by James Samuel
"What changes? Everything is ready. We have the weapons. We have enough men to make significant inroads into Bosnia. Now has never been a better time to strike."
"I admire everything you have done. Your men chose you for a reason. Many of them you led through the war. You hid them and kept them when the war ended." Plemenac jabbed a finger at him. "Because of you, many of these men were able to do something useful with their lives. I appreciate you for that."
"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador."
"Are you still wanted for war crimes?"
Tension settled between them. The warm chatter of the revellers in the distance did nothing to make the question any less awkward. Plemenac had already done his research. Kadrić was still a designated war criminal, and the authorities still wanted him.
Kadrić scoffed. "They call them war crimes. They don't know war. Let them keep their little charges, I don't care."
Plemenac eyed up Kadrić, and then he smiled. "Then I think we need to change the situation for good."
"What changes?"
Plemenac whipped out the gold tactical pen from his pocket. He drove it into Kadrić's throat. Blood splashed out of the open wound. He forced him to the ground, the pen driving into the man’s flesh like a spike. Plemenac stopped himself. He wouldn't deliver the killing blow.
"Do you know why we need to make changes?"
Plemenac drove his knee into Kadrić's chest. The whites of his eyes were visible, like two milk moons. He pressed his palm into his neck, trying to stop the bleeding. Plemenac knew he would die here. His strikes had torn the veins and arteries. No doctor could save him now.
"You committed too many atrocities during the war. It gives the West justification to intervene. You're an animal. Our movement cannot be led by you. More to the point, those Englishmen are dangerous. They could destroy decades of work. Now you're going to die, they'll leave. There will be nobody to stop us now."
Plemenac got off the bleeding Kadrić. His breaths grew shallow and uneven. Blood oozed from between his fingers.
"You got blood on my fucking shoes." Plemenac spat on Kadrić. "Don't take too long. Think of your family before you leave this place."
Plemenac deposited the bloody pen back in his pocket and strode away. With Kadrić gone, it removed the last true obstacle to his power over the Bosnian-Serbs. More importantly, the foreign agents no longer had any purpose here. He'd done them a favour. Now they would return to where they came from. His plan had worked perfectly.
Chapter Forty
James felt nauseous after witnessing what had just taken place mere feet away. He'd seen everything through a hole in the fortress wall. Taken completely by surprise, he vaulted the wall and approached the dying Kadrić. He hadn’t understood any of the words that passed between them during the attack. From the tone of their voices, he'd detected no argument, no point of conflict. Who was Plemenac, and why would he want to kill Kadrić?
Kadrić lay dying, staring at the twinkling stars. He almost had a smile on his face, a wonder in his eyes. His belly continued to rise but from his ragged breaths, he guessed living had become more torturous by the second. James had seen it too many times. He knew Kadrić only had minutes to live.
He knelt next to Kadrić. "Do you speak English, Kadrić?"
Kadrić turned his head. "Who...who are you?"
"I've been hunting you. My name is James Winchester."
Kadrić let out a great breath. Apathy. Acceptance. Whatever it was, James had seen that look in men before. He had accepted his own mortality.
"Why did Plemenac do that? What's he doing? I want to know."
"He wants... everything." Kadrić let out a phlegmy cough. "Plemenac wants Srpska to be free. And it will."
"Then let me help you. Give me something I can work with."
"You don't care for any of us." Kadrić opened his mouth to say something. An odd gurgling sound emanated from the depths of his throat.
"I'm not interested in seeing men like him destroy this country. You're going to die any moment now. If you want any chance of Plemenac getting what he deserves, you have to give me something."
"Call Darko... Darko Borisov. My phone. The code is 1341."
James flew to Kadrić's pockets, removing everything until he found the phone. He pocketed everything to avoid leaving any fingerprints behind. The phone was a Samsung smartphone with a cracked screen and a cover displaying a graphic design of the Serbian flag. James gripped it, leaving a bloody smear on the back.
"What else can you tell me? What should I say to him?"
Kadrić spoke no more.
James paused. He didn't bother shaking the dead man or repeating his questions. Kadrić had died like a deer on the receiving end of a gut shot. In agony. Knowing that he would die but not when his last breath would come. He had too much time to think about his life, the people he'd left behind, the man who had slain him before his time. James couldn't imagine having that much time with his thoughts when his end came.
He stood, sighed, and left Kadrić for the public to find when day broke. Plemenac had unwittingly revealed his position to him. Kadrić was dead, but now the Balkans had a greater enemy to peace. James could no longer walk away.
Chapter Forty-One
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Kadrić was dead. His obligations in Bosnia were over. Yet James felt empty. The euphoria of a completed contract never came. Was it because his bloodlust hadn't been sated? He'd never had a contract where someone else had done his job for him. A gnawing emptiness ravaged him, like he’d stolen a wage.
"I can't wait to go somewhere warm," said Sinclair as they celebrated in a bar in the old town of Sarajevo.
James didn't reply. He sipped at the Sarajevski beer under the eaves of the low building. Tracing his finger along the knotted wooden table, he observed the people filing past. It didn't sit right with him. Nothing seemed to make sense.
