by James Samuel
Sinclair agonised over what he was about to say. His mind played a lightning-fast round of devil's advocate. If his friend had fallen for a girl, didn't he owe it to him to stand aside and encourage him? Alternatively, if he believed it would lead to trouble, didn't he also have an obligation to do what was best for him?
"I do, sir." Sinclair cringed. It sounded like a death sentence.
"Very well. I will have the order drawn up today." He sighed. "Also, I regret to inform you that Miss Aleksi has a girlfriend."
"What? What did you say?”
"It appears to be true. Our agents managed to procure some private, rather intimate, photographs taken quite recently. The woman's name is Jasmina Velic, also of Sarajevo."
"That can't be possible."
"And why not?"
Sinclair couldn't make the words with his tongue. "It... we would have noticed, surely."
"Not necessarily. These rather intimate photographs show otherwise. We compared her face in these with the most current images of Miss Aleksi we could find. Whether they remain a couple is unknown, but these photographs must have been taken within the last two to three years."
Sinclair reached out for a stool. His legs crumbled out from under him. He knew what this meant. Nazifa wasn't who she purported to be. She'd used her looks, her Balkan beauty, to wrap James around her little finger. A trained contract killer like James would be very useful to her in the short-term for crippling the Bosnian-Serb nationalist leadership. She was using him.
"Sir, eliminate her. James will never believe us with his state of mind. If she's dead, he'll move on like he has with women in the past."
"And her girlfriend?"
Sinclair slapped his thigh. "James doesn't know who she is. There's no reason to bring her into this."
"Very well, Wood. The order is confirmed. Keep an eye on Winchester until we can get him safely out of the country."
"Sir, one other thing. I don't want to hear about how Maugham does it. Just brief me when it's over."
"Confirmed, Wood."
Chapter Forty-Seven
James felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He picked it out and released an expression of disgust when he saw Gallagher's number. Depositing it back in his pocket, he ignored the angry vibrations from London as he continued to puff away on his cigarette. A man appeared at the gate. James didn't need to ask who it was. Dressed all in black, Darko purchased his ticket and walked into what was once the central courtyard of the fortress.
He raised a hand to signal Darko. His man looked up for a brief moment and strode towards him. Darko ascended the fortifications like a mountain goat. As he came closer, James got a full look at Kadrić's former right-hand man. His square jaw jutted out and his charcoal-like eyes smouldered with undisguised rage.
"Darko Borisov," James said.
"Foreigner," Darko replied with venom. "You are lucky I don't kill you now."
James resisted the urge to whip back at him. "We are not here for that. I never killed Kadrić and shooting me will not bring him back."
Darko took a long step forward. "You were going to murder him. You were there to murder him."
James chewed on his tongue as he ruminated over his next words. "You loved him, didn't you?"
"More than my own flesh and blood."
"Then you should calm down, stop threatening to kill me, and understand that Kadrić gave me his phone before he died. He told me to contact you because he knew you were reliable. Kadrić understood the bigger picture, and I think he wanted you to as well or he wouldn't have brought me into this."
Darko's face tightened. He flicked his tongue like a cobra preparing to strike.
"I could have left straightaway, but I didn't. You can either work with me or you can walk away, but without me you haven't got a chance."
Darko rolled his shoulders back. His mouth opened slightly as he took in deep breaths. James could see the anger bubbling under the surface.
He ignored Darko and turned back to the view over Travnik. Taking out his crumpled packet, he took out a cigarette and popped it in his mouth. Darko's shoes crushed the wet blades of grass as he paced in front of him.
James offered a cigarette.
Darko snatched it out of his hand and lit it with his own lighter. He, too, stared out over Travnik without looking at James.
"What is it you want?" asked Darko.
"Maybe I care a little too much. My business is not normally about doing the right thing, but the man who killed Kadrić is dangerous. Extremely dangerous."
"You are in the business of death," he said matter-of-factly.
