by James Samuel
"Darko was killed earlier today. I don't know who those twins were, but they must have been helping him. I'm sorry, James."
"Well then…"
"I wonder if he knew something."
James kicked the foot of the sofa. "Well it doesn't matter now because his brains are all over the pavement. I can't imagine things getting any worse, as it stands."
"It could be your brains all over the pavement, I suppose?"
"Fuck off, Sinclair."
Sinclair shrugged. "You tried, and that's what counts. He was the last man who could have helped you reach your target."
James wanted to bite back, but he couldn't deny the truth staring him in the face. Darko was the only man he knew from the Bosnian-Serb side who could help him take down Plemenac. Part of him wished he could walk straight into the embassy and stab Plemenac in the throat.
Sinclair cleared his throat before he spoke. "I don't want to seem like I don't care, but I'm going to have to return to London soon. My flight is early tomorrow morning." He paused for a moment and bit his bottom lip. "It's not too late for you to join me. No damage has been done. Gallagher has yet to terminate you, based on what I heard from your call."
"You were listening?"
"Most of the street was listening at the volume you were speaking."
"If you must know, he ordered me to stand down. If I touch Plemenac, he will terminate me."
"And you said?"
"I put the phone down."
Sinclair raised his eyebrows. "The polite way of telling Gallagher to go fuck himself, then? I admire your restraint."
"It's not funny, Sinclair. That selfish prick only thinks about his money. Nothing about the people or anyone else. He doesn't understand why I want to stay here and why I feel like I have to try to do something good with my life. Just this once."
Sinclair remained silent.
"You know, I helped Plemenac without knowing it. I got rid of Kadrić, a man who really was only there to lay the groundwork. Now Plemenac has taken over, he's the real brains behind it. Darko and those men died because they were loyal to Kadrić. Oppose him? With his position and connections, he could start a war."
"Do you think he will raise an army?"
James shook his head. "He'll do it politically under the threat of violence. How he'll do it I don't know, but what I'm sure of is if he isn't stopped war will break out. How could I live with myself when I'm sitting in England watching a war play out on TV knowing I helped make it happen?"
"Then what will you do now that Darko is dead?"
"I don't know. Really, I don't, but there's always a way. If I can pin Plemenac down, I could get to him and nobody would ever suspect it was a targeted assassination. Accidents happen all the time but pinning him down is the difficult part."
"So, there's nothing I can do to convince you to come home with me? I really don't want to leave you here on your own. Trust me, I don't."
"Then stay here with me. Gallagher hasn't ordered you to stand down. I'll take the blame for everything. You won't suffer if you stay here. Even if you never leave this hotel again before we go to the airport, I can live with that."
Sinclair's lips morphed into a thin line. His nostrils flared and his eyebrows kept rising and falling with the furrows on his forehead.
"Come on, Sinclair. It won't be for long, I promise you."
"Fine." Sinclair grabbed James' hand and shook it. "Just don't make me regret it. And if Gallagher orders me to stand down directly, I will have to leave. That is the deal. In the meantime, I will try my best not to speak to him."
"Yes, yes, of course." James couldn't keep the smile from his face. "I need all the help I can get now. Intelligence was never my strong suit."
Sinclair dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "In the meantime, speak to Kemal. See what he can do for you. It's been a while."
Chapter Fifty-Three
It felt like an age since he'd met Kemal. Not since the day after Ratko's beating and they still hadn’t fully mended their rift. James met Kemal amid the crowds outside the Sacred Heart Cathedral; the rotund Bosnian was licking an ice cream cone.
"Isn't it too early in the year for that?"
"Never too early, eh? Mint is good."
James shook his head. "So, what do you think I should do? I've found myself at a dead end. You're about the only person who can help me now. We need to pin down Plemenac and then... make it look like an accident."
"I don't understand you, James. We can shoot him. War is good, eh? If Srpska wants a war, we crush them."
