by James Samuel
"Yes, well, let's keep it that way,” said James. “The point is we need people who know how to fight. It's a little more than a football game. This is a serious operation with a lot of risks attached. It would be more dangerous to take someone inexperienced."
Sinclair nodded in agreement.
"I can help you. Jakov has many men who know how to fight."
"Jakov? Who on earth is Jakov?" asked Sinclair.
"Jakov Mlakar. He is mafia. Croatian mafia. In Herzegovina. He is not Bosnian, but he hates Serbians. They killed many Croatians during the war. Croatians are like Bosnians. They never forget."
"How well do you know him?" asked Sinclair. "We can only take someone who is completely trustworthy."
"I know him from work after the war. It was a bad time. Very bad time. After the war we had nothing. No home, no work, and no money. We work on..." Kemal trailed off as he tried to come up with the word. "Black."
"The black market," James finished for him. "Yes, I knew a lot of British soldiers who were stationed in Bosnia after the war. They told me about a big underground economy back then. The only things most Bosnians had were their guns and their bullets, according to them."
"Yes, yes, you know." Kemal slapped a firm hand on James’ shoulder. "Jakov is a big boss man now. He will help you kill Serbians."
"Are you sure?" Sinclair pressed him. "I mean are you absolutely positive? We can't afford to waste any time. Will he say yes?"
"Of course, he will. Jakov is a good man."
James doubted how much of a good man the leader of a mafia group was, but it was worth a try. A powerful mafia clan on their side would counter Kadrić's allies in the Serbian mafia. It would give them more resources to work with in this clandestine war.
"Alright," said Sinclair. "It's worth a try."
"Good, good, then I call him for you. I tell you when he wants to meet. He will be very interested, I'm sure. You have money, eh?"
James stiffened at the mention of money. "Enough."
"Good. Jakov is a businessman. You give him money, he does everything for you. Now, drink."
James and Sinclair tried to share in Kemal's good nature as they raised their glasses. James caught Sinclair's eye for just a moment. The little light, reflected in the alien green neon, told him everything. Neither of them was sure this was a good idea.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sinclair waited one hour after James departed to go to a bar with Nazifa before daring to pick up the phone. His hands shook as he held it in his palm. He stared at Gallagher's number, unsure if this was the right thing to do. Was he putting his best friend at risk by cooperating, or was it for his own good? He pushed his thumb on the number, and it started to ring. There was no going back now.
"Wood?" Gallagher's voice came through like the crack of a whip. "Give me an update."
"Has Finch told you about what we discovered about the ambassador?"
"Yes, yes, I'm taking a personal interest in this. It could create significant complications if Plemenac is dragged into this. His diplomatic immunity makes matters difficult. Legally, we are in a grey area."
"Does international espionage cancel out diplomatic immunity?"
"It depends on who you ask. This is hardly a matter that has been tested on too many occasions. And Winchester?"
Sinclair's palms started to sweat. "Our primary contact in Bosnia has scheduled a meeting for us with the leader of a Croatian mafia clan. We have located one of Kadrić's allies, Goran Pejakovski. However, we have intelligence that Kadrić has allied with the Serbian mafia across the border. Attempting to take him alone would be an unnecessary risk."
"I see. How is Winchester's conduct?"
"I worry, sir.” Sinclair paused to lick his dry lips. “James is spending a lot of time with a Bosnian girl he met. Former military. Her name is Nazifa Aleksi." Sinclair gulped. "This is his one weakness. I fear he's becoming too preoccupied with her. He visits her at every opportunity."
Gallagher took a deep breath. "This is dangerous, you know that. Is it dangerous enough to derail the mission?"
"No, no." Sinclair clenched his fist in front of him. "James would never allow anyone to get in his way, but it could complicate matters, as I'm sure you can imagine."
"Indeed. Would you say it would be better if this relationship was put to the sword?"
The colour drained out of Sinclair's face. Never had he been more grateful for audio-only phone calls.
