by James Samuel
"No, well, maybe you should have. But there is no way Mlakar brought that many men for a meeting in a public place in the centre of Mostar. Have you seen the news reports coming through? They won't say much, of course, but you should read the comments on social media from the people who were there. Have you looked?"
"No."
Kemal couldn't bear to look his son in the eyes. He squirmed in his seat, unsure what to say, unsure where to look. James and Sinclair may already lie dead in the old town of Mostar, and that would spell the end of the actions he’d endeavoured to take against the Bosnian-Serbs. They were the keys to his dreams coming true.
"Reports from some of the people who were there. Gunfire in the streets. Men bleeding to death in the rain. Your friend, James, was seen from someone in an upper window stabbing a man in the throat with a knife. Do you understand what this means for all of us?"
Nobody responded.
"It means we've just moved closer to war. The fact they're both foreigners makes it worse because now both sides can claim they were working for the other side. It's a serious escalation and I... I don't know what to do now." Ratko’s voice lost its strength. "What's the point of the White Rose? People are arming themselves, killing without thinking, and here I am trying to talk about peace. I look like an idiot."
"And what about James?" Nazifa cried. "You haven't mentioned that. Is he safe? You don't even care, do you?"
Ratko shuddered. "He's fine. Not that he deserves it."
"Don't say that," she shouted.
"Why not?" Ratko rounded on her. "Why shouldn't I? Since he came to Bosnia, he's only changed the situation for the worst. James got away I think. Someone on Twitter said they saw the two foreigners steal a car and drive away. If that's all you care about, yes, James is probably fine."
Nazifa let out a great puff of air, like a deflating balloon.
"Does anyone have any ideas about what we can do now?" Ratko's voice softened. "What's happened has happened now. We can't lose control of this situation. We need a plan." Ratko dragged a low stool across the floor and sat down, his hands clasped in front of him. "Give me some ideas."
Again, none of the three responded. Kemal wasn't a part of the White Rose. He detested everything about his son's approach to life. At least James had escaped. He'd survived, but he feared what James would say when he returned to Sarajevo.
"We should help James and Sinclair," Nazifa said at last. "They are the only ones who can help us."
Ratko sighed. "Again, with those two. Why do you think they are the answer?"
"They've still done more in a few days than you've done since you started this organisation. Handing out leaflets. Campaigning for politicians. Social media campaigns. What has it led to? Nothing. I'm wasted here."
Ratko looked hurt by the admission. "I'm not going to let the White Rose become just another nationalist organisation. I made a promise to everyone who joined it that I would never let that happen. You're not the only one who joined it, Nazifa, remember that."
Nazifa snapped to her feet. "Then maybe the White Rose is not the place for me. I'm sorry, Ratko, but it's not in my heart anymore."
Ratko nodded, but Kemal sensed the hurt washing over his son. He could always tell what Ratko was thinking. In many ways, they shared the same personalities, if not the same methods.
"Sit down, Nazifa," said Kemal. "We should talk. Talk more, eh?"
Nazifa's large combat boots scuffed against the floorboards. She threw her hands up and sat down again.
"Ratko," Kemal began. "In war, you need to adapt to the situation. You need to change."
"If you're seriously suggesting I compromise my beliefs to win, then there's no reason for us to talk about this, Father."
Kemal sighed. "Then there's nothing you can do. Peace is not an option now."
"That's the thinking that got us into this war in the first place."
"I go." He patted his son on the shoulder. "Good luck."
"I'm going with you." Nazifa shook her head. "I agree with you. You tried peace. It hasn't worked. James will know what to do."
Kemal maintained a steely expression, unwilling to let himself show weakness now. They'd already crossed the Rubicon. As much as he hated to see his son, his head in his hands, a glassy eyed look on his face, in total defeat, his country needed him more.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
James sat in the stolen car in a quiet street of Sarajevo. The blood had long since dried on his shirt and on the backseat. His hands still bore Croatian blood, his empty gun lying on the floor below. He stared at his phone, multiple missed calls from both Kemal and Gallagher. How could a simple meeting have gone so wrong? This changed everything. Now, more than ever, James couldn't waste any more time.