James frowned. "Well, if we can avoid a war, it would be better for everyone. The point is, I need a way to get to Plemenac and I don't know anyone close enough to him. He's moving and moving quickly. Those murders in Banja Luka must have been him. Getting rid of anyone who speaks out against him."
Kemal gnashed down at the side of the ice cream cone. "Yes, Plemenac. Three more dead Serbians. Good, good. Oh, Ratko is fine now. Ismet's men are good. They watch him all the time. I don't think my son even knows they are there."
James tried to hide his irritation at Kemal's dismissiveness. "I'm glad Ratko is recovering well, and that he's safe. But do you know anyone who can help me? I need to get to Plemenac. Someone who knows him. You must have someone. You have a lot of friends here."
Kemal laughed. "Yes, yes, everyone knows me. I am very popular man, eh?" He stopped to continue licking his ice cream cone. "Remember I talked of Addy on the phone?"
James nodded.
"He worked for the mafia in Sarajevo. A rich man. He owns the bar in the next street. Tourist bar. Full of British flags and a red box outside for the phones."
"Well, my experiences with the mafia so far haven't been pleasant or rewarding. Can we trust him? I mean really trust him?"
Kemal shook his head. "No, he is a coward, like Ratko. He likes violence, but he won't fight. He also likes to lie about how strong he is. Addy will always run in a fight."
"Well, that hardly sounds like good news."
"It's no problem, my friend. Addy knows people. I think he knows Plemenac. He is like a cockroach. Don't trust him, but you pay him he helps you, you see?"
"I can work with that."
The last of the ice cream cone disappeared into the blackness of Kemal's mouth. He dusted his hands off and slapped James on the back to direct him forwards. Kemal sounded like he was choking on the remains of his ice cream as he tried to speak through his chewing, only to blow the fragments of the cone into the air.
Kemal took him to the bar James had briefly seen on his travels through Sarajevo. It had a gigantic London phone box sitting outside the open door, which stretched from wall to wall. A collection of high stools and tables were placed in front of the window. The Union Jack flew from the front, with bunting of the same type across the walls inside. Unsurprisingly, most of the clientele were clearly not Bosnian. Accents from England, America, and Australia filtered out into the air.
James wrinkled his nose at the fake British memorabilia when they walked in. "A man of class and sophistication, I see."
"Yes, my friend, he is trash. You sit, I go find him for you."
James sighed as he thrust himself through the mob of drinking backpackers. He sat himself on the far table as close to the wall as possible. It offered no protection from the winter chill, but he had no desire to advance further into this miserable hall of cliches.
Kemal eventually returned with a man sporting a heavy jowl, a midnight shadow, and a thinning hairline. His hands were like plates and his smile false.
"James, this is Adnan Hajdarevic."
"Hello there, my friends call me Addy." Addy grasped his hand and pumped it up and down like a waterspout. "Welcome to my bar, you like?"
"It's very... nice,” James said, practicing diplomacy. “I like the decoration."
"Just like your homeland, eh? I get you drinks. Beer for an Englishman, of course." Addy turned and clicked his fingers at the barman. Their beers soon
appeared on the edge of the bar.
James exchanged a look of disgust with Kemal.
"Here you go, my friends. It's been many years, Kemal. Why you never drink here with me?" Addy clonked the three bottles of beer on the table. The flecks of frost still clung to the necks, the forest green label adhering to the dark brown glass.
"Business, you know how it is. Many things changed."
Addy perched himself on the stool. He watched with amusement as Kemal struggled to balance himself on a stool half the size of his behind.
"My friend has a business proposal for you,” Kemal said. He swallowed a drink of his beer and then continued. “You're still a businessman, no?"
Addy’s jovial expression departed. His plain brown eyes appeared to light up a searching caramel. The smile became a grin, and not a grin James trusted.
James cleared his throat. "It's quite simple, Addy. Before I can do business with you, I need to know whether you know a man by the name of Vojo Plemenac, and how well you know him."