"Wood?"
"Sir, most likely, yes. It would. But... Kadrić will die regardless."
"Wood, I am going to share something with you in the strictest confidence. The contract we signed with the client, Miran Heranda, contains a number of performance bonuses. Highly irregular, of course, but these performance bonuses stipulate a significant cash benefit."
"Performance bonuses? Like what?"
"Time taken, how clean the kill is, and so forth."
Sinclair's head spun. Contracts with specific rules were commonplace, but performance-based bonuses for the men in the field? It was exceedingly rare. Miran Heranda must be desperate to see Kadrić die the right way.
"What is he looking for?"
"Again, this is in the strictest confidence and should not be shared with anyone, including Winchester. In approximately thirty-one days, a number of European diplomats will visit Bosnia. They will begin preliminary discussions for the potential future accession of Bosnia to the European Union. Heranda does not want this process to be disturbed. Kadrić, naturally, is highly likely to consider it a target."
Sinclair scratched the side of his greying ginger hair. Bosnia had always wanted to join the European Union. It would guarantee them protections from future conflicts, including with Serbia and Russia. Crucially, it would guarantee them billions of Euros in development money. Plenty for government officials to skim the cream off the top.
"This is part of the European Union's expansion into the Balkans. It would isolate Serbia and rollback Russia's influence in the region. For men like Kadrić, it would represent a catastrophe. Now you know why we were employed in the first place."
"So, we have thirty-one days to kill Kadrić?"
"Precisely. I estimate your bonus would be about half-a-million in Euros."
Sinclair's voice caught in his throat. "Half-a-million?"
"Not including your usual payment for the assignment, of course."
He could barely speak. Mercenaries were paid extremely well, but that was stupid money. If he wanted, he would likely have enough to retire and never put himself in harm's way again. He could travel the world at his pleasure, rather than at someone else's command.
"It would be an excellent addon before you take up a more convenient in-house position in our intelligence department, I'm sure," said Gallagher.
"Yes... yes... thank you, sir."
"Once again, I expect your strictest confidence regarding this matter. We do not want to risk Winchester becoming more reckless than usual. It could jeopardise the entire project."
"Of course, but what about the girl?"
"With your permission, I can have someone deal with that."
"My permission? Sir?"
"It is down to your judgement. If you believe this Nazifa Aleksi is set to become an obstacle, we can have her quietly taken care of. She would disappear from your lives and you can get on with your work."
"I will not make that decision, sir. I cannot. I leave that to you."
"Very well, Wood. I will speak to you again soon."
Sinclair lowered the phone. His mind was a mess, cluttered and disordered. He thought of the things he could do with his life if everything went well. Would he even continue working for Blackwind, or would he quietly go into a retirement in some tiny village in the English countryside? Gallagher had given him an opportunity he never thought he would get.
All that stood in the way was Sadik Kadrić and thirty-one days.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mostar, Herzegovina
-Neretva Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
James and Sinclair arrived in Mostar two days later. A classic stop on any Balkan backpacking trail, the city acquired its fame from its bridge. During the summer, visitors liked to dive off the top into the fast-flowing River Neretva below. The oppressive gloom hanging over Sarajevo had followed them all the way to Mostar and now enveloped the town.
"It would have been easier to rent a car," said James as they ventured down the street towards the old town. "We are hampering ourselves by using public transport."
"I agree," Sinclair conceded. "But it was Gallagher's order. He wanted us to blend in as tourists. We are trying to avoid anything that makes people raise their eyes. That's also why Kemal is just an ordinary person. A friend, you see?"
"Not really."
"Well, that's how it is. If we really need a car for an operation, we know where to get one."
The main street leading through Mostar stood at the top of a slope leading down towards the river below. James could already hear the rush of the river as they passed a collection of shops selling everything from groceries to trashy tourist trinkets. Higher up the hill, grey, socialist apartment blocks stared out over the small city.
