by James Samuel
James saw the logic in her explanation, but he didn't see the need to be so careful at this hour. Nevertheless, he left the car where it was. The silvery moonlight cast its glow over a ragged cloud, leaving its edges glowing like broken glass.
The walled town of Jajce had seen war, destruction, and death for centuries. From the days of the Kingdom of Bosnia to life under the Ottoman Empire, Jajce had endured. The aged ramparts still protected the old town today. James and Nazifa stepped underneath the archway and into the city itself. Low wooden houses jostled together with their more modern counterparts.
Restaurants and bars remained open, leaving welcoming orange glows across the scattered snowdrifts. Tattered snowflakes continued to drift on the air, searching for a new home. James stepped with care across the slick, uneven cobblestones.
"Here." He fished out a scrap of paper from inside his coat. "The address. I can't read it."
Nazifa took it in her gloved hands and squinted by the red lantern of a restaurant. "It should be in the centre. Not far from here. Will we stay or go?"
"I don't want to stay. The sooner we finish this, the better."
Nazifa shrugged. "You must take time to enjoy my country."
James had already walked on, determined to concentrate on the matter at hand. His own carnal desires kept threatening to pull him beneath the waterline. He remembered Jessi Montoya. He dwelled on the pain it had caused him for months afterwards. Even today, he still wondered where she had gone after leaving his home in Mexico that morning.
"Here is the top of the waterfall." Nazifa pointed down the curving street. "Can you hear?"
James blinked, flinging his thoughts back into their compartments. Above the winter gatherings, he heard the distinctive sound of Jajce's double waterfalls. He ploughed on, gazing into the side streets and memorising them for later.
"I came here many years ago," Nazifa continued as they reached the pools, lit by small cat's eyes. "Many years ago..." she trailed off.
James barely glanced at the pools, seeing that they ran into a sharp drop below. A little way off from the pools, a long staircase led downwards to, he presumed, a viewing platform of some kind at the bottom of the cascades.
"Nazifa?"
No answer.
"Nazifa?" He looked back to find Nazifa standing as if glued to the cobblestones. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing... just memories." Her eyes became glassy, catching the light like a raindrop clinging to the end of a blade of grass. "It was not a happy time."
"Can I help you?"
"No, no." Nazifa brushed past him. "I know this street. We are not far from the house. It should be just down here."
James lingered for a moment as Nazifa plunged onwards. He wanted her to share what she was thinking with him. But he knew better than to push. It was as if he could see Sinclair's disapproval radioing in from Sarajevo. The mission. The mission was all that mattered.
"Yes." Nazifa pointed at a blue street sign, half in shadow. "This is the street. And the number on the house here. We are six or seven doors away. Let's get him, James. Let's do it now. For Bosnia."
"No, wait. We could be walking into a trap. We don't know how well protected he is. Could we see the house from up there?" He gestured to the steps leading up to Jajce's fortress, which stared down upon the entire town.
"Maybe. I don't know."
James didn't wait for her to make a decision. He strode up the steps without clinging to the handrail. His boots crunched against the fresh snow. With every flight of stairs dug into the hillside that he ascended, the wintery air chilled his cheeks, like tiny needles probing at his skin. He screwed his face up to shake it off.
Goran Pejakovski's home stood opposite the hillside. James ascended about three-quarters of the way up, until the fortress walls blocked it from view. When he looked below, he had a clear line of sight towards the front door.
Nazifa hopped up behind him like a spring hare, her breathing heavy.
"This is as far as we can go." He checked behind him out of habit. "Does anyone go into the fortress at night?"
"Kids... with their girlfriends."
James inclined his head. "What I'd give for a sniper rifle up here. There doesn't seem to be anyone in the house."
"It's not so late. It's just dark very early. He may be drinking."
"Let's hope so. Look, I know it's cold up here and we might have to wait here for hours." He leaned against the freezing railing. "Feel free to go down and wait somewhere. I can call you later if I see anything."
Nazifa frowned, the tip of her nose had turned a deep shade of pink. "No, I stay."
Chapter Thirty-One
The hours rolled on. Little by little, the lights of the bars started to vanish. More of Jajce disappeared under the blue-black shroud of encroaching night. As Nazifa said, couples passed them by with conspiratorial expressions on the run from their parents, using the thick fortress walls to gain the privacy they craved. Some of them walked in silence, others revelling in the euphoria of cheap beer. James remained motionless, his eyes never leaving Goran's home.
Their target lived in an old Ottoman brick building. Its terracotta roof tiles seemed jumbled and uneven, as if they'd been added in a hurry. The longer James waited, the more deserted the building appeared.
Doubts began to creep into James' mind. It was Kemal who had provided him with this information. There were no guarantees the information was genuine or that it wasn't out of date. He started to question his primary contact all over again. After what had happened in Mostar, he still couldn't discount his betrayal, no matter what Nazifa said.
Nazifa shuddered. "It's cold."
James grunted.
"I don't think he is here. Maybe we should find a room to stay in before it gets too late."
Her words warmed him from the inside. Yet as he looked away from the house, he couldn't decipher the meaning behind her words. Her face seemed warm and inviting, yet there were no modulations in her voice that could indicate something more.