"Ah, I know that name." Addy's throaty voice sounded like it came from the baser part of his being. "Vojo Plemenac is a successful man, eh? What do you want with him?"
"That's my business."
Addy kept edging closer to him. "I see, I see. What's in this for me, eh?"
James had already come prepared for this. Blackwind afforded agents near limitless financial resources for their operations, including bribery. No currency was out of the question when it came to extracting information. He dug inside his coat and unveiled a bundle inside a plastic bag. Sliding it across the table, he indicated it with a nod of his head.
Addy's fingers grasped at it as he took the bundle and peeked inside the plastic bag. The greed flashed in his eyes. James thought him to be a cross between Gollum and some fantasy goblin who had happened upon a chest of gold.
"Yes, yes, very good, my friend." Addy wrapped the bundle up again. "What do you want to know?"
"Vojo Plemenac. Tell me about him."
"Ah, yes, Vojo. He is a very powerful man. A man I respect, but I would never trust him. Vojo is a dangerous man. Never trust him if you want to go into business with him." Addy jabbed his finger to emphasise his point. "Understand?"
James nodded.
"Vojo was in the army until Kosovo was lost from Serbia. When the revolution happened, Vojo left everything behind. The court in the Hague would have seen him put in prison for the rest of his life. War crimes. But these times were good for businessmen. After the war in Bosnia, houses were cheap. Very cheap. Anyone with money could buy them all." Addy took a swig of his beer. "Ah, sometimes I think the death of Yugoslavia was a miracle to us all."
"Did Plemenac involve himself in this?"
"Of course! He was a very rich man even in the army. He took many things from many people. Then he returned, joined the Serbian government, and now he is mafia." Addy patted his chest. "I am mafia too. I know everyone in the mafia. You want something done, you call me, eh."
"So, that's how he became an ambassador?"
"Yes, yes, very smart man, but the mafia helped him lots. I helped him too. I am the best friend you could have in Bosnia." Addy glanced at Kemal. "Well, apart from him, of course. Kemal is a good man. A good man but a bad businessman, eh."
James cleared his throat before the glaring Kemal throttled Addy. "And we were looking to get to know him better. Would you know anything about where he is or whether we could set up a meeting? Just give him Kemal's name. We wouldn't want to make him nervous around a foreigner he doesn't know, would we?"
"Anything you say, my friend. Anything you say. I call him for you now. I will meet him soon."
Addy tucked the bag underneath his arm and left his beer where it was. He scuttled towards the bar’s backroom like a rat who had stolen away a piece of rotting meat.
Kemal shook his head. "I told you he was trash."
Chapter Fifty-Four
A black car with tinted windows cruised to a halt on Gorczany Street. Plemenac dawdled for a moment as he looked over the social media posts of the White Rose. Since the killings had escalated across the country, the White Rose had managed to gain some traction. Followers left hundreds of comments on these posts, some going viral and trending across the online world.
He locked his phone and contemplated what it meant for a moment. The hatred springing up between Bosnians and Serbians was good. The White Rose's position that it was an inside conspiracy to play two sides against each other was a hazard. Dangerous for him and his plans. He needed Bosnians and Serbs to continue butting heads, as they had done for so long.
Plemenac stepped out of the car into the night. Things were quiet, but not too quiet. He saw two men standing outside the headquarters of the White Rose, their faces in the misty light staring back at him. They weren't a threat to him. They feared him.
He strode towards them without breaking eye contact. "Good evening, how are you both?"
Short yet meaty, he could tell they were no more than mere thugs beholden only to the highest bidder.
"What do you want?" said the man who looked like a weasel.
Plemenac held his tongue at the man’s rudeness and took a deep breath. "Okay,” he said, “I'm not a man who likes long and pointless conversations. I have business with Ratko Avdić. Private business. You two are guarding him, yes?"
"Yeah," the second man said.