He picked up the phone. First, he would deal with Gallagher. He didn't have the heart to confront Kemal just yet. If Kemal had set them up, he would have no choice but to slay him.
"Winchester, what the hell have you done?" Gallagher's voice thundered down the phone.
"We were ambushed in Mostar by Jakov Mlakar's men." His own voice emerged steady, flecked with ice. "I was able to fight them off. Sinclair was hit in the leg. I took him to a hospital in Sarajevo. The wound isn't life threatening. He should be discharged in a few days as good as new."
"Was Mlakar working with Kadrić? I need details so I can decide how to proceed, Winchester."
"We disagreed on some key issues. He refused to support us. I will deal with Mlakar in good time."
"No," Gallagher snapped. "You will not. Your mission is to kill Kadrić and nothing more. I will decide –"
"You will not decide," James said through gritted teeth. "This is my operation. You owe me, Gallagher."
"Owe you? I gave you a well-paying job when you were discharged from the army in disgrace. You could have been like thousands of other ex-army, living in some god-awful little council flat still dreaming about everything you went through. I saved you."
"Saved me? Saved me for what? To pick off people who may or may not have deserved it?" He hesitated for a moment. "You owe me because I know you tried to have me killed in Cambodia. That was the only reason Blake was deployed there."
The seconds passed. James listened to Gallagher's heavy breathing. Did he really think he was stupid enough not to know?
"How?"
James' mouth dropped open. He didn't even have the decency to deny it. "I heard your call with Blake through the wall of the hotel in Kampot. I'd always suspected something. That was all the proof I needed. Did you think Blake was shot in the leg by accident?" He felt himself lightening by the second as the millstone came away from his neck. "It was payment. I sent your boy back to you a cripple."
"Very well, Winchester. It is true. Hiring you turned out to be a mistake. I did send Blake to Cambodia to make sure you would never leave there alive. Now, where does that leave us? Are you going to walk away? You know what that would mean."
"I know. You would hunt me to the ends of the Earth." He paused. "No, I'm not going to walk away because I know it's what you want. You wouldn't even have to pretend anymore."
"Interesting, but you always have been the black sheep of the family, Winchester. So, what are you going to do?"
James draped his crimson arm over the steering wheel. "Here's what I want, Gallagher. I'm going to complete the contract. I will not resign because as much as you hate me, my record speaks for itself. What I am going to do is add Mlakar to my list. Kadrić will die, but I will make sure Mlakar is rotting in his grave. And you will not interfere."
Gallagher tittered. "Is that so, Winchester? Then very well, Mlakar is yours –"
"While we're here, that's not all. I never want to see Blake's face again. If we cross paths, I'll send your boy back in a pine box. Do we have a deal?"
"You have nothing to worry about on that score, Winchester. Blake will never move like he used to. After all the therapy, he still walks with a limp. We both know that makes him wholly unsuitabl
e for continued work in the field. I accepted his discharge request. Blake returned home to America with a very healthy pension."
"Then send him my regards for a happy retirement."
"Naturally. I only hope you will live long enough to enjoy the same happy retirement, Winchester."
"And you... sir."
James disconnected the call. His eyes stretched wide; his blood pressure accelerated. But releasing the secret from his cage had lightened him. The games were over. Everyone now knew where they stood.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
James inspected the silver Audi A3 parked on the outskirts of Sarajevo. On the other side of the train tracks, overgrown with crystallised blades of grass, he looked up at the flash of violet hair to see Nazifa coming towards him, her long trench coat swishing around her calves. He greeted her with a thin smile. She was about the only person he wanted to see right now. The only person he felt who wasn’t angry with him for one reason or another.
"Hey, is this the car?" She gave him a hug. "Where did you get it?"