"I am. But my motivations are not important. What's important is that you're willing to work with me."
"Fine. But for Kadrić, not for you. I will never trust you."
"That's fine."
"Okay." Darko turned to him, the white cigarette smoke blowing past his face. "Who killed him?"
"Vojo Plemenac."
Darko's eyes narrowed. "Impossible."
"I was there. I saw it all. Ambassador Vojo Plemenac has usurped Kadrić’s position."
Darko gritted his teeth together. "This is impossible. No, he is our friend. Sadik worked with him. He was one of us. He wanted an independent Srpska. This cannot be true."
James flicked his cigarette over the side of the fortress and folded his arms. "Well, it is. Plemenac believes he's a better leader, so he killed Kadrić, and he'll get away with it. He has protection around him most of the time. He has diplomatic immunity, so if you do anything to him, your dreams of an independent Bosnian-Serb republic are finished. And he knows that."
Darko's eyes swivelled in his sockets as his brain processed the mass of information James had just given him, explaining Plemenac’s brilliant play. It had shattered the world of the nationalists and only a foreigner – a foreigner they would never trust – knew the truth. James had figured even an animal like Darko could understand that.
“What do you want from me?” said Darko after a pause.
“Your help. You know a lot of people on your side. Plemenac isn’t going to stay quiet for long. Together, we can finish Plemenac.”
Darko nodded. “Okay, foreigner.”
“We will have to approach this in a specific way. Killing Plemenac must be done quietly. The man does have diplomatic immunity. It would damage your movement irreparably if that were violated. Even your desire for revenge isn’t worth that price.”
“Yes, foreigner. You are right. But this does not mean we are friends.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” James extended his hand. “Stay in touch.”
Darko eyed his hand with undisguised disgust. Eventually, he took it. He dug his fingers into James’ flesh, as if he wanted to draw blood.
They exchanged no parting words and no smiles. James watched him go, his shoulders hunched against his ears, understanding that the day would come when Darko would come for him.
James waited for him to leave the fortress before abandoning his position and returning to the tower. Nazifa had her hands on her hips. Her face twisted into a mask of hatred.
“I cannot believe you would shake his hand. He is filth.”
“Useful filth, for now.”
“You trust him, don’t you?” she said.
“Not at all. He doesn’t trust me either.”
“Then let me kill him. We don’t need him. I can do it now. That path is quiet. He won’t expect it.”
“No,” he snapped. “I made a deal with him and shook the man’s hand. I’m not like them. I’ll honour my deals.”
Nazifa turned on her heel and stomped away. She moved with a swiftness that made James want to follow, fearing she would go against him and shoot Darko in the back. He stopped himself. No, she wouldn’t do that, no matter how much their kiss bothered her.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Two long days after the meeting in Travnik, James found himself still wait
ing in the Hotel Old Town. Two-thirds of the time remaining with Sinclair had elapsed without any progress. Nazifa hadn’t called him. Plemenac had seemingly disappeared off the face of the world without capitalising on the murder of Kadrić.
Sinclair had spent night and day typing away on his laptop, researching Plemenac and liaising with Finch. James continued his latest chain-smoking rally on the balcony. Grabbing his steaming hot coffee, he sipped at the bitter drink. The more he stared at the faltering brick wall of the building across the way, the more enamoured he became with the chipped cement and fading graffiti.
Sinclair popped into the seat by his side as a breeze rustled through the curtains. “I have something,” he said, and James looked at him with interest. “For now, this is probably all I’m going to get on Plemenac before I go back to London.”
“What is it?”
Sinclair flipped open the navy-blue notepad he used to jot his findings. “For a start, Vojo Plemenac isn’t his real name. It’s Dragomir Ristovski. He changed it in the year 2000 after the fall of Slobodan Milošević’s regime. Plemenac fought in the Bosnian and Kosovoan Wars.”
James put his coffee down. “Now that’s interesting. Why would he do something like that?”