"You're not used to spending this long watching a house, are you?" James remarked.
"No." She folded her hands underneath her armpits.
"It's boring and it isn't pleasant, but it's a necessary part of the job. Sometimes it can take an hour. Sometimes it can take days, or even longer. Pejakovski might not even be in Jajce now, for all we know."
"We could ask his neighbours. Everyone talks in Bosnia."
"No, it's too risky. You never know who you're talking to. A neighbour could say someone was asking about him, and that could scare him away. We might never find him again if he thinks someone is hunting him."
"Then let's get a room." A thin smile crossed her face as she inched closer to him. "I am very cold."
"Look." James snapped his gaze back towards the Pejakovski house. The door had opened and a bright light appeared in the window next to it. "It must be him."
The door closed before he could catch a glimpse of who had entered. A thin mist had descended upon Jajce, reducing everyone below into black, muddy shapes. The light continued to burn in Pejakovski's house.
"Let's go." Nazifa jerked away from him.
James dragged her back by the arm. "Wait. We need to go at this the right way. He'll be armed, we know that."
"He'll be alone, though."
"He will, but I don't want any of us getting shot. Firstly, do these houses have back doors. Do they go anywhere?"
"Most don't. In Jajce, it's very narrow. No room for gardens. It's not like your England."
"Right. We need to get him out into the open. Something clever. We can't take the risk."
Nazifa looked exasperated by James' caution.
"I've got an idea. Do you think you can get some petrol out of the car?"
She tilted her head in confusion. "What?"
"A Molotov cocktail. If we can start a small fire and put it through the window, he'll have no choice but to come out."
"Ah." Her face broke into a smile
and she giggled. "Yes, yes, I know how."
"Good girl. I'll keep a watch on the house from the street. Get a bottle, fill it with petrol, and find something that burns."
"Yes, yes." She was already moving away from him. "I'll come back."
James watched her bound down the steps towards the town again. He tracked her all the way, sweeping his head back at times to keep a watch on the house. The light still burned. This was a high-risk strategy. It would create a commotion, but he knew he couldn't forgive himself if Nazifa got hurt. Throwing a brick through the window didn't guarantee Pejakovski would emerge. Not if he was smart. If he was smart, he would stay where he was, expecting an ambush in the street.
Once Nazifa disappeared from view, he, too, left his position and descended from the fortress. He checked his phone. One o’clock. The town was quiet. Anyone who looked out of their windows now would find it strange to see a figure lingering on the street. He secreted himself behind a wooden restaurant and squatted down on an empty metal beer keg.
About twenty minutes passed before Nazifa returned from the car. She'd managed to procure a beer bottle from a local shop, which was now filled most of the way up with petrol. An old cloth used to clean car windows stuck out of the top.
“What did you use for a siphon?” James asked admiringly but confused at how she solved the difficult part of the challenge.
Nazifa said, “A piece of a hose I took from a garden.”
"Perfect, well done. This should light up nicely."
She grinned. "You're welcome. So, what's the plan?"
James rubbed the bottom of his chin. While she was gone, he’d considered every opportunity, every avenue of potential escape for Pejakovski, as well as the risks of discovery. Nazifa had unintentionally played a trump card by leaving their car outside of the walls. If they were detected, their getaway wouldn't have them getting caught up in the narrow streets.
"Find a brick. Throw it through the window. I'll throw the Molotov right after. Then we need to block off his escape routes --"
"Why? Just shoot him when the door opens."
"Patience, Nazifa. We want him alive, at least to start with. We need to draw him away from this street. There's no cover here. Someone will see the fire. Pejakovski must be drawn away from the house, even if just a little way. There are only two ways he can go. Down the hill behind the fortress or towards the cascades. I want to draw him towards the cascades."
Nazifa threw her head back. "You are too careful with Serbian dogs. Someone will see. They always see."
"We only need him for a few moments. I'll handle that. You must not shoot him until I give the order."
"But James –"
"Promise me," he said, louder than he would have liked.
Nazifa's expression hardened. "Okay."
James swept the street for a wandering drunk or a jerk of a bedroom curtain. The world was quiet here. He allowed himself to breathe, accepting the Molotov from a begrudging Nazifa. Part of him worried he'd made a mistake in bringing her. Would she be able to control her nationalistic rage long enough for him to get something useful out of Pejakovski? He needed him, or he’d find himself back to square one.
Every time his feet scuffed against the cobblestones, he grimaced at the noise, fearing detection. They approached Pejakovski's house. Still, the light burned. As he came closer, he noted a near transparent pair of white curtains. He did his best not to look through the window as he got into position at the side of the front door.
James turned to Nazifa. "No guns, for as long as possible."
She nodded in recognition.
He took out his lighter and held it underneath a corner of the cloth. It took, a small flame beginning to eat its way through the fabric. "Okay, now."
Nazifa reached her arm back, a lump of stone clutched in her fingers. She hurled it with venom through the centre of the window. The glass shattered instantly, the shards falling like the freezing waterfalls mere metres away. James launched the burning Molotov through the window. The curtains shifted like an open mouth. The flames spread instantly. It took only seconds before a loud Bosnian-Serb cry filled the air.
