. “It’s not so simple, my friend. I also found out something else. These people are working with Serbians, real Serbians. Mafia Serbians. You know Joko Lipovina?”
James looked to Sinclair for more information.
Sinclair tucke
d his cold hands inside his coat pockets. “I’ve read about him. I did some research about people who might be linked with these gangs. Joko Lipovina was a name that came up often, mainly involving criminal investigations. He’s never been prosecuted successfully, of course.”
“Yes. Lipovina is a big man. A dangerous man. Mafia boss from Serbia. I think he comes from Novi Sad. If Kadrić is working with him, we need help. Two men is risky. We don’t know how many men he has.”
James tapped his finger on the table. The excitement of the chase had kicked in. Now he had a real target he could hunt. He wanted more than anything to leave Sarajevo within hours and take this man out.
“What are our options for more men?” asked Sinclair. “Kemal is right, James, we need to think this through. We don’t know Pejakovski’s defences. We also don’t know Jajce.”
James took a deep breath. He knew the logic, but he hated waiting around to make plans. There was no telling how long Pejakovski would remain in Jajce. There was also no telling when Kadrić would play his next card. Enough innocents had died needlessly for this windy, militant trash already.
"Support?" James scoffed. "What support do we have to take on a trained militia group? We have nothing."
They went silent. One of the Americans stumbled past them on the way to catching the attention of the woman behind the bar. He slurred his words as he tried to do his best impression of a Bosnian accent. Until he received his beer, the three drank in silence.
"I could ask Gallagher for support," Sinclair ventured.
"You must be joking. The last time we had support, we got Blake. I'm not going to take that risk again."
Sinclair couldn't help but grin. Blake Harrison was another field agent of Blackwind. Arrogant, self-centred, and ass kisser extraordinaire. He'd planned to assassinate James on their last assignment in Cambodia. It had ended with James shooting him in the leg as payment. He hadn't been seen nor heard from since.
"Who is this Blake?" asked Kemal.
"Long story," said Sinclair. "It was just a suggestion, not a serious one."