"The restaurant overlooks the bridge itself. We have two hours. I suppose we should get some lunch and wait for them there."
James scrutinized Sinclair's rotund figure. "Cultural reasons, I assume?"
Sinclair rolled his eyes. "Something like that."
James checked his phone. They'd arrived far too early, and he hated waiting around for something to happen. It made him feel vulnerable. Meeting Jakov without Kemal made him jittery. He trusted Kemal, but only up to a point. This could end in any number of ways.
"I want to scope out the area first. I don't like surprises."
“Fine.”
Sinclair appeared to know the layout of the town already as he led James down into the old town of Mostar below them. The hill was steep but gentle, with lots of switchbacks to take the stress from their knees. One and two-storey white-faced buildings with their overhanging terracotta roof tiles stared out over the cypress trees and the minaret of the Koski Mehmed Pasha Mosque.
"You've been here before, haven't you?" said James as they emerged onto the bank of the Neretva.
"Yes. When I was young, I visited Bosnia and Mostar. Not much has changed, but you can tell a lot of it has been reconstructed. During the war, a lot of things were destroyed. The bridge, for a start. That was blown up in 1993. The layout is practically the same, though."
James scanned the area. The main streets consisted of wider boulevards, but they could use narrow Ottoman streets as cover, if necessary. Tour groups toting enormous cameras and locals trying to stay out of the way jostled for position along the banks of the river. Little stalls crammed into wooden overhangs sold the usual array of cheap bracelets and trinkets.
He observed the steep reconstructed Stari Most. The bridge appeared to climb at an impossible angle to a point in the middle, before descending again. Good cover, perhaps? Lots of people on the pedestrian walk to deter an attacker. He noted it down in his mind as a potential escape route if their meeting went south.
"The Stari Most just means Old Bridge," said Sinclair on the approach. The local divers make a living jumping off this thing."
"What about the ones who don't?"
Sinclair trudged up the bridge, the rows of limestone set on top of the bridge as makeshift steps. They trod uneasily along the slick limestone, its usual white elegance stained grey by the murky day.
"Always a few who die every year. An Australian once jumped off the wrong side of the bridge at night. His head washed up on the riverbank a few weeks later."
James peered over the side. The dark waters frothed as they slammed into the sharp rocks stabbing out of the riverbed. He didn't fancy his chances and was dwelling on the results of diving from the bridge when his phone started to ring.
"Hello?"
"James, my friend. It's Kemal. You in Mostar?"
"Yes, we're here. We'll be meeting Jakov soon."
"Okay, good. Very good, yes. Be careful. Jakov is a good man, but he doesn’t know you. Play nice. You have your guns?"
James' forehead creased. "I do. Why are you telling me this now?"
"Don't worry, my friend. I just want you to be careful. Jakov is a nice man, but a dangerous man. A businessman."
"Okay," he replied slowly. "Should I be worried?"
"No, no, just be careful. Please. I go now. Call me when you are finished."
James bade Kemal goodbye. He shuddered at the strangeness of Kemal’s call. It seemed suspicious. Had they walked into a trap? Did Kemal betray them to an animal only to have a final change of heart?
"What's wrong?" Sinclair joined him on highest point of the bridge. "Who was that?"
"Kemal. He just asked me whether I was armed and to be careful. Today he said this Jakov is a dangerous man, but when we met him last he said we could trust him."
Sinclair looked worried. "We should go. We can find another way around this. It's too much of a risk. It sounds like Kemal is checking on our progress, fishing for information."
"No." James shook his head. "No, we're here now. I can handle whatever he throws at us. There are so many witnesses around that nobody with a brain would try anything in plain view. This restaurant is in a public place. We're safe... relatively speaking."
Sinclair's enormous heft rose and fell as he gulped in the frigid air. "Okay, okay, but you know I'm no good in the field. I can fire a gun, but I don't want it to come to that."
"Don't worry, I can handle it."