“Like so many soldiers who committed atrocities, he was protected by the government of the day. So, he wasn’t charged with anything. Finch was unable to procure anything of value from his time in Kosovo, but his unit was stationed near Srebrenica under Colonel-General Mladić. He served as a sniper for most of his military service.”
James didn’t need to ask for an explanation. Srebrenica was the most famous massacre of the Bosnian War. More than 8,000 men and boys were slaughtered as part of the ethnic cleansing of Bosnian Muslims in the area. Over 30,000 women, children, and elderly were systematically abused and expelled from their homes.
“Well, I suppose that explains the name change,” said James.
“He also has connections with the Bosnian-Serb mafia. Most likely the same connections Kadrić would have used.”
James rolled his eyes. “We could have guessed all this easy enough. What else?”
Sinclair flipped a page. “Nothing much. Other than the fact he’s also a spy. But it’s standard practice for nations to place spies into their diplomatic corps, so nothing new there.”
“That’s it?”
“All we could find. If Finch failed to find anything more, it means the information must have either been hidden in the extreme depths of government files, or it was destroyed. I would not discount that as Serbia has experienced rather a lot of turbulence since the beginning of the dissolution of Yugoslavia.”
James leaned forwards. “So, where does that leave us?”
“Us? I think you forget that this has nothing to do with me. Truthfully, it also has nothing to do with you. This is a huge project, James. Sometimes it’s best to leave well enough alone. I’m imploring you one last time to come to London with me.”
James shot back in his chair. “No. Never. I’m standing on the right side of history here. Plemenac cannot get away with this. I don’t want to be watching the Balkans burning on TV from somewhere in the world when I knew I could have done something about it.”
Sinclair slapped his notebook against his leg. “You really are unconscionable. Think logically. This is so much more than one man. Stop focusing on Plemenac.”
“He could see thousands more killed. You know what he probably did during those wars. Isn’t there such a thing as justice?”
Sinclair scoffed at that. “Justice? Oh, come on, James. Remember the career you chose. This is not about justice. You remove Plemenac and someone else will replace him. When we arrived in Bosnia everything pointed towards Kadrić being the match that would set the flame. Now he’s gone, and nothing has changed.”
“Sinclair –”
“When are you going to learn that not all the world’s problems can be solved with a bullet?”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Gordon Maugham had landed in Bosnia mere hours ago. A fresh coating of shimmering snow sparkled on the balconies of the socialist tower blocks. Yuki Minamo, the dour Japanese assassin, accompanied him in the car they'd rented at the airport. As they idled outside one particular tower block, they checked their watches in synchronisation.
"Remember, Yuki, Gallagher wants her alive."
"And undamaged?" asked Yuki.
Yuki's accent still bore the hallmarks of his Japanese homeland, but he spoke English better than most English people. The six-foot Japanese, born in Hawaii, had chosen to spend much of his career working for the Americans. After becoming bored with bureaucracy, he'd soon offered his services as an assassin on the open market.
Gordon remembered his conversation with Gallagher. He'd recalled Gordon from his home in Cornwall during his scheduled time off. Gallagher rarely recalled him with such short notice, but Gordon understood the urgency.
"He never said anything about undamaged," he replied in a soft East London accent.
"Good."
Gordon and Yuki continued to wait for Nazifa Aleksi. He glanced down at the photograph on his phone. Her military ID was a few years old, but her purple hair would mark her out from the rest in the monochrome setting of a Bosnian winter.
"If there are any witnesses?"
Gordon turned his ugly mug towards Yuki. Some said that he looked like one of the notorious London gangsters, the Kray Twins. Nobody ever did tell him which one.
"There is a police station not far from here," Yuki continued.
"We were given no guidelines. Use no guns."
Yuki responded by pulling his pistol out of its holster and depositing it in the glove compartment. Instead, he checked his combat knife and a pair of handcuffs. A couple of snowflakes danced across the windscreen, only to be whipped upwards into the misty glow of the streetlights.