"I hope Miran hurries up so we can confirm everything," Sinclair continued. "I'm sure the Serbian police won't release the name to the papers for a couple of days."
"Doesn't it bother you?" James said at last.
"Bother me? What would bother me?"
"That Plemenac was working with the nationalists all along, yet he still killed their leader in cold blood?"
"No, why should it?"
"It's wrong. The problem we came to solve is still there. It just shows Kadrić was a pawn. We haven't brought the country back from the brink. The situation looks like it won't change at all now he's gone."
Sinclair rolled his eyes. "It's not our country, James. This has nothing to do with us. Remember who we are and what our jobs are. The terms of our contract have been fulfilled. Kadrić is dead. We are getting our rewards. Even Gallagher won't be able to complain this time."
James understood Sinclair’s point of view, but he just couldn't walk away knowing everything they did was essentially for nothing. He felt like a fool, like his actions hadn't influenced the situation in the slightest.
"Where is that Miran?" Sinclair pulled his coat sleeve up to check his silver Versace chronograph watch.
"My job here isn't finished yet. Remember, I still have Mlakar to finish."
Sinclair's face dropped. "I admire that you want revenge, but not everything has to have a conclusion. Forget it. My leg is healing quickly. This is business, not personal, I understand that. I'm not especially resentful. I would prefer to leave and put it down to a rather bad day at the office."
James' nostrils flared, but he returned to his drink in silence.
"Ah, here he is now."
Miran shuffled down the narrow street towards them. The crowd made a space as he tapped his stick left and right. Nemanja bore a scowl. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and tilted his head as he said something to Miran.
"Mr. Heranda.” Sinclair rose to greet him. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
"Your journey to Belgrade was successful." He reached his hand ou
t to find the corner of the table and eased himself next to Sinclair. "Good, good, I will send confirmation to your boss. Very impressive."
Nemanja huffed and dropped onto the bench next to James. He fished out a cigarette and something that looked like a miniature doorknob. Popping the end into his mouth, he affixed the cigarette and lit it.
"It's good for my fingers." Nemanja caught James' eye. "No stink."
James watched him suck away on the cigarette through the strange holder. In less than thirty seconds, nearly half of the cigarette burned away. A long stack of ash continued to cling on, despite gravity working against it.
"Mr. Heranda, could I ask you something?" asked James.
Miran turned his head towards him and nodded. Behind the dark glasses, his eyes were completely invisible.
"Could you delay the confirmation to Gallagher?"
"James, no," Sinclair turned back to Miran. "Ignore him."
Miran licked his lips. "Delay? Why? Is Kadrić still alive?"
"No, he's dead. But I don't want to leave yet. I want to stay. Unfinished business."
"Ignore him," Sinclair intervened again. "Let me tell you what happened in Belgrade. Things didn't go as we expected."
James fumed, but he allowed Sinclair to speak. The intelligence agent ran through the whole story of Plemenac and his involvement with Kadrić. He continued with how he'd stabbed Kadrić to death with a pen, leaving him to die in James' arms. What Sinclair didn't know was James still had the bloodstained phone Kadrić had given him in his final moments.
"Strange. Very strange," Miran breathed.
"Money," said Nemanja. "Always money. I was born in Belgrade in Yugoslavia. I am communist. All they want is money now. Maybe Kadrić owes money to him?"
"I think it's more than that," said James.
"Why?" Nemanja turned his ire on him. "You don't know this land. You are a foreigner. It's been the same since the war. Yugoslavia was a better land. Tito did good things for this country."
James ran his tongue across the underside of his teeth. He couldn't accept this. Whatever happened, he resolved not to leave until he saw this through to the bitter end. Kadrić had made everything clear during those few seconds. Plemenac would pick up from where Kadrić left off, and he would use his diplomatic immunity to his advantage.
"It makes no sense not to confirm Kadrić's death. His name will be in the papers soon. Maybe sooner online," said Miran. "I don't want to create problems by telling an obvious lie. It is stupid."
James' shoulder sagged in defeat.
"Just let it go, James," said Sinclair. "This isn't our place. Our work here is done." He glanced at Miran. "Our client is very happy with our performance. Kadrić is gone."
"It still doesn't feel right."
"Move on, James."
Chapter Forty-Two
James stood alone on a quiet street in the old town. Midnight threatened to strike when Nazifa appeared. Her impish grin warmed his soul. When she hugged him, he could smell the alcohol on her breath. He gulped, not knowing what to say to her. Every instinct told him to get out now, to think about himself. What did the fate of Bosnia matter to him?
"The bars are still open for another hour or two." Nazifa winked. "Let's go. I am so proud of you, James, you did it."
"Well, it's not as simple as that. Let me tell you exactly what happened."
"Okay, I'm a little drunk, so let's not go too far, eh? How about this one?" Nazifa jabbed her finger at the bar just two doors down.
James agreed and they sat at a table outside. The majority of Sarajevo's old town hadn't changed in centuries. The city had worked hard to protect it from greedy developers and relentless capitalists who would sooner bulldoze it to build grand hotels. As it was, the majority of bars had the same traditional layout and decor.