“James –”
“I said I can handle it.”
For all of James' bravado, the bells had started to ring out in warning. He kept his hands crammed in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting in front of Sinclair. His heart thudded against the cold, metal of the gun in his inside pocket.
James and Sinclair’s tour around Mostar soon came to a premature end as the time for their meeting crept up on them. The two men crossed the Stari Most to the other bank of the river. The restaurant where they would meet Mlakar had full panoramic views of the river, the bridge, and most of the old town.
A waiter dressed in black with a disinterested smile directed them to a table on the second floor where they walked past walls covered in copper cooking implements, black-and-white photographs of Mostar, and crocheted fabrics in traditional Balkan patterns. From here, James could see down onto the ground floor. More importantly, he could watch anyone who came inside from above.
James had no desire to eat. He just wanted the meeting to start so he could assess the situation. To avoid attracting attention, Sinclair forced him to place an order. A fresh pot of Bosanski Lonac arrived soon afterwards, a Bosnian pot stew filled with potatoes, chunks of meat, and red peppers. Sinclair spooned it into two colourful bowls, but neither of them wanted to engage in their usual banter.
"What's the time?" James said after he chewed a chunk of meat.
"He should have arrived by now."
James took a deep breath. He'd never removed his coat, and the gun still hung heavy against his breast. His heart continued to thud with every passing minute as if it sensed the threat in the air.
Sinclair nudged him and jabbed his head towards the windows. "That must be him. Stay quiet. Act like you're meeting the Queen and I'll lead."
James looked over his shoulder downstairs. A man with grey windswept curls entered the restaurant, followed by a small entourage of thuggish bodyguards. He wore a light grey suit and a salmon pink tie. The way he carried himself told James there was no doubt this man was Jakov Mlakar. The waiters appeared to look upon him with some deference as one directed him upstairs.
When he came up the stairs, James and Sinclair stood politely. Jakov acknowledged them with a nod.
"Mr. Mlakar, a pleasure to meet you. My name is Sinclair Wood, and this is my associate, James Winchester."
; "Of course, of course, Mr. Wood. I see you like our food, eh?" Jakov gestured at the remains of their meal.
"Very much so."
Jakov gave them a thin smile. "Mr. Winchester." He gripped his hand.
"Mr. Mlakar." James tried to raise what passed for an expression of joy.
"Well, gentlemen, I think we should talk business. I hope you will not be intimidated by my men downstairs. These are dangerous times, eh?"
"Of course." Sinclair shrugged. "That's why Mr. Winchester is here with me. You can never be too careful these days."
Jakov sat down opposite them. He brushed the tablecloth with the flat of his palm and rested his arm across it, displaying the gold Rolex watch fastened to his wrist. Crossing one leg over the other, he reclined in his seat.
"I'm sure you know Kemal well,” said Sinclair. “Can I ask what you know so far?"
"Kemal. I haven't seen him for many years. We had some good times together. A pity that we went our separate ways. But he wanted to raise his son, and I respect that. Did he ever tell you I once saved his life?"
The two Englishmen shook their heads.
"Ah, yes. It was just after the war. We were running guns at the time across the border with Croatia. Some soldiers found out and shot at us. They cornered him like a rat, so I turned back and got him out." He guffawed to himself. "Those were special times."
"He never told us about any of that," said Sinclair in a tone of fake interest.
"Anyway, Kemal told me very little. Only that you had a business proposition for me. I agreed to meet you as a personal favour to a good friend of mine."
“I will speak frankly, Mr. Mlakar, we are here for one reason and one reason only: to kill Sadik Kadrić. I’m sure you’re aware of him.”
Jakov inclined his head with interest.
“Our job is that simple. We have received intelligence that Kadrić is prepared to strike, to blow open Bosnia with a new war. To help him in this, we know he has allied with the Serbian mafia. That gives him access to weapons and manpower. We are not going to be able to fight him if we don’t have the same.”