James and Nazifa removed their weapons from their pockets. The door swung open and a half-dressed man in slacks, a pair of slippers, and a half-buttoned shirt darted into the night. They raised their weapons as if to fire.
Pejakovski flinched for a moment only to turn on his heel and flee. Smoke already billowed into the street. James and Nazifa pursued their target. He sprinted like a lion chasing a gazelle, bombing past Nazifa.
The target's slippers slowed him down. He slid and stumbled over the cobblestones, the slippers threatening to leave his feet at any moment. The curve in the road came up on him fast. James came within a metre. He pumped his arms and legs for speed. One final push. They came to the pools. James was so close he could almost hear Goran’s heartbeat. He threw out his foot.
Pejakovski's ankle collided with the toe of James’ boot. The slipper went flying and he lost his footing. The man hit the ground hard and rolled for a few feet. James stopped next to him. He took in deep breaths as he took Pejakovski by the shirt lapels and pulled him to his feet, then launched him hard against the wall of the pool. The timer had begun. They only had minutes before help would arrive.
"Goran Pejakovski?" James said, holding onto his captive by his shirt.
"Da. Da." Pejakovski replied.
James knew enough Bosnian to know it meant he had his man. He pushed Pejakovski ahead of him, forcing him to walk at gunpoint across the side of the pool. They faced the boulders at the head of the frothing cascades.
"I need you to translate," James ordered Nazifa, throwing Pejakovski up against the rocks.
Nazifa joined them, climbing across the narrow walkway with the agility of a cat.
"You work for Kadrić and his men, yes?" James began.
"Da," said Pejakovski.
James nodded. Pejakovski had landed hard when he fell, and one long bloody scuff ran down his cheek. He lifted his bare foot to keep it off the cold ground.
"Tell him I'll let him live if he tells me about the men he works for. I want names and where I can find them. If he messes me around, he dies."
"No, James. I want him dead."
He raised his voice. "Do it."
Nazifa quickly translated his words, or so he hoped.
Pejakovski responded rapidly. James caught only two names. That of Sadik Kadrić and Darko Borisov. He spoke for a long time, too long.
"He says he's only an associate. Not a full member, so he only ever works with Darko Borisov," Nazifa translated. "He says he doesn't know where Kadrić lives, but Darko is close to him."
"Ask him where Darko lives. Where can I find Darko?"
Nazifa translated and Pejakovski responded.
"He says he was born in Banja Luka, but his family moved to Kakanj. That's all he knows, or so he says. I don't believe him."
James looked straight at the terrified man and immediately got his measure. This was an opportunist, someone who did what he did for the money. He didn't have a courageous bone in his body. That could only mean one thing: he was telling the truth.
He leaned in close and whispered into his ear, "You know, I'd like to let you go, Pejakovski, but I know your type. You would sell your own mother for a couple of dollars. That's why I can't afford to let you go and tell Kadrić what happened."
Pejakovski didn't understand the words. Nazifa didn't move to translate. For a moment, James saw the light of hope flicker in his eyes. The abject terror dropped from his expression.
James took a quarter-step backwards. He thrust both hands into his chest. Pejakovski toppled backwards into the blackness. His screams echoed through Jajce. One splash spelled the end of Goran Pejakovski.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kakanj, Zenica-Doboj, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Kadrić gripped the steering wheel of his red Skoda Octavia. He'd left Banja Luka without alerting his bodyguards,
or anyone else for that matter. It hadn't taken long for news of Goran Pejakovski's death to spread across the Internet, and a few pictures to appear. As usual, the police announced they had made no arrests and had no suspects. Kadrić knew he had to visit Darko in person before his second in command did something stupid.
The town of Kakanj was built into the slopes of the wide hills flanking the Zgošća River. The town itself had little more than 14,000 souls. Kadrić had visited before, but not for long. The only reason anyone knew Kakanj was its football team, a single coal mine, and a cement factory. The war had decimated what little economy it had, leaving the populace impoverished.
Kadrić at the side of the train tracks. Trains trundled across the nearby rails, thick with rust, just a few times per day. He left the car and walked down the grass verge towards the silent coal bridge above the road.
Darko had reached the appointed meeting place first. Kadrić spotted him as he crossed the dirty snow, a cigarette clutched between his teeth. The array of cigarette butts around the smoker’s feet testified to how long he'd waited. Kadrić sensed the rage barely contained under Darko’s thin skin.
"Darko. I'm sorry." Kadrić embraced Darko, kissing him three times on alternating cheeks. "I was shocked to hear about Goran. He was a good man."
"A good man, yes." Darko clenched his jaw. "They kill a man who did nothing. Cowards. This is how Bosnians conduct business. They attack the weak. I want them found. When I find them, I kill them."
Kadrić nodded. He knew what Darko could do when he lost control. Like a rabid dog, he would fire indiscriminately and never ask questions. As much as he wanted his men to hold off until the time was right, he couldn't deny Darko this time.
"Only the people responsible," said Kadrić. "No one else. The time is coming when we make war on every Bosnian. When we reclaim our freedom from Sarajevo."