"It's only a rental car. Are you ready to go?"
"Yep. I got the address here." She patted her breast pocket. "You have the guns?"
"More than we need. I don't know if Pejakovski will be protected or whether he will see us coming. You know, you don't have to come if you don't want to. It might be dangerous."
Nazifa patted him on the elbow. "Come on, it’s not so dangerous. Besides, I like spending time with you."
The two of them climbed into the car. The spacious vehicle looked almost new. He adjusted his seat and switched on the ignition. Already, the feeling of being behind the wheel reminded him of Sinclair’s moans from the day before. He shook the thoughts from his mind and pulled away from the tracks.
"How's Sinclair?"
James didn't turn to look at her. "Not talking to me. Thinks it was all my fault for putting us in that situation in the first place." He clicked his tongue. "He'll come to terms with it sooner or later. Getting shot in the leg is something of a traumatic experience for anyone, let alone someone who isn't used to it."
"Have you ever been shot?"
"More times than I care to count. What about you?"
"Never."
"Well, let's keep it that way."
The drive through the heart of the Federation took them from traffic jam to open road. Nazifa talked his ear off the whole way, yet it didn't bother him. Both of them steered clear from the matters at hand, content for the relief. The snows had seemingly settled across the whole country, leaving a glittering diamond of a landscape. The slick black roads weaved like oily veins from valley to valley.
Houses in various stages of construction dotted the countryside. Some were mere skeletons, their concrete innards exposed to the elements. Others had warm, welcoming lights burning in their windows. The closer they came to Jajce, the hillier the land became, the fewer shanty settlements they passed.
James pulled into a relief stop overlooking a valley. Errant snowflakes caught on the howling wind and drifted through the air. He got out of the car and struggled to light his cigarette. After some furious clicks, he inhaled some much-needed tobacco.
"Did you call Kemal?" Nazifa said at last as she took his cigarette to light her own. "He was not happy last night."
James darkened at that. "You spoke to him?"
"Yes, at Ratko's. He called you many times, eh?"
"He did."
Nazifa's Balkan features enchanted him as she stared straight at him. "You think Mlakar was his fault?"
"The thought had crossed my mind."
"Why?"
James walked away towards the dividing barrier. The valley seemed to stretch into infinity, a freezing river struggling to force itself down from the mountains. Smoke rose from the three tiny villages standing alone, surrounded by a cloud of white.
"He is a very good friend to me." Nazifa joined him. "I’ve known him a long time. A very long time. He is a good man."
"He was also the man who set up that meeting and swore to me it wouldn't be a problem. Jakov Mlakar is a good friend to him, apparently. What is that supposed to tell me after his friend tried to kill me?"
"I will never believe he meant it. Never. Kemal is a good friend of mine. He has no reason to want you dead. He is a Bosnian, never a Serbian."
"What about a Croatian?"
"Kemal's family is pure Bosnian. He is proud of his family and where they came from. All the way back to when the Turks ruled Bosnia, Kemal is a Bosnian. You know he would die for his country, and you are helping his country." She took a drag on her cigarette. "If you trust me, you will trust Kemal. Some of the people he knows are crazy, but him, no."
James did believe her. There was no lying in her. She was as fiery a nationalist as they came, but he couldn't totally forgive Kemal. Regardless of his intentions, Kemal could have got them killed. Could he take the risk of Kemal putting them in danger again?
Nazifa took his hand and gave it a little squeeze. "Please talk to him, at least. He found Pejakovski, didn't he?"
He shook off Nazifa’s electrifying touch and discarded the remains of his cigarette. He crunched it underneath his boot, grinding it into the tarmac. "That remains to be seen. Come on, we need to get to Jajce before it gets dark."
"Are we staying the night?" She brightened. "It's been so long since I left Sarajevo."
"That depends on how quickly I can shoot Pejakovski."