"Why does he want her alive? It would be easier to kill her than to waste our time moving her."
Gordon shrugged. "The only reason this Aleksi woman is important to begin with is because of James Winchester. Gallagher wants him out of Bosnia. If the girl were dead, he would stay until he found who killed her. This makes it look like she didn't want anything to do with him anymore."
Yuki's brow furrowed. "Maybe kill Winchester too?"
"Not right now. He is one of the most reliable contractors we have. That's the only reason Gallagher didn't have him neutralised years ago."
"Performance is no substitute for discipline."
"Perhaps not, but we are disciplined, so we will carry out our duties to the letter." Gordon paused as they watched the main road.
A rickety bus arrived. The doors of the mobile rust bucket opened, and a few passengers left the scrum. Gordon's mouth morphed into a slash of a smile as a girl with rich purple hair freed herself from the crush.
"Go," he ordered Yuki. "Remember, Japanese tourist."
Yuki put on a mocking accent. "Oh, me so sorry. Where is my hotel? I am very lost,"
Yuki climbed out of the car and disappeared into a side street with a view to flanking Nazifa in a wide circle. Gordon would form the other half of the pincer movement. He watched her go, her chin tucked into her chest against the howling wind.
Nazifa moved past the car fifty metres away without glancing at it. When she'd moved a few paces away towards the collection of three towers, Gordon started to follow on foot. Like her, he kept his meaty chin down, pulling the scarf up his neck to cover the bottom of his face. A couple of civilians who had left the bus with her followed the same path. One eventually peeled off into the first tower.
Gordon slowed his pace as he trudged through the snowdrifts. The meltwater flicked over the toe of his boot. He squinted ahead of him into the glare of the streetlight. Yuki, his head shaved in a military cut, appeared in the central courtyard looking lost, a crumpled paper tourist map held out in front of him.
Yuki approached Nazifa. His high-pitched broken English sailed on the gusting wind. Gordon
quickened his pace, making sure to avoid the snow to cushion his footsteps. One glance to the left and the final bystander disappeared into a building.
Closer and closer Gordon came. His breathing dropped into a steady rhythm. Yuki showed her the map and moved to her side. Gordon pulled the length of rope out of his pocket. The thick, frayed material moved through his hand. Not his favourite choice of weapon, but he wouldn't risk killing her with a garrotte.
"Ah, so desu?" Yuki called happily. "My hotel is here, neh?"
Gordon came within a few feet of her.
"Yes, it is a long walk. Very long walk," replied Nazifa. "It's very cold."
"Hai, hai, yes."
"You know the bus?"
"Hai."
Gordon threw the length of rope around her neck from behind. The scream caught in her throat as Gordon wrenched her backwards. He tightened it and dragged her along with him. The map went flying. Yuki drove a practiced fist into her face. She lost her balance and fell backwards. Gordon kept ragging her around until she lost her footing.
Dazed, Nazifa offered little resistance as Gordon took her down to the icy ground. The two men turned her over. She gasped for air as the click of the handcuffs locked her arms behind her back.
Gordon nodded at Yuki. Together, they took her an end and lifted her. They rushed through the way they'd came, back towards the car. When they came to the road, Nazifa managed to release a little scream.
Gordon dropped her with a thud and tightened the rope around her neck again. Her pallor turned a rich pink, and finally a red. A message that he wasn’t afraid to kill her if she cried for help.
Gordon nodded again for plan B. Yuki lifted her by the legs as Gordon half-dragged and half strangled her. The rest of the way went quietly. They kept their heads down, avoiding the light. If anyone saw what was happening, they wouldn’t make out their faces.
Like they'd practiced, Yuki dropped her legs. She kicked at the air like a can-can dancer as Gordon kept hold of her. Once Yuki opened the trunk, Gordon flung her into it and slammed it closed. They would restrain her properly when they were out of Sarajevo.