Despite the cold, Nazifa didn't shiver. She clapped her gloveless hands together in the relatively mild winter evening and ordered them drinks in Bosnian. James couldn't help but shiver. His breath shuddered, as if it took his entire body to make his lungs work.
She placed her hand over his. "You are cold. I got us two rakis. You will be warm soon enough."
Sure enough, two rakijas arrived at their table, along with a half-litre of beer each. They came in short, stubby shot glasses this time.
"Drink," she ordered. "It's pine."
"Pine?" James sniffed it nervously. It smelled like petrol.
"How do you say it in England? Cheers?"
"Cheers."
He swallowed his pine rakija without thinking. James grimaced. The pine rajika tasted like petrol too. It scorched his insides with a roaring fire. Almost instantly, the pine chased the cold out of his joints like a tenant brandishing a bad check.
"That dog is dead," she said with undisguised glee. "Kadrić, may you rot in hell." She seized her other glass and swallowed it.
James, feeling obliged, did the same. Once again, the fire burned inside his stomach. He didn't have the courage to tell Nazifa it was one of the worst drinks he'd ever had.
"So, how did he die? You did it, yes?"
He shook his head. "No. But I was there. He was murdered by an ambassador, Vojo Plemenac, in a deal gone wrong. I didn't understand what was said, but before he died Kadrić told me that Plemenac had taken his place."
"Good, good, let them tear each other apart like the animals they are."
"Nazifa, please, it's not as simple as that."
Nazifa shrugged and took a sip of her beer, leaving a watery white moustache on her upper lip.
"Kadrić might be dead, but what good has it done if another more powerful man has just taken his place? Everyone tells me that I should leave it. My contract says it has nothing to do with me, but it makes me feel empty, like I've accomplished nothing."
The smile faded from Nazifa's face. "You are going to leave?"
"My contract is over, Nazifa. By all accounts, I should leave, but I don't want to. I feel like my work here isn't done."
She seized his hand, cradling it in hers. "Stay here, James. For my country. You will do good things. Kill this ambassador. Kill the people who would bring war on us all again. Don't be like the others..."
James gulped. "The others?"
Nazifa looked sad, as if she'd opened up an old wound. "Foreigners. They come to my country. Take what they want and then go. It has been the same for many years. Turks, Austrians, Germans, Serbians, everyone. They do bad to us and take all that is good. Don't be like them."
He looked away from her. James had considered his work and his role in the world more and more often. Sometimes he wondered whether he wanted to be a contract killer at all. The bad people he killed seemed only to lead to greater evils filling the void. Yet it was what he was made for. There wasn't another life beyond it for him. He’d concluded it long ago.
"Will you stay?"
James felt numb as his head fought with his gut over what to do. "Yes. I'll find out what Plemenac is up to. There won't be a war, I promise you."
Nazifa leaned forward and planted her lips on his. He moved with the kiss, stunned, unsure of what had happened. Snaking his arms around her, he brought her close, feeling the curvatures of her body. It brought a warmth to him that no amount of rakija could replicate.
"No." Nazifa pulled away from him. "I can't. I shouldn't. I'm sorry."
"What?"
Nazifa got up from the table. There was a look of fear, almost terror in her face. Her full lips trembled. There were tears dancing her eyes.
"I cannot." She leaned against her chair. "I cannot."
James attempted to reach out to her, but she pulled away. "What's wrong? Tell me."
"I'm sorry, James. I cannot explain to you. I call you, okay?"
With that, Nazifa departed, her long coat swishing around her ankles as she scurried away.
Chapter Forty-Three
Kakanj, Zenica-Doboj, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Darko's chest burned. A hot knife had seared his skin and penetrate
d straight through to his heart. Kadrić had been found dead in Belgrade. Over the weekend, Darko had called and called, expecting to hear an update from his master and mentor on their situation. Nothing got through. In his soul, he'd known something had happened, but he didn't want to believe it.
He stared at the worn, frayed carpet in his living room. It barely hid the cracked floorboards underneath. Being in his family home alone like this, hearing nothing but the ticking clock, made him wonder what it would mean for him. Kadrić had never designated a successor. He wasn't a leader. Where could he even hope to begin?
His phone rang, but Darko didn't respond to it. It continued. Irritating, Insistent. He leaned over the sagging sofa and snatched it from the arm. The caller ID was Kadrić's. How could that be possible? His hand trembled as he accepted the call.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Borisov?" A smooth English voice came through the phone. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes." His voice sounded unsure, foreign to his ears. "Who is this?"
"The man who saw everything in Belgrade on the night Kadrić died."
"What?"
"My name is James Winchester. You don't know me, but I'm the foreigner who's been trying to kill you for the past few weeks."
Darko's eyes widened. Hatred like stomach acid rose through his bowels. He let loose with a violent flurry of curses, threats, and vows to kill in his own language.
"Are you finished, Mr. Borisov?" James paused. "The reason I came to Bosnia was to assassinate Sadik Kadrić. However, things have taken a different path. I did not kill Kadrić, but I know who did."
"You lie!"