Nazifa giggled that infectious laugh of hers and they both climbed into the car for the last stretch on the way to Jajce.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Heavy bandages bound Sinclair's leg. He felt weighed down, constricted by the trappings around him. His private room came complete with the sterile, flavourless depression associated with any hospital. Flicking through the television channels, he tried in vain to find something to watch. Boredom overtook him, the thick fumes of disinfectant burned at his nostrils.
Sinclair sighed. Cut off from direct involvement in the mission, and not even his computers to keep him busy, he felt himself reaching the edge of despair. Tossing the remote on his bedsheets, he checked his phone for messages. Nothing.
He decided to call Gallagher. He'd never felt more of a desire to sit behind a desk in some cushy office somewhere. Sinclair hadn't experienced a wound in years, and it hurt more than ever. The painkillers dulled most of the pain, but his leg continued to twinge as the flesh slowly knitted itself together.
"How are you, Wood?" asked Gallagher.
"As awful as you can imagine. Luckily, they missed the bone. I should be discharged in a day or two."
"Good. Status report?"
"James has gone to Jajce with the girl, Nazifa. They are going to assassinate Pejakovski. I wouldn't have too much hope that they will wait long enough to extract any useful information out of him," he added with a tinge of bitterness.
"I gave Winchester a free hand to kill Jakov Mlakar."
Sinclair's eyes widened. "The contract has been extended?"
"No, but I had no real choice in the matter. Winchester is bent on revenge."
He gritted his teeth. James had gone over his head without even consulting him again. His impulsiveness put them all at risk. Knowing James how he did, he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't put Kadrić on ice to satiate his lust for vengeance. A war with the Croatian mafia could cost him everything; it could cost Sinclair everything.
"Then you can expect me to leave Bosnia the moment Kadrić is dead. We have just under thirty days before the summit with the European Union. I'm not going to stay here on a revenge mission."
"And I will not require you to do that. This is Winchester's request."
"Good."
"Do you have an answer about the girl?"
Sinclair chewed on his tongue. He'd barely had time to go to the bathroom let alone consider Gallagher's offer to remove Nazifa from the picture. After what had happened, they didn't need another knot in the mission.
"I don't want
her dead. The girl hasn't done anything to deserve that," he said at last. "I just want James focused on the mission without her as a distraction."
"I can do that. Maugham and his protégé Minamo are currently stationed in Austria. They will do just fine."
Sinclair nodded in recognition. Gordon Maugham was the leading assassin of Blackwind. He was Gallagher’s own personal assassin. Maugham rarely failed when given a mission. First Finch and now Maugham, Gallagher really had spoiled him.
"Make it happen quietly. This mustn't come back to us. The less I know the better."
"Of course, Maugham and Minamo will carry it out with the utmost discretion, I assure you."
Sinclair ended the call and grabbed his bottle of orange juice from the side table to assuage the bitterness in his mouth. No matter how much of the concentrated drink he swallowed, he could never hope to sweeten the guilt in his heart.
Chapter Thirty
Jajce, Bosanska Krajina, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Jajce loomed over the Audi at the crest of a hill. The lights of the town already shone like torchlights in the twinkling sky. James slowed down as he caught sight of a waterfall through the trees. It appeared to rush out of the heart of the city itself.”
"That's an odd thing," said James.
"Welcome to Jajce! One of the greatest towns in Bosnia. Did you know no other town in the world has a waterfall like ours?"
"You've been here before?"
"Of course. I came here often to the mountains with my friends when I was young."
"Right."
"No, no." She grabbed the steering wheel as he attempted to turn onto the only road leading into Jajce. "Stop here."
James pulled over at the edge of the line of trees shielding the view of the waterfall. Nazifa opened her door at once. The sound of a distant car in the background barely registered over the tremendous sound of Jajce's cascade.
"What are you doing?"
"The town is old. Very old. Too difficult to drive in. It's better if we walk the rest of the way. It's only small." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "And they know a tourist when they see one. Everyone in the old town of Jajce knows everyone. A rental car will only give us attention, eh? Better if we walk."