Plemenac cut him off by raising his hand. "You have a choice. Either I give each of you five hundred American dollars to return to your homes, or I'm going to shoot you now, right here. How much does Ratko mean to you both?"
The two men looked at each other dumbstruck.
Plemenac's hand reached for his weapon.
"Okay," said the weasel.
"Excellent." A man of his word, Plemenac withdrew the stack of hundred-dollar bills he'd prepared earlier and held them out. "Now, go."
The weasel snatched the bounty from his hand, and they scurried away in the opposite direction. Their heads remained down, the collars of their coats up. Plemenac would bill the Serbian embassy for his expenses later.
Plemenac hopped up the steps of the house and pressed his finger on the bell. Clearing his throat, he watched as his breath crystallised in the air. The light in the hallway turned on and Ratko answered the door. He had bags under his eyes, and the bruises of his previous beating from Kadrić's men had yet to heal.
"Good evening, Mr. Avdić. I would like to speak with you privately. Would you mind?"
Ratko looked him up and down, the distrust evident in his eyes. He began to close the door. "No, no, I don't think so."
Plemenac delivered a pump kick to the door. It flew backwards. Ratko lost his grip and retreated into the hallway and disappeared into a room.
Plemenac closed the door behind him. After sliding the lock shut with a damning bang, he began the hunt for his quarry. It reminded him of Srebrenica. Oh, how they ran and hid. No matter how long they fled, the result remained the same, and the result would be the same tonight.
Another set of footsteps slapped across the tiled floor. Ratko flew out of the room with a large carving knife.
"Get out of my house!" Ratko yelled. "I'll do it. I’ll cut your throat!"
"Oh, please, do we have to play this ridiculous game? Plemenac unveiled the pistol from his pocket and levelled it at him. "Besides, you are a well-known pacifist, and I know you do not have the capacity to hurt a fly. Now, put the knife down."
Ratko's whole body reverberated with anger. Slowly he lowered the knife to his side. "What do you want, Plemenac?"
Plemenac raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Someone has been doing their research. You know who I am. Correct me if I'm wrong, but if I recall correctly, you were working with the foreigners against Sadik Kadrić, yes?"
"They have nothing to do with this organisation."
Plemenac gestured to the sitting room across the hall. "Well, let's stop with this uncivilised behaviour and have a little talk."
; Ratko never let go of the carving knife as he trudged into the living room. Plemenac watched for any twitch of his arm. A known pacifist could do extraordinary things when his life was under threat.
"Your hospitality is appalling," Plemenac commented. "You have no idea why I came or what I want to say to you yet."
"Fuck you."
Plemenac raised his eyebrows as he stood over the repaired coffee table. He sat after Ratko did, leaving his weapon on the table in front of him. Steepling his fingers in front of his face, he took the measure of his prey. Ratko still shook with anger and rage, just like the ambassador’s victims had during the Bosnian and Kosovan Wars. They wanted to hurt him, but they didn't have the means to do it.
"The foreigners. Tell me about them."
"What foreigners?"
"Are you really going to try this with me? I know perfectly well that two foreigners were here, and you aided them in hunting down Sadik Kadrić. It makes no sense to lie to me, I know Kadrić's men did that to you."
Ratko's hand involuntarily rose to the healing cuts and bruises crisscrossing his face like a patchwork quilt.
"I don't need to hear about what they were doing. I already know that. What were their names?"
"James Winchester and Sinclair Wood," said Ratko.
"As I suspected. I have already had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. Is it not interesting that two foreigners would be so determined to dismantle an entire country for the purposes of assassinating one man?"
Ratko glowered at him. "No."
"You are a patriot, no? I understand that the White Rose is concerned with the future of Bosnia and the protection of its people. In many ways, we are alike."
"We're not alike," Ratko cried. "Men like you only want to destroy my country. You want peace, but you want peace on your terms, and if anyone disagrees with those terms, you'll put them in the ground. I wonder what you did during the war, Plemenac. You would have been old enough to fight in it."
